Hay looked suspicious, as anyone might. "And who are you?" he demanded ungraciously, not answering Colin's question.
"One who has traveled far," Colin answered cryptically. If he was going to convince Matthew Hay that he was a visiting Adept of his own black stripe without Hay detecting the charade, he would have to use all the finesse learned in decades of deception.
Hay looked sharply at Colin when he gave that oblique answer, and when he spoke again his words were freighted with intent.
"And what is it that you seek, traveling so far?"
"Some travel East, seeking Light. Others do not," Colin answered. It was no lie—he had not said which he sought. But as he had hoped, Hay took his words at face value.
"Welcome—brother," Hay said formally. "What makes you seek us lout?"
"I do not come at my own bidding," Colin answered, taking the high-flown tack that Hay seemed to expect, "but have been sent by another, to whom word has come of you."
"And your name?" Hay asked, his natural suspicion reasserting itself. "You already seem to know mine."
"Colin MacLaren."
"I know you." Hay's eyes narrowed. "You're that lecturer fella they've got down at Miskatonic. You're here talking about folklore."
The way Matthew Hay pronounced the word, it was synonymous with "nonsense."
"Some call it folklore," Colin agreed. "But others know that many forgotten truths live on as folklore. 'That is not dead which can eternal lie ... and with strange eons, even Death may die.' Af baraldim Azathoth! Ad baraldim asdo galoth Azathoth! Id Cthulhufthagn!"
"Aye," said Matthew, grudingly impressed. "Go on."
"It's well known in certain circles that the worship of Great Cthulhu and the gods of antediluvian days was preserved here by families who sailed to the New World with certain books in their possession—books like the Necro-nomicon, Die Vermis Mysteriis, Les Cultes des Goules ... all wellsprings of the elder knowledge handed down by the great Adepts," Colin said.
Hay did not even blink at the intermingling of real and imaginary texts, bolstering Colin's initial guess that the Antique Rite, though still dangerous, was far from being the threat it once had been. Generations of transmission through unsophisticated farm folk had done their work, and Hay and his coven no longer precisely understood what it was they did here at the old church . . . dangerous though their actions remained.
"And you've come to learn from us?" Hay asked, half disbelieving.
"I have come a long way to learn what you are," Colin answered truthfully.
* * *
After he left Hay—it had been easy enough to gain the invitation he sought, along with confirmation of the time and date of the Sabbat—Colin drove slowly back down Witch Hill Road.
His chest ached, and there was a coppery taste in his mouth. Hay's church was a dedicated place of power whose orientation made Colin physically ill, and Claire, he suspected, would not be able to pass the threshold of the building at all. Fortunately, Colin was no psychic. All his plans hinged on that fact.
As he drove past the Latimer House, Colin decided, almost on an impulse, to stop there. I need to see what Sally knows—and see if Claire was right in her interpretation of what she saw. If Witch-Sara is indeed back for good—or maybe I should say "for ill"?
And if she is, will she betray us to Hay? It's a long way to August—almost six weeks. He might buy my story that we shouldn't be seen together until the date of the Sabbat itself, but that's still a lot of time in which to keep this masquerade in one piece. Especially if Witch-Sara tells him what Sally knows. . . .
Colin was prepared for anything but the sight that greeted him. Claire had been both clinical and specific in her description of Sally's raddled appearance the day after the Esbat, but the young woman standing in the doorway looked sleek and almost pampered. Her wavy red hair was pinned up in a neat bun with a set of silver-headed pins, and a pair of antique earrings Colin had never seen before glittered in her ears. She was dressed in a time-softened chambray shirt and overalls, and the dirt-smudged knees of the overalls testified that she'd been working out in the herb garden.
But Sally Latimer was—had been—a proper urban child, and Colin had never suspected her of the least interest in gardening.
"Dr. MacLaren!" Sally said cheerfully. "Won't you come in?"
And she had never called him "Dr. MacLaren" in her life.
"You're looking well, Sally," Colin said, stepping over the threshold into the kitchen. A large ginger-colored tomcat followed him inside.
