Miranda’s Gate

I love spending my days with Rebecca at the store, because it’s where the spirits live. I hear them whispering every day, beckoning me to come and share their worlds.

My human companion calls me “Miranda.” My own kind also named me, on the day of my awakening, in my very first life. They called me Wind Song, for my high, delicate voice. I am of the Folk, and of the Clan of Cat, we who must walk nine paths, upon the earth and under the sun.

It is said among my kind that we see a world both wider and deeper than that experienced by our human companions. I believe it’s true of most of them. They go through their days all unknowing, never suspecting the myriad other lives and stories that pass them by.

Some humans though, are very different. My friend Rebecca is such a one. She is most certainly aware of the wider world, though I’m not sure she actually sees that realm until she opens one of the books which crowd the shelves here.

For her, the books are doorways, each one opening into a different reality. Times, places, and lives lived long ago, sometimes even worlds that turn beneath other suns, far distant from our own; Rebecca sees them all, when she opens her books.

I see them too, for that is the way of my Clan and my kind. We cats know them all. I don’t actually need the books for that, but the spirits they hold are much stronger near them, here in the quiet store.

I like talking to the spirits of the books, when they are willing to speak. Their lives and worlds are endlessly fascinating, so very different from my own, and each one unique among all the others.

I would be perfectly content, never to leave again, simply to live here among the shelves, but I love my human companion very much, so I go home with her in the evenings. Rebecca would be lonely without me, and I cannot permit that. I pledged myself to Rebecca on the day that we met, and my place, upon the earth that turns beneath the sun, is beside her.

When the sun slants golden through the windows and shadows grow long, she will say to me in her sweet soprano, “Time to go home, Miranda.” I will get into my carrier, and we will begin our journey.

We live in a quiet apartment, two flights of stairs above a narrow, tree lined street, an hour’s travel from the store.

She has more books there, though not nearly as many as in her store. These are only her most especial favorites. She loves to choose one of the big leather bound ones in the evening, and relax in her chair, a cup of tea at her elbow.

I will hop up into her lap, and Rebecca will open the book in her hands and slowly turn the white pages that fill it. She calls this “reading.” For her, it opens all the wider universe that I see every day.

All the things that are lacking in her own quiet life: paladins and kings of long ago, villains and saints, still fighting their epic battles and living their lives, all are there in the books, waiting for my friend Rebecca.

The spirits of those who lived only in the imaginations of the humans who made the books are there as well, though they never actually walked the earth. They are as fully alive when Rebecca turns the pages, as if they really had lived, upon the earth and under the sun.

Sometimes I wonder if they are even aware that they never did walk the earth, that their entire being is contained in the pages of Rebecca’s books. If they are not, then no one should ever tell them so.

The books are what make humankind what they are. Without them, they would wander alone, none of them aware of any life but his own, and that would be sadness beyond all sorrow.

We cats have our songs, to keep alive the tales and memories of our Clan and our kind. Sung beneath the moon and the silent stars, they are the expression of who we are. But the Clan of Man cannot sing, at least not properly, and so with their clever hands they have made their books, and filled them with their souls. To know them, one need look no further.

My present life, with my quiet, loving companion, began when I, as a newly-weaned kitten, wandered alone down a chilly, wet street, beneath a threatening, rumbling sky. I was very much afraid, having somehow lost sight of my mother and siblings. I was cold, and near despair.

Then came Rebecca, appearing suddenly above me, stooping in her long skirt to lift me from the wet pavestones with her gentle hands. I knew immediately that this human woman was alone, too.

My kind own the ability to see the hearts of others, a gift given by the Spirit Above, in the morning of the world. Thus I saw clearly that Rebecca was as alone as I was, and had resigned herself to a life lived in that fashion, solitary and unassisted.

Our eyes met, her blue ones and my own amber, and we bonded, there in the cold rain. I saw in her gaze a soul both gentle and kind, and a heart that shone forth like a beacon. It would have been impossible not to love her. There too, I found a deep need for the sort of love that my kind can supply.

I knew at that moment that I would be her friend and companion until the day that death overtook me, until I ended my Walk, upon the earth and under the sun. A door opened, our lives passed through together, and the door shut behind us.

