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Curt shoves Kit’s rear end. “Move your big bum.”
“You talking to me or Kit?” I ask, squeezing my own expansive nether regions past the mesmerised cat.
As Curt follows me, Kit leans over, purposely pinning him to the wall whilst managing to avoid getting scorched by the torch.
“Help,” my mate squeaks, his face squished sideways.
“Come on, tigerlion,” I say, giving Kit a gentle nose scratch. “I need you with me.” He duly pads up beside me, rubbing his nose on my arm.
The newly freed Curt heaves in a ragged breath and scowls at us both. His eyes flick to a miniature torch casement, carved in white marble, and he lights the protruding wick.
Kit squints at the tiny flame and coughs out a spray of magic, muttering, “Yeow purr.”
Sparkles zip through Curt’s torch, bounce over his shoulder and whizz around the entire room, igniting torch after torch in a flash bomb relay. Flames emerge from the mouths of macabre coiled snake/dragon hybrids, carved in exquisite detail, from flexing claws and layered scales to eyes glowing ruby red.
Once lit, the gem encrusted walls of the vault burst into sparkling glory, throwing all the colours of the rainbow across the marble floor and its new occupants, like sunlight streaming though stained glass.
“This is beautiful,” murmurs Curt, leaning his torch against the wall and kneeling beside an ornate wooden table.
He runs his fingertips over legs carved into intricate twists of ivy leaves and spring blossom. My wolf is a talented carpenter, but whoever made that deeply engrained, polished masterpiece was a genius. A solitary highbacked chair slots beneath the interlocking patterned layers, matching the carved design, but carrying a padded seat and back rest of burgundy velvet, bordered in gold silk thread.
Resplendent on marble shelves, set at various heights to simulate a rolling wave, sit ornaments of writhing, twisting, abstract shapes made out of all manner of precious metals, glass crystal and gemstones, glistening with such mirror clarity that my own reflected fascination stares back at me. On velvet cushions lounge necklaces, rings and a golden cutlery set, the centre of each handle cut from a single jewel in an array of colours: amethyst, topaz, sapphire, ruby, emerald, diamond, pink topaz and turquoise.
“Won’t we run out of air, since we’re locked in here?” Curt asks, now finished examining the table’s craftmanship and back to his practical self.
“Yes,” agrees Kit. “So I’d best hurry, if I were you.” He nonchalantly swipes a paw across the lowest shelf, watching the priceless ornaments tip over the edge and shatter on the marble floor, one at a time.
“Kit.” I use my sharpest scolding voice after the first three smashes.
He licks his paw and looks up, letting loose an enormous yawn that makes his teeth sparkle. “What?”
“Stop breaking things. You’re not a kitten.”
Kit growls. “You’ve no idea where these pretty things came from.” He rests a paw against the table, pushing it across the floor with an irritating squeal of wood on marble. I decide to ignore his juvenile feline behaviour and scan the vault for my errant book.
Dire experience left me unprepared for the opulence in this hidden treasure chamber. I knew the castle must have been impressive in its heyday, but no imaginative resurrection of crumbling artefacts could ever compete with the decadence on display in the vault. Who brought all this all down here? Serpen’s ancestors? How long has it been sealed away from curious eyes? Does Serpen even know it’s here, since he never tried to take any of it with him?
“What’s this about?” asks Curt, staring at the vault’s back wall.
Curious, I join him, peering over his shoulder at a scene etched into the marble and decorated with tiny gemstones for mosaic style emphasis. The picture illustrates stylised snakes, coiled in a boat, sapphire waves breaking against the sides.
Kit pads over and his eyes go wide with shock before he clamps a nonchalant expression into place and mutters, “Nothing. Snakes love frivolity and staring at themselves.”
“There’s another one,” says Curt, shuffling to his left.
I check to my right and there’s another scene, reminding me of the unfolding Bayeux tapestry. “It’s a story,” I announce. “Where’s the beginning?”
