by Greyspid
‘We are very much the same now,’ Aaron continued. ‘We are dogmatic only when it comes to defending our lack of dogma. And though we are large and extremely secure, we are always on the lookout for new members, for people who will respect our passivity and our slow and thorough methods, people who find the investigation of the occult as fascinating as we do, people who have been gifted with an extraordinary talent such as the power you have in your hands…
‘Now when I first read of you, I have to confess, I knew nothing about any connection between you and Rowan May-fair or the house on First Street. It was membership that entered my mind. Of course I hadn’t planned to tell you this immediately. But everything is changed now, you’ll agree.
‘But whatever was to happen on that account, I came to San Francisco to make available our knowledge to you, to show you, if you wished, how to use your power, and then perhaps to broach the subject that you might find our way of life fulfilling or enjoyable, enough to consider it, at least for a while…
‘You see, there was something about your life which intrigued me, that is, what I could learn of it, from the public records, and from well, some simple investigation that we conducted on our own. And that is, that you seemed to be at a crossroads before the accident, it was as if you had achieved your goals, yet you were unsatisfied -’
‘Yeah, you’re right about all that,’ Michael said. He had forgotten completely about the scenery beyond the windows. His eyes were fixed on Lightner. He held out the mug to be refilled with coffee. ‘Go on, please.’
‘And well, there’s your background in history,’ said Lightner, ’and the absence of any close family, except for your darling aunt, whom I have come to simply adore on short acquaintance, I must confess, and of course there is still the question of this power you possess, which is considerably stronger than I ever supposed…
‘But to continue about the order. We have observed occult phenomena throughout the world, as well you can imagine. And our work with the witch families is but a small part of it, and one of the few parts which involve real danger, for the observation of hauntings, even cases of possession, and our work with reincarnation and mind reading and the like involve almost no danger at all. With witches, it’s entirely different… And as a consequence, only the most experienced members are ever invited to work with this material, even to read it or try to understand it. And almost never would a novice or even a young member be brought into the field to approach a family such as the Mayfair family because the dangers are too great.
‘All of that will come clear to you when you read the File. What I want from you now is some understanding that you won’t make light of what we offer and what we do. That if we should part ways, either disagreeably or agreeably, you will respect the privacy of the persons mentioned in the Mayfair history…’
‘You know you can trust me on that score. You know what kind of a person I am,’ Michael said. ‘But what do you mean about danger? You’re talking about this spirit again, this man, and you’re talking about Rowan…’
‘Prematurely. What more do you want to know about us?’
‘Membership, how does it actually work?’
‘It begins with a novitiate, just as it does in a religious order. But again, let me emphasize one does not embrace a slate of teachings when one comes to us. One embraces an approach to life. During one’s years as a novice, one comes to live in the Motherhouse, to meet and associate with the older members, to work in the libraries, and to browse in them at will…"
‘Now that would be heaven,’ Michael said, dreamily. ‘But I didn’t mean to interrupt you. Go on.’
‘After two years of preparation, then we talk of serious commitment, we speak of fieldwork or scholarly pursuits. Of course one may follow the other, and again, we are not comparable to a religious order in providing our members with unrefusable assignments, we do not take vows of obedience. Allegiance, confidentiality, these are far more important to us. But you see, in the final analysis, it’s all about understanding; about being inducted and absorbed into a special sort of community…"
‘I can see it,’ said Michael. ‘Tell me about the Motherhouses. Where are they?’
‘The one in Amsterdam is the oldest now,’ Aaron said. ‘Then there is the house outside of London, and our largest house, and our most secret perhaps, in Rome. Of course the Catholic Church doesn’t like us. It doesn’t understand us. It puts us with the devil, just as it did the witches, and the sorcerers, and the Knights Templar, but we have nothing to do with the devil. If the devil exists, he is no friend to us…’ Michael laughed. ‘Do you think the devil exists?’ ‘I don’t know, frankly. But that’s what a good member of the Talamasca would say.’