“No more will you be alone,” I said to her in my mind. “Many things may happen in our lives, but you will never again be alone.” In the seven summers that have since passed, I have not for a single moment regretted it.

She wrapped me in the soft folds of her woolen sweater that windy morning and walked on, her steps quickening, through the chilly raindrops. Soon we came to a door of worn and weathered wood, with a window in it, and painted words upon the glass.

She unlocked it with a large old key, and we entered. A small bell over the door tinkled.

I had never, in any of my lives, seen the like of the place that lay beyond the door. Strange were its scents, of aged paper and dust, stranger still its whispering old memories, but I knew I had found home, as she set me on the counter.

With its silent and watching spirits, filled with old books and new ones, this is where Rebecca and I are most alive. It is called “Becky’s Books,” by the humans who come here, for that is the meaning of the words painted upon the glass.

They come to browse among the shelves, and sometimes to take one or two books away, with their spirits and tales. The money they give my companion for them pays for our simple needs.

Rebecca usually just refers to the store as “my place,” which to my way of thinking is a much better name. The store is the center of her being; it is who she is.

In our apartment, Rebecca is just waiting for another day, to once again get on the train, and then the bus, and return here. Then the old brass key will let us back into our lives, and our day can begin.

From the day I first saw her, Rebecca has lived by habit. Every morning follows the last, down the well-worn path of her life. Each day she sets my carrier upon the counter, and as I emerge and stretch my limbs, hangs her sweater on one of the wooden pegs by the door. Then the carrier is put out of the way in the rear of the room.

After that her teakettle needs to be filled and set on its little electric burner to boil. Her cup of Earl Grey prepared, she smiles. We are back where we belong.

I knew from the moment I came there, that a Gateway existed somewhere in Rebecca’s store, and had for a very long time. It was hidden somewhere toward the back, among the shelves. I could see that there was much more to the old store than even Rebecca knew, limited as she was by her human senses.

A Gateway is a point in time and space where different worlds come near to touching. The feel of such a threshold is unmistakable, a tingling of magic on my questing whiskers. The scent of the one in Rebecca’s store was like the air when lightning has passed dangerously near. The two worlds it joined must be very different, to radiate such power.

That first day, I was still too cold and shaken by what had just happened to me to search for it, but I knew it would have to be done soon. I owed that to my new human friend.

The worlds inside the books meet ours in many different ways, but actual Gateways are rare, and they can be dangerous. My kind may pass through them, but other beings do as well. Some of them are not Clans of the Folk at all, but entities that must never be allowed to come near my new friend Rebecca.

For that day and several more, I just lay on the counter where it was warm, and learned the sights, sounds and scents of my new home. There was a regular traffic; much coming and going by humans, all that day. It seemed that Becky’s Books was the center of a small, cheerful community, on the streets where Rebecca had found me.

Some of the humans who entered the door were well known to her, old friends who came in for conversation and a cup of tea. Others stayed only a short time, chose a book, or several of them, and moved on. One man in blue clothes brought several packets of the white paper messages by which humans communicate. Others brought in still more books, which they offered to my companion in trade.

All of them paused to admire me, there on the counter, and some stroked my fur with a fingertip for a few heartbeats. Many bent to speak softly to me and smile. I was not surprised; those who are fond of my kind are very often the same humans who love to read the books in Rebecca’s store.

I received my new name that morning as well, when a pleasant woman who had come in for a book and stayed for tea, saw me and asked Rebecca what I was called.

“She’s ‘Miranda’,” my new companion announced, her blue eyes twinkling over her steaming cup. “After the daughter of ‘Prospero’ in The Tempest.”

“I might have known it would be Shakespeare,” her friend chuckled. “You never change, Rebecca. Prospero’s beautiful and virtuous daughter is a nice choice, too.”

She sipped her own tea and continued, “Her coat is certainly unusual. She has a calico’s three colors, but a tabby’s markings. I never saw a more beautiful little face.”

At this I pricked up my ears and preened a bit. My kind can nearly always be won by flattery, if its source is a sincere “cat person.” I marked the woman in my mind as a possible friend. Rebecca had called her “Abigail.” She got up to go, after giving me a last scratch behind the ears.

“I still have some cat things from when I had my little Sasha,” she said. “I can bring them by before you close up this afternoon, if you want.”

