The Witching Hour Page 35

  "Like a private club," Michael whispered. It was almost comical to him, the occasional person seated deep in a tapestried chair who did not even glance up from a book or a paper as they glided soundlessly past. But the overall atmosphere was unmistakably inviting. He felt good here. He liked the quick smile of the woman who passed him on the staircase. He wanted to find a chair himself at some time or other in the library. And through all the many French doors, he caught the greenery outside, a great sprawling net swallowing up the blue sky.

  "Come, we'll take you to your room," Aaron said.

  "Aaron, I'm not staying. Where's the file?"

  "Of course," Aaron said, "but you must have quiet to read as you like."

  He led Michael along the upper corridor to the front bedroom on the eastern side of the house. Floor-length windows opened onto both the front and the side galleries. And though the carpet was as dark and thick as everywhere else, the decor had yielded to the plantation tradition with a couple of marble-top bureaus and one of those overpowering poster beds which seemed made for this kind of house. Several layers of handmade quilts covered its shapeless feather mattress. No carvings ornamented its eight-foot-high posts.

  But the room had a surprising array of modern conveniences, including the small refrigerator and television fitted into a carved armoire, and a chair and desk nestled in the inside corner, so that they faced both the front windows and those to the east. The phone was covered with buttons and tiny carefully inscribed numerals for various extensions. A pair of Queen Anne wing chairs stood on tiptoe before the fireplace. A door was open to an adjoining bath.

  "I'm moving in," Michael said. "Where's the file?"

  "But we should have lunch."

  "You should. I can get a sandwich and eat it while I'm reading. Please, you promised. The file."

  Aaron insisted that they go at once to a small screened porch off the back of the second story, and there, overlooking a formal garden with gravel paths and weathered fountains, they sat down to eat. It was an enormous southern breakfast, complete with biscuits, grits, and sausage; and plenty of chicory cafe au lait to drink.

  Michael was ravenous. Again, he had that feeling he'd had with Rowan--good to be off the booze. Good to be clear-headed, looking out on the green garden with the branches of the oaks dipping down to the very grass. Divine to be feeling the warm air again.

  "This has all happened so fast," Aaron said, passing him the basket of steaming biscuits. "I feel I should say something more, yet I don't know what I can say. We wanted to approach you slowly, we wanted to get to know you and for you to know us."

  Michael couldn't stop thinking about Rowan suddenly. He resented it powerfully that he couldn't call Rowan. Yet it seemed useless to try to explain to Aaron how worried about Rowan he was.

  "If I had made the contact I hoped to make," said Aaron, "I would have invited you to our Motherhouse in London, and your introduction to the order might have been slow and graceful there. Even after years of fieldwork, you would not have been asked to undertake a task as dangerous as intervention with regard to the Mayfair Witches. There is no one in the order even qualified to undertake such a task except for me. But you are involved, to use the simple modern expression."

  "In it up to the eyeballs," Michael said, eating steadily as he listened. "But I hear what you're saying. It would be like the Catholic church asking me to participate in an exorcism when they knew I wasn't an ordained priest."

  "Very nearly so," he said. "I sometimes think that on account of our lack of dogma and ritual, we are all the more stringent. Our definition of right and wrong is more subtle, and we become more angry with those who don't comply."

  "Aaron, look. I won't tell a blessed soul in Christendom about that file, except for Rowan. Agreed?"

  Aaron was thoughtful for a moment. "Michael," he said, "when yoy've read the material we must talk further about what you should do. Wait before you say no. At least commit yourself to listening to my advice."

  "You're personally afraid of Rowan, aren't you?"

  Aaron drank a swallow of coffee. He stared at the plate for a moment. He had eaten nothing but half a biscuit. "I'm not sure," he answered. "My one meeting with Rowan was very peculiar. I could have sworn ... "

  "What?"

