by Rice, Anne
It was a tall lean man with brown skin and a narrow face, and arms covered with jade bracelets. He had a high forehead and shoulder-length black hair. He was looking at me in a quiet manner. I saw the dark red of his long gown, and the gleam of his toenail in the light.
“It’s you again,” I said. “You think you’re going to kill me. You think you can reach out from your ancient grave to take my life?”
“I don’t want to kill you,” he whispered, with little or no change in his placid expression. “Give back the mask for your own sake and for hers.”
“No,” I said. “You must realize I can’t do it. I can’t leave such a mystery. I can’t simply turn my back. You had your time and now is my time, and I’m taking the mask back with me. She’s taking it with her, really. But even if she surrendered, I would do it on my own.”
I went on pleading with him, in a low reasonable voice, that he should understand. I said, “Life belongs to those who are alive.” But by then the tent was truly crowded with the men who had come with us. Someone had asked me to keep a thermometer under my tongue. And Merrick was saying, “I can’t get a pulse.”
Of the journey to Guatemala City, I remember nothing.
As for the hospital, it might have been a medical facility anywhere in the world.
Repeatedly I turned my head and I found myself alone with the bronze-skinned man with the oval face and the jade bracelets, though more often than not he did not speak. When I tried to speak, others answered, and the man simply melted as another world seemed to supplant that which I’d left behind.
When I was fully conscious, which wasn’t often, I seemed convinced that people in Guatemala would know more of the tropical illness from which I suffered. I wasn’t afraid. I knew from the expression of my bronze-skinned visitor that I wasn’t dying. And I do not remember being transferred to a hospital in New Orleans at all.
The visitor never appeared after the return to New Orleans.
By that time I was on the mend, and when days did begin to connect with one another, I was running only a low grade temperature, and the “toxin” was completely gone. Soon I no longer required intravenous nourishment. My strength was coming back.
My case was nothing exceptional. It had to do with a species of amphibian which I must have encountered in the brush. Even touching this creature can be fatal. My contact must have been indirect.
Merrick and the others were not afflicted, that was soon made clear to me, and I was much relieved, though in my state of confusion, I had to confess I had not thought of them as I should.
Merrick spent a great deal of time with me, but Aaron was almost always there as well. As soon as I would start to address an important question to Merrick, a nurse or a doctor came into the room. At other times I was confused as to the order of events and didn’t want to reveal that confusion. And occasionally, very occasionally, I would wake in the night, convinced I’d been back in the jungles in my dreams.
At last, though I was still technically sick, I was brought by ambulance to Oak Haven and moved into the upstairs left front room.
This is one of the more gracious and lovely bedrooms in the house, and, in my robe and slippers, I was walking out on the front porch by the evening of that day. It was winter, but wondrously green all around me, and the breeze off the river was welcome.
At last, after two days of “small talk,” which was threatening to drive me out of my mind, Merrick came to my room alone. She wore a nightgown and robe and she appeared exhausted. Her rich brown hair was held back from her temples by two amber combs. I could see the relief in her face as she looked at me.
I was in bed, with pillows propped and a book on the Maya people open in my lap.
“I thought you were going to die,” she said plainly. “I prayed for you in a way I’ve never prayed before.”
“Do you think God heard your prayers?” I asked. Then I realized she hadn’t mentioned praying to God at all. “Tell me,” I asked, “was I ever in real danger?”
She seemed shocked by the question. Then she fell quiet, as though debating what she might say. I already had part of my answer, purely from her reaction to the question, so I waited patiently until she meant to speak.
“There were times in Guatemala,” she said, “when they told me you were not likely to make it much longer. I sent them away, insofar as they’d listen, and I put the mask over my face. I could see your spirit just above your body; I could see it struggling to rise and free itself from your body. I could see it stretched over you, the double of you, rising, and I put out my hand and I pressed on it, and made it go back into its place.”
I felt a dreadful overwhelming love for her.
“Thank God you did it,” I said.
She repeated my words from the jungle village.
“Life belongs to those who are alive.”
“You remember me saying it?” I asked her, or rather I expressed to her my gratitude.
“You said it often,” she replied. “You thought you were talking to someone, the someone we’d both seen in the mouth of the cave before we’d made our escape. You thought you were engaged in a debate with him. And then one morning, very early, when I woke up in the chair and found you conscious, you told me you’d won.”
“What are we going to do with the mask?” I asked. “I see myself becoming enthralled with it. I see myself testing it on others, but in secret. I see myself becoming its unwholesome slave.”
“We won’t let that happen,” she said. “Besides, others aren’t affected in the same way.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“The men in the tent, when you were getting sicker and sicker, they picked it up, they thought it was a curio, of course. One of them thought we’d bought it from the village people. He was the first to look through it. He saw nothing. Then another one of the men did the same thing. So forth and so on.”
“What about here in New Orleans?”
“Aaron saw nothing through it,” she said. And then in something of a sad voice she added: “I didn’t tell him all that happened. That’s for you to do, if you wish.”
“And you?” I pressed. “What do you see when you look through the mask now?”
