The Complete Vampire Chronicles 12-Book Bundle (The Vampire Chronicles)

by Rice, Anne

  10

  It had not been easy for me to tell this story to Louis, and it was not finished. I had much more to say.

  But as I paused, it was as if I had wakened to the parlor around me, and to Louis’s attentive presence, and I felt both immediate comfort and crushing guilt. For a moment I stretched my limbs and I felt my vampiric strength in my veins.

  We sat like two wholesome beings together, in the comfort of the glass-shaded lamps.

  For the first time since I’d begun the story, I stared up at the paintings along the walls of the room. These were all wonderfully colored Impressionist treasures which Louis had long ago collected and once kept in a small uptown house, where he lived until Lestat burnt that house, and, in reconciliation, begged Louis to come and join him here.

  I looked at a painting by Monet—one I’d come to neglect of late due to familiarity—a painting full of sunshine and greenery, of a woman at work on her needlepoint by a window under the limbs of delicate indoor trees. Like so many Impressionist paintings it was both highly intellectual, with its obvious brush strokes, and flagrantly domestic. And I let its stalwart sanctification of the ordinary soothe my suffering heart.

  I wanted to feel our domesticity here in the Rue Royale. I wanted to feel morally safe, which of course I would never feel again.

  It had exhausted my soul to revisit those times when I was a living mortal being, when I had taken the wet daytime heat of New Orleans for granted, when I’d been a trusted friend to Merrick, for that is what I had been, regardless of what Honey in the Sunshine had condemned me for being—with a boy named Joshua who had lived many, many years before.

  As for that matter, Aaron and Mary never questioned me about it. But I knew that neither of them would ever look at me in the same way again. Joshua had been too young and I had been too old for the relationship. And I had only confessed my transgressions—a precious few nights of love—to the Elders long after Joshua was dead. They had condemned me for it and charged me never to let such a thing occur again.

  When I’d been appointed Superior General, the Elders had exacted a confirmation that I was well beyond such breaches of morality, and I had given it, humiliated that it had been mentioned again.

  As for Joshua’s death, I did blame myself for what happened to him. He had begged me to go on the climb, which itself was not terribly dangerous, to visit a shrine in the Himalayas which had been part of his study in Tibetan lore. Other members of the Order were with him and they came home safe. The fall had been the result of a small but sudden avalanche, as I understood it, and Joshua’s body had not been recovered for several months.

  Now as I reviewed these things for Louis, now as I pondered that I had approached the woman Merrick in my dark and eternal guise as a vampire, I felt the sharpest and most profound guilt. It wasn’t something for which I could ever seek absolution. And it wasn’t something that could prevent me from seeing Merrick again.

  It had been done. I had asked Merrick to raise Claudia’s ghost for us. And I had much more to tell Louis before the two could come together, and more within myself that had to be resolved.

  All this while, Louis had listened without saying a word. With his finger curled under his lip, his elbow on the arm of the couch, he had merely studied me as I recounted the memories, and now he was eager for the tale to go on.

  “I knew this woman was powerful,” he said gently. “What I didn’t know was how much you loved her.”

  I marveled at his customary manner of speaking, the melting quality of his voice and the way his words seemed barely to disturb the air.

  “Ah, well, neither did I,” I replied. “There were so many of us, bound together by love, in the Talamasca, and each one is a special case.”

  “But this woman, you truly love her,” he pressed gently. “And I’ve asked you to go against your heart.”

  “Oh, no, you haven’t,” I confessed. I faltered. “It was inevitable that I contact the Talamasca,” I insisted. “But it should have been contact with the Elders, in writing, and not this.”

  “Don’t condemn yourself so much for contacting her,” he said with an uncommon self-confidence. He seemed earnest and, as always, forever young.

  “Why not?” I asked. “I had thought you were a specialist in guilt?”

  He laughed politely at this, and then again made a silent chuckle. He shook his head.

