The Catswold Portal

Inside, the room was warm, smoky, booze-smelling, and rocking with the gut-twisting music. He checked the bar, nodded to the band. Sam poured him a whisky, grinning through a short fringe of grizzled beard. The main room was to Braden’s right. There was a good blaze in the fireplace. Long windows faced the windy, moonlit forest. Morian and Bob were at the corner table. Carrying his glass, he joined them. He took the chair in the corner, laying a hand companionably over Morian’s. She was dressed in something white and low that showed off her beautiful umber skin. She was tall, not fat, but the sort of woman who, nude on the model stand, made fashionably skinny women look incomplete. After Morian, no model seemed worth drawing. No other model had the beautiful bones, the fine, long muscles and gorgeous breasts, the subtle turnings of shadows to study and capture and linger over. Her dark skin picked up reds, ambers: dark velvet skin clothing itself in deep lights and rich shadows, so any other clothing seemed out of place. She studied Braden.

“Work going badly, Brade?”

He looked at her; she always knew. She had been good friends with Alice, had always cared about their work, was a good critic. It was an experience to watch Morian rise from the model stand at break, slip on a wrap, walk around the classroom studying the work. A comment from Morian was always perceptive and valuable. She hugged a lot, companionably, as she admired and questioned. Low and velvet and fine, Morian was like a dark, rich sun rising in soft brilliance whenever she entered a classroom.

She watched him closely. “I suppose Rye’s been over.”

Braden nodded. “I told him to cancel the show.”

Morian scowled.

Bob leaned back in his chair, watching them. He was smaller than Morian, a well-knit man. Sandy hair, a look in his hazel eyes that was sometimes too understanding—that was the trouble with shrinks. He was seldom without Leslie in the evenings—trim, tanned Leslie—except when she worked late doing the endless paperwork of the small village library. “That’s pretty heavy, Brade. Rye’s likely to take you up on it.”

Braden gave him a questioning look.

Morian said, “Rye was over at school today. To see Garcheff’s new work.”

Braden put down his drink, instantly defensive. “He thinks I won’t get the work together. He’s planning to slip Garcheff in.” And he knew that wasn’t fair.

Morian said, “But you told him to cancel the show.”

Now for the first time he didn’t want to cancel. “Hell, I guess I had it coming.” He reached for his drink, and spilled it.

They helped him mop up the whisky with paper napkins, stuffing them in the ashtray. Morian said, “You have almost two months. You aren’t letting Garcheff take your date.” She laid her hand over his, giving him a black velvet look, a soothsayer’s look. Bob looked away, half embarassed, then left the table, muttering something about peanuts; Braden felt a quick, fleeting amusement because Bob was so straight. The band swung into “Just a Little While to Stay Here.” The heat of the music drew them closer. Morian started to say something, then stared past him across the room, frowning. When she kept staring, he turned to look.

The gardener was sitting by the door. Vrech. The dark, hunched man was alone at a small table against the wall. Morian watched him intently.

“What the hell are you looking at?”

“That bag under his table,” she said quietly.

“It’s just an old gunnysack. What do you think he’s got, Olive’s jewelry?”

“It moved.”

He hadn’t seen it move.

She put her hand on his knee. “Keep looking—he’s got something alive in there.” Her eyes flashed. “You don’t stuff a live creature into a gunnysack.” She was getting worked up; it didn’t take much.

“Listen, Mor—” He took her arm to keep her from getting up. “Wait a minute. At least be sure. What could he have?” He hadn’t seen the bag so much as flinch.

Bob returned with pretzels, two beers, and a bourbon. “That’s A’Plenty” ended in a high riff, the trumpet player mouthed inaudible words and they launched into “Salty Dog.” Bob looked at Braden and at Morian’s stormy face, and shifted his chair so he could glance across at the gardener.

Braden said, “She thinks the bag moved. Listen, Mor, just sit still a minute. What could he have?”

Morian picked up her purse. “There’s something alive in there. What does he—he was in the tool room all afternoon with the door closed. Until after dark. He came out carrying a bundle—not that one, a big bundle. And now he has something alive. He’s caught some poor animal…”

Bob looked mildly skeptical.

She scowled at him. “There’s something in the bag. And he was in the shed for hours; I could see the door from where I was sewing. I saw him come out, but I never did see him go in.”

Braden drained his glass and reached for the drink, amused at Morian. “You must have looked away once or twice.”