The Catswold Portal

He said, “I do this for Melissa, not for you. I may have differences with Siddonie, but I do not love rebels.” He lifted his hand, made a sign, and opened a spell-door in the grotto wall. Dim green forest shone beyond. The Toad hopped through and away into the darkness between twisted trees. The rebels followed, glancing back at Melissa. She watched them go, torn between her promise to the king and fear of him that made her want to run after them.

The Harpy didn’t offer to leave, but began to paw at Melissa, searching for her mirror. Melissa said, “One more vision.”

“One vision,” the womanbird said. “The last vision.”

“I want to see my mother.”

“You have already seen your mother.”

“Queen Siddonie?” Ice touched her.

“No, not Siddonie.”

Melissa stared at the Harpy. Her voice would hardly work. “The Catswold girl?”

“Yes. Timorell was your mother.”

“But she was Catswold.”

“You are Catswold.”

“You are wrong, I am no shape shifter. Besides, the Lamia said my mother was wife of the Lamia’s sister’s brother, so I can’t be…”

“Your mother’s husband’s half sister is a daughter of Lillith. All daughters of Lillith are sister to the Lamia.”

“That is more confusing. Why can’t you say, my father’s half sister?”

“I am not speaking of your father. Your mother’s husband was not your father.” The Harpy glanced longingly toward the opening in the wall. From the forest, a cool breeze stirred her feathers.

“I want a vision to see my father.”

“You have seen your father.”

Melissa frowned.

The Harpy sighed. “I will show you your own conception. You will know your father, you will see yourself conceived. Then you will give me my mirror and free me.”

Melissa nodded.

“Not many,” said the Harpy, “are privileged to see their own beginnings.” She lifted a wing, casting shadows across the mirror. There, the upperworld city gleamed suddenly with sunlight so bright Melissa squinted.

A man sat at a table in a sidewalk cafe. It was McCabe. She swallowed, watching him.

The cafe was beside long wharfs where huge ships were docked. White birds swooped over the smokestacks. Stevedores were off-loading wooden crates. At his table McCabe was drinking an amber brew, idly watching the street. When Timorell came swinging along he put down his ale, watching her intently, as if he had been waiting for her.

She was looking at everything, drinking in the colors and smells of the wharf. The wind blew her pale-streaked hair like a golden cloak around her shoulders. She was sleek as gold and ermine, her stride long and easy. She did not seem to be looking for anyone but simply walking. Her tongue tipped out, tasting the wind, and there was a little secret smile at the corners of her mouth. At the intersection where the street dead-ended before the cafe, she paused, looking around almost as if someone had spoken. Above her, McCabe had not moved. Timorell looked around her, puzzled, then suddenly she looked directly up at him.

She stood still as a hunting cat, her eyes widening. She was drawn to him, and McCabe rose, his gaze never leaving her.

She came up the four steps and stood looking at him. Then, drawn by his gaze, she slid into the chair he held for her. A power burned between them, filling Melissa with longing. This was their first meeting, this was Timorell’s first awareness of another like herself in this foreign world. Then came a montage, she saw them walking the city streets, their hands touching, their looks slowly revealing and discovering. She saw them in shops, in cafes; talking, always talking. She saw Timorell at night slipping away from her apartment.

She saw McCabe and Timorell in a white room with jutting windows looking down on the city. The walls were covered with pictures of cats like benevolent talismans. She watched McCabe make love to Timorell on a pale rug before the open fire. They loved as man and woman, then as cat and cat, Timorell all gold and white to McCabe’s dark gray beauty. Embarrassed at breaching their privacy, she was yet held by the prophecy their lovemaking wrought, sharp as Timorell’s mewling cry.

And in the instant before the vision faded she saw, against Timorell’s bare skin, an oval emerald pendant framed by two rearing cats.

When the vision fled, she felt she had fallen between the two worlds and was unable to cling to either. The strength of their love had taken her breath, and, too, the sight of the emerald left her stricken with a sense of power she could not unravel.

“What was that jewel…?” she said weakly.

The Harpy flicked at her white feathers. “That was the Amulet of Bast. Your mother,” the Harpy said softly, “was heir to the Catswold queens.”

The Harpy fixed her with a beady stare. “You have forgotten all you ever heard about the Catswold. Only slowly is memory returning. Under Mag’s spell you forgot there is a Catswold nation. Your mother, if she had lived, would be queen of that nation.”