She shook her head. She looked off a bit, desperately biting into her lip, and then she looked at me.
“I see Honey when I look through it. Almost always. I see Honey in the Sunshine, and that’s all. I see her in the oaks outside of the Motherhouse. I see her in the garden. I see her whenever I look through the mask. The world is as it is around her. But she’s always there.” There was a passage of time and then she confessed:
“I believe it was all Honey’s doing. Honey goaded me with nightmares. Oncle Vervain was never really there. It was always Honey in the Sunshine, greedy for life, and how can I blame her? She sent us back there to get the mask so that she could come through. I’ve vowed I won’t let her do it. I mean, I won’t let her grow stronger and stronger through me. I won’t be used and destroyed by her. It’s like you said. Life belongs to those who are alive.”
“Would it do no good to speak to her? Would it do no good to tell her that she’s dead?”
“She knows,” said Merrick sadly. “She’s a powerful and crafty spirit. If you tell me as Superior General that you want to attempt an exorcism, and that you want me to communicate with her, I’ll do it—but on my own, never, never will I give in to her. She’s too clever. She’s too strong.”
“I’ll never ask you to do such a thing,” I said quickly. “Come, sit beside me here. Let me hold you. I’m too weak to do you any harm.”
Now that I look back on these things, I’m not sure why I didn’t tell Merrick all about the spirit with the oval face and how he had continued to appear to me throughout my illness, and especially when I was close to death. Perhaps we had exchanged confidences about my visions when I was feverish. I only know that we did not discuss them in detail when we took stock of the whole event.
As for my perso
nal reaction to the spirit, I was afraid of him. I had robbed a place that was precious to him. I had done it fiercely and selfishly, and though the illness had burnt away much of my desire to explore the mystery of the cave, I feared the spirit’s return.
As a matter of fact, I did see this spirit again.
It was many years later. It was on the night in Barbados when Lestat came to see me, and decided to make me a vampire against my will.
As you well know, I was no longer the elder David. It was after our dreadful ordeal with the Body Thief. I felt invincible in my new young body and I had no thought to ask Lestat for eternal life. When it was clear that he meant to force me, I fought him with all I had.
At some point in this vain attempt to save myself from the vampiric blood, I called on God, the angels, anyone who might help me. I called on my orisha, Oxalá, in the old Portuguese Candomble tongue.
I don’t know if my prayers were heard by my orisha, but the room was suddenly assailed by small spirits, none of whom could frighten or hinder Lestat in any way. And as he drained my blood to the very point of death, it was the bronze-skinned spirit of the cave whom I glimpsed as my eyes closed.
It seemed to me, as I was losing the battle to live, let alone the battle to be mortal, that I saw the cave spirit standing near me with his arms out, and I saw pain in his face.
The figure was wavering, yet fully realized. I saw the bracelets on his arms. I saw his long red robe. I saw the tears on his cheeks.
It was only an instant. The world of solid things and spiritual things flickered and went out.
I fell into a stupor. I remember nothing until the moment when Lestat’s supernatural blood flooded my mouth. By then, I saw only Lestat and I knew my soul was entering on yet another adventure, one which would carry me forward beyond my most appalling dreams.
I never saw the cave spirit again.
But let me finish my tale of Merrick. There is not a great deal more to be said.
After a week of convalescence in the New Orleans Motherhouse, I dressed in my usual tweed suit and came downstairs for breakfast, with the other members assembled there.
Later, Merrick and I walked in the garden, which was filled with lush beautiful dark-leafed camillias, which thrive in the winter, even through light frost. I saw blossoms of pink and red and white which I never forgot. Giant green elephant ear and purple flowering orchid plants were growing everywhere. How beautiful Louisiana can be in winter. How verdant and vigorous and remote.
“I’ve put the mask into the vault, in a sealed box, under my name,” Merrick told me. “I suggest we leave it there.”
“Absolutely,” I said. “But you must promise me, that if you ever change your mind about the mask, you’ll call me before you take even the simplest steps.”
“I don’t want to see Honey anymore!” she said under her breath. “I told you. She wants to use me, and that I won’t allow. I was ten years old when she was murdered. I’m tired, oh so tired of grieving for Honey. You’ll never have to worry. I won’t touch the mask again if I can help it, believe me.”
Insofar as I ever knew, Merrick was faithful to her vow.
After we completed a detailed letter regarding our expedition, for a university of our choice, we sealed the records and the mask permanently, along with the idols, the perforator that Merrick had used in her magic, all of Michael’s original papers, and the remnants of Oncle Vervain’s map. All was kept in storage at Oak Haven, with access only allowed to Merrick or to me.
In the spring, I got a call from America, from Aaron, telling me that investigators in the area of Lafayette, Louisiana, had found the wreck of Cold Sandra’s car.
Apparently Merrick had led them to a portion of the swamp where the vehicle had been submerged years before. Enough remained of the corpses to ascertain that two women had been in the vehicle at the time that it sank. The skull bones of both showed severe and potentially life-threatening fractures. But no one could determine whether or not either victim had survived the blows long enough to be drowned.