"And this is Barnabas, I see," Colin said, stooping to extend a hand toward the cat.
"That is Ginger Tom," Sally corrected him crisply, and then, in an obvious attempt to be more . . . welcoming? said: "I've been working in the garden all morning and I was just about to put on the kettle. Would you care to join me in a cup?"
"I'd be delighted," Colin said, straightening.
Sally waved him over to the table; Colin sat down and looked around.
Claire had said the kitchen was filthy, but everything that Colin could see gleamed with rigorous cleaning. Several batches of herbs were hung from the rafters, suspended upside-down to dry. All in all, it looked as if Sally had made herself quite at home here.
Only I don't think it's Sally, somehow.
"How's the painting going?" he asked.
"Oh, I haven't had much time for that," Sally said airily. "Plenty of work to do in the garden, and spring all but flown. T'will be many a long year before t'is back in good order, I fear me."
No, this proud woman with the poise and carriage of a queen was not the young girl he knew, but an adversary far more potentially dangerous. Witch-Sara of Witch Hill, through life after life for more than three centuries, High Priestess of the Church of the Antique Rite.
It was only a few minutes before the tea was ready. Sally brought the old stoneware pot to a table already set with cups and a large plate of homemade sugar cookies.
"Let me pour," Colin said, rilling both their cups.
"What brings you all the way out here?" Sally asked. "This is pretty far from Arkham—I'm surprised you didn't end up in a ditch."
"Oh, I've been paying a social call on Matthew Hay," Colin said lightly.
Sally's eyes flashed green as she looked up quickly. "Why?" she demanded sharply.
"Now, Sally, you know I'm interested in folklore . . . and your Mr. Hay seems to be a goldmine of it. In fact, I've gotten myself invited to your local Sabbat," he added.
While he must walk softly, it was also important to discover where her loyalties lay ... if anywhere but with herself. He took a cookie and bit into it fearlessly; whatever else might happen in this house, he didn't think Witch-Sara would poison him. A dead body—or a disappearance—would bring far too much attention down on Madison Corners.
"So you'll be at his Sabbat?" she asked. He could tell that the woman opposite him was startled, in a way that Sally Latimer would not have been.
"I wouldn't miss it for anything," Colin said equitably.
He watched with great—though concealed—interest as the woman he knew as Sally Latimer struggled with herself for several seconds.
"Don't underestimate Matthew Hay, Dr. MacLaren," she said in a low voice. He thought he could see Sally Latimer, drowning there in the depths of Witch-Sara's green eyes, and his heart ached for the struggle she faced. It was a struggle she had chosen before this life, but one she was doomed to lose—unless he could help her.
"Believe me, Sally. I don't underestimate him," Colin said grimly. He could tell that she was anxious for him to be gone, and Colin felt he'd learned all he could at Witch Hill this day. After a few minutes more he took his leave.
But he'd be back.
June vanished in a haze of summer heat, and July followed after. Colin finished up his lecture term but stayed on, poking into odd archives here and there or simply keeping up his voluminous correspondence. He was a frequent guest at the Moorcock Farm, but despite the fact that
he came to know both Clarence and Justin Moorcock well, Rowan remained curiously elusive. She was close to the age his own students had been, and Colin had always prided himself on his rapport with the young. It was not that the girl was in ] the throes of one of those adolescent nervestorms in which every adult was the I enemy—in fact, it was impossible to associate such a mood with Rowan, who approached every person and situation with the bumptious effusiveness of a Saint Bernard puppy. It was something more, something that Colin only noticed because he was watching her so carefully for any sign that she had be-1 come entangled with the Church of the Antique Rite. She seemed indifferent where she ought to be curious, serene where she ought to be concerned. But if she were acting a part to mislead him, Rowan Moorcock was the best actress Colin had ever seen.
No, he could not impute any corrupt impetus to her behavior, and Colin finally decided that if there were a mystery here, it was not one he was meant j to unravel. But he still wondered about it in idle moments, and so was more than happy to accept Claire's invitation to drive down to Glastonbury with her and Rowan.