“Thanks Abby,” Rebecca said, smiling. “I had no idea I was going to adopt a kitty this morning, so I don’t have anything at all.”

“My morning is certainly ending better than it began,” I said to myself, as the door closed behind Abigail. I had begun with nothing, but had quickly acquired an excellent home, a loving human protector, and a good start on a group of friends.

All of it could easily be for nothing though, if I couldn’t find and close the Gateway that lurked in this store. Until that was done, Rebecca and all her friends were in grave danger. The strength of it made my fur bristle uncomfortably, even then. Literally anything at all might come through a portal of that power. Anything.

Four days later I had my first chance to look for it. My human had by then accepted the fact that I had no desire at all to run away, and allowed me down on the floor to play. She was busy unpacking some new books and putting them in their proper places, and would not worry if I explored the store on my own.

I could not locate the Gateway by scent alone; its thunder-and-lightning tang was everywhere. So was the tense, frightening feel of it, but I knew it must lie somewhere among the last shelves, toward the rear wall of the building.

Rather than blunder about blindly, I decided to make some discreet enquiries. From my previous lives, I was acquainted with quite a few of the spirits who could always be found in libraries and bookstores.

“Crook” might know something, I thought, and began searching for the section where the fantasy books were shelved. Crook is actually “Cruikshanks,” a fellow member of the Clan of Cat, orange of fur and uncertain of temper. He is the companion of a young school girl who mistakenly believes she is a witch. I had encountered him several times before, and hopefully he would remember me.

It’s true his young friend is capable of some forms of magic, but hasn’t noticed that one or more cats are always present when it occurs. It is a secret well kept by my kind; none of the young “wizards” and “witches” at her school knows the real truth.

I quickly found the proper set of books, and with a moment’s concentration, translated to the world they represented. With a sort of whoosh and pop, I found myself in a long stone corridor, brightly lit by flaring torches, and filled with scurrying, laughing human children. I quickly shook off the disorienting effects of the change, and took stock of my surroundings.

Lest I be trodden on by some child more intent on his friends than where he was stepping, I leapt up on a plinth, beneath a marble statue of an old woman in a broad-brimmed, pointed hat.

“Good morning, Wind Song,” said a voice behind me. I turned to see that I now shared the plinth with another of my kind, a fluffy, russet furred she-cat with improbably bright orange eyes.

“Oh, good morning, Mrs. Norris,” I said, a bit startled by her sudden materialization. I needed to keep in mind that real magic was a common occurrence in the world I was visiting today, even if the humans here were mistaken about its source. Have you seen Crook today?”

“Yes, Cruikshanks is present at school today,” she replied. She half closed her odd eyes and pointed with her chin down the long hallway. “He and his little girl will be along shortly. They are walking with those two scapegrace boys.” Her manner indicated sharp disapproval. “If you wait here you will see them.”

With that, Mrs. Norris was gone, evaporated back to wherever she had come from. I twitched my whiskers; the ways of my kind are sometimes strange, in the worlds of the “Fantasy” section.

In a moment I saw my friend and his human, a young girl with slightly unkempt hair, and a bookish air about her. The “scapegraces” were beside them, a short boy with round glasses, and a taller one with hair the color of flame. I hopped down from my perch and fell in beside them.

“Good morning, Crook,” I said to my kinsman. He looked me up and down, but then I saw recognition in his eyes.

“Greetings, friend Wind Song,” he replied. “You have recently begun your new Life Walk, I see. Your new coat is handsome; one seldom sees a tabby-marked calico.”

“Thank you kind Sir,” I said. “Yes, I am in my fourth Walk, now. I left the Sacred Isle ten weeks ago to live once more.”

He nodded in understanding. “What brings you to visit the school?”

“An errand of some urgency,” said I. “My new human companion is proprietor of a bookstore. Unfortunately, a Gateway is hidden in her shop, and I need more information than I have, to find and deal with it.”

He nodded again. “There can be great danger in Gateways and Portals, especially those which open upon unknown destinations. You now abide with Rebecca the Bookseller, then?”

“Yes, I do. I have pledged myself to Rebecca, and must protect her at any cost. She is an excellent human being, and deserves much better than to have her life shattered by entities from worlds she doesn’t understand.” I paused a moment. “I love her,” I added with a twitch of my whiskers.

