The Witching Hour Read online

  "We didn't want to use the passkey to go in."

  "That's fine. Listen, I want to leave word with you for Dr. Mayfair if she calls again."

  "Yes, Mr. Curry?"

  "That I arrived safely, and that I'll call within twenty-four hours. That I have to go out now, but I'll be here later on."

  He laid a five-dollar bill for the maid on the coverlet and walked out.

  The small narrow lobby was bustling when he came down. The coffee shop was crowded and cheerfully noisy. Lightner, having changed from his dark tweed into an immaculate seersucker suit, stood by the doors, looking very much the southern gentleman of the old school.

  "You might have answered the phone when it rang," said Michael. He did not add that Lightner looked like the old white-haired men he remembered from the old days who used to take their evening walks through the Garden District and along the avenue uptown.

  "I didn't feel I had the right to do that," said Aaron politely. He opened the door for Michael and gestured to the gray car--a stretch limousine--at the curb. "Besides, I was afraid it was Dr. Mayfair."

  "Well, it was," Michael said. Delicious gust of August heat. He wanted to take off on foot. How comfortable the pavement felt to him. But he knew he had to make this journey. He climbed into the backseat of the car.

  "I see" Lightner was saying. "But you haven't called her back." He seated himself beside Michael.

  "A deal is a deal," Michael said with a sigh. "But I don't like it. I've tried to make it clear to you how things are with me and Rowan. You know, when I was in my twenties, falling in love with a person in one evening would have been damn near impossible. Least it never happened. And when I was in my thirties? Well maybe, but again it didn't happen, though now and then I saw just the promise ... and maybe I ran away. But I'm in my late forties now, and I'm either more stupid than ever, or I know enough finally that I can fall in love with a person in one day or one night, I can size up the situation, so to speak, and figure when something is just about perfect, you know what I mean?"

  "I think so."

  The car was somewhat old but plenty agreeable enough, with well-kept gray leather upholstery and a little refrigerator tucked to one side. Ample room for Michael's long legs. St. Charles Avenue flashed by all too rapidly beyond the tinted glass.

  "Mr. Curry, I respect your feelings for Rowan, though I have to confess I'm both surprised and intrigued. Oh, don't get me wrong. The woman's extraordinary by any standard, an incomparable physician and a beautiful young creature of rather amazing demeanor. I know. But what I ask that you understand is this: The File on the Mayfair Witches would never normally be entrusted to anyone but a member of our order or a member of the Mayfair family itself. Now I'm breaking the rules in showing you this material. And the reasons for my decision are obvious. Nevertheless, I want to use this precious time to explain to you about the Talamasca, how we operate, and what small loyalty, in exchange for our confidence, we should like to claim from you."

  "OK, don't get so fired up. Is there some coffee in this glorified taxi?"

  "Yes, of course," said Aaron. He lifted a thermos from a pocket in the side door, and a mug with it, and started to fill the mug.

  "Black will do just fine," Michael said. A lump rose in his throat suddenly as he saw the big proud houses of the avenue gliding past, with their deep porches and colonnettes and gaily painted shutters, and the pastel sky enmeshed in a tangle of groping branches and softly fluttering leaves. A sudden crazy thought came to him, that some day he would buy a seersucker suit like Lightner's suit, and he would walk on the avenue, like the gentlemen of years past, walk for hours, round curve after curve as the avenue followed the distant bends of the river, past all these graceful old houses that had survived for so long. He felt drugged and crazy drifting through this ragged and beautiful landscape, in this insulated car, behind dimming glass.

  "Yes, it is beautiful," Lightner said. "Very beautiful indeed."

  "OK, tell me about this order. So you're driving around in limousines thanks to the Knights Templar. What else?"

  Lightner shook his head reprovingly, a trace of a smile on his lips. But again he colored, surprising and amusing Michael.

  "Just kidding you, Aaron," said Michael. "Come on, how did you come to know about the Mayfair family in the first place? And what the hell damn is a witch, in your book, do you mind telling me that?"

