by Anne Rice
“Of course, I told her. The hard part was getting her on and then standing back up, not so good for the old ticker-I almost died! – but I did it, and she had a great time screaming for throws and reaching for the junk beads and plastic cups raining upon us from the passing floats.
“And what pretty old-fashioned floats they were. Like the floats in our childhood, Bea explained, with none of the new mechanical or electric gimmicks. Just lovely intricate confections of delicate trembling trees and flowers and birds, trimmed exquisitely in sparkling foil. The men of the krewe, masked and costumed in satin, worked hard pitching their trinkets and junk into the sea of upthrust hands.
“At last it was finished. Mardi Gras was over. Ryan helped Mona down off my shoulders, scolding her for bothering me, and I protested that it had been fun.
“We walked back slowly, Aaron and I falling behind the others, and then as the party went on inside with champagne and music, this strange thing happened, which was as follows:
“I took my usual walk around the dark garden, enjoying the beautiful white azaleas that were blooming all over, and the pretty petunias and other annual flowers which the gardeners had put into the beds. When I reached the big crepe myrtle at the back of the lawn, I realized for the first time that it was finally coming back into leaf. Tiny little green leaves covered it all over, though in the light of the moon it still looked bony and bare.
“I stood under the tree for a few minutes, looking towards First Street, and watching the last stragglers from the avenue pass the iron fence. I think I was wondering if I could chance a cigarette out here with no one to catch me and stop me, and then I realized that of course I didn’t have any, that Aaron and Aunt Viv, on the doctor’s orders, had thrown them all away.
“Whatever the case, I was drifting in my thoughts and loving the spring warmth, when I realized that a mother and child were rushing by out there, and that the child, seeing me under the tree, had pointed and said something to the mother about ‘that man.’
“ ‘That man.’
“It hit me with a sudden jolt of hilarity. I was ‘that man.’ I had switched places with Lasher. I had become the man in the garden. I had now taken up his old station and his old role. I was without question the dark-haired man of First Street, and the pattern of it and the irony of it made me laugh and laugh.
“No wonder the son of a bitch said he loved me. He should. He stole my child, my wife and my lover, and he left me here, planted in his place. He took my life from me, and gave me his haunting ground in exchange. Why wouldn’t he love me for all that?
“I don’t know how long I stood there smiling to myself, and laughing quietly in the darkness, but gradually I got tired. Just being on my feet for any length of time tires me out.
“And then a brokenhearted sort of sadness came over me, because the pattern seemed to have significance, and I thought maybe I’ve been wrong all along, and there are real witches. And we are all damned.
“But I don’t believe that.
“I went on with my nocturnal wanderings, and later said goodbye to all the lovely Mayfairs, promising to visit, yes, when I felt better, and assuring them we’d have another big party here on St. Patrick’s Day in just a very few weeks.
“The night grew quiet and empty like any other night in the Garden District finally, and the Comus parade, in retrospect, became ever more unreal in its prettiness and gaudiness, like something that couldn’t have taken place with all that pomp and seriousness in a grown-up world.
“Yes, conquered that old beast I did by going. Silenced those drums forever, I hope and pray.
“And I don’t believe that it was all patterned and planned and destined. I don’t.
“Maybe Aaron in his passivity and his dogmatic open-mindedness can entertain the idea that it was planned-that even my father’s death was part of it, and that I was destined just to be a stud for Rowan, and a father for Lasher. But accept this I do not.
“And it isn’t only that I don’t believe it. I can’t.
“I can’t believe it because my reason tells me that such a system, in which anyone dictates our every move-be it a god, or a devil, or our subconscious mind, or our tyrannical genesis simply impossible.
“Life itself must be founded upon the infinite possibility for choice and accident. And if we cannot prove that it is, we must believe that it is. We must believe that we can change, that we can control, that we can direct our own destinies.
