The Witching Hour (163 page)

“A white Christmas, can you imagine?” he said to her. He was looking out of the front bedroom window as he put on his sweater and his leather jacket. “It might even snow tonight.”

“That would be wonderful for the party,” she said, “wonderful for Christmas.”

She was snuggled up in the chair by the gas fire, a quilt over her shoulders, and her cheeks were ruddy and she was just a little bit softer and rounder all over. You could see it, a woman with a baby inside her, positively radiant, as if she’d absorbed the glow of the fire.

She had never seemed more relaxed and cheerful. “It would be another gift to us, Michael,” she said.

“Yes, another gift,” he said, looking out the window. “And you know they’re saying it’s going to happen. And I’ll tell you something else, Rowan. It was a white Christmas the year I left.”

He took the wool scarf out of the dresser drawer and fitted it inside his coat collar. Then he picked up the thick, wool-lined gloves.

“I’ll never forget it,” he said. “It was the first time I ever saw snow. And I went walking right down here, on First Street, and when I got home I found out my dad was dead.”

“How did it happen?” How sympathetic she looked, eyes puckering slightly. Her face was so smooth that when the slightest distress came, it fell like a shadow over her.

“A warehouse fire on Tchoupitoulas,” he said. “I never did know the details. Seems the chief had told them to get clear of the roof, that it was about to go. One guy fell down or something and my dad doubled back to get him, and that’s when the roof began to buckle. They said it just rolled like an ocean wave, and then it fell in. Whole place just exploded. They lost three fire fighters that day, actually, and I was walking out there in the Garden District, just enjoying the snow. That’s why we went out to California. All the Currys were gone—all those aunts and uncles. Everyone buried out in St. Joseph’s Cemetery. All buried from Lonigan and Sons. Every one.”

“That must have been so awful for you.”

He shook his head. “The awful part was being so glad we were going to California, and knowing that we’d never have been able to go if he hadn’t died.”

“Here, come sit down and drink your chocolate, it’s getting cold. Bea and Cecilia will be here any minute.”

“I have to get on the road. Too many errands. Got to get to the shop, see if the boxes have arrived. Oh, I have to confirm with the caterers … I forgot to call them.”

“No need. Ryan’s taken care of it. He says you do too many things for yourself. He says he would have sent a plumber to wrap all the pipes.”

“I like doing those things,” he said. “Those pipes are going to freeze anyway. Hell. This is supposed to be the worst winter in a hundred years.”

“Ryan says you have to think of him more as a personal manager. He told the caterers to come at six. That way if anyone is early … ”

“Good idea. I’ll be back before then. OK. I’ll call you later from the store sometime. If you need me to pick up anything … ”

“Hey, you can’t walk out of this room without kissing me.”

“ ’Course not.” He bent down and smothered her in kisses, roughly and hastily, making her laugh softly, and then he kissed her belly. “Good-bye, Little Chris,” he whispered. “It’s almost Christmas, Little Chris.”

At the door, he stopped to pull on his heavy gloves, and then he blew her another kiss.

Like a picture “she looked in the high-back wing chair, with her feet tucked under her. Even her lips had a soft rich color to them. And when she smiled he saw the dimples in her cheeks.

His breath made steam in the air when he stepped outside. It was years since he’d felt cold like this, so crisp. And the sky
was such a shining blue. They were going to lose the banana trees and he hated it, but the beautiful camellias and azaleas were holding their own. The gardeners had put in winter grass, and the lawn looked like velvet.

He stared at the barren crepe myrtle for a moment. Was he hearing those Mardi Gras drums again in his ears?

He let the van warm up for a couple of minutes before he started. Then he headed straight for the bridge. It would take him forty-five minutes to reach Oak Haven if he could make good time on the river road.

“W
HAT WAS THE
pact and the promise?” she asked.

She stood in the attic bedroom, so clean and sterile with its white walls, its windows looking out on the rooftops. No trace of Julien anymore. All the old books gone.

“Those things are not important now,” he answered her. “The prophecy is on the verge of fulfillment and you are the door.”