  "That she wanted desperately to talk to me. To talk to someone. And then again, there was a hostility I perceived in her, a rather generalized hostility, as if the woman were superhuman and bristled with something instinctively alien to other human beings. Oh, I know that sounds farfetched. Of course she isn't superhuman. But if we think of these psychic powers of ours as mutations, then we can begin to think of a creature like Rowan as something different, as one species of bird is different from another. I felt her differentness, so to speak."

  He paused. He seemed to notice for the first time that Michael was wearing his gloves as he ate. "Do you want to try it without those? Perhaps I can teach you how to block the images. It isn't really as difficult as you ... "

  "I want the file," said Michael. He wiped his mouth with the napkin and swallowed the rest of his coffee.

  "Of course you do, and you shall have it," said Aaron with a sigh.

  "Can I go to my room now? Oh, and if they could manage another pot of this lovely black syrupy coffee and hot milk ... "

  "Of course."

  Aaron led Michael out of the breakfast room, stopping only to give the order for the coffee, and then he led Michael back down the broad central hallway to the front bedroom.

  The dark damask drapes covering the front floor-length windows had been opened, and through every pane of glass shone the gentle summer light, filtered through the trees.

  The briefcase with the bulging file in its leather folder lay on the quilt-covered four-poster bed.

  "All right, my friend," Aaron said. "They'll bring in the coffee without knocking so as not to disturb you. Sit out on the front gallery if you like. And please read carefully. There's the phone if you need me. Dial the operator and ask for Aaron. I'm going to be down the hall, a couple of doors, catching a little sleep."

  Michael took off his tie and his jacket, went into the bathroom and washed his face, and was just getting his cigarettes out of his suitcase when the coffee arrived.

  He was surprised and a little disturbed to see Aaron reappear, with a troubled expression on his face. Scarcely five minutes had passed, or so it seemed.

  Aaron told the young boy servant to set the tray down on the desk facing out from the corner, and then he waited for the boy to leave.

  "Bad news, Michael."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I just called London for my messages. Seems they tried to reach me in San Francisco to tell me Rowan's mother was dying. But we failed to connect."

  "Rowan will want to know this, Aaron."

  "It's over, Michael. Deirdre Mayfair died this morning, around five A.M." His voice faltered slightly. "You and I were talking at the time, I believe."

  "How awful for Rowan," said Michael. "You can't imagine how this will affect her. You just don't know."

  "She's coming, Michael," said Aaron. "She contacted the funeral parlor, and asked them to postpone the Services. They agreed. She inquired about the Pontchartrain Hotel when she called. We'll check, of course, to see whether or not she's made reservations. But I believe we can count on her arriving very soon."

  "You're worse than the Federal Bureau of Investigation, you know it?" Michael said. But he wasn't angry. This was precisely the information he wanted. With a bit of relief he reviewed in his mind the time of his arrival, his visit to the house, and his waking afterwards. No, there was nothing he could have done to effect a meeting with Rowan and her mother.

  "Yes, we are very thorough," said Aaron sadly. "We think of everything. I wonder if God is as indifferent as we are to the proceedings we watch." His face underwent a distinct change, as he appeared to draw inward. Then he moved to leave, apparently without another word.

  "You actuall
y knew Rowan's mother?" Michael asked.

  "Yes, I knew her," said Aaron bitterly, "and I was never able to do a single solitary thing to help her. But that's often how it is with us, you see. Perhaps this time things will be different. And then again, perhaps not." He turned the knob to go. "It's all there," he said pointing to the folder. "There's no time anymore for talk."

  Michael watched helplessly as he left in silence. The little display of emotion had surprised him completely, but it had also reassured him. He felt sad that he had been unable to say anything comforting. And if he started to think of Rowan, of seeing her and holding her, and trying to explain all this to her, he would go crazy. No time to lose.

  Taking the leather folder from the bed, he set it on the desk. He collected his cigarettes, and he took his seat in the leather desk chair. Almost absently he reached for the silver coffeepot, and poured himself a cup of coffee, and then added the hot milk.