“We don’t have time for this,” growls Kit. “You’re being childish.”
“Here,” calls Curt, from the far left end of the wall. “This is the first one.”
I jog down to him and we peer at an abstract formal portrait of all varieties and sizes of the feline world, staring out of the marble with ramrod straight backs and tails. The only thing they have in common is long, shiny, sabre teeth.
“Kit, these are cats,” I tell him. “Like you.”
“Leave it alone,” Kit snarls. “It has nothing to do with you.”
“They look so happy,” I continue, ignoring his attitude. The second mosaic shows sparkly cats dancing the hoola, surrounded by stars, and I can’t help but smile at the jollity.
“Edi,” whispers Curt, nodding at the third in sequence. A young woman with long straight hair carries an open book in her hands. “The Storyteller, I’d guess.”
Kit’s eyes fill with tears and he turns his back on the picture. “None of this can help now.”
Maybe not, but I want to know. Following the story reveals a fierce, roaring cat holding up a dazzling jewel that looks ominously familiar.
“Is that an amulet?” I ask Kit, but he doesn’t turn or answer. “Does it mean a cat made them?”
“I suppose,” Curt replies. “They had to come from somewhere. Didn’t go well though.”
He points at an etching of cats attacking one another with blazing amulets, followed by holding their noses over a pile of what I assume is stinking mould. The next etching depicts the Storyteller holding a book, pages open to the sky, a cat and a snake on either side of her. I’ve no idea what that means in the story.
“Oh, no,” mutters Curt, peering at the next in sequence.
He takes my hand as I join him and stare up at the tragedy. A ridged, scaled serpent rears up, fangs protruding from a wide open mouth, an amulet hanging around his neck. Behind the bars of a cage, sits a cat, howling to the heavens. But that’s not the worst of it. Slumped at the tail end of the serpent, lies the Storyteller.
“Kit, is this you?” I ask, slapping my palm against the caged cat. “Answer me. Who’s the serpent?”
“Arrympeite’s ancestor. My friend,” Kit murmurs as he turns to face me. “My Storyteller didn’t trust him and I told her she was wrong.” He pads up to the etching and softly mews, a single tear dribbling down his furry face. “I told her to send the cats away to save the snakes from slavery. I don’t regret that, but I was a fool. He was there when I taught her how the amulets work and he stole many before we could destroy them all.”
“You were just naïve,” Curt tells him. “We’ve all made mistakes trusting the wrong person.”
“He used them to become a serpent,” Kit continues, “and we tried to stop him, but she saved my life at the cost of her own. Her last story gave me a voice and promised a new Storyteller would one day save me. When I awoke from my wounds, the amulet was strangling me. My Storyteller and the true magic were both gone. I had never been without them. Meeeow.”
Kit’s howling meows break my heart and I fling my arms around him. “I’m so sorry, Kit. So sorry.”
“You took a very long time,” he whimpers, wrapping a paw around my legs.
“I know, my friend. I’m sorry.” I wipe the tears from his furry face and kiss the end of his nose. “The DreamWay took a long time to find me.”
“I waited a long time for her, too,” mutters Curt, gently laying a palm on Kit’s back. “What happened after that?” He taps the snakes in a boat etching.
“More amulets, more serpents,” Kit says, sadly. “They enslaved their own snakes, who fled, following one rebel serpent and here we are generations later. Another empire, no doubt enslaving whoever was around.”
The line of etchings ends at the castle, sparkling with hundreds of tiny gemstones.
“What’s all this doing down here?” Curt asks, never being the sort to hoard anything.
“I should imagine what always happened,” Kit mutters. “The dark magic corrupted the serpent and he hid the wealth stolen from your ancestors. Mould followed. The dark magic ran out and the serpent died. It’s all my fault.”
“You’ve been a prisoner,” Curt tells him. “You paid dearly for your mistakes.”
“No,” Kit growls, tears drying in a furnace of anger. “I don’t deserve forgiveness.”