  “We have hearts, don’t we?” he replied. He shifted a little against the pillows of the couch. “You tell me you believe in God. That’s more than the others have ever said to me. Quite truly it is. What do you think God has planned for us?”

  “I don’t know that God plans anything,” I said a little bitterly. “I know only that He’s there.”

  I thought of how much I loved Louis, and had ever since I had become Lestat’s fledgling. I thought of how deeply I depended upon him, and what I would do for him. It was the love of Louis which had at times crippled Lestat, and enslaved Armand. Louis need have no consciousness of his own beauty, of his own obvious and natural charm.

  “David, you have to forgive me,” he said suddenly. “I want so desperately to meet this woman myself that I urge you on for selfish reasons, but I mean it when I say that we do have hearts in every sense of the word.”

  “Of course, you do,” I replied. “I wonder if angels have hearts,” I whispered. “Ah, but it doesn’t matter, does it? We are what we are.”

  He didn’t answer me, but I saw his face darken for a moment and then he fell into reverie, with his habitual expression of curiosity and quiet grace.

  “But when it comes to Merrick,” I said, “I have to face that I’ve contacted her because I need her desperately. I could not have gone on for long without contacting her. Every night that I spend in New Orleans, I think of Merrick. Merrick haunts me as though she was a ghost herself.”

  “Tell me the rest of your story,” Louis prodded. “And, if when you’re finished you wish to conclude the matter with Merrick—end the contact, so to speak—then I shall accept it without another word.”

  11

  I went on with my tale, flashing back once more some twenty years, to the summer of Merrick’s fourteenth year.

  It wasn’t hard for the Talamasca to enfold such a friendless orphan as one could easily see.

  In the days following Great Nananne’s funeral, we discovered that Merrick had no legal identity of any kind, save for a valid passport obtained through the testimony of Cold Sandra that Merrick was her daughter. The last name was an assumed name.

  Where and how Merrick’s birth might have been recorded eluded our most diligent efforts. No baptism of Merrick Mayfair was recorded in any parish church in New Orleans for the year of Merrick’s birth. Few pictures of her existed in the boxes which she had brought with us.

  And indeed, no record of Cold Sandra or Honey in the Sunshine existed other than passports which were both under assumed names. Though we calculated a year of death for the two unfortunates, we could find nothing in the newspapers of Lafayette, Louisiana, or anywhere near it to indicate that murdered bodies had been found.

  In sum, the Talamasca began with a blank slate for Merrick Mayfair, and using its immense resources it soon created for her the documentation of birth and age which the modern world requires. As for the matter of Catholic baptism, Merrick was adamant that she had indeed been given the sacrament as an infant—Great Nananne had “carried her to church”—and as late as only a few years before I left the Order, Merrick still combed church records, in vain, for proof of this herself.

  I never fully understood the significance of this baptism to Merrick, but then there were many things about Merrick which I never came to understand. One thing I can say for certain, however. Magic and Roman Catholicism were completely intermingled for Merrick and this remained so all her life.

  As for the gifted and kindhearted man named Matthew, he was not difficult to trace at all.

  Matthew had been, in fact, an Olmec archaeologis
t, and when polite inquiries were made among his survivors in Boston, it was quickly ascertained that a woman named Sandra Mayfair had lured him to New Orleans by means of a letter some five years before regarding some Olmec treasure for which the woman claimed to have directions and a rough hand-drawn map. Cold Sandra claimed to have been given an article about Matthew’s amateur adventures by her daughter Merrick, who came upon it in Time magazine.

  Though Matthew’s mother was seriously ill at the time, Matthew had made the journey south with her blessing, and had set out on a private expedition beginning in Mexico. He was never seen by anyone in the family alive again.

  As for the expedition, Matthew had kept a journal by means of long impassioned letters addressed to his mother, which he had mailed all in a batch upon his return to the States.

  After Matthew’s death, in spite of the woman’s determined efforts, no scholars in the field of Olmec studies could be interested in what Matthew claimed to have seen or found.

