by Anne Rice
“No, Rowan. Don’t do it.”
She woke up with a start. Footsteps on the stairs.
She climbed out of the bed. “Michael?”
“I’m here, honey.”
Just a big shadow in the darkness, smelling of the winter cold, and then his warm trembling hands on her. Roughened and tender, and his face pressed against her.
“Oh, God, Michael, it’s been forever. Why did you leave me?”
“Rowan, honey … ”
“Why?” She was sobbing. “Don’t let me go, Michael, please. Don’t let me go.”
He cradled her in his arms.
“You shouldn’t have gone, Michael. You shouldn’t have.” She was crying and she knew he couldn’t even understand what she was saying, and that she shouldn’t say it, and finally she just covered him with kisses, savoring the saltiness and roughness of his skin, and the clumsy gentleness of his hands.
“Tell me what’s the matter, what’s really the matter?”
“That I love you. That when you’re not here, it’s … it’s like you aren’t real.”
She was half awake when he slipped away. She didn’t want that dream to come back. She’d been lying next to him, snuggled against his chest, spoon fashion, holding tight to his arm, and now as he got out of bed, she watched almost furtively as he pulled on his jeans, and brought the tight long-sleeved rugby shirt down over his head.
“Stay here,” she whispered.
“It’s the doorbell,” he said. “My little surprise. No, don’t get up. It’s nothing really, just something that I brought with me from San Francisco. Why don’t you go on and sleep?”
He bent to kiss her, and she tugged at his hair. She brought him down close to her with insistent fingers, until she could smell the warm skin of his forehead, and kiss him on that smoothness, the bone underneath like a hard stone. She didn’t know why that felt so good to her, his skin so moist and warm and real. She kissed him hard on the mouth.
Even before his lips left her, the dream returned.
I don’t want to see that manikin on the table. “What is it? It can’t be alive.”
Lemle was gowned and masked and gloved for the surgery. He peered at her from under his mossy eyebrows. “You’re not even sterile. Get scrubbed, I need you.” The lights were like two merciless eyes trained on the table.
That thing with its tiny organs and its big eyes.
Lemle held something in his tongs. And the little body split open in the steaming incubator beside the table was a fetus, slumbering on with its chest gaping. That was a heart in the tongs, wasn’t it? You monster, that you would do that. “We’re going to have to work fast while the tissue is at its optimum … ”
“It’s very hard for us to come through,” said the woman.
“But who are you?” she asked.
Rembrandt was sitting by the window, so tired in his old age, his nose rounded, his hair in wisps. He looked up at her sleepily when she asked him what he thought, and then he took her hand in his fingers, and he placed it on her own breast.
“I know that painting,” she said, “the young bride.”
She woke up. The clock had struck two. She had waited in her sleep, thinking there would be more chimes, perhaps ten in number, which meant she’d slept late; but two? That was so late.
She heard music from far away. A harpsichord was playing and a low voice was singing, a slow mournful carol, an old Celtic carol about a child laid in the manger. Smell of the Christmas tree, sweetly fragrant, and of the fire burning. Delicious in the warmth.
She was lying on her side, looking at the window, at the crust of frost forming on the panes. Very slowly a figure began to take shape-a man, with his back to the glass and his arms folded.
She narrowed her eyes, observing the process-the darkly tanned face coming into focus, billions of tiny cells forming it, and the deep glistening green eyes. The perfect replica of jeans and a shirt. Detailed like a Richard Avedon photograph in which every hair of the head is distinct and shining. He relaxed his arms and came toward her. She could hear and see the movement of his garments. As he bent over her, she saw the pores in his skin.
So we are jealous, are we? She touched his cheek, touched his forehead the way she had touched Michael, and felt a throb beneath it, like a body really there.
“Lie to him,” he said in a low voice, the lips barely moving. “If you love him, lie to him.”
She could almost feel breath against her face. Then she realized she was seeing through the face, seeing the window behind it.
“No, don’t let go,” she said. “Hold on.”
But the whole image convulsed; then it wavered like a paper cutout caught in a draft. She felt his panic in spasms of heat.
She reached out to take his wrist, but her hand closed on nothing. The hot draft swept over her and over the bed, and the draperies ballooned for a moment, and the frost rose and turned white on the panes.