“Everyone deserves forgiveness,” Curt states.
I’m about to agree when a hunch draws me back to an earlier etching: the snarling sabre toothed cat holding up the first amulet. A cat who looks a lot like Kit.
“This picture,” I say, peering at my friend. “Is this you? Did you find the first amulet?”
Kit’s face turns puce with rage and he swipes an entire shelf of ornaments onto the floor. Curt pulls me behind him.
A terrible idea occurs to me. “Kit, did you make the first amulet?”
His roar fills the vault, anger and despair bouncing off the walls. The sound suddenly ceases as the cat’s wide eyed glare fixes on something in the corner of the vault. I follow his eyeline to a miniature golden throne bearing a black velvet cushion, upon which rests a familiar, leatherbound book and a deep blue amulet on a gold chain.
All three of us dash to the book, Kit knocking me into Curt in his haste. We’re picking ourselves up when Kit gives the cushion a violent swipe, catapulting shredded velvet across the vault. The book lands on the floor with a thud, pages down, creasing the paper and bending back the spine, whilst the amulet bounces across the marble with a series of tinkles, a frantic tigerlion in pursuit.
“Kit, for pity’s sake,” I shout, rushing to my precious book.
“Amulet,” he roars.
“I get that, but...”
“Amulet.” He snaps off the chain and chews at the gem, desperately grinding it between his teeth. He’s dribbling out bits of shattered tooth when I hand the book to Curt and grab the frazzled cat by the nose.
“Kit, stop it,” I shout. “You’re only hurting yourself. Spit it out. Right now. Do as I tell you. Spit.” He stops grinding and big, teary eyes blink at me. “Kit, trust me. I’m your Storyteller.” Holding out my hand I order, “Spit.”
His shoulders heave in a huge sigh and he spits the salivary gem into my palm, whimpering, “There’s always one more.”
The gem sparkles with such beauty, it’s hard to believe how malignant it is.
“The amulet, do you need it to help us?” I ask Kit.
He stares at me, tears dripping off his tufty beard. “No. It can only steal and destroy. Don’t even touch it. Please, Storyteller.”
He’s right. I can already sense the darkness in the stone reaching out, probing, wrapping around my mind, entwining with my thoughts and beguiling me with silent suggestions of power. I’m already in danger of addiction.
You don’t need the cat or that book. You’ll have power for yourself, if you hold me close. It’s what you’ve always wanted. To be the Chosen, Special One.
It may be right, but I’m an ageing British tea drinker and remarkably well versed in giving myself a stern talking to. Put it down, Edi. It’s time for a story.
“The Storyteller held the amulet in her hand, knowing it must be destroyed. Closing her heart to its lure, she dropped it at her feet and her beloved soulmate crushed it beneath his heel, as she willed it to shatter.”
I duly drop the amulet, gazing at Curt.
“That better be me,” he mutters, with a smile. “As in the soulmate bit.”
“Well, Anguis isn’t here.” The thunderous look on his face makes me bust out laughing. “Of course it’s you, you big mangy wolf. Get on with it.”
“Hold that, Big Bum.” He thumps the book into my chest and lifts his foot to carry out my sentence.
“Don’t use your bad hip,” I tell him, with a long suffering tut.
He sighs and changes leg, grinding his heel into the exposed sapphire. A spark of magic squeezes out from between the pages of my book and zaps under his shoe. A resonating crack announces the demise of the amulet and Curt steps back, wiping his boot.
Kit pads over and stares down at the blue fragments littering the pure marble and sighs with ancient relief. “May it be the last one.”
“Apart from Armpit’s,” I point out.
“Yes,” Kit murmurs. “Thank you for not wanting to keep this one.”
“I did want it,” I reply, “but not as much as it wanted me. And I’ve seen enough mould to last a lifetime.”
“I made the first one,” says Kit, shuffling with shame. “I was so excited, I never stopped to ask if I should. As soon as I used it, I knew I’d done a terrible thing. That it drew from the darkness, not the true magic. My Storyteller destroyed it, but the cats found out how it was done and they made so many more.”
