The Catswold Portal

He didn’t know what he’d expected to see. The dark little room contained only a wheelbarrow, the ladder, the work table, and some scattered garden tools. The table was littered with seed packets, and with clay pots to which dry earth clung. A hoe and shovel leaned against the dirt wall beside some bags of manure. He studied the stone wall that formed the back of the room, keeping the hill in check. Overhead, heavy timbers held the earth solidly. Someone had taken a lot of trouble building this hillside cellar. It had been in the garden longer than Alice’s Aunt Carrie could remember. Carrie had played here when she was a child, as, later, Alice did, and then Alice’s little foster sister. The cave seemed a depressing place for a child, though usually they had played on the brick pad in front of the door, making up games that included the carved cats, and talking to the cats. He breathed in the smell of raw earth, and backed out of the cave. A tendril of the cup of gold vine that framed the door slid across his neck, startling him. He grabbed the offending limb and broke it off. Why didn’t the gardener keep the damn vine trimmed? The vine’s ancient, twisted limbs were so old and thick they formed a heavy, rough frame for the carved door. Suddenly, watching the medieval cats’ faces, he felt chilled. He turned away abruptly and headed down toward the studio; he could almost feel the damned cats watching him.

Chapter 5

Mag, I’ve gone to the Wizard in Marchell, please don’t follow me. I must do this. I love you.

Melissa wrote the note in a thick layer of dust that she made appear on the supper table. Around it she wove a tangle of spells which would confuse Mag and make her laugh; the old woman was less likely to follow her if she showed some style. She didn’t like hurting Mag, but it couldn’t be helped. She dared not tell her where she was really going—Mag would come storming after her and with harsh words, maybe with spells, would force her home again. She pulled on her cloak, shoved her knife in its sheath, and fastened on her trinket bracelet for trading. With the pack, a lantern, and the full waterskin she quit the cottage, slipping out into the dark green night.

The way up the cliffs was precarious in the dark, with drop-offs and loose stones. But when at last she topped the cliff and started down the other side, the path was easier. Where the stone sky was lowest, white bats darted and squeaked overhead, skimming along after insects. She tied her hood to keep them out of her hair, though they stayed away usually, unless someone had laid a spell. Bat-spells were a prank children played, or feuding village women. When the sky rose again, black cliffs loomed against it, and on her right a precipice dropped. She didn’t light the lantern but brought a spell-light; it could be doused faster in case of night-traveling horsemen who would surely be queen’s soldiers. She thought it must be near to midnight when she turned onto a path between cliffs too narrow to be traveled by horsemen. She didn’t want to happen on a band of rebels, either, going about some secret business. Too many of the rebels knew her and would tell Mag they had seen her. Soon she was skirting the ice caves, shivering with cold.

She had no notion how she would proceed when she reached Affandar Palace, except to ask for work in the scullery. She shivered with more than cold when she thought about descending into the palace dungeons to search for the Toad and for the captured rebels.

Soon she was in the labyrinth of the ancient, dry riverbed. She and Mag had sometimes come this way. The pot-holes and basins and thin arches were rimed with ice, and she laid a spell before her feet to keep from slipping. The Affandar River had flowed here until Queen Siddonie’s powers changed its course so it brought water nearer the palace. That change had destroyed the economy of half a dozen villages which depended on the river’s power for fulling cloth and for milling grain, but the queen cared nothing about that.

All night she followed the riverbed. As dawn began to seep down from the frozen arches above her, she scraped ice from a saucer of stone and curled up in its hollow, wrapping her cloak around her, and slept.

She woke at mid-morning filled with a fleeting dream, she could remember vast spaces reeling above her as if the stone sky had vanished, endless space filled with harsh white light. She lay puzzled, trying to understand what she had seen.

She rose finally and found a spring among the sculptured stone. Breaking the ice, she drank and washed. From the small pool her image shone back at her surprisingly clear. She looked away from it guiltily, but soon Mag’s cautions faded and her curiosity overcame her fear of images. She looked at herself and laughed, forgetting caution.