  "A witch is a person who can attract and manipulate unseen forces," said Aaron. "That's our definition. It will suffice for sorcerer or seer, as well. We were created to observe such things as witches. It all started in what we now call the Dark Ages, long before the witchcraft persecutions, as I'm sure you know. And it started with a single magician, an alchemist as he called himself, who began his studies in a solitary spot, gathering together in a great book all the tales of the supernatural he had ever read or heard.

  "His name and his life story are not important for the moment. But what characterized his account was that it was curiously secular for the times. He was perhaps the only historian ever to write about the occult, or the unseen, or the mysterious without making assumptions and assertions as to the demonic origin of apparitions, spirits, and the like. And of his small band of followers he demanded the same open-mindedness. 'Merely study the work of the so-called spell binder,' he would say. 'Do not assume you know whence his power comes.'

  "We are very much the same now," Aaron continued. "We are dogmatic only when it comes to defending our lack of dogma. And though we are large and extremely secure, we are always on the lookout for new members, for people who will respect our passivity and our slow and thorough methods, people who find the investigation of the occult as fascinating as we do, people who have been gifted with an extraordinary talent such as the power you have in your hands ...

  "Now when I first read of you, I have to confess, I knew nothing about any connection between you and Rowan Mayfair or the house on First Street. It was membership that entered my mind. Of course I hadn't planned to tell you this immediately. But everything is changed now, you'll agree.

  "But whatever was to happen on that account, I came to San Francisco to make available our knowledge to you, to show you, if you wished, how to use your power, and then perhaps to broach the subject that you might find our way of life fulfilling or enjoyable, enough to consider it, at least for a while ...

  "You see, there was something about your life which intrigued me, that is, what I could learn of it, from the public records and from, well some simple investigation that we conducted on our own. And that is, that you seemed to be at a crossroads before the accident, it was as if you had achieved your goals, yet you were unsatisfied--"

  "Yeah, you're right about all that," Michael said. He had forgotten completely about the scenery beyond the windows. His eyes were fixed on Lightner. He held out the mug to be refilled with coffee. "Go on, please."

  "And well, there's your background in history," said Lightner, "and the absence of any close family, except for your darling aunt, whom I have come to simply adore on short acquaintance, I must confess, and of course there is still the question of this power you possess, which is considerably stronger than I ever supposed ...

  "But to continue about the order. We have observed occult phenomena throughout the world, as well you can imagine. And our work with the witch families is but a small part of it, and one of the few parts which involve real danger, for the observation of hauntings, even cases of possession, and our work with reincarnation and mind reading and the like involve almost no danger at all. With witches, it's entirely different .... And as a consequence, only the most experienced members are ever invited to work with this material, even to read it or try to understand it. And almost never would a novice or even a young member be brought into the field to approach a family such as the Mayfair family because the dangers are too great.

  "All of that will come clear to you when you read the File. What I want from you now is some understanding that you won't
make light of what we offer and what we do. That if we should part ways, either disagreeably or agreeably, you will respect the privacy of the persons mentioned in the Mayfair history ... "

  "You know you can trust me on that score. You know what kind of a person I am," Michael said. "But what do you mean about danger? You're talking about this spirit again, this man, and you're talking about Rowan ... "

  "Prematurely. What more do you want to know about us?"

  "Membership, how does it actually work?"

  "It begins with a novitiate, just as it does in a religious order. But again, let me emphasize one does not embrace a slate of teachings when one comes to us. One embraces an approach to life. During one's years as a novice, one comes to live in the Motherhouse, to meet and associate with the older members, to work in the libraries, and to browse in them at will ... "

  "Now that would be heaven," Michael said, dreamily. "But I didn't mean to interrupt you. Go on."

  "After two years of preparation, then we talk of serious commitment, we speak of fieldwork or scholarly pursuits. Of course one may follow the other, and again, we are not comparable to a religious order in providing our members with unrefusable assignments; we do not take vows of obedience. Allegiance, confidentiality, these are far more important to us. But you see, in the final analysis, it's all about understanding; about being inducted and absorbed into a special sort of community ... "

  "I can see it," said Michael. "Tell me about the Motherhouses. Where are they?"

