The Witching Hour

  "Oh, I am," said Lightner hastily. "Believe me, I'm entirely sympathetic, not only to what's happened to you, but to your belief in it. Please, do tell me."

  Michael described briefly the woman with the black hair, the jewel that was mixed up with it, the vague image or idea of a doorway ... "Not the doorway of the house, though, it can't be. But it's got to do with the house." And something about a number now forgotten. No, not the address. It wasn't a long number, it was two digits, had some very important significance. And the purpose, of course the purpose, the purpose was the saving thing, and Michael's strong sense that he might have refused.

  "I can't believe that they would have let me die if I had not accepted. They gave me a choice on everything. I chose to come back, and to fulfill the purpose. I awoke knowing I had something terribly important to do."

  He could see that what he said was having an amazing effect upon Lightner. Lightner didn't even attempt to disguise his surprise.

  "Is there anything else you remember?"

  "No. Sometimes it seems I'm about to remember everything. Then it just slides away. I didn't start thinking about the house till about twenty-four hours afterwards. No, maybe even a little longer. And immediately there was the sense of connection. I felt the same sense last night. I'd come to the right place to find all the answers, but I still couldn't remember! It's enough to drive a man mad."

  "I can imagine," said Lightner softly, but he was still deeply involved in his own surprise or amazement at all that Michael had said. "Let me suggest something. Is it possible that when you were revived you took Rowan's hand in yours, and that this image of the house came to you then from Rowan?"

  "Well, it's possible, except for one very important fact. Rowan doesn't know anything about that house. She doesn't know anything about New Orleans. She doesn't know anything about her family, except for the adoptive mother who died last year."

  Lightner seemed reluctant to believe this.

  "Look," Michael said. He was getting quite carried away now on the whole subject and he knew it. The fact was, he liked talking to Lightner. But things were going too far. "You have to tell me how you know about Rowan. Friday night when Rowan came to get me in San Francisco, she saw you. She said something about having seen you before. I want you to be straight with me, Lightner. What's all this about Rowan? How do you know about her?"

  "I shall tell you everything," said Lightner with the same characteristic gentleness, "but let me ask you again, are you sure Rowan has never seen a picture of that house?"

  "No, we discussed that very point. She was born in New Orleans--"

  "Yes ... "

  "But they took her away that very day. They made her sign a paper that she'd never come back here. I asked her if she'd ever seen pictures of the houses here. She told me she hadn't. She couldn't find a scrap of information about her family after her adoptive mother's death. Don't you see? This didn't come from Rowan! It involves Rowan just as it involves me."

  "How do you mean?"

  Michael felt dazed trying to compass it. "I mean, I knew that they chose me because of everything that had ever happened to me ... who I was, what I was, where I'd lived, it was all connected. And don't you see? I'm not the center of it. Rowan is probably the center. But I have to call Rowan. I have to tell her. I have to tell her that the house is her mother's house."

  "Please don't do that, Michael."

  "What?"

  "Michael, sit down, please."

  "What are you talking about? Don't you understand how incredible this is! That house belongs to Rowan's family. Rowan doesn't even know anything about her family. Rowan doesn't even know her own mother's full name."

  "I don't want you to call her!" said Lightner with sudden urgency. "Please, I haven't fulfilled my side of the bargain. You haven't heard me out."

  "God, don't you realize? Rowan was probably just taking out the Sweet Christine when I was washed off that rock! We were on a collision course with each other, and then these people, these people who knew everything, chose to intervene."

  "Yes, I do realize ... all I ask is that you allow for our exchange of information now, before you call Rowan."

  The Englishman was saying more, but Michael couldn't hear him. He felt a sudden violent disorientation as if he were slipping into unconsciousness, and if he didn't grab hold of the table he would black out. But this wasn't a failure of his body; it was his mind that was slipping; and for one brilliant second the visions opened again, the black-haired woman was speaking directly to him, and then from some vantage point high above, some lovely and airy place where he was weightless and free he saw a small craft on the sea below, and he said, Yes, I'll do it.

