The Witching Hour (46 page)

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 actually 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.

I
T 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.

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.