The Catswold Portal

Pressing deeper into the branches she became aware of the scent of cat on them, and without wondering how she could tell, she knew this was the scent of the yellow cat that she had seen from the bushes beside the terrace. As she considered her sudden sharp perception, she realized her vision had changed, too. Through the dark night, now she could see branches and deadfalls which, moments before, had been black smears. And she could see farther to the sides; as if she were seeing back past twitching, pointed ears. Excited, she sniffed the wind for new scents, waiting, wondering what it would feel like to change, to shape shift…

Waiting. Excited, afraid…

Waiting…

She didn’t change. Her vision returned to normal human eyesight. Her sense of smell dulled again. Gone was the wild, skittery feeling that was so addicting.

She unclenched her fists, disappointed.

Perhaps she would not change until she knew a spell to help her. She must try to remember a changing spell.

Depressed, feeling flat and dull, she finished her supper, then curled down within the branches. How sad, to feel wonders dangled enticingly before her, then feel them jerked away. Nearing sleep, she felt again the sensation of being a child…

Only this time she had been terrified.

She was wearing a blue taffeta dress. She was perhaps four or five. She was huddled alone in an alley crying into the taffeta skirt when a stranger came and lifted her up and carried her into a strange house. She screamed and kicked…

She could not remember any more. She lay shivering, fully awake again, galvanized by a child’s helpless fear.

She woke at dawn, alarmed at the heavy weight on her chest. When she opened her eyes she was staring into yellow eyes: the yellow cat sat atop her chest gazing down at her.

She didn’t know whether to laugh or be afraid. When she stared back at him, he seemed suddenly to turn shy and retreated to the piled boughs and crouched there watching her. His golden tail twitched, his golden eyes remained intent. He was so alert, looked so intelligent, she felt her spine tingle.

She stayed still, knowing she was in his territory. She wasn’t sure whether his intensity signaled interest or challenge. She did not want to battle a yellow tomcat for this space. The cat regarded her for some moments, self-possessed and bold. His coat looked so thick and silken she longed to touch it. She could still feel the warmth of his heavy body crouched on her chest. At last, deciding he was friendly, she started to reach to let him sniff her fingers, but the look in his eyes changed to active challenge and she drew her hand back.

But then his yellow eyes grew puzzled, as if he was as confused by this encounter as she. Then suddenly his ears twitched in the direction where the hill dropped, and he turned to stare down the garden. She heard a boy calling, “Pippin. Pippin.” She raised herself up slightly above the branches, looking.

She saw the changeling boy, standing on the porch of the white house. When he spotted Pippin perched on the branches, he came directly up between the houses and into the woods. Not until he was very near did he see Melissa tucked down among the dry limbs. He stopped, startled; then he grinned.

“You’re in his bed. Did you sleep there?” When she didn’t answer, he flushed. “Sorry, didn’t mean to pry. I’m Tom Hollingsworth.” He picked up the cat. The big tom flopped happily over the boy’s shoulder, lying limp, looking down remotely at her.

She said, “I’m Sarah.”

Tom studied her with a direct, comfortable gaze. She looked back boldly into the child’s face, seeing a miraculously healed Prince Wylles.

He said, “You don’t live in the village. I’d remember you.”

“I live that way,” she said, pointing off through the woods, wondering what lay in that direction.

“In the city?”

“Yes, in the city.” She imagined tall buildings and steep hills as in the Harpy’s vision. Or was she seeing something from her own memory?

She said, “Is there—someone who comes to the garden, someone named Vrech?”

Tom nodded, but his eyes hardened. “He’s the gardener. He does all our yards, they’re all mixed together.” He looked at her deeply, with a child’s honesty. “Do you know him? Do you like him?”

“I don’t know him really, I just—I know his name. You don’t like him?”

“He’s always asking questions.”

“I’m asking questions.”

Tom grinned. “His questions are—pushy. He wants to know what I’m reading, what I’m learning in school, what my favorite foods are—he asked me a lot about that. What I’m doing this summer, even what foods my mother doesn’t eat—really nervy.”

“Do you answer his questions?”