The Catswold Portal

The Harpy was uncertain about leaving the Hell Pit. But she could leave. Siddonie’s spell, that had originally freed her, was still strong.

She stood wakeful, pecking irritably at the flames and coals. Why shouldn’t she go? Nothing bound her here. She would not admit even to herself how totally boring the Hell Pit seemed to her now.

When at last she rose, flapping, she headed straight for Affandar.

Three hours later in Siddonie’s dungeons, a white wing swept against Mag’s cage. A white arm reached through, and a thin hand shook Mag awake.

Mag stared muzzily into the white bird face as the Harpy whispered a spell that swung the door free. Waking fully, Mag quickly quit the cage, following the Harpy silently. The womanbird, excited over her increased strength over Siddonie’s weakening spell, flapped and preened. She led Mag deep into the cellars, where she mumbled a charm that opened a pillar. Mag followed her down a thin flight of stairs and along a low tunnel. As they traveled, ducking, Mag sniffed the Harpy’s smoky, sulphurous scent. “How was the Pit?”

“Warm. Lovely.”

They walked a while in silence, then Mag said, “Why did you come away? Why did you rescue me?”

“The bitch queen took my mirror.”

“That’s no answer. You have your mirror.”

“By freeing you, I am paying her back for my suffering.”

“Am I that valuable to the queen?”

“She detests you.”

Mag smiled. “And where is Melissa? What is happening to Melissa?”

The Harpy didn’t answer. Walking ahead of Mag she looked down into her little mirror and saw the calico cat limping along beside the highway, thin and dirty. She saw the little cat in the garden staring up at the portal, her green eyes huge.

But the danger wasn’t over. The cat remembered nothing; she was innocent and half-helpless.

“Well?” Mag said. “What of Melissa?”

“I can show you nothing.”

“What do you mean, you can show me nothing?”

“If I gave you a vision you’d know where she was. You’d go barreling away to rescue her. She is best left alone.”

“But what is happening to her?”

“She is resourceful,” said the Harpy. “Trust me.” She ran her fingers through her white feathers. “She is utterly content at the moment.”

They had reached the stairs. They climbed and came out into Circe’s Grotto. Mag caught her breath at its beauty, and she wanted to tarry and look, but the Harpy, pressing cold fingers into Mag’s arm, shoved her on. The womanbird opened the wall and pushed Mag through, and they moved quickly away through the night-dark woods.

Chapter 27

Stiff-legged, the cat stalked the door, her eyes burning with green fire, her tail lashing against the bushes and vines. Warily she watched the cats’ heads: they were not alive but there was life in them. She drew close then leaped away, then skidded toward them again, ignoring the clamor of the garden birds. Drawn to the oak cats, she reached a paw toward something invisible that seemed to move beyond the door, then, confused, turned quickly to lick her shoulder. But the vision amused her. She stared up at the door again, giddy, and rolled over, grabbing her tail, spinning and tumbling, her eyes flashing. Madly she played with the power she sensed. Leaping onto the vine that edged the door, she swarmed up it, drunk with the forces that pulled at her. She didn’t see the garden cats on the hill above where they crouched watching her.

The five cats stared down, frozen with interest. They crept closer as the calico reached the top of the vine, watching her, stealthy as snipers. At the top of the vine she did a flip, then worked her way down again, slapping at the leaves. She leaped out of the vine at the base of the door and sat before it, ready for the door to open, willing it to open.

When it didn’t open she rubbed against it. When it remained closed she pushed at it with her shoulder, then began to dig at the crack beneath, rolling down and thrusting her paw under.

When digging failed, she reared up on her hind legs and reached for the lowest row of snarling oak faces and raked her claws down them in long, satisfying scratches. When still the door didn’t open, she turned away, pretending total boredom, and selected a shelter deep beneath the overgrown geraniums.