“You can’t change the past,” says Curt, giving the tigerlion a manly shove. “None of us can. But the true magic has returned, right?”
“It has,” Kit replies, delivering a soggy smile. “Though I am undeserving.”
“Then I’d be grateful if you’d help us, Mage UrRahUm.”
Huh. I knew Curt could say that name.
“I’ll help with all the energy an old cat can muster,” Kit agrees, returning Curt’s shove and bouncing him off the wall.
My hands vibrate and I peer down at the quivering book. “So, DreamWay, we seem to be reunited.” I swear it leaps out of my grasp and drops straight on my toes.
Whilst I clutch my smarting foot, Kit sucks in a wet sniff. “I’d say it’s somewhat miffed.”
Curt gingerly picks it up at arm’s length and places it on the carved table. It flips open on its own and I peer down at two blank pages.
“I’m very sorry for burning you, but you were getting mouldy and...” I whip my fingers clear as the book slams shut. “Alright, I know you don’t have to help me, but I really need your help.” I carefully run my fingertips over the embossed symbol on the cover and the meaning pops into my imagination.
Kit rests his chin on my shoulder, a whisker poking in my ear. “My Storyteller told me the symbol stands for forever loved.”
“That’s nice,” says Curt, covering my hand with his.
It’s all marvellously sentimental, but also happens to be completely wrong, since I’m not Kit’s Storyteller. In my version of this mouldy tale, it means destiny’s sacrifice, but I don’t need to share that information and burst anyone’s bubble. Picking up a nasty paper cut, I flick through pages which once contained the inked remembrance of my previous adventures. Unfortunately, they’re now disconcertingly blank.
“So, to deal with those horrendous slithering bullies,” says Kit, poking the book with his nose and leaving a wet nostril imprint on the paper.
“What are you going to do?” I ask, realising I’ve never bothered to find out exactly how the serpents will be leaving us. They might be ghastly, but guilt won’t let me sit well with murder. “Are you going to kill them all?”
“KILL THEM?” Kit trumpets, staring at me as though I just suggested genocide, which I suppose I did. “Who do you think I am? I am a true mage. I would never use magic to kill anyone. That’s dark magic.”
“What are you going to do then?” asks Curt.
“Send them away, as I did the cats,” Kit replies, whiskers drooping.
“Where did the cats go?” Curt probes, wrapping an arm around our tigerlion, who stares at the limb until Curt removes it again.
“They went into the book, of course,” Kit replies, flicking through the pages with a claw. “Right here.”
The empty page now carries a stream of embossed moggies, bouncing around with glee before fading back into the tome.
They look like they’re having fun, but I ask, “Are they trapped?”
Kit smiles. “Yes, but they don’t know that. It’s a nice place. My Storyteller was kind.”
“And there’s no way to bring them back again?”
Kit shakes his head, sadly. “No. None. Once sent to another realm, there you must stay.”
“That’s where you’ll send the serpents?”
“No, they’d slaughter each other. As a different Storyteller, you’ll send them to a new realm on another page.”
“All of them can get in that one page?” asks Curt.
“Yes,” says Kit, huffing at my wolf with impatience, “the page is just a window into that realm.”
“How far will the magic reach?” I ask, wondering where the serpents currently lurk, way down the valley.
“Everywhere,” Kit replies. “It’s deep magic.”
“All the snakes everywhere?”
“No, just the serpents.”
“Everywhere?”
“What’s the problem?” asks Curt, picking up on my anxious repetition. “That’s why we came.”
“What about our serpents?” I ask, my heart full of my friends. “Serpen and Sospa?”
“I’ll build a magic wall around them,” Kit says, “exempting them from the pull.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m a mage cat from ancient times,” says Kit. “What do you think, little human?”
“Alright. I trust you.” I smooch his face between my hands, as Sospa did before me. “What do I need to do?”