  The sweet aroma filled the room.

  He opened the cover, and took up the manila folder inside it, marked simply "THE MAYFAIR WITCHES: Number One." It contained a thick bound typescript, and an envelope marked "Photocopies of the Original Documents."

  His heart ached for Rowan.

  He began to read.

  Twelve

  IT WAS AN hour later that Rowan called the hotel. She had packed the few light summery things she had. In fact, her packing had been a bit of a surprise to her, as she watched her own choices and actions, seemingly from a remove. Light silk things had gone into the suitcases, blouses and dresses bought for vacations years back and never worn since. A load of jewelry, neglected since college. Unopened perfumes. Delicate high-heel shoes never taken out of the box. Her years in medicine had left no time for such things. Same with the linen suits she'd worn a couple of times in the Hawaiian Islands. Well, they would serve her well now. She also packed a cosmetic kit which she hadn't opened for over a year.

  The flight was arranged for midnight that night. She would drive in to the hospital, go over all the patient histories in detail with Slattery, who would be filling in for her, and then go on to the airport from there.

  Now she must make her reservation at the hotel and leave word for Michael that she was coming in.

  An amiable southern voice answered her at the hotel. Yes, they did have a suite vacant. And no, Mr. Curry was not in. He had left a message for her, however, that he was out but he would call within twenty-four hours. No, no word on where he was or when he'd return.

  "OK," Rowan said with a weary sigh. "Please take this message down for him. Tell him I'm coming in. Tell him my mother died. That the funeral is tomorrow at Lonigan and Sons. Have you got that?"

  "Yes, ma'am. And let me tell you how sorry we all are to hear about your mother. I got kind of used to seeing her on that screened porch whenever I passed."

  Rowan was amazed.

  "Tell me something, if you will," Rowan said. "The house where she lived is on First Street?"

  "Yes, Doctor."

  "Is that in a neighborhood called the Garden District?"

  "Yes, Doctor, it sure is."

  She murmured her thanks and hung up. Then it is the same stretch that Michael described to me, she thought. And how is it they all know about it, she wondered. Why, I didn't even tell that woman my mother's name.

  But it was time to go. She went out on the north deck and made sure the Sweet Christine was thoroughly secured, as she might be for the worst weather. Then she locked the wheelhouse and went back into the house. She set the various household alarm systems, which she had not used since Ellie died.

  Time now to take one last look about.

  She thought of Michael standing before that graceful old Victorian on Liberty Street, talking of foreboding, of never coming back. Well, she had no such clear feeling. But merely to look at everything here made her feel sad. The house felt cast off, used up. And when she looked at the Sweet Christine she felt the same way.

  It was as if the Sweet Christine had served her well, but did not matter anymore. All the men she'd made love to in the cabin below deck no longer mattered. In fact, it was quite remarkable really that she had not taken Michael down the little ladder into the snug warmth of the cabin. She had not even thought of it. Michael seemed part of a different world.

  She had the strongest urge to sink the Sweet Christine suddenly, along with all the memories attached to it. But that was foolish. Why, the Sweet Christine had led her to Michael. She must be losing her mind.

  Thank God she was going to New Orleans. Thank God she was going to see her mother before the burial, and thank God she'd soon be with Michael, telling him everything, and having him there with her. She had to believe that would happen, no matter why he hadn't called. She thought bitterly of the signed document in the safe. But it didn't matter to her now, not even enough to go to the safe, look at it, or tear it up.

  She shut the door without looking back.

  PART TWO

  THE MAYFAIR

  WITCHES

  Thirteen

  THE FILE ON THE MAYFAIR WITCHES

  Translator's Foreword to Parts I through IV:

  The first four parts of this file contain material written by Petyr van Abel expressly for the Talamasca--in Latin, and primarily in our Latin code, a form of Latin used by the Talamasca in the fourteenth through the eighteenth centuries to keep its epistles and diary entries secret from prying eyes. Enormous amounts of material were written in English as well, as it was Petyr van Abel's custom to write in English when he was among the French, and in French when he was among the English, to render the dialogue and certain thoughts and feelings more naturally than the old Latin code would allow.

