The Catswold Portal

The Harpy flew across the night, ducking through caverns and sweeping over valleys, drunk with her regained freedom. Her little mirror swung on its chain against her feathered breast. When she perched to rest high on a cliff, she gazed into the glass and brought a vision of Melissa bedding with the king. She watched with interest for some time, then grew bored and dropped the mirror so it nestled again among her feathers. She flew on, making straight for the Hell Pit, thinking of its warm blaze. She thought of her friend the Toad, and she supposed he had returned to the Hell Pit. She was surprised that she missed him. The Hell Beasts never cared for one another. Her wings stirred a solitary wind across the dark green night and when, banking around a cliff, she saw ahead firelight reflected across the sky, she paused.

The smell of roasting meat made her drool. She glided stealthily on, and soon she came in sight of a campfire with men crowded around. She circled.

The rebels were gathered eating their supper. The Toad was with them, eating ravenously. The roast rabbit smelled mouth-wateringly good. The Harpy dropped among them so abruptly the fire surged and spat.

Halek did not seem surprised. He looked the Harpy over. She, in turn, eyed the crisping rabbits. The rebel leader speared a rabbit from the fire and handed it to her. “Did you leave the girl with the king?”

“Can’t say where she went.” Intently the Harpy ate, picking the meat off with her beak.

“Can’t say? Or won’t say?”

She looked at Halek in silence, stuffing herself, smacking her beak. “Do you mean to sleep here tonight?”

Halek shifted his shoulders. “We mean to move on, make what miles we can. I did not like leaving Melissa.”

“The girl is her own mentor. You cannot choose for her. The girl’s venture, this night—if she were to become queen of Affandar—could win this war.”

“I would not,” Halek said, “like to depend on a trysting by King Efil to win a war.”

“It could make more difference than you know.”

“Speak plainly, Harpy. What more difference would there be, than that she should usurp the throne of the queen?”

“There is more to it.”

Halek waited.

The Harpy studied Halek and studied his companions, then decided to keep her own counsel.

Annoyed with her, Halek rose. She turned away, sullen and mute. At once, the men stirred themselves, took up their crude weapons, and kicked out the fire.

The Harpy watched them depart. Soon she was alone, pecking at rabbit bones and dying coals. Sitting beside the dead fire, she looked forlornly into her mirror.

She watched Melissa and the king, observing their embraces with lusty interest. Then she brought a vision of a younger Melissa snug in Mag’s cottage, carding wool beside the old woman. That homey scene soothed her.

She watched Mag and the girl over the years, saw Melissa as a child, stubborn minded and clever. She watched her grow up. She saw Melissa find the papers hidden in Mag’s linen chest, and watched Melissa ride for the Hell Pit. She watched the Lamia rise from the flames at Melissa’s bidding.

She watched Melissa leave home, and she watched Mag set out the next day to look for her. She saw Mag’s useless searches, then watched Mag grieving by the cookstove. And suddenly, the Harpy did not want to go back to the Hell Pit.

She left the dead campfire and flew slowly over ridges and over a broad plain. She crossed above precipices and sheep pastures, her faint shadow cutting steadily along above her across the granite sky.

As dawn brightened she hovered above Mag’s cottage, watching the old woman slopping nine squealing pigs. She swooped suddenly down onto the sty’s rail.

Mag jumped, dropping her bucket. “Where did a harpy come from? What do you want? What’s a harpy doing away from the Hell Pit?”

“She’s in Circe’s Grotto.”

“Who is? What are you talking about?”

“The girl—Melissa.”

Mag started. “You’ve seen her? Well, you know to call her Melissa, all right. But of course you would,” she said, glancing at the dangling mirror. “What is she doing in Circe’s Grotto? How did she find it? No one knows how to find that ancient cave.” The old woman picked up her bucket, stepping around the guzzling pigs. “Why would you bother to bring such news to me?”

“The king knows where to find the grotto.”

“So? What has King Efil to do with Melissa? And how did you get out of the Hell Pit?”

“She forced me out with spells.”

“Melissa?”

“Of course not. The queen. Brought me up from the pit against my will. Locked me in her dungeon.”

“How did you get out?”

“She freed me.”

“The queen?”

“Melissa. Freed the rebels, too. They were half-starved. On their way home even now.”

“Melissa freed the rebels?” Mag grinned. “All of them?”

The Harpy nodded.

“But what,” Mag said, “has the king to do with that?”

The Harpy waited for Mag to figure it out.

Mag looked at the Harpy for a long time, her eyes slowly widening. At last, she said, “The king helped her? The king—oh, no.”

“Oh yes,” said the Harpy.