“I want to know. What was the pact?”

“These are words passed on from human lips through generation after generation.”

“Yes, but what do they mean?”

“It was the covenant between me and my witch—that I should obey her smallest command if she should but bear a female child to inherit her power and the power to command and see me. I should bring all riches to her; I should grant all favors. I should look into the future so she might know the future. I should avenge all slights and injuries. And in exchange the witch would strive to bear a female child whom I might love and serve as I had the witch, and that child would love and see me.”

“And that child should be stronger than the mother, and moving towards the thirteen.”

“Yes, in time I came to see the thirteen.”

“Not from the beginning?”

“No. In time I saw it. I saw the power accumulating, and perfecting itself, I saw it fed through the strong men of the family. I saw Julien with power so great that he outshone his
sister, Katherine. I saw Cortland. I saw the path to the doorway. And now you are here.”

“When did you tell your witches about the thirteen?”

“In the time of Angélique. But you must realize how simple was my own understanding of what I saw. I could scarce explain. Words were wholly new to me. The process of thinking in time was new. And so the prophecy was veiled in obscurity, not by design, but by accident. Yet it is now on the verge of being fulfilled.”

“You promised
only
your service over the centuries?”

“Is this not enough? Can’t you see what my service had wrought? You stand in the house which was created by me and my service. You dream of hospitals you will build by means of the riches brought to you by me. You yourself told Aaron that I was the creator of the Mayfair Witches. You spoke the truth to Aaron. Look at the many branches of this family. All of their wealth has come from me. My generosity has fed and clothed countless men and women of the same name, who know nothing of me. It is sufficient that
you
know me.”

“You promised nothing more?”

“What more can I give? When I am in the flesh, I shall be your servant as I am now. I shall be your lover and your confidant, your pupil. No one can prevail against you when you have me.

“Saved. What had being saved to do with it—the old saying that when the door was opened the witches would be saved?”

“Again, you bring me tired words, and old fragments.”

“Ah, but you remember everything. Trace down for me the origin of this idea—that the witches would be saved.”

Silence.

“The thirteen witches would be upheld in that moment of my final triumph. In the reward of Lasher, their faithful servant, the persecution of Suzanne and Deborah would be avenged. When Lasher steps through the doorway, Suzanne shall not have died in vain. Deborah shall not have died in vain.”

“This was the complete meaning of the word ‘saved’?”

“You have now the full explanation.”

“And how is it to be done? You tell me that when I know, you will know, and I tell you I don’t.”

“Remember your communication to Aaron—that I am living and of life, and that my, cells can be merged with the cells of the fleshly, and that it is through mutation, and through surrender.”

“Ah, but that’s the key. You are afraid of that surrender. You are afraid of being locked in a form from which you can’t escape.
You do realize, don’t you, what it means to be flesh and blood? That you may lose your immortality? That even in the ransmutation, you could be destroyed?”

“No. I will lose nothing. And when I am created in my new form, I shall open the way for you to a new form. You’ve always known. You knew when you first heard the old legend from your kinsmen. You knew why there were twelve crypts and one door.”

“You are saying that I can be immortal.”

“Yes.”

“This is what you see?”

“This is what I have always seen. You are my perfect companion. You are the witch of all witches. You have Julien’s strength and Mary Beth’s strength. You have the beauty of Deborah and Suzanne. All the souls of the dead are in your soul. Traveling through the mystery of the cells, they have come down to you, shaping you and perfecting you. You shine as bright as Charlotte. You are more beautiful than Marie Claudette or Angélique. You have a fire in you that is hotter than Marguerite or my poor doomed Stella; you have a vision far greater than ever my lovely Antha or Deirdre. You are the one.”

“Are the souls of the dead in this house?”

“The souls of the dead are gone from the earth.”

“Then what did Michael see in this room?”

“He saw the impressions left behind by the dead ones. These impressions sprang to life for him from the objects that he touched. They are like unto the grooves of a phonograph record. Put the needle into the groove and the voice sings. But the singer is not there.”

“But why did they crowd around him when he touched the dolls?”