‘Go on, about the Motherhouses…" ‘Well, you’d like the one in London, actually…’ Michael was scarcely aware that they had left New Orleans, that they were speeding on through the swampland, on a barren strip of new highway, and that the sky had narrowed to a ribbon of flawless blue overhead. He was listening to every word Aaron said, quite enthralled. But a dark troublesome feeling was brewing in him, which he tried to ignore. This was all familiar, this unfolding story of the Talamasca. It was familiar as the frightening words about Rowan and ‘the man’ had been familiar, familiar as the house itself had been familiar. And tantalizing though this was, it discouraged him suddenly, because the great design — of which he felt he was part — seemed for all its vagueness to be growing, and the bigger it grew, the more the world itself seemed to dwindle, to lose its splendor and its promise of infinite natural wonders and ever-shifting fortune, and even some of its ragged romance.
Aaron must have realized what Michael was feeling, because Aaron paused once before continuing with his story, to say tenderly but almost absently, ‘Michael, just listen now. Don’t be afraid…"
‘Tell me something, Aaron,’ he said.
‘If I can, of course…"
‘Can you touch a spirit? That man, I mean. Can you touch him with your hand?’
‘Well, there are times when I think that would be entirely possible… At least you could touch something. But of course, whether or not the being would allow himself to be touched is quite another story, as you’ll soon see.’
Michael nodded. ‘It’s all connected, then. The hands, the visions, and even you… and this organization of yours. It’s connected.’
‘Wait, wait until you’ve read the history. At each step of the game… wait and see.’
TEN
WHEN ROWAN AWOKE at ten she began to doubt what she had seen. In the flood of sunlight warming the house, the ghost seemed unreal. She tried to reinvoke the moment - the eerie noises of the water and the wind. It all seemed thoroughly impossible now.
She began to be thankful that she hadn’t reached Michael. She didn’t want to appear foolish, and above all, she didn’t want to burden Michael again. On the other hand, how could she have imagined such a thing as that? A man standing at the glass with his fingers touching it, looking at her in that imploring way?
Well, there was no evidence of the being here now. She went out on the deck, walked the length of it, studied the pilings, the water. No signs of anything out of the ordinary. But then what sort of signs would there be? She stood at the railing, feeling the brisk wind for a while, and feeling thankful for the dark blue sky. Several sailboats were making their way slowly and gracefully out of the marina across the water. Soon the bay would be covered with them. She half wanted to take out the Sweet Christine. But she decided against it. She went inside.
No call from Michael yet. The thing to do was to take out the Sweet Christine, or go to work.
She was dressed and leaving for the hospital when the phone rang. ‘Michael,’ she whispered. Then she realized that it was Ellie’s old line.
‘Person to person, please, for Miss Ellie Mayfair.’
‘I’m sorry, she can’t answer,’ said Rowan. ‘She’s no longer here.’ Was that the way to say this? It was never pleasant telling these people tha
t Ellie was dead.
Conference on the other end.
‘Can you tell us where we might reach her?’
‘Can you tell me who is calling, please?’ Rowan asked. She set down her bag on the kitchen counter. The house was warm from the morning sun, and she was a little hot in her coat. ‘I’ll be glad to have you reverse the charges, if the party is willing to speak to me.’
Another conference, then the crisp voice of an older woman: 'I'll speak to this party.’
The operator rang off.
‘This is Rowan Mayfair, can I help you?’
‘You can tell me when and where I can reach Ellie,’ said the woman, impatient, perhaps even angry, and certainly cold.
‘Are you a friend of hers?’
‘If she cannot be reached immediately, I would like to talk to her husband, Graham Franklin. You have his office number perhaps?’
What an awful person, Rowan thought. But a suspicion was growing in her that this was a family call.
‘Graham can’t be reached either. If you’ll only tell me who you are, I’ll be glad to explain the situation.’
‘Thank you, I don’t care to do that.’ Steely. ‘It’s imperative that I reach Ellie Mayfair or Graham Franklin.’
Be patient, Rowan told herself. This is obviously an old woman, and if she is part of the family, it is worth holding on.