  He held his breath. Desperate not to lose the visions, he didn't reach out for them mentally. He didn't crowd them. He remained locked in stillness, feeling them leave him again in confusion, feeling the coldness and the solidity of his body around him, feeling the old familiar longing and anger and pain.

  "Oh, my God," he whispered. "And Rowan doesn't even have the slightest idea ... "

  He realized he was sitting down on the couch again. Lightner had hold of him, and he was grateful. Otherwise he might have fallen. He shut his eyes again. But the visions were nowhere near. He saw only Rowan, soft and pretty and beautifully disheveled in the big white terry-cloth robe, her neck bent, her blond hair falling down to veil her face as she cried.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw that Lightner was sitting next to him. There was the horrifying feeling that he had lost seconds, possibly minutes of time. He didn't mind the presence of the man, however, The man seemed genuinely kindly and respecting, in spite of all the incredible things he had to say.

  "Only a second or two has passed," said Lightner. (Mind reading again!) "But you were dizzy. You almost fell."

  "Right. You don't know how awful this is, not remembering. And Rowan said the strangest thing."

  "What was that?"

  "That maybe they didn't mean for me to remember."

  "And this struck you as strange?"

  "They want me to remember. They want me to do what I'm supposed to do. It has to do with the doorway, I know it does. And the number thirteen. And Rowan said another thing that really threw me. She said how did I know that these people I saw were good? Christ, she asked me if I thought they were responsible for the accident, you know, for me being washed out to sea like that. God, I tell you I'm going crazy."

  "Those are very good questions," said the man with a sigh. "Did you say the number thirteen?"

  "Did I? Is that what I said? I don't ... I guess I did say that. Yes, it was the number thirteen. Christ, I've got that back now. Yes, it was the number thirteen."

  "Now I want you to listen to me. I don't want you to call Rowan. I want you to get dressed and to come with me."

  "Wait a second, my friend. You're a very interesting guy. You look better in a smoking jacket than anybody I've ever seen in the movies and you have a very persuasive and charming manner. But I'm right here, exactly where I want to be. And I'm going back to that house after I call Rowan ... "

  "And what exactly are you going to do there? Ring the bell?"

  "Well, I'll wait till Rowan comes. Rowan wants to come, you know. She wants to see her family. That's got to be what this is all about."

  "And the man, what do you suppose he has to do with it all?" asked Lightner.

  Michael was stopped. He sat there staring at Lightner. "Did you see that man?" he asked.

  "No. He didn't allow time for that. He wanted you to see him. And why is what I would like to know."

  "But you know all about him, don't you?"

  "Yes."

  "OK, it's your turn to talk, and I wish you'd start right now."

  "Yes, that's our bargain," said Lightner. "But I find it's more important than ever that you know everything." He stood up, and walked slowly over to the table, and began to gather up the papers that were scattered all over it, placing them neatly into a large leathe
r folder. "And everything is in this file."

  Michael followed him. He looked down at the impossibly large mass of materials which the man was cramming into the folder. Mostly typewritten sheets, yet some were in longhand as well.

  "Look, Lightner, you owe me some answers," Michael said.

  "This is a compendium of answers, Michael. It's from our archives. It's entirely devoted to the Mayfair family. It goes back to the year 1664. But you must hear me out. I cannot give it to you here."

  "Where then?"

  "We have a retreat house near here, an old plantation house, quite a lovely place."

  "No!" Michael said impatiently.

  Lightner gestured for quiet. "It's less than an hour and a half away. I must insist that you dress now and you come with me, and that you read the file in peace and quiet at Oak Haven, and that you save all your questions until you've done so, and all the aspects of this case are clear. Once you've read the records you'll understand why I've begged you to postpone your call to Dr. Mayfair. I think you'll be glad that you did."

  "Rowan should see this record."

  "Indeed, she should. And if you were willing to place it in her hands for us, we would be eternally grateful indeed."

