The Witching Hour (67 page)

I lay back against a great heap of vegetables and fruits, and went to sleeping, and the cart rocked me and knocked me about, but it was as if I were in the most luxurious coach.

Then as a dream overcame me, as I imagined I was back in Amsterdam, I felt a hand touch mine. A gentle hand. It patted my left hand and I lifted my right to touch it in the same gentle manner, and opening my eyes, and rolling my head to my left, I beheld the burnt and blackened body of Deborah peering at me, bald and shriveled with only her blue eyes alive, and the teeth grinning at me from behind her burnt lips.

I screamed so loud I frightened the drivers of the cart and the horse. But no matter; I had fallen off onto the road. Their horse ran away, and they could not stop it, and they were soon gone way ahead, and over the rise.

I sat cross-legged, crying, “You damnable spirit! What is it you want of me! Tell me! Why do you not kill me! Surely you have it in your power if you can do such things!”

No voice answered me. But I knew that he was there. Looking up, I saw him, and in no horrible guise now. Merely the dark-haired one again, in the leather jerkin, the handsome man I had seen twice before.

Very solid he appeared, so that even the sunlight fell on him, as he sat idly on the fence at the edge of the road. He peered down at me, thoughtfully, it would seem, for his face was all blank.

And I found myself staring at him, studying him as if he were nothing to fear. And I perceived something now which was most important for me to understand.

The burnt body of Deborah, it had been illusion! From within my mind, he had taken this image and made it bloom. My double, that too had been illusion! It was as perfect as my reflection in a mirror. And the other demon follower whom I fought—his weight had been an illusion.

And of course the corpses had been real, and they were corpses and nothing more.

But this was no illusion, the man sitting on the fence. It was a body which this thing had made.

“Aye,” he said to me, and again his lips did not move. And I understand why. For he could not yet make them move. “But I shall,” he said. “I shall.”

I continued to peer at him. Perhaps in my exhaustion, I had lost my wits. But I knew no fear. And as the morning sun grew brighter, I saw it shine through him! I saw the particles of which he was made swirling in it, like so much dust.

“Dust thou art,” I whispered, thinking of the biblical phrase. But he had at that very instant begun to dissolve. He went pale and then was nothing, and the sun rose over the field, more beautiful than any morning sun that I have ever seen.

Had Charlotte waked? Did Charlotte stay his hand?

I cannot answer. I may never know. I reached my lodgings here less than an hour later, after meeting with the agent and speaking again to the innkeeper, as I related to you before.

And now it is long past midnight by my good watch, which I set by the clock in the inn at noon today. And the fiend has not left the room for some time.

For over an hour, he has come and gone in his manly shape, watching me. He sits in one corner and then in another; once I spied him in the looking glass peering out at me—Stefan, how does the spirit do such things? Does he trick my eyes? For surely he cannot be in the glass!—but I refused to raise my eyes to it, and finally the image faded away.

He has now begun to move the furniture about, and once again to make the sound of wings flapping, and I must flee this room. I go to send this letter with the rest.

Stefan,

It is dawn, and all my letters are on their way to you, the ship having sailed an hour ago with them, and much as I would have gone with it, I knew that I must not. For if this thing means to destroy me, better he play with me here, whilst my letters be carried safely on.

I fear, too, that the thing may have the strength to sink a ship, for no sooner had I set foot on it, to speak with the captain and make certain that my letters would be safely conveyed, than a wind came up and rain struck the windows, and the boat itself began to move.

My reason told me the fiend does not have such strength as
would be required to drown the vessel; but horror of horrors, what if I am wrong. I cannot be the cause of such harm to others.

So I remain, here in a crowded tavern in Port-au-Prince—the second to which I have gone this morning—and I fear to be alone.

A short while ago, as I returned from the docks, the thing so affrighted me with the image of a woman falling before a coach that I ran out into the path of the horses to save her, only to discover that there was no woman, and I myself was all but trampled. How the coachman did curse me, calling me a madman.