  Almost all of this material is in the form of epistles, as this was, and still is, the primary form in which reports to the archives of the Talamasca are made.

  Stefan Franck was at this time the head of the order, and most of the following material is addressed to him in an easy and intimate and sometimes informal style. However, Petyr van Abel was always aware that he was writing for the record, and he took great pains to explain and to clarify for the inevitable uninformed reader as he went along. This is the reason that he might describe a canal in Amsterdam, though writing to the man who lived on the very canal.

  The translator has omitted nothing. The material is adapted only where the original letters and diary entries have been damaged and are no longer legible. Or where words or phrases in the old Latin code elude the modern scholars within the order, or where obsolete words in English obscure the meaning for the modern reader. The spelling has been modernized, of course.

  The modern reader should take into account that English at this time--the late seventeenth century--was already the tongue that we know. Such phrases as "pretty good" or "I guess" or "I suppose" were already current. They have not been added to the text.

  If Petyr's world view seems surprisingly "existential" for the period, one need only reread Shakespeare, who wrote nearly seventy-five years before, to realize how thoroughly atheistic, ironical, and existential were the thinkers of those times. The same may be said of Petyr's attitude towards sexuality. The great repression of the nineteenth century sometimes causes us to forget that the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries were far more liberal in matters of the flesh.

  Speaking of Shakespeare, Petyr had a special love of him and read the plays as well as the sonnets for pleasure. He often said that Shakespeare was his "philosopher."

  As for the full story of Petyr van Abel, quite a tale in its own right, it is told in the file under his name, which consists of seventeen volumes in which are included complete translations of every report he ever made, on every case which he investigated, in the order in which those reports were written.

  We also possess two different portraits painted of him in Amsterdam, one by Franz Hals, done expressly for Roemer Franz, our director of the period, showing Petyr to be a tall, fair-haired youth--of almost Nordic height and blondness--with an o
val face, prominent nose, a high forehead, and large inquisitive eyes; and the other, dated some twenty years later and painted by Thomas de Keyser, reveals a heavier build and a fuller face, though still distinctly narrow, with a neatly trimmed mustache and beard and long curling blond hair beneath a large-brimmed black hat. In both pictures Petyr appears relaxed and somewhat cheerful, as was so typical of the men featured in Dutch portraits of the time.

  Petyr belonged to the Talamasca from boyhood until he died in the line of duty at the age of forty-three--as this, his last complete report to the Talamasca, will make clear.

  By all accounts, Petyr was a talker, a listener, and a natural writer, and a passionate and impulsive man. He loved the artistic community of Amsterdam and spent many hours with painters in his leisure time. He was never detached from his investigations, and his commentary tends to be verbose, detailed, and at times excessively emotional. Some readers may find it annoying. Others may find it priceless, for not only does he give us florid pictures of what he witnessed, he provides more than a glimpse of his own character.

  He was himself a limited mind reader (he confessed that he was not competent in the use of this power because he disliked and distrusted it), and he possessed the ability to move small objects, to stop clocks, and do other "tricks" at will.

  As an orphan wandering the streets of Amsterdam, he first came into contact with the Talamasca at the age of eight. The story goes that, perceiving that the Motherhouse sheltered souls who were "different" just as he was different, he hung about, finally falling asleep one winter night on the doorstep, where he might have frozen had not Roemer Franz found him and brought him in. He was later discovered to be educated and able to write both Latin and Dutch, and to understand French as well.

  All his life his memory of his early years with his parents was sporadic and unreliable, though he did undertake the investigation of his own background, and discovered not only the identity of his father, Jan van Abel, the famous surgeon of Leiden, but also voluminous writings by the man containing some of the most celebrated anatomical and medical illustrations of the time.