  Michael studied the man, trying to separate the charm of the man's manner from the astonishing content of what he said. He felt drawn to the man and reassured by his knowledge on the one hand; yet suspicious on the other. And through it all, he was powerfully fascinated by the pieces of the puzzle which were falling into place.

  Something else had come clear to him also. The reason he so disliked this power in his hands was that once he had touched another, or the belongings of another, a certain intimacy was established. In the case of strangers, it was fairly quickly effaced. In the case of Lightner it was gradually increasing.

  "I can't go with you to the country," Michael said. "There's no doubt in my mind that you're sincere. But I have to call Rowan and I want you to give this material to me here."

  "Michael, there is information here which is pertinent to everything you've told me. It concerns a woman with black hair. It concerns a very significant jewel. As for the doorway, I don't know the meaning. As for the number thirteen, I might. As for the man, the woman with the black hair and jewel are connected to him. But I shall let it out of my hands only on my terms."

  Michael narrowed his eyes. "You're saying this is the woman I saw in the visions?"

  "Only you can determine that for yourself."

  "You wouldn't play games with me."

  "No. Of course not. But don't play games with yourself either, Michael. You always knew that man was not ... what he appeared to be, didn't you? What did you feel last night when you saw him?"

  "Yeesss, I knew ... " Michael whispered. He felt the disorientation again. Yet a dark unsettling thrill ran through him. He saw the man again peering down at him through the fence. "Christ," he whispered. And before he could stop himself, the most surprising thing happened. He raised his right hand and made a quick, reflexive sign of the cross.

  Embarrassed he looked at Lightner.

  Then the clearest thought came to him. The sense of excitement in him was rising. "Could they have meant for me to meet you?" Michael asked. "The woman with the black hair, could she have meant for this meeting between you and me to take place?"

  "Only you can be the judge of that. Only you know what these beings said to you. Only you know who they actually were."

  "God, but I don't." Michael put his hands to the side of his head. He found that he was staring down at the leather folder. There was writing on it in English. Large letters, embossed in gold, but half worn away. " 'The Mayfair Witches,' " he whispered. "Is that what those words say?"

  "Yes. Would you dress now and come with me? They can have breakfast waiting for us in the country. Please?"

  "You don't believe in witches!" Michael said. But they were coming. Again the room was fading. And Lightner's voice was once again distant, his words without meaning, merely faint, innocuous sounds coming from far away. Michael shuddered all over. Sick feeling. He saw the room again in the dusty morning light. Aunt Vivian had sat over there years ago, and his mother had sat here. But this was now. Call Rowan ...

  "Not yet," said Lightner. "After you've read the file."

  "You're afraid of Rowan. There's something about Rowan herself, some reason you want to protect me from Rowan ... " He could see the dust swirling around him in motes. How could something so particular and so material give the scene an air of unreality? He thought of touching Rowan's hand in the car. Warning. He thought of Rowan afterwards, in his arms.

  "You know what it is," Lightner said. "Rowan told you."

  "Oh, that's crazy. She imagined it."

  "No, she didn't. Look at me. You know I'm telling you the truth. Don't ask me to search out your thoughts for it. You know. You thought of it when you saw the word 'Witches.' "

  "I didn't. You can't kill people simply by wishing them dead."

  "Michael, I'm asking for less than twenty-four hours. This is a trust I am placing in you. I ask for your respect for our methods, I ask that you give me this time."

  Michael watched in confused silence as Lightner removed his smoking jacket, put on his suit coat, and then folded the jacket neatly and put it in the briefcase along with the leather file.

  He had to read what was in that leather folder. He watched Lightner zipper the briefcase and lift it and hold it in both arms.

  "I don't accept it!" said Michael. "Rowan is no witch. That's crazy. Rowan's a doctor, and Rowan saved my life."

  And to think it was her house, that beautiful house, the house he'd loved ever since he was a little boy. He felt the evening again as it had been yesterday with the sky breaking violet through the branches and the birds crying as if they were in a wild wood.