Kit leaps up, dragging both front paws across the table, leaving rows of scratch marks marring the polished surface. He peers down at the book, jamming two sabre teeth into the already ruined wood. Curt winces at the damage, but says nothing. Claws whip through the pages, slicing off the odd corner, until Kit finds what he’s looking for with an, “Ah.”
I know you’re as curious as me, so I take a peek, only to find there’s still nothing but two blank sheets of paper staring back at me.
“Nothing there,” says a frowning Curt, stating the obvious.
“Not yet, fuzzby,” Kit replies, taking two attempts to yank his teeth out of the table. “When I speak the true magic and the Storyteller weaves her tale, the vortex will appear on these two pages and the serpents will be drawn inside their new realm.”
“Is there a particular story I should tell?” I ask, nervously tapping my nails on the book.
“I’ve no idea,” Kit replies. “That’s your realm of discombobulation.”
Fabulous.
“I’ve no idea what either of you are talking about,” says Curt, winding an arm around my shoulder. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Keep your lips closed,” Kit replies, eyes sparkling with humour. “If that’s possible. Perhaps relocate your posterior to the steps, all the way over there, near the door with the hammering mould.”
“No chance, catface,” says Curt, tightening his grip on me. “Are you ready?”
“No,” I admit, “but let’s do it for our pack.”
“Meow. Meow. Meow.”
It would appear the cat’s chanting up the musical scale.
“Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow.”
Who knew a cat could sing soprano?
Kit sways from side to side, wafting his front paws and bobbing up and down in a plie on his back legs. “Meow. Meow. Meow.”
“That’s really annoying,” mutters Curt. “Do you think he’s waiting for you to start the story?”
Oh. Right.
With my opening line figured out, I’m drawing in breath when the tigerlion roars so viscerally, the walls vibrate and I leap into Curt’s arms, staring at the yellow eyes and teeth of an equally shocked wolfman. Kit slaps his front paws on the marble and races around the vault, climbing each wall and bouncing back down again, knocking everything onto the floor in a chorus of smashes, dings and thuds. Completing the manic circuit, he cuts a swathe through chaos, dashes back to the book, raises both front paws way above his head and hollers, “MEEEEOOOOWWW,” at the ceiling before returning to a sedate, “Meow. Meow. Meow.”
Back to fully human, Curt glances at his mate clinging to him, goes cross-eyed and whispers, “Was any of that necessary?”
“Who’s the mage here?” Kit thunders into his ear and Curt drops me from fright. “Meow. Meow. Meow. Get on with the story. Meow. Meow.”
“Err, err,” I stutter, my stunned imagination having frozen from the shock of that exhibition. Curt helps me up, tightens his grip around my waist and cups the back of my head with his spare hand.
“I’m right here,” he whispers into my hair, rocking me gently. “Just tell me a story. I love it when you tell me a story, like you used to in our lodge.”
I close my eyes, allowing my head to sink onto Curt’s shoulder as the words tumble forth.
“There once was a woman disappointed by life, when into her hands dropped an unexpected gift. A book, an ancient book, opened the portal to a new world. In the mountains, in the midst of snow, she found the love of her life: a wolf with mange and a gammy hip.”
Curt whispers, “I don’t have mange.”
“Wolves, bears, eagles and snakes became family to her bereaved soul, birthing unity in a storm of past hurts. But, just as all found peace, the realm shook from the quake of dark magic and the evil intent of those who would enslave. Now the Storyteller must use the DreamWay to send the serpents to another realm, there to live free of dark magic. Open the way, she cries. Open the vortex.”
A tiny cyclone whistles in the centre of the book, gradually spiralling higher and higher, drawing the pages up into an inverted cone. Shattered ornaments, crushed amulet and torn velvet spiral around the vortex, held in place by violent winds. Curt encircles my body in both arms, clutching me to him as though afraid I’ll pass through the vortex and be lost.