“Things could have gone differently. Rowan could have refused to help that thing. She could have killed it. And she may kill it yet. And behind her actions may lie the tragic possibility that once it had come into the flesh, she couldn’t bring herself to destroy it.
“I refuse to judge Rowan. The rage I felt against her is now gone.
“And I choose of my own free will to stay here, waiting for her, and believing in her.
“That belief in her is the first tenet of my credo. And no matter how enormous and intricate this web of events seems, no matter how much it is like all the patterns of flags and balustrades and repetitive cast iron that dominate this little plot of earth, I maintain my credo.
“I believe in Free Will, the Force Almighty by which we conduct ourselves as if we were the sons and daughters of a just and wise God, even if there is no such Supreme Being. And by free will, we can choose to do good on this earth, no matter that we all die, and do not know where we go when we die, or if a justice or explanation awaits us.
“I believe that we can through our reason know what good is, and in the communion of men and women, in which the forgiveness of wrongs will always be more significant than the avenging of them, and that in the beautiful natural world that surrounds us, we represent the best and the finest of beings, for we alone can see that natural beauty, appreciate it, learn from it, weep for it, and seek to conserve it and protect it.
“I believe finally that we are the only true moral force in the physical world, the makers of ethics and moral ideas, and that we must be as good as the gods we’ve created in the past to guide us.
“I believe that through our finest efforts, we will succeed finally in creating heaven on earth, and we do it every time that we love, every time that we embrace, every time that we commit to create rather than destroy, every time that we place life over death, and the natural over what is unnatural, insofar as we are able to define it.
“And I suppose I do believe in the final analysis that a peace of mind can be obtained in the face of the worst horrors and the worst losses. It can be obtained by faith in change and in will and in accident; and by faith in ourselves, that we will do the right thing, more often than not, in the face of adversity.
“For ours is the power and the glory, because we are capable of visions and ideas which are ultimately stronger and more enduring than we are.
“That is my credo. That is why I believe in my interpretation of the story of the Mayfair Witches.
“Probably wouldn’t stand up against the philosophers of the Talamasca. Maybe won’t even go into the file. But it’s my belief, for what it’s worth, and it sustains me. And if I were to die right now, I wouldn’t be afraid. Because I can’t believe that horror or chaos awaits us.
“If any revelation awaits us at all, it must be as good as our ideals and our best philosophy. For surely nature must embrace the visible and the invisible, and it couldn’t fall short of us. The thing that makes the flowers open and the snowflakes fall must contain a wisdom and a final secret as intricate and beautiful as the blooming camellia or the clouds gathering above, so white and pure in the blackness.
“If that isn’t so, then we are in the grip of a staggering irony. And all the spooks of hell might as well dance in the parlor. There could be a devil. People who burn other people to death are fine. There could be anything.
“But the world is simply too beautiful for that.
“At least it seems that way to me as I sit here now on the screened porch, in the rocking chair, with al
l the Mardi Gras noise having long ago died away, writing by the light from the distant parlor lamp behind me.
“Only our capacity for goodness is as fine as this silken breeze coming from the south, as fine as the scent of the rain just be ginning to fall, with a faint roar as it strikes the shimmering leaves, so gentle, gentle as the vision of the rain itself strung like silver through the fabric of the embracing darkness.
“Come home, Rowan. I’m waiting.”
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-1dcc9d-1a96-5e47-9cbe-4bb7-40f5-5de2c7
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 15.06.2011
Created using: calibre 0.8.4, Fiction Book Designer, Fiction Book Investigator, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software
Document authors :
alaskin
About
This file was generated by Lord KiRon's FB2EPUB converter version 1.1.5.0.
(This book might contain copyrighted material, author of the converter bears no responsibility for it's usage)
Этот файл создан при помощи конвертера FB2EPUB версии 1.1.5.0 написанного Lord KiRon.
(Эта книга может содержать материал который защищен авторским правом, автор конвертера не несет ответственности за его использование)
http://www.fb2epub.net
https://code.google.com/p/fb2epub/