  "The one in Amsterdam is the oldest now," Aaron said. "Then there is the house outside of London, and our largest house, and our most secret perhaps, in Rome. Of course the Catholic Church doesn't like us. It doesn't understand us. It puts us with the devil, just as it did the witches, and the sorcerers, and the Knights Templar, but we have nothing to do with the devil. If the devil exists, he is no friend to us ... "

  Michael laughed. "Do you think the devil exists?"

  "I don't know, frankly. But that's what a good member of the Talamasca would say."

  "Go on, about the Motherhouses ... "

  "Well, you'd like the one in London, actually ... "

  Michael was scarcely aware that they had left New Orleans, that they were speeding on through the swampland, on a barren strip of new highway, and that the sky had narrowed to a ribbon of flawless blue overhead. He was listening to every word Aaron said, quite enthralled. But a dark troublesome feeling was brewing in him, which he tried to ignore. This was all familiar, this unfolding story of the Talamasca. It was familiar as the frightening words about Rowan and "the man" had been familiar, familiar as the house itself had been familiar. And tantalizing though this was, it discouraged him suddenly, because the great design--of which he felt he was part--seemed for all its vagueness to be growing, and the bigger it grew, the more the world itself seemed to dwindle, to lose its splendor and its promise of infinite natural wonders and ever-shifting fortune, and even some of its ragged romance.

  Aaron must have realized what Michael was feeling, because Aaron paused once before continuing with his story, to say tenderly but almost absently, "Michael, just listen now. Don't be afraid ... "

  "Tell me something, Aaron," he said.

  "If I can, of course ... "

  "Can you touch a spirit? That man, I mean. Can you touch him with your hand?"

  "Well, there are times when I think that would be entirely possible ... At least you could touch something. But of course, whether or not the being would allow himself to be touched is quite another story, as you'll soon see."

  Michael nodded. "It's all connected, then. The hands, the visions, and even you ... and this organization of yours. It's connected."

  "Wait, wait until you've read the history. At each step of the game ... wait and see."

  Ten

  WHEN ROWAN AWOKE at ten she began to doubt what she had seen. In the flood of sunlight warming the house, the ghost seemed unreal. She tried to reinvoke the moment--the eerie noises of the water and the wind. It all seemed thoroughly impossible now.

  She began to be thankful that she hadn't reached Michael. She didn't want to appear foolish, and above all, she didn't want to burden Michael again. On the other hand, how could she have imagined such a thing as that? A man standing at the glass with his fingers touching it, looking at her in that imploring way?

  Well, there was no evidence of the being here now. She went out on the deck, walked the length of it, studied the pilings, the water. No signs of anything out of the ordinary. But then what sort of signs would there be? She stood at the railing, feeling the brisk wind for a while, and feeling thankful for the dark blue sky. Several sailboats were making their way slowly and gracefully out of the marina across the water. Soon the bay would be covered with them. She half wanted to take out the Sweet Christine. But she decided against it. She went inside.

  No call from Michael yet. The thing to do was to take out the Sweet Christine, or go to work.

  She was dressed and leaving for the hospital when the phone rang. "Michael," she whispered. Then she realized that it was Ellie's old line.

  "Person to person, please, for Miss Ellie Mayfair."

  "I'm sorry, she can't answer," said Rowan. "She's no longer here." Was that the way to say this? It was never pleasant telling these people that Ellie was dead.

  Conference on the other end.

  "Can you tell us where we might reach her?"

  "Can you tell me who is calling, please?" Rowan asked. She set down her bag on the kitchen counter. The house was warm from the morning sun, and she was a little hot in her coat. "I'll be glad to have you reverse the charges, if the party is willing to speak to me."

  Another conference, then the crisp voice of an older woman: "I'll speak to this party."