And that is surely how I seem. In the first tavern, I fell asleep for perhaps a quarter of an hour, and was waked by flames around me, only to discover that the candle had been overturned into the spilt brandy. I was blamed for it, and told to take my money elsewhere. And there the thing stood, in the shadows behind the chimney piece. It would have smiled if it could make its waxy face move.

Mark what I say now about its power. When it would be itself, it is a made-up body over which it has scant control.

Nevertheless my understanding of its art is imperfect. And I am so weary, Stefan. I went again to my room and tried to sleep, but it flung me from my bed.

Even here in this public room full of late night drinkers and early morning travelers, it plays its tricks with me, and no one is the wiser, for they do not know that the image of Roemer seated by the fire is not truly there. Or that the woman who appears for an instant on the stairs, scarcely noticed by them, is Geertruid—dead now twenty years. The thing snatches these images from my mind, surely, and then expands them, though how I cannot guess.

I have tried to talk with it. In the street, I pleaded with it to tell me its purpose. Is there any chance that I shall live? What could I do for it that it would cease its evil tricks? And what had Charlotte commanded it to do?

Then when I had seated myself here and ordered my wine, for I am thirsty for it again, and drinking too much of it, I beheld that it did move my pen and make scrawl marks on my paper which say: “Petyr will die.”

This I enclose with the letter, for it is the writing of a spirit. I myself had no hand in it. Perhaps Alexander might lay his hands on the paper and learn from it. For I can learn nothing from the fool thing except that he and I together can make images
the like of which would have driven Jesus from the desert, mad.

I know now there is only one means of salvation for me. As soon as I finish this communication and leave it with the agent I shall go to Charlotte and beg her to make the fiend stop. Nothing else will do for it, Stefan. Only Charlotte can save me. And I pray I can reach Maye Faire unharmed.

I shall rent a mount for the trip, and count upon the road at midmorning being well traveled and that Charlotte is awake and in control of the fiend.

But I have one terrible fear, my friend, and that is, that Charlotte knows what this devil does to me, and has commanded it to do so. That Charlotte is the author of the entire diabolical plan.

If you hear nothing more from me—and allow me to remind you that Dutch ships leave here daily for our fair city—follow these instructions.

Write to the witch and tell her of my disappearance. But see to it that your letter does not originate from the Motherhouse; and that no address provided for her reply is given which should enable the fiend to penetrate our walls.

Do not, and I beg you, do not send anyone after me! For he will only meet with a worse fate than mine.

Learn what you can of the progress of this woman from other sources, and remember the child she bears within nine months will surely be mine.

What else can I tell you?

After my death, I shall try to reach you or to reach Alexander if such be possible. But my beloved friend, I fear there is no “after.” That only darkness waits for me, and my time in the light is at an end.

I have no regrets in these final hours. The Talamasca has been my life, and I have spent many years in the defense of the innocent and in the pure seeking of knowledge. I love you, my brothers and sisters. Remember me not for my weakness, for my sins, or for my poor judgment. But that I loved you.

Ah, allow me to tell you what just happened for it was very interesting indeed.

I saw Roemer again, my beloved Roemer, the first director of our order I knew and loved. And Roemer looked so young and fine to me, and I was so glad to see him that I wept, and did not want the image to disappear.

Let me play with this, I thought, for it comes from my mind, does it not? And the fiend does not know what he does. And so I spoke to Roemer. I said, “My dearest Roemer, you do not
know how I have missed you, and where have you been, and what have you learned?”

And the stout handsome figure of Roemer comes towards me, and I know now that no one else sees it for they are glancing at me, the muttering madman, but I do not care. Again I say, “Sit down, Roemer, drink with me.” And this, my beloved teacher, sits and leans against the table, and speaks the most foul obscenities to me, ah, you have never heard such language, as he tells me that he would strip off my clothes in this very tavern, and what pleasure he would give me, and how he had always wanted to do it when I was a boy, and even that he did do it, in the night, coming into my room, and laughing afterwards about it, and letting others watch.