  All these years he'd known that man wasn't real. All his life he'd known it. He'd known it in the church ....

  "Michael, that man is waiting for Rowan," Lightner said.

  "Waiting for Rowan? But, Lightner, why, then, did he show himself to me?"

  "Listen, my friend." The Englishman put his hand on Michael's hand and clasped it warmly. "It isn't my intention to alarm you or to exploit your fascination. But that creature has been attached to the Mayfair family for generations. It can kill people. But then so can Dr. Rowan Mayfair. In fact, she may well be the first of her kind to be able to kill entirely on her own, without that creature's aid. And they are coming together, that creature and Rowan. It's only a matter of time before they meet. Now, please, dress and come with me. If you choose to be our mediator and to give the file on the Mayfair Witches to Rowan for us, then our highest aims will have been served."

  Michael was quiet, trying to absorb all this, his eyes moving anxiously over Lightner but seeing countless other things.

  He could not entirely account for his feelings towards "the man" now, the man who had always seemed vaguely beautiful to him, an embodiment of elegance, a wan and soulful figure, almost, who seemed to possess, in his deep garden hideaway, some serenity that Michael himself wanted to possess. Behind the fence last night, the man had tried to frighten him. Or was that so?

  If only in that instant, he'd been rid of his gloves, and had been able to touch the man!

  He did not doubt Lightner's words. There was something ghastly in all this, something ominous, something dark as the shadows that enclosed that house. Yet it seemed familiar. He thought of the visions, not in a struggle to remember, but merely to sink once more in the sensations evoked by them, and a conviction of goodness settled on him, as it had before.

  "I'm meant to intervene," he said, "surely I am. And maybe I'm meant to use this power through touching. Rowan said ... "

  "Yes?"

  "Rowan asked why I thought the power in my hands had nothing to do with it, why I kept insisting it was separate ... " He thought again of touching the man. "Maybe it is part of it, maybe it's not just a little curse visited on me to
drive me crazy and off course."

  "That's what you thought?"

  He nodded. "Seemed like it. Like it was the thing preventing me from coming. I holed up on Liberty Street for two months. I could have found Rowan sooner ... " He looked at the gloves. How he hated them. They made his hands into artificial hands.

  He could think no further. He couldn't grasp all the aspects of this rally. The feeling of familiarity lingered, taking the edges off the shocks of Lightner's revelations.

  "All right," he said finally. "I'll go with you. I want to read that file, all of it. But I want to be back here as soon as possible. I'm leaving word for her that I'll be back in case she should call. She matters to me. She matters to me more than you know. And it's got nothing to do with the visions. It's got to do with who she is, and how much I ... care about her. She can't be subordinated to anything else."

  "Not even to the visions themselves?" Lightner asked respectfully.

  "No. Twice, maybe three times in a lifetime you feel about someone the way I do about Rowan. That involves its own priorities, its own purposes."

  "I understand," said Lightner. "I'll be downstairs to meet you in twenty minutes. And I wish that you would call me Aaron, from now on, if you'd like to. We have a long way to go together. I'm afraid I lapsed into calling you Michael quite some time ago. I want us to be friends."

  "We're friends," said Michael. "What the hell else could we possibly be?" He gave a little uneasy laugh, but he had to admit, he liked this guy. In fact, he felt distinctly uneasy letting Lightner, and the briefcase, out of his sight.

  Michael showered, shaved, and dressed in less than fifteen minutes. He unpacked, except for a few essentials. And only as he picked up his suitcase did he see the message light still pulsing on the bedside phone. Why in the world hadn't he responded the first time he'd seen it? It infuriated him suddenly.

  At once he called the switchboard.

  "Yes. A Dr. Rowan Mayfair called you, Mr. Curry, about five-fifteen A.M." The woman gave him Rowan's number. "She insisted that we ring, and that we knock."

  "And you did?"

  "We did, Mr. Curry. We didn't get any answer."

  And my friend Aaron was there all the time, Michael thought angrily.