Kit spits magic onto his paw and with a toe draws a sparkling circle on the book, crying out, “Meow, Meow, Raow Sospa Serpen.”
The book slams shut, the wind cuts dead and all the floating flotsam drops out of the air, smashing back down onto the marble floor.
“Oh dear,” mutters the cat, catapulted out of his magic.
“What happened?” I ask, hugging Curt so hard, I can feel his ribs bend.
“It wouldn’t let me exclude them from the vortex,” Kit replies, but I already knew.
“Try again.”
“It won’t work.”
“Please, Kit. Please.”
“Try,” Curt agrees, nodding to the cat.
Kit stares at us both and Curt nods at him again. Kit sighs, then cranks himself back up into a repeat performance.
“The serpents are to go to a new life in another realm,” I echo, “there to live free of dark magic. Open the way. Open the vortex.”
It duly opens once more, but when Kit repeats the exclusion, the book slams shut and the vortex vanishes. Frustrated and afraid, I pull free of Curt’s embrace and grab the offending book from the table. It slips out of my grasp and drops onto the floor, falling open at a page bearing three words. Three shattering, heartbreaking words.
Choose destiny’s sacrifice.
“It would seem we’re being asked to make a choice,” says Kit, peering over my shoulder.
“No,” I state.
“Yes,” counters the mage.
“No,” I snarl. “Do the magic again.”
“It won’t work. The DreamWay has spoken.”
“It’s a frulking book,” I shout at him. “Do it again.”
“I am not your slave to command,” roars Kit. “Nor is the DreamWay.”
Curt inserts himself between us. “Stop shouting.” He points at Kit. “You explain to me what’s happened. Please.”
“It’s simple,” Kit growls. “I cannot set a guard around your two serpents. They must all go into the book, or none.”
“Then none,” I decide, the rush of emotion so visceral, it swamps the whisper of logic. “I’m not sacrificing our friends.”
“All your other friends will die if you don’t,” Kit counters with brutal clarity. “Two for everyone else.”
“I thought you liked Sospa,” I yell at the cat.
“I do,” he hollers back. “But this is the price. Did you think it would be easy?”
I drop to my knees beside the open book, slamming both palms onto the pages. “Please. I’m sorry. Don’t make me suffer by hurting my friends. Please.” When I lift my hands, the message has changed.
Destiny’s sacrifice is yours.
What does that mean?
The constant background of hammering from the mould suddenly changes tempo, as though it senses my dilemma. Faster and faster it booms, a speeding clock ticking away our final moments.
Have to decide. Must decide.
Tick Tock. No more time.
The door warps inwards and a crack runs across the diameter like a streak of lightning.
Thud. Thud. Let me in.
I can’t do this. Please, no. Sospa, my little serpent, you’re just a child. Serpen, you’re my friend. What will happen to you if you go? What if the serpents hate you, blame you?
The crack widens and the mould squeezes through, drip, dripping down the door and onto the marble steps.
“Decide, now,” Kit roars.
I can’t. I can’t. They’re my family. But so is Dulcis. Her coming child. And my tiny monster, Beetus. I can’t let them die, or be slaves. I can’t.
“I’ll decide,” Curt announces in his wolf voice, grabbing me by my shoulders. “I am your Alpha. You will follow my command. For the good of the pack, you will send the serpents away. I alone bear the responsibility.”
The crack breaks open and mould pumps through the door in a gush.
“Do it, now!” Curt growls, eyes turning yellow and canine teeth sliding down as the Alpha emerges.
Kit rises up in magic.
“Tell the story,” Curt orders, his piercing gaze saving me from the choice, from the guilt.
“Open the vortex. Open the way,” I stammer, tears pouring down my face. “Send the serpents...”
And then I see it, as clear and bright as the rising sun. Destiny’s choice is not to sacrifice another.
“Stop!” I holler, pulling out of the werewolf’s iron grip and kicking the book across the vault. It hits the wall and slams shut.