“Kiss me,” she whispered, closing her eyes. Like wisps of hair across her face and her lips. “No. That’s not enough. Kiss me.” Only slowly did the density increase, and the touch become more palpable. He was tired from the materialization. Tired and slightly frightened. His cells and the other cells had almost undergone a molecular fusion. There must be a residue somewhere, or the minuscule bits of matter had been scattered so finely that they had penetrated the walls and the ceiling the same way he penetrated them. “Kiss me!” she demanded. She felt him struggling. And only now did he make invisible lips with which to do it, pushing an unseen tongue into her mouth.
Lie to him.
Yes, of course. I love you both, don’t I?
He didn’t hear her come down the steps. The draperies were all closed and the hallway was dark and hushed and warm. The fire was lighted in the front fireplace of the parlor. And the only other illumination came from the tree, which was now strung with countless tiny, twinkling lights.
She stood in the doorway watching him as he sat on the very top of the ladder, making some little adjustment, and whistling softly to himself with the recording of the old Irish Christmas song.
So mournful. It made her think of a deep, ancient wood in winter. And his whistling was such a small, easy, almost unconscious sound. She’d known that carol once. She had some dim memory of listening to it with Ellie, and it had made Ellie cry.
She leaned against the door frame, merely looking at the immense tree, all speckled with its tiny lights like stars, and breathing its deep woodsy perfume.
“Ah, there she is, my sleeping beauty,” he said. He gave her one of those utterly loving and protective smiles that made her feel like rushing into his arms. But she didn’t move. She watched as he came down off the ladder with quick easy movements, and approached her. “Feel better now, my princess?” he asked.
“Oh, it’s so very beautiful,” she said. “And that song is so sad.”
She put her arm around his waist and leaned her head on his shoulder as she looked up at the tree. “You’ve done a perfect job.”
“Ah, but now comes the fun part,” he said, giving her a peck on the cheek and drawing her into the room and towards the small table by the windows. A cardboard box stood open, and he gestured for her to look inside.
“Aren’t they lovely!” She picked up a small white bisque angel with the faintest blush to its cheeks, and gilded wings. And here was the most beautiful detailed little Father Christmas, a tiny china doll dressed in real red velvet. “Oh, they’re exquisite. Wherever did they come from?” She lifted the golden apple, and a lovely five-pointed star.
“Oh, I’ve had them for years. I was a college kid when I started collecting them. I never knew they were for this tree and this room, but they were. Here, you choose the first one. I’ve been waiting for you. I thought we’d do it together.”
“The angel,” she said. She lifted it by the hook and brought it close to the tree, the better to see it in the soft light. It held a tiny gilded harp in its hands, and even its litt
le face was correctly painted with a fine reddened mouth and blue eyes. She lifted it as high as she could reach and slipped the curved hook over the thick part of the shivering branch. The angel quivered, the hook nearly invisible in the darkness, and hung suspended, as if poised like a hummingbird in flight.
“Do you think they do that, angels, they stop in midair like hummingbirds?” she asked in a whisper.
“Yeah, probably,” he said. “You know angels. They’re probably show-offs, and they can do anything they want.” He stood behind her, kissing her hair.
“What did I ever do without you here?” she said. As his arms went around her waist she clasped them with her hands, loving the sinewy muscles, the large strong fingers holding her so tight.
For a moment the fullness of the tree and the lovely play of twinkling light in the deep shadowy green branches utterly filled her vision. And the sad music of the carol filled her ears. The moment was suspended, like the delicate angel. There was no future, no past.
“I’m so glad you’re back,” she whispered closing her eyes.
“It was unbearable here without you. Nothing makes any sense without you. I never want to be without you again.” A deep throb of pain passed through her-a fierce terrible quaking that she locked inside her, as she turned to lay her head once more on his chest.
Forty-six
DECEMBER 23. HARD freeze tonight. Lovely, when all the Mayfairs were expected for cocktails and carol singing. Think of all those cars sliding on the icy streets. But it was wonderful to have this clean cold weather for Christmas. And they were predicting snow.
“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.
Forty-seven
“WHAT 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.”