Rowan would be starting school here in September, and with the worsening situation in Madison Corners, Claire and Justin had decided that she should come early. Claire had friends that Rowan could stay with until the dorms opened.
If Rowan had objections to being swept out of the way in this fashion, Colin had not been privy to them. He thought the relocation was an elegant solution. And in any event, it was an excuse for Colin to check a few things at the Taghkanic library.
And to visit old friends.
Though it was almost ten years since he'd last been here, the Taghkanic cam-1 pus seemed untouched by the passage of time. Colin felt a pang of homesick- j ness for the place that held so many happy memories.
He dropped Claire and Rowan off at Administration—Claire intended to| introduce Rowan to a few of her old friends on the faculty and give her an I early tour of the campus before settling in—and took a moment to stop in and say hello to Eden. Taghkanic's distinguished president also seemed unchanged by the passage of time; she greeted Colin warmly, and for a moment or two they talked about old times.
"So what brings you back to us, especially at this time of year? I suppose! it's too much to hope that you're staying long enough to take a few lectures?" 1 Eden asked hopefully.
"Not this year," Colin said with regret. "I actually came to have a look over! the library. I'm lecturing up at Miskatonic, and they had a break-in last / month and are missing several books from the locked shelves, including one I need to consult."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Eden said. "Book thieves are a major problem j for libraries, especially those with rare book collections—as we know to our cost. But please, make yourself at home. And of course you'll stop by the institute—Miles would never forgive you if you didn't stop in and see him."
* * *
"Colin! You old fraud," Viv Aillard said. "Come back to see how the inmates are doing?"
Now well into her fifties, Vivianne Aillard's once-flaming red hair had turned the color of cinnamon-sugar. She took Colin's arm and walked with him back into the office area of the institute.
"I thought I might—since I was in the area," Colin answered, smiling.
"After the way you deserted us, I wonder that you had the nerve," she shot back teasingly. "But you left us some good people—Dylan! Come see Colin!"
Dylan Palmer leaned out of his office, his boyish open face breaking into a grin as he saw Colin. "Professor MacLaren!" he said.
"Please," Colin said. "I'm a private citizen, now. Hello, Dylan. How do you find life after grad school?"
"I'm enjoying it," Dylan admitted. "And I think my students are surviving my efforts."
Dylan Palmer had been heading toward a career in parapsychology when Colin had been director of the Bidney Institute—he'd been a classmate of Hunter Greyson's—and Colin was glad to see that the young man had pursued his dream.
"Colin!" Miles said, coming out of his office. "Eden just called. What brings you eastward? I hope you're planning to come back to us."
'"Fraid not. I'm up at Miskatonic doing a series of lectures on folklore. I'm pretty well fixed out in SF, but sometimes a change of scene is nice," Colin said. Miles Godwin had been his handpicked successor, and seeing the institute flourishing under his guidance eased any lingering sense of guilt Colin might have had—and it was very small—about leaving the institute to devote his time to Simon Anstey and the Bay Area occult community.
"You ought to come to some place that has scenery, then," Miles said jokingly.
"Miskatonic?" Viv Aillard asked. "Isn't that the little cow-college in Arkham? That whole area's haunted," she added with envious relish.
"That's part of the reason I'm there," Colin said. "Most ghost tales are just campfire yarns, but here and there there's a grain of truth that's worth pursuing. Besides, Claire's got relatives in Madison Corners that she hasn't seen in years—she has a young cousin making the rounds here today."
"Well, we'll look forward to seeing her around the institute," Miles said, making the obvious assumption.
The impromptu visit soon degenerated into a sort of a party. Everyone was eager to tell Colin all the campus gossip, not that it had changed much.
"Betram had his eyes on the prize last week—he really thought his TK was going to be able to cut it," someone said.
"With Bertie around, who needs a fifth column?" someone else replied, in reference to the one-million-dollar prize that still remained unclaimed more than half a century since the institute's founding.