Cruikshanks blinked slowly. “I see. Definitely an urgent matter. I know of the world-joining you are referring to,” he said, “but sadly, nothing else about it. In this world, the spirits who might help locate such a phenomenon dwell within only one book, and it is locked in the restricted section of our library. My young friend here has tried to gain access, but to no avail.”

“Yes, I have,” his human companion said to me, stooping down. “That shelf is warded, by a particularly powerful spell. I’ve tried to break it, but I don’t yet have the skill.” She paused. “You could force it to become visible by incanting ‘Portum Revelare,’ but I have no idea how to destroy it.

“Your human may be in real danger, Wind Song. You’d best hurry.” She frowned in thought. “Alice might know how to get rid of it. She’s good with doors, if you can catch her on a day when she isn’t ten feet tall. Do you know how to enter her world?”

“Yes. I’ve been there before. Thank you Hermione!” With that I translated again, and found myself once more in the book store, waiting for the momentary nausea of my journey to pass. I could hear Rebecca talking with someone at the counter; my absence had not been noticed, then.

With senses only possessed by the Clan of Cat, I reached out to check on the Gateway, and gasped with surprise. It was growing, already noticeably more powerful and malevolent than it had been when I had left to visit Cruikshanks. The thing might open sometime today; I had put off my search too long!

I searched frantically among the shelves for the place where the Classics were displayed. There they were, on the east wall of the store. I ran my eye down the shelf, but did not see what I needed.

Oh no! There were none of Alice’s books! They were quite popular among the sort of humans who came to the store. Rebecca must have sold every last one of them!

“All right, calm down,” I told myself, taking a deep breath. There was another way into Alice’s world, but I would have to get out of the store. I returned to the front, and waited below the counter for Rebecca’s customer to leave. When she turned and opened the door, I ran out between her feet.

“Miranda, No!” my friend called in alarm. “Come back!”

The last thing I wanted was to cause Rebecca any upset, but it couldn’t be helped. This had to be done, and I was the only one who could do it.

I dashed away, a ten week old kitten running down a crowded sidewalk, dodging pedestrians and window shoppers. Humans laughed as I passed, and one small boy made a grab for me, but I avoided his hands and ran on.

I was looking for a shoe store; I knew, from an overheard conversation at the counter, that one existed in the next block. There it was!

I dashed in through the open door, before anyone could stop me. What I wanted was the long mirror that all such establishments kept on the floor beneath the rows of shoes, canted so that those buying them might see their feet.

I found the foot mirror just where it should be, at the bottom of a display of ladies slippers. Running between two human shoppers, I dove through it.

I stopped to catch my breath, just on the other side. I could still faintly hear the two women in the shoe store: “Did you see that?” one of them asked querulously.

“No, I don’t believe I did,” answered her friend.

“Perhaps you’re right,” said the first, after a moment’s hesitation. “There was no kitten. There was nothing at all.”

“Amen,” replied the other, fervently.

Travel by looking glass is always disconcerting: What was on the right in the world outside is to the left in the land beyond the mirrors, and left, in turn, is right. That included every atom that spins there, right down to the calico markings of my own face.

I turned to hop down from the bureau on which I had landed, but fell on my side instead. I needed to remember, that although I had been right-pawed in the actual world, I was a “lefty” here.

Quickly righting myself, I leapt down and dashed for a wooden door that was shrinking rapidly, even as I ran through it. It popped shut behind me, leaving no trace of itself or the room with the bureau, by whose mirror I had entered.

I was now outdoors, in a pretty wood with flowers growing about the roots of all the trees, and oddly marked mushrooms everywhere. The difference, (and there always was one, in the land beyond the looking glass) was that everything here had grown to a ridiculous size.

The caps of the mushrooms were well above my head, and the flowers were all the size of manhole covers. There were bees the size of puppies buzzing about them too. I gave those a wide berth, as I ran between the flowers, and through the enormous blades of grass. I needed to find a particularly huge mushroom today, with… Ah! There it was!

I hopped up onto the edge of the wide, polka-dotted thing, and found myself confronting a blue caterpillar, who had somehow grown to the improbable size of all the rest of my surroundings.