“As I have said, these were impressions. Then the imagination of Michael took them up and worked them as if they were puppets. All their animation came from him.”

“Why did the witches keep the dolls, then?”

“To play the same game. As if you kept a photograph of your mother, and when you held it to the light, the eyes seemed to fire with being. And to believe perhaps that the dead soul could be reached somehow, that beyond this earth lies a realm of eternity. I see no such eternity with my eyes. I see only the stars.”

“I think they called to the souls of the dead through the dolls.”

“Like praying, as I told you. And to be warm with the impressions. Anything more is not possible. The souls of the dead are not here. The soul of my Suzanne went past me, upwards. The soul of my Deborah rose as if on wings when her tender body fell from the battlements of the church. The dolls are keep
sakes, nothing more. But don’t you see? None of this matters now. The dolls, the emeralds, they are emblems. We are passing out of this realm of emblems and keepsakes and prophecies. We go to a new existence. Envision the doorway if you will. We shall pass through it, out of this house and into the world.”

“And the transmutation can be replicated. That is what you’re leading me to believe?”

“That is what you know, Rowan. I read the book of life over your shoulder. All living cells replicate. In manly form I shall replicate. And my cells can be grafted to your cells, Rowan. There are possibilities of which we have not yet begun to dream.”

“And I shall become immortal.”

“Yes. My companion. And my lover. Immortal like me.”

“When is it to happen?”

“When you know I shall know. And you will know very soon.”

“You are so sure of me, aren’t you? I don’t know how to do it. I’ve told you.”

“What do your dreams tell you?”

“They are nightmares. They’re full of images I don’t understand. I don’t know where the body on the table comes from. I don’t know why Lemle is there. I don’t understand what they want of me, and I don’t want to see Jan van Abel struck down again. The place is meaningless to me.”

“Calm yourself, Rowan. Let me calm you. The dreams tell you. But more truly, you will tell yourself finally. Out of the caldron of your own mind will come the truth.”

“No, back away from me. Just talk to me. That’s what I want of you now.”

Silence.

“You are the doorway, my beloved. I hunger for the flesh. I am weary of my loneliness. Don’t you know the time is almost at hand? My mother, my beautiful one … This is the season for me to be reborn.”

She closed her eyes, feeling his lips on the back of her neck, feeling his fingers tracing the length of her spine. There came the pressure of a warm hand clasping her sex, fingers slipping inside her, lips against her lips. Fingers pinched her nipples hurtfully and deliciously.

“Let me wrap my arms around you,” he whispered. “Others will come. And you will belong to them for hours, and I must hover hungrily at a distance, watching you, catching the words that fall from your lips as though they were drops of water to
slake my thirst. Let me enfold you now. Give me these hours, my beautiful Rowan … ”

She felt herself being lifted, her feet no longer touching the floor; the darkness was swirling around her, strong hands turning her, and stroking her all over. There was no gravity any longer; she felt his strength increasing, the heat of it increasing.

The cold wind rattled the panes of the window. The great empty house seemed full of whispers. She was floating in the air. She turned over, groping in the shadowy tangle of arms supporting her, feeling her legs forced apart and her mouth opened. Yes, do it.

“How can the time be nearly at hand?” she whispered.

“Soon, my darling.”

“I can’t do it.”

“Oh, yes you will be able to, my beauty. You know. You shall see … ”

T
HE DAY WAS
darkening and the wind was bitter as he got out of the car, but the plantation house looked cheerful and inviting, with all its windows filled with a warm yellow light.

Aaron was waiting at the door for him, layered with wool under his gray cardigan, neck wrapped in a cashmere scarf.

“Here, this is for you,” Michael said. “Merry Christmas, my friend.” He placed a small bottle, wrapped in green Christmas paper, in Aaron’s hands. “It’s not a very big surprise, I’m afraid. But it is the best brandy I could find.”

“That was very thoughtful of you,” Aaron said with a little smile. “I’m going to enjoy it immensely. Every drop of it. Come in out of the cold. I have a little something for you, too. I’ll show you later. Come on, inside.”