  The operator rang off.

  "This is Rowan Mayfair, can I help you?"

  "You can tell me when and where I can reach Ellie," said the woman, impatient, perhaps even angry, and certainly cold.

  "Are you a friend of hers?"

  "If she cannot be reached immediately, I would like to talk to her husband, Graham Franklin. You have his office number perhaps?"

  What an awful person, Rowan thought. But a suspicion was growing in her that this was a family call.

  "Graham can't be reached either. If you'll only tell me who you are, I'll be glad to explain the situation."

  "Thank you, I don't care to do that." Steely. "It's imperative that I reach Ellie Mayfair or Graham Franklin."

  Be patient, Rowan told herself. This is obviously an old woman, and if she is part of the family, it is worth holding on.

  "I'm sorry to have to tell you this," Rowan said. "Ellie Mayfair died last year. She died of cancer. Graham died two months before Ellie. I'm their daughter, Rowan. Is there anything I can do for you? Anything else perhaps that you want to know?"

  Silence.

  "This is your aunt, Carlotta Mayfair," said the woman. "I'm calling you from New Orleans. Why in the name of God was I not notified of Ellie's death?"

  An immediate anger kindled in Rowan.

  "I don't know who you are, Miss Mayfair," she said, deliberately forcing herself to speak slowly and calmly. "I don't have an address or a phone number for any of Ellie's people in New Orleans. Ellie left no such information. Her instructions to her lawyer were that no one be notified other than friends here."

  Rowan suddenly realized she was trembling, and her hand on the phone was slippery. She could not quite believe that she had been so rude, but it was too soon to be sorry. She also realized that she was powerfully excited. She didn't want this woman to hang up.

  "Are you still there, Miss Mayfair?" she asked. "I'm sorry. I think you caught me a bit off guard."

  "Yes," said the woman, "perhaps we were both caught off guard. It seems I have no choice but to speak to you directly."

  "I wish you would."

  "It's my unfortunate duty to tell you that your mother died this morning. I presume you understand what
I'm saying? Your mother? It was my intention to tell Ellie, and leave it entirely in her hands as to how or when this information should be conveyed to you. I'm sorry to have to handle it in this fashion. Your mother died this morning at five minutes after five."

  Rowan was too stunned to respond. The woman might as well have struck her. This wasn't grief. It was too sharp, too awful for that. Her mother had sprung to life suddenly, living and breathing and existing for a split second in spoken words. And in the same instant the living entity was pronounced dead; she existed no more.

  Rowan didn't try to speak. She shrank into her habitual and natural silence. She saw Ellie dead, in the funeral home, surrounded by flowers; but there was no coherence to this, no sweet bite of sadness. It was purely terrible. And the paper lay in the safe, as it had for over a year. Ellie, she was alive and I could have known her and now's she dead.

  "There is no need whatsoever for you to come here," said the woman with no perceptible change of attitude or tone. "What is necessary is that you contact your attorney immediately, and that you put me in touch with this person as there are pressing matters regarding your property which must be discussed."

  "Oh, but I want to come," Rowan said, without hesitation. Her voice was thick. "I want to come now. I want to see my mother before she's buried." Damn the paper, and this unspeakable woman, whoever she was.

  "That's scarcely appropriate," said the woman wearily.

  "I insist," said Rowan. "I don't wish to trouble you but I want to see my mother before she's buried. No one there need know who I am. I simply want to come."

  "It would be a useless journey. Surely Ellie would not have wanted this. Ellis assured me that--"

  "Elite's dead!" Rowan whispered, her voice scraping bottom in her effort to control it. She was shaking all over. "Look, it means something to me to see my mother. Ellie and Graham are both gone, as I told you. I ... " She could not say it. It sounded too self-pitying and too intimate to confess that she was alone.

  "I must insist," said the woman in the same tired, worn-out feelingless voice, "that you remain exactly where you are."

  "Why?" Rowan asked. "What does it matter to you if I come? I told you, no one needs to know who I am."