"Well, Devant and Lovelock nailed him good—he's had to take a week of vacation to recover."
There was general laughter. Colin raised his eyebrows interrogatively at Miles. He was glad to see that Miles had such a good working relationship with his staff, since parapsychologists, Colin knew from experience, were inclined to be as temperamental as opera singers.
"Kit Lovelock, one of our researchers," Miles explained.
"I can't stand her," Viv said scornfully. "We might as well have the Amazing Randi on the payroll!"
"We do have the Amazing Randi on the payroll," Dylan pointed out amiably. "Only his name's Mask Devant."
"Sneaking a—a—a magician in when Bertie was working with Hans—it's a complete violation of trust!" Viv went on.
"Considering that Hans was as bogus as a three-dollar bill," a new voice said coldly, "I think it was just as well that we nailed him now, instead of after several hundred expensive hours of test runs."
Colin turned toward the woman who had spoken. She was standing beside the coffee urn, her cup in her hand. Despite the fact that he was certain he'd never laid eyes on her before, she seemed oddly familiar.
She had dark hair—cut barely long enough to keep from looking mannish—and was severely dressed in a navy pinstripe "dress for success" suit that made her look older than her years. Though Colin knew little about fashion, he felt that this might have been the effect she was striving for, since she looked quite young—probably fresh out of college.
"Colin, you haven't met the newest member of the institute," Miles said. "She's a rather solitary soul, but her work is excellent. Came to us directly from Harvard, and we're lucky to have her. Truth, this is Dr. Colin MacLaren, the former director of the institute. Colin, this is Truth Jourdemayne, our statistical parapsychologist."
Truth smiled—with much the wary expression that one might expect from one who was being introduced by her employer to an illustrious stranger.
So that was the reason for that haunting familiarity! Colin got to his feet.
"Truth Jourdemayne," he said warmly. "I knew your parents. Your father would be proud to see that you've chosen to follow in the family tradition."
Suddenly Colin had the sense that he'd said something terribly wrong. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dylan wince and cover his face.
Colin had respected Caroline Jourdemayne's wishes that all of Thorne
Blackburn's friends and associates stay clear of her and her niece, but it had never occurred to him until this moment that she might not have told Truth who Truth's father was.
"Thorne Blackburn," Truth said, in a voice like breaking glass. "I'm afraid you've been misinformed, Dr. MacLaren. Thorne Blackburn has been dead since 1969. He couldn't possibly have anything to do with my life or my choices."
There was a pause, as if Truth was aware that she'd backed herself into an undiplomatic corner but wasn't sure how to get out. "It was very nice to meet you, but I'm afraid I'm swamped with work." She turned and walked off, her empty cup still in her hand, and a few seconds later Colin heard a door shut firmly.
"Truth is ... a little sensitive on the subject of Thorne Blackburn," Miles said into the silence.
'"A little' doesn't begin to cover it," Colin heard Dylan mutter.
"I'm sorry to have raised such a painful subject, in that case," Colin said, and the moment passed off.
But despite the leisurely air of things at the institute it was still a work day for the staff, and soon they drifted away—Dylan to teach an afternoon class, Viv to get her notes in order for her trip to the institute's sister organization on the Isle of Man, and the others to pursuits of their own.
Miles walked Colin to his car.
"I'd like to apologize again for saying the wrong thing to Ms. Jourdemayne," Colin said, opening the door of his little rental coupe. "It only occurred to me after I'd spoken that Caro might not have told her much about her father."
Miles waved the apology aside.
"Apparently she didn't know much about Blackburn when she decided to become a parapsychologist, and of course, as his daughter she attracts the usual lunatic fringe; Blackburn was an important figure in twentieth-century occultism, and separating occultism and parapsychology in the public mind is difficult at the best of times. It's a bit of an awkward situation for her."
"I understand," Colin said. "Best of luck to her, then."
"And to you," Miles said. "Don't wait so long to visit next time—and perhaps we can snag you for a lecture series sometime."
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