Like a statue, I must have appeared, staring into the face of this monster, who with Roemer’s smile whispered like an old bawd to me, such filth, and then finally this creature’s mouth ceases to move, but merely grows bigger and bigger, and the tongue inside it becomes a black thing, big and shining like the humpback of a whale.

Like a puppet, I reach for my pen and dip it and begin to write the above description, and now the thing is gone.

But you know what it has done, Stefan? It has turned my mind inside out. Let me tell you a secret. Of course, my beloved Roemer never took such liberties with me! But I used to pray that he would! And the fiend drew that out of me, that as a boy I lay in my bed in the Motherhouse dreaming that Roemer would come and pull down the covers and lie with me. I dreamed those things!

Had you asked me last year, did I ever have such a dream, I would have said never, but I had it, and the fiend remembered me of it. Should I thank him?

Maybe he can bring my mother back and she and I will sit by the kitchen fire once more and sing.

I go now. The sun is fully risen. The thing is not near. I will entrust this to our agent before I go on towards Maye Faire—that is, if I am not stopped by the local constables, and thrown into jail. I do look like a vagabond and a madman. Charlotte will help me. Charlotte will restrain this demon.

What else is there to say?

NOTE TO THE ARCHIVES
:

   This was the last letter ever received from Petyr van Abel.

Two weeks after Petyr’s last letter reached the Motherhouse, a communication was received from a Jan van Clausen, Dutch merchant in Port-au-Prince, that Petyr was dead. This letter was dated only twenty-four hours after Petyr’s last letter. Petyr’s body had been discovered some twelve hours after he was known to have rented a horse at the livery stables and to have ridden out of Port-au-Prince.

It was the assumption of the local authorities that Petyr had met with foul play on the road, perhaps coming upon a band of runaway slaves in the early morning, who might have been in the process of again desecrating a cemetery in which they had wreaked considerable havoc only a day or two before. The original desecration had caused a great disturbance among the local slaves, who, much to the dismay of their masters, were reluctant to participate in the restoration of the site, and it was still in a state of considerable disarray and deserted when the assault upon Petyr occurred.

Petyr was apparently beaten and driven into a large brick crypt where he was trapped by a fallen tree and much heavy debris. When he was found, the fingers of his right hand were entangled in the debris as if he had been trying to dig his way out. Two fingers from his left hand had been severed and were never found.

The perpetrators of the desecration and the murder were never discovered. That Petyr’s money, his gold watch, and his papers were not stolen added to the mystery of his death.

Ongoing repairs to the site led to the early discovery of Petyr’s remains. In spite of extensive head wounds, Petyr was easily and undeniably identified by van Clausen, as well as by Charlotte Fontenay, who rode into Port-au-Prince when she heard tell of it, and was violently disturbed by Petyr’s death, and “took to her bed” in grief.

Van Clausen returned Petyr’s possessions to the Motherhouse, and at the behest of the order undertook a further investigation of Petyr’s death.

The files contain letters not only to and from van Clausen, but also to and from several priests in the colony, and other persons as well.

Essentially, nothing of any real importance was discovered,
except that Petyr was thought to be mad during his last day and night in Port-au-Prince, what with his repeated requests for letters to be mailed to Amsterdam, and repeated instructions that the Motherhouse be notified in the event of his death.

Several mentions are made of his having been in the company of a strange dark-haired young man, with whom he conversed at length.

It is difficult to know how to interpret these statements. But more analysis of Lasher and Lasher’s powers is contained in the later chapters of these files. It is sufficient to say that others saw Lasher with Petyr, and believed Lasher to be a human being.

Via Jan van Clausen, Stefan Franck wrote to Charlotte Fontenay a letter which could not have been understood by anyone else, explaining what Petyr had written in his last hours, and imploring her to take heed of whatever Petyr had told her.