  The mother had died, leaving all these papers to her sister, who did not know what to make of “the responsibility” and quickly decided to sell Matthew’s papers to us for a liberal sum. Those papers included a small box of vivid color photographs sent to the mother, many of which included Cold Sandra and Honey in the Sunshine, both extraordinarily beautiful women, as well as the ten-year-old child, Merrick, who did not resemble the other two.

  As Merrick had risen from a week of torpor and was deep in her studies, and fascinated with her education in etiquette, it was no great pleasure for me to give her these photographs and letters for her private store.

  She showed no emotion, however, when confronted with the snapshots of her mother and her sister. And preserving her usual silence on the question of Honey in the Sunshine, who appeared to be about sixteen in the pictures, she put all of this aside.

  As for me, I spent some time with the pictures.

  Cold Sandra was tall and tawny with very black hair and light eyes. As for Honey in the Sunshine, she appeared to fulfill all the expectations engendered by that name. Her skin in the photographs did appear to be the color of honey, her eyes were yellow as were her mother’s, and her hair, light blond and tightly curly, fell down around her shoulders like foam. Her facial features appeared entirely Anglo-Saxon. The same was true of Cold Sandra.

  As for Merrick in the photographs, she appeared very much as she did when she came to our door. She was already the budding woman at the age of ten, and appeared somehow to be of a quieter nature, the other two often hanging upon Matthew and smiling as they embraced him for the eager lens. Merrick was frequently captured with a solemn face, and most often alone.

  Of course these pictures revealed much of the rain forest into which they’d penetrated, and there were even poor-quality flash shots of bizarre cave paintings which appeared neither Olmec nor Maya, though my opinion might very well have been wrong. As for the exact location, Matthew refused to reveal it, using terms such as “Village One” and “Village Two.”

  Given Matthew’s lack of specificity, and the bad condition of the photographs, it wasn’t difficult to see why archaeologists had not been interested in his claims.

  With Merrick’s consent, and in secrecy, we enlarged every photograph of any value, but the quality of the originals defeated us. And we lacked concrete information as to how the journey could be made again. But of one thing I was fairly sure. The initial flight might have been to Mexico City, but the cave was not in Mexico at all.

  There was a map, yes, drawn with an unsteady hand in black ink on common modern parchment paper, but it gave no place names, only a diagram involving “The City” and the aforementioned Village One and Village Two. We had it copied for preservation’s sake, as the parchment paper was badly damaged and torn at the edges. But it was hardly a significant clue.

  It was tragic to read the enthusiastic letters which Michael had sent home.

  I shall never forget the first letter he wrote to his mother after the discovery. The woman was very ill, and had only just learnt that her case was terminal, news which had reached Matthew somewhere along the route, though we had no indication of where precisely, and Matthew had begged her please to wait for him to come home. Indeed, it was on that account that he had cut the journey short, taking only some of the treasure, a great deal of which remained.

  “If only you’d been with me,” he wrote, or words to that effect.

  And can you imagine me, your gangly and awkward son, plunging into the pure darkness of a ruined temple and finding these strange murals which defy classification? Not Maya, certainly not Olmec. But by and for whom? And in the very midst of this, my flashlight slips out of my hands as if someone snatched it from me. And darkness shrouds the most splendid and unusual paintings I’ve ever seen.

  But no sooner had we left the temple, than we must climb the rocks beside the waterfall, with Cold Sandra and Honey leading the way. It was in back of the waterfall that we found the cave, though I suspect it might have been a tunnel, and there was no mistaking it because the mammoth volcanic boulders around it had been carved into a giant face with an open mouth.

  Of course we had no light with us—Cold Sandra’s flashlight was drenched—and we were near to fainting from the heat when we got inside. Cold Sandra and Honey were fearful of spirits and claimed to be “feeling” them. Merrick has even spoken up on this subject, blaming the spirits for a bad fall she took on the rocks.

  Yet tomorrow, we’ll be making the entire trek again. For now, let me say again what I saw by the sunshine that made its way into temple and cave. Unique paintings, I tell you, in both places, which must be studied at once. But in the cave there were also hundreds of glistening jade objects, just waiting for a scoop of the hand.