Cold Sandra was identified by the remnants of a plastic purse and the random objects inside of it, most particularly a gold pocket watch in a small leather pouch. Merrick had recognized the pocket watch immediately, and the inscription had born her out.
“To my beloved son, Vervain, from your Father, Alexias André Mayfair, 1910.”
As for Honey in the Sunshine, the remaining bones supported the identification of a sixteen-year-old girl. No more could be known.
Immediately I packed a bag. On the telephone, I told Merrick I was on my way.
“Don’t come, David,” she said calmly. “It’s all over. They’ve both been buried in the family grave in the St. Louis Cemetery. There’s no more to be done. I’m going back to Cairo to work, just as soon as you give me leave.”
“My darling, you can go immediately. But surely you must stop in London.”
“Wouldn’t think of going on without seeing you,” she said. She was about to ring off when I stopped her.
“Merrick, the gold pocket watch is yours now. Clean it. Repair it. Keep it. No one can deny it to you now.”
There was a disturbing silence on the other end.
“I told you, David, Oncle Vervain always said I didn’t need it,” she replied. “He said it ticked for Cold Sandra and Honey. Not for me.”
I found those words a little frightening.
“Honor their memories, Merrick, and honor your wishes,” I insisted. “But life, and its treasures, belong to those who are alive.”
A week later, we had lunch together. She looked as fresh and inviting as ever, her brown hair drawn back in the leather barrette that I’d come to love.
“I didn’t use the mask to find those bodies,” she explained at once. “I want you to know that.” She continued on. “I went out to Lafayette and I went on instinct and prayers. We dredged in several areas before we got lucky. Or you might say Great Nananne helped me find the bodies. Great Nananne knew how much I wanted to find them. As for Honey, I can still feel her near me. Sometimes I feel so sad for her, sometimes I get weak—.”
“No, you’re talking about a spirit,” I interjected, “and a spirit is not necessarily the person you knew or loved.”
After that, she spoke of nothing but her work in Egypt. She was happy to be headed back there. There had been some new discoveries in the desert, due to aerial photography, and she had a meeting scheduled which might lead to her seeing a new, previously undocumented tomb.
It was marvelous to see her in such fine form. As I paid the check, she brought out Oncle Vervain’s gold pocket watch.
“I almost forgot about this,” she said. It was quite well polished and it opened at the touch of her finger with an audible snap. “It can’t really be repaired, of course,” she explained as she held it lovingly. “But I like having it. See? Its hands are fixed at ten minutes before eight.”
“Do you think it has some connection,” I asked gingerly, “I mean, to the time that they met their deaths?”
“I don’t think so,” she said with a light shrug. “I don’t think Cold Sandra ever remembered to wind it. I think she carried it in her purse for sentimental reasons. It’s a wonder she didn’t pawn it. She pawned other things.” She put it back into her purse and gave me a reassuring smile.
I took the long drive with her out to the airport and walked her to the plane.
Everything was calm until the final moments. We were two civilized human beings, saying goodbye, who meant to see each other soon again.
Then something broke inside me. It was sweet and terrible and too immense for me. I took her in my arms.
“My darling, my love,” I said to her, feeling the fool dreadfully, and wanting her youth and her devotion with my whole soul. She was utterly unresisting, giving way to kisses that broke my heart.
“There never will be anyone else,” she whispered in my ear.
I remember pushing her aside and holding her by her shoulders,
and then I turned, without so much as a backwards glance, and I walked swiftly away.
What was I doing to this young woman? I had just passed my seventieth birthday. And she had not yet reached her twenty-fifth.
But on the long drive back to the Motherhouse, I realized that, try as I might I could not plunge myself into the requisite state of guilt.
I had loved Merrick the way I had once loved Joshua, the young boy who had thought me the most marvelous lover in the world. I had loved her through temptation and through giving in to that temptation, and nothing would ever make me deny that love to myself, to her, or to God.
For all the remaining years that I knew her, Merrick remained in Egypt, going home via London to New Orleans perhaps twice a year.
Once I dared to ask her boldly why she was not interested in Maya lore.
I think the question irritated her. She didn’t like to think of those jungles, let alone speak of them. She thought I ought to know that, but she answered me in a civil manner nevertheless.
She explained clearly that she met with too many obstacles in studying Mesoamerica, in particular the question of the dialects, of which she knew nothing, and of archaeological experience in the field, of which she had none. Her learning had led her to Egypt, where she knew the writing, knew the story, knew the history. It was where she meant to stay.
“Magic is the same everywhere,” she said more than often. But that didn’t deter her from making it her life’s work.
There is one more piece to the puzzle of Merrick which I possess.
While Merrick was working in Egypt that year after our trip to the jungles, Aaron wrote me a strange missive which I’ll never forget.
He told me that the license plates of the car found in the swamp had led the authorities to the used-car salesman who had murdered his young customers Cold Sandra and Honey. Indeed, the man was a drifter with a long criminal record, and it had not been difficult to trace him at all. Belligerent and somewhat cruel by nature, the miscreant had gone back several times over the years to work at the very car lot where he’d met his victims, and his identity was well known to any number of people who could connect him to the car found in the swamps.