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this,’ Rowan said. ‘Ellie Mayfair died last year. She died of cancer. Graham died two months before Ellie. I’m their daughter, Rowan. Is there anything I can do for you? Anything else perhaps that you want to know?’
Silence.
‘This is your aunt, Carlotta Mayfair,’ said the woman. ‘I’m calling you from New Orleans. Why in the name of God was I not notified of Ellie’s death?’
An immediate anger kindled in Rowan.
‘I don’t know who you are, Miss Mayfair,’ she said, deliberately forcing herself to speak slowly and calmly. ‘I don’t have an address or a phone number for any of Ellie’s people in New Orleans. Ellie left no such information. Her instructions to her lawyer were that no one be notified other than friends here.’
Rowan suddenly realized she was trembling, and her hand on the phone was slippery. She could not quite believe that she had been so rude, but it was too soon to be sorry. She also realized that she was powerfully excited. She didn’t want this woman to hang up.
‘Are you still there, Miss Mayfair?’ she asked. ‘I’m sorry. I think you caught me a bit off guard.’
‘Yes,’ said the woman, ’perhaps we were both caught off guard. It seems I have no choice but to speak to you directly.’
‘I wish you would.’
‘It’s my unfortunate duty to tell you that your mother died this morning. I presume you understand what I’m saying? Your mother? It was my intention to tell Ellie, and leave it entirely in her hands as to how or when this information should be conveyed to you. I’m sorry to have to handle it in this fashion. Your mother died this morning at five minutes after five.’
Rowan was too stunned to respond. The woman might as well have struck her. This wasn’t grief. It was too sharp, too awful for that. Her mother had sprung to life suddenly, living and breathing and existing for a split second in spoken words. And in the same instant the living entity was pronounced dead; she existed no more.
Rowan didn’t try to speak. She shrank into her habitual and natural silence. She saw Ellie dead, in the funeral home, surrounded by flowers; but there was no coherence to this, no sweet bite of sadness. It was purely terrible. And the paper lay in the safe, as it had for over a year. Ellie, she was alive and I could have known her and now she’s dead.
‘There is no need whatsoever for you to come here,’ said the woman with no perceptible change of attitude or tone. ‘What is necessary is that you contact your attorney immediately, and that you put me in touch with this person as there are pressing matters regarding your property which must be discussed.’
‘Oh, but I want to come,’ Rowan said, without hesitation. Her voice was thick. ‘I want to come now. I want to see my mother before she’s buried.’ Damn the paper, and this unspeakable woman, whoever she was.
‘That’s scarcely appropriate,’ said the woman wearily.
‘I insist,’ said Rowan. ‘I don’t wish to trouble you but I want to see my mother before she’s buried. No one there need know who I am. I simply want to come.’
‘It would be a useless journey. Surely Ellie would not have wanted this. Ellie assured me that —’
‘Ellie’s dead!’ Rowan whispered, her voice scraping bottom in her effort to control it. She was shaking all over. ‘Look, it means something to me to see my mother. Ellie and Graham are both gone, as I told you. I…’ She could not say it. It sounded too self-pitying and too intimate to confess that she was alone.
‘I must insist,’ said the woman in the same tired, worn-out feelingless voice, 'that you remain exactly where you are.’
‘Why?’ Rowan asked. ‘What does it matter to you if I come? I told you, no one needs to know who I am.’
‘There isn’t going to be a public wake or funeral,’ said the woman. ‘It doesn’t matter who knows or doesn’t know. Your mother will be buried as soon as it can be arranged. I have asked that it be done tomorrow afternoon. I am trying to save you grief with my recommendations. But if you will not listen, then do what you feel you must do.’
‘I’m coming,’ Rowan said. ‘What time tomorrow afternoon?’
‘Your mother will be buried through Lonigan and Sons on Magazine Street. The Requiem Mass will be at St Mary’s Assumption Church on Josephine Street. And the services will take place just as soon as I can arrange for them. It is pointless for you to come two thousand miles -’
‘I want to see my mother. I ask you please to wait until I can get there.’