  How in the world such treasures have survived the usual thievery in these parts, I can’t guess. Of course the local Maya deny all knowledge of such a place, and I’m not eager to enlighten them. They are kind to us, offering us food and drink and hospitality. But the shaman appears angry with us, but will not tell us the reason. I live and breathe only to go back.

  Matthew never did go back. During the night he had grown feverish and his very next letter recorded the regret with which he set out for civilization, thinking his illness was something that could easily be cured.

  How awful it was that this curious and generous man had fallen ill.

  A mysterious insect bite had been the culprit, but that was not discovered until he’d reached “The City,” as he called it, careful to use no key description or name. His last batch of letters was written from the hospital in New Orleans, and mailed by the nurses at his request.

  “Mother, there is nothing that can be done. No one is even certain of the nature of the parasite, except that it has made its way throughout my internal organs, and has proved itself refractory to every medicine known to man. I wonder sometimes if the local Maya might have helped me with this ailment. They were so very kind. But then the natives have probably long been immune.”

  His very last letter was completed on the day he prepared to return to Great Nananne’s house. The script had degenerated, as Matthew was suffering one violent chill after another, but obviously determined to write. His news was marked by the same strange mixture of resignation and denial which so often afflicts the dying:

  “You cannot believe the sweetness of Sandra and Honey and Great Nananne. Of course, I’ve done everything I can to lighten their burden. All of those artifacts which we discovered on the expedition are by right the property of Sandra, and I will attempt a revised catalog once I reach the house. Perhaps Great Nananne’s nursing will work some miracle. I’ll write to you when I have good news.”

  The only remaining letter in the collection was from Great Nananne. It was in beautiful convent script, written with a fountain pen, and stated that Matthew had died “with the Sacraments,” and that his suffering had not been very great at the end. She signed herself Irene Flaurent Mayfair.

  Tragic. I can f
ind no better word.

  Indeed, there seemed a ring of tragedy surrounding Merrick, what with the murders of Cold Sandra and Honey, and I could well understand why Matthew’s collected papers did not tear her away from her studies, or away from her frequent lunches and shopping trips in town.

  She was also indifferent to the renovation of Great Nananne’s old house, which did indeed belong to Great Nananne with proper title, and was passed on to Merrick by means of a handwritten will, which was handled for us by a skilled local lawyer with no questions asked.

  The renovation was historically accurate and quite extensive, involving two expert contractors in the field. Merrick did not want to visit the house at all. The house, to my knowledge, does belong to Merrick officially, right now.

  By the end of that long ago summer, Merrick had an immense wardrobe, though she was growing taller with every passing day. She favored expensive well-made dresses with lots of stitching, and visibly worked fabrics such as the white pique which I already described. When she began to appear at supper in graceful high heeled shoes, I was personally and secretly distraught.

  I am not a man who loves women of any age, but the sight of her foot, its arch so delicately stretched by the height of the heel, and of her leg, so taut from the pressure, was quite enough to send the most unwelcome and erotic thoughts through my brain.

  As for her Chanel No. 22, she had begun to wear it daily. Even those who claimed to be annoyed by perfume rather liked it and came to associate it with her ever genial presence, her questions and steady conversation, her hunger for knowledge about all things.

  She had a wondrous grasp of the fundamentals of grammar, which greatly assisted her in learning to read and write French, after which learning Latin was something of a snap. As for mathematics, she detested it, and suspected it somewhat—the theory was simply beyond her—but she was clever enough to absorb the fundamentals. Her enthusiasm for literature was as great as that of anyone I’ve ever known. She ripped through Dickens and Dostoyevsky, talking about the characters with easy familiarity and endless fascination as though they lived down the street from her house. As for magazines, she was enthralled by the art and archaeology periodicals to which we subscribed routinely, and went on to devour the standards of pop culture, as well as the news magazines she’d always loved.