by Anne Rice
The only sharp sound came from the lively fire, and beyond a soft series of sighs came from the great forest.
Then came the sound of Marchent’s voice for the first time since the night of her death.
“How can you think that I am unhappy that you are here together?” she asked. Ah, that voice, that voice which Reuben had never forgotten, so crisp, so distinct, so gentle. “Reuben, this house, this land, I wanted so for you to have it; and Felix, I wanted so for you to be conscious and alive and well, and beyond the reach of anyone who could ever harm you. And you two, whom I’ve loved with all my soul, you are now friends, you are now kindred, you are now together.”
“My darling, my blessed darling,” said Felix in the most broken and bruised voice. “I love you so much. I always did.”
Reuben was shaking violently. The tears spilled down his face. Clumsily he wiped at them with his scarf, but truly he didn’t care about them. He kept his eyes focused on her, as her voice came again with the same distinct and muted power.
“I know this, Felix,” she said. She was smiling. “I always knew. Do you think that, living or dead, I’ve ever laid blame on you for anything? Your friend, Hockan, and he is your friend, enlists me in a cause for which I have no sympathy.”
Her face was absolutely warm and expressive as she spoke, her voice as lyrical and natural as it had been that last day.
“Now, please, both of you listen to me. I don’t know how much longer I have to say these things to you. When the invitation comes again, I must accept it. Your tears hold me here now, and I must set you free, that I too might be free.”
She gestured naturally with her hands as she spoke, and it seemed she moved closer to the fire, impervious to its heat.
“Felix, it was not your secret power that darkened my life,” she said tenderly. “It was the unspeakable treachery of my loveless parents. I died at the hands of those who were diseased and blind. You were the sunshine of my life in the garden you planted here for your descendants. And in my darkest hour, when all the vibrant world defied my reach, it was you, Felix, who sent the gentle spirits of the forest to bring me light and understanding.”
Felix wept softly, soundlessly. He wanted to speak, Reuben could see that, but Marchent’s eyes had shifted to Reuben.
“Reuben, your loving face has been my lamp,” she said. It was the same manner she’d taken with him on the fatal day, naturally kind and almost tender. “Let me be your lamp now. I see your innocence abused again—not by your old family—but this time by one who speaks with bitterness and feigned authority. Look well at the dark intelligence he offers you. He would cut you off from those you love and those who love you in return—from the very school in which all souls imbibe the greatest wisdom.” She lowered her voice, underscoring her outrage with understatement. “How dare a living soul consign you to the ranks of the damned, or devise for you a bleak and penitential path of fetters and circumscription? You are what you are, not what others would have you be. And who does not struggle with life and death? Who does not face the chaos of the living breathing world as you and Felix do? Reuben, resist the curse that claims the power of Scripture. Resist my words, Reuben, if they offend the deepest longings of your honest spirit.”
She paused but only to include both of them now as she continued.
“Felix, you left this house and land to me. I gifted it in your memory to Reuben. And now I leave you both, bound by ties as strong as any under heaven. The lamps burn bright again at Nideck Point. Your future stretches to infinity. Remember me. And forgive me. Forgive me for what I didn’t know, and didn’t do, and failed to see. I will remember you wherever I go, as long as memory itself survives in me.”
She smiled. There was the tiniest trace of apprehension, of fear in her face and her voice. “This is farewell, my darlings. I know that I go on, but I don’t know to what, or where, or if I will ever see you again. But I see you now, vital and precious, and filled with an undeniable power. And I love you. Pray for me.”
She went still. She became the picture of herself, eyes looking forward, lips softly closed, her expression one of faint wonder.
Then her face began to waver, to fade. And soon all that was left of her was the outline of her figure drawn on the darkness. Finally that too vanished.
“Good-bye, my darling,” whispered Felix. “Good-bye, my precious girl.”
Reuben was crying uncontrollably.
The wind was soughing in the dark invisible trees that towered all around the clearing.
Felix wiped his tears with his scarf and then put his arms around Reuben, and steadied him.
“She’s gone now, Reuben, gone home,” said Felix. “Don’t you see? She has set us free, just as she said she wanted to do.” He was smiling through his own tears. “I know she’ll find the light; her heart’s too pure, her courage too strong, for anything else.”
Reuben nodded, but all he could feel for the moment was grief, grief that she was gone, grief that he’d never hear her voice again, and only slowly did he come to realize that a great consolation was being given to him.
When he turned and looked again into Felix’s eyes, he felt a deep calm, a trust that somehow the world was the good place he’d always believed it to be.
“Come,” said Felix, hugging him close, and then letting him go, his eyes filled now with the old vigor and light. “They must all be waiting for us, and they must be so afraid. Let’s go to them.”
“It’s all perfectly all right again,” said Reuben.
“Yes, dear boy, it is,” said Felix. “And we will disappoint her terribly if we don’t realize it.”