‘That is absolutely out of the question,’ said the woman with a slight touch of anger or impatience. ‘I advise you to leave immediately, if you are determined to come. And please don’t expect to spend the night under this roof, I have no means of properly receiving you. The house is yours, of course, and I shall vacate it as soon as possible if that is your wish. But I ask that you remain in a hotel until I can conveniently do so. Again, I have no means of making you comfortable here.’
Carefully, in the same tired manner, the woman gave Rowan the address.
‘You said First Street?’ Rowan asked. It was the street that Michael had described to her, she was sure of it. ‘This was my mother’s house?’ she asked.
‘I’ve been awake all night,’ said the woman, her words slow, spiritless. ‘If you’re coming, then everything can be explained to you when you arrive.’
Rowan was about to ask another question when, to her astonishment, the woman rang off.
She was so angry that for a moment she did not feel her hurt. Then the hurt overshadowed everything. ‘Who in the hell are you?’ she whispered, the tears rising, but not flowing. ‘And why in the world would you speak this way to me!’ She slammed down the phone, her teeth biting into her lip, and folded her arms. ‘God, what an awful, awful woman,’ she whispered.
But this was no time for crying or wishing for Michael. Quickly, she took out her handkerchief, blew her nose and wiped her eyes, and then reached for the pad and pen on the kitchen counter, and she jotted down the information the woman had given her.
First Street, she thought, looking at it after she’d written it. Probably no more than coincidence. And Lonigan and Sons, the words Ellie had mentioned in her delirium when she had rambled on about her childhood and home. Quickly she called New Orleans information, then the funeral home.
It was a Mr Jerry Lonigan who answered.
‘My name is Dr Rowan Mayfair, I’m calling from California about a funeral.’
‘Yes, Dr Mayfair,’ he said in a most agreeable voice that reminded her of Michael at once. ‘I know who you are. I have your mother here now.’
Thank God, no su
bterfuge, no need for false explanations. Yet she couldn’t help but wonder why did the man know about her? Hadn’t the whole adoption been hush-hush?
‘Mr Lonigan,’ she said, trying to speak clearly and ignore the thickness in her voice, ’it’s very important to me that I be there for the funeral. I want to see my mother before she is put into the ground.’
‘Of course you do, Dr Mayfair. I understand. But Miss Carlotta called here just now and said if we don’t bury your mother tomorrow… Well, let’s just say she’s insisting on it, Dr Mayfair. I can schedule the Mass for as late as three p.m. Do you think you could make it by that time, Dr Mayfair? I will hold everything up just as long as I can.’
‘Yes, absolutely, I will make it,’ said Rowan. 'I'll leave tonight or early tomorrow morning at the latest. But Mr Lonigan - if I get delayed -’
‘Dr Mayfair, if I know you’re on your way, I won’t shut that coffin before you arrive.’
‘Thank you, Mr Lonigan. I only just found out. I just…’
‘Well, Dr Mayfair, if you don’t mind my saying so, it only just happened. I picked up your mother at six a.m. this morning. I think Miss Carlotta’s rushing things. But then Miss Carlotta is so old now, Dr Mayfair. So old…"
‘Listen, let me give you my phone number at the hospital. If anything should happen, call me please.’
He took down the numbers. ‘Don’t you worry, Dr Mayfair. Your mother will be here at Lonigan and Sons when you come.’
Again the tears threatened. He sounded so simple, so hopelessly sincere. ‘Mr Lonigan, can you tell me something else?’ she said, her voice quavering badly.
‘Yes, Dr Mayfair.’
‘How old was my mother?’
‘Forty-eight, Dr Mayfair.’
‘What was her name?’
Obviously this surprised him, but he recovered quickly. ‘Deirdre was her name, Dr Mayfair. She was a very pretty woman. My wife was a good friend of hers. She loved Deirdre, used to go to visit. My wife is right here with me. My wife is glad that you called.’
For some reason, this affected Rowan almost as deeply as all the other bits and pieces of information had affected her. She pressed the handkerchief to her eyes tightly, and swallowed.