He looked at me blankly, with no trace of recognition, although I had spoken with him on many other occasions. He held in his hands the mouthpiece of an elaborate glass hookah, whose smoke curled about his head.

“Are you well, Sir?” I asked, and he shook his head as if in a daze.

“Quite well,” replied the blue caterpillar. “And you? How are you tonight?” he asked in his turn, although it was actually nearly noon.

“He’s not, you know,” said a smug voice at my shoulder, and I nearly leapt out of my skin. “He isn’t well at all.”

“Oh, hello, Chess!” I said when I had regained my wits. For hanging in the air beside me was a broad feline grin, full of needle teeth. The rest of a large orange, tabby-striped cat was only now materializing around it. It was, of course, none other than the Cheshire Cat, arriving in his usual manner.

“What do you mean he isn’t well?”

“The old blue worm isn’t what he used to be, young Wind Song,” said my kinsman. “And today he is quite indisposed, having found something other than tobacco to put in his water-pipe. Perhaps I may serve you instead?”

“I certainly hope so,” I said. “I’m very much in a hurry, you see, and haven’t time for all this confusion.”

“I assume you are seeking the girl, Alice?”

“Yes I am!” I said, very pleased to have found someone who would speak in a straightforward manner. “Do you know where she may be found?”

“I assume she is currently at tea, White Rabbit having passed by here a short time ago, in his usual rush. Do you know where High Tea is held in this land?”

“Yes, I’ve been there before,” I said, as I hopped down from the mushroom and began to run. “Thank you Chess! I owe you a favor!”

“Several, I should think,” said he, as he began once more to evaporate around his grin.

I bounded through the wood for nearly half a mile, until I came to an oddly shaped house which had a long table with a white tablecloth set up on its lawn. On it were cups and teapots, cream crocks, and all the other implements of a traditional British High Tea. Seated at the table were a little girl in a blue play frock, together with her companions, Hatter, Hare, and Dormouse.

As I approached, Alice jumped to her feet, upsetting her teacup on the tablecloth. “You must hurry, Wind Song!” she said. “The Gateway will open today, most likely before teatime is over!”

“How did you know my errand before I even spoke?” I asked, startled again, as was usual in this land.

“You’ve asked before,” she retorted. “It’s always teatime in Looking Glass Land.”

“Oh… Can you help me with my quest?”

“Yes, the loathsome thing is coming from a very old book, with a black leather binding. It’s not in its proper place, but has been misfiled among the travel books!

“Now you must act quickly, for your human is in grave danger. The incantation you must use to seal it shut permanently is ‘Perpetuum Clausi’.

“There are new copies of my books under Rebecca’s counter in a box, so you need not run all the way back from the shoe store. Go now, Wind Song; Rebecca needs you!”

Taking her at her word, (for Alice is nothing if not truthful) I translated directly back to Becky’s Books, and materialized with a soft pop, beneath the counter. Beside me was indeed a pasteboard box of new books, just as she’d said.

I ran out between Rebecca’s feet, causing her to give a little shriek and leap into the air, but it couldn’t be helped. She had been searching without success for me outside, and was crying.

As I bounded down the central aisle of the bookstore, two small boys appeared as if by magic, running beside me. One was barefoot and had on worn and patched overalls, while the other wore green tights and brandished a pirate’s cutlass about him.

“Keep goin’ Wind Song!” shouted the one in overalls, pulling a wooden slingshot from his back pocket. “Me and Pete are with you!”

Meanwhile Rebecca had collapsed in a dead faint, behind the counter of her usually quiet store. “Just as well,” I said to myself. My gentle, bookish friend didn’t need to see what was about to happen.

The travel books occupied a shelf midway up from the floor, two rows forward from the rear wall. We found it easily, and the source of the trouble was easy to spot; a huge old tome bound in dry, cracked, black leather was about as obvious as anything could be, among the bright covers of the books for travelers.

The thing was several centuries old, at the very least, and evil emanated from it in sickening waves. A Black Grimoire! That had no place at all here! Rebecca would never have put such a thing on the shelves.

Any speculation on its provenance would have to wait for another time though, if we somehow survived at all. “Portum Revelare,” I screamed, just a moment too late. The Gateway did reveal itself before us, but opened then and there, with a sharp bang, and a gust of hot wind that smelled of death.

It was a sphere of crackling blue light that hurt the eyes, and jagged violet streamers of energy shot from it into the room. As we watched, a green-winged faery flew out screaming, closely pursued by two daemons in the form of enormous, buzzing hornets, the size of shepherd dogs.

“Look out!” shouted Peter, and I ducked as they shot over me. The boy in overalls whipped out his schoolboy’s sling and shot down the hornets with it in quick succession, as soon as the fleeing faery was clear. They vanished in bright flashes of blue light.

“Thanks, Tom!” she called over her shoulder, and fluttered madly toward the Fantasy section. “Head for Neverland!” called Peter after her. “You can stay with Tinkerbell!”

Meanwhile a worse foe than the daemon hornets burst through the sizzling portal, roaring its battle cry. It was a Djinn, of the “Great Blue” variety, brandishing a huge curved scimitar.

“I can take this clown,” laughed Peter, advancing with his pirate cutlass, and began to fence furiously with the Djinn. He was much smaller than the heavily muscled desert spirit, but also much quicker, and swiftly began driving it backward, toward the opening between this world and its own. His friend Tom was also peppering it with stones from his slingshot at every opportunity.

I could see two more Djinni behind it, but at least for the moment, they were blocked by their leader’s body. Peter met its slashing blade stroke for stroke, but could not force it completely back through the opening. That Gateway urgently needed to be shut, but I could not do it with the Djinn still in this world!

“Now, Wind Song!” he yelled, suddenly ducking under a wild swing of the thing’s scimitar, and then lunged to run it through with his cutlass. “Now!” he shouted again, and kicked the punctured Djinn backward through the spherical opening.

“Perpetuum Clausi!” I gasped, and the Gateway imploded with a deafening roar and a blast of heat. The Black Grimoire was revealed, still there where the malevolent sphere had been.

As we watched, the centuries-old book of evil magic began to crumble before our eyes. In the space of a few moments, nothing was left of it but a small heap of sooty dust, there on the floor before the shelf of bright travel books.

“You know your friend never put that thing there, don’t you?” said Tom, returning his slingshot to the pocket of his overalls.

“I know, Tom,” I said to the small, barefoot boy. “Rebecca doesn’t even know it was there. It was warded, by a spell that made it invisible to her kind.”

He nodded. “Sooner or later, you’ll have to find out who did that to her, and deal with the villain,” he said. “But I guess that’s a mystery that can wait for another day.”

“Yes, for a little while. Thanks for helping me,” I said to him, in sincere gratitude for what the rapscallion from Missouri and his green-clad companion had done. “No problem,” he said with his gap-toothed grin. “I got to get back, now, before my Auntie realizes I’m gone. See ya, Pete! he said to his companion.” And he vanished, back to the Classics section, where his books sat neatly shelved.

“I have to go too,” said his friend Peter. “Come visit me sometime, Wind Song! It’s the second star to the left, and straight on ‘till morning. You can’t miss it!”

And with that, he was gone too, returned to his own world, in the books of the Fantasy shelf. Rebecca and I were alone, in her once more quiet bookstore. I padded quickly back to the front counter, where the human woman I had come to love so much was just now waking from her swoon.

I lay down beside her where she’d fallen to the floor of her beloved store, and began to purr, just as her blue eyes flickered open. She smiled at me. “Miranda,” she finally murmured. “Why did you run away? I was so worried about you! You’re too little to wander around the city streets!

“I thought I saw… but it couldn’t have been. It must have been a daydream. You’re back now. You’re back and you’re safe with me. Everything will be all right.”

“Yes, I’m back,” I thought to myself. “I’m back, and that hideous old book is destroyed. The Gateway is sealed forever, dear friend. Nothing can ever come through it to harm you again. You’re safe with me, and I won’t ever run away from you again.”

It was late afternoon now, and the light was slanting golden through the windows. Though everything had seemed to happen so quickly, my adventure had taken nearly the whole day.

Soon it would be time to go home. My beloved Rebecca and I would ride on the bus, and then on the train, and finally we would walk down our narrow, tree lined street, and climb the steps to our quiet, safe apartment. Everything would indeed be all right now.

END