Slowly they turned and made their way back across the field of ash and cinders, to the narrow passage between the boulders, and began the long walk to the house in easy silence.
25
PASTOR GEORGE CAME IN the afternoon. She’d called Reuben the night before and asked to see him privately. And he could not refuse.
They met in the library. She was dressed prettily again, as she had been for the Christmas party, this time in a red pantsuit with a white silk scarf wound around her neck. Her short gray hair was nicely curled, and she wore a bit of powder and lipstick, as if this was an important visit for her.
Reuben invited her to take the wing chair by the fire. He sat on the Chesterfield sofa. The coffee and pound cake was already set out, and he poured for her.
She seemed quite calm and pleasant and as soon as he asked about Susie, she explained that Susie was doing remarkably well. Once Father Jim had believed Susie, then Susie had been willing to talk to him and her parents about “the other things” that had happened to her when she was abducted, and Susie was now a happy child.
“I cannot thank you enough for all you did,” said Pastor George. “Her parents have taken her in to see Father Jim twice,” she said. “They attended Midnight Mass at his church.”
Reuben couldn’t disguise his satisfaction and relief, but Pastor George only knew half of it. No, Jim couldn’t and wouldn’t ever break the seal of Reuben’s Confession. But Jim had been able to believe Susie, to do good for Susie.
Pastor George went on a bit about how nice Father Jim was, and how he was the first Catholic priest she’d ever personally known. He’d agreed to come speak at her little church on the needs of the homeless, and she was profoundly grateful. “I didn’t think a priest would come to a little nondenominational church like mine, but he’s more than willing. And we’re so glad.”
“He’s a good guy,” Reuben said with a quick smile. “And he’s my brother. I’ve always been able to rely on Jim.”
Pastor George fell silent.
Now what, Reuben was thinking. How will she talk around it, speculate on the mystery of the Man Wolf, how will she lead up to it, and then back off from it? He braced himself, still not certain at all as to what he would do and say to distance himself from the mystery, to keep the conversation abstract and vague.
“You’re the one who rescued S
usie, aren’t you?” asked Pastor George.
He was stunned.
She looked directly at him, calm as before. “That was you, wasn’t it?” she asked. “You brought her to my door.”
He knew he was blushing. And he could feel the tremors in his legs and in his hand. He said nothing.
“I know it was you,” she said in a low confidential voice. “I knew when you said good-bye to her that way, upstairs here, when you said, ‘I love you, darling dear.’ I knew it from other things, from what people call demeanor—the way you moved, the way you walked, the sound of your voice. Oh, it wasn’t the same, no, but there’s a … a cadence to a person’s voice, a personal cadence. It was you.”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t know precisely what to do or what to say, only that he could not ever admit this to her. He could not be drawn into any sort of admission, now or ever; and yet he hated the idea of lying to her, hated it with his whole being.
“Susie knows, too,” said Pastor George. “But she doesn’t have to come here and ask you about it. She knows, and for her now, that’s enough. You’re her hero. You’re her secret friend. She can tell your brother, Jim, that she knows because he’s a priest and can never tell anyone what he’s heard from her in Confession. And so she doesn’t have to tell anyone else ever who you are. I don’t either. Neither of us has to tell. But I had to come here. I had to say it. I don’t know why I had to come here, why I had to ask you but I do. Maybe because I’m a pastor, a believer, somebody for whom the mysterious is just, well, very real.” Her voice was even, almost emotionless.
He held her gaze without saying a word.
“The police have it all wrong, don’t they?” she asked. “They’ve been searching up and down the coast for some Yeti or Sasquatch when in fact the Man Wolf changes into what he is, and changes back. The Man Wolf is a werewolf. I don’t know how he does it. But they haven’t a clue.”
The blood was pounding in his cheeks. He looked down. He reached for his cup of coffee but his hand was shaking far too badly to manage it, and he laid his hand gently on the arm of the sofa. Slowly, he looked at her again.
“I just had to know if I was right,” she said. “I had to know that it wasn’t all vague suspicions on my part, that it was you. Believe me, I bear you no ill will. I can’t judge something or someone like you. I know you saved Susie. She’d be dead by now if you hadn’t saved her. And when Susie needed you, here at this house, you were here for her and you connected her with the man who could help her heal. I bear you no ill will.”
Images more than thoughts were rushing through Reuben’s mind, jumbled and jarring images of the Yule fire, of the Forest Gentry, of the horrific immolation of the two Morphenkinder, of that miserable man who’d kidnapped Susie, of his bloodied broken body as Reuben had held it in his paws. Then his mind went black. He’d looked off again and now he focused once more on Pastor George. His head was throbbing but he had to keep looking into her eyes.
She was simply looking at him, her face broad and placid and agreeable.
She picked up her cup of coffee and drank. “That’s good coffee,” she said under her breath. Then she set the cup down again, and looked into the fire.
“I want only the best things in this world for Susie,” said Reuben, his voice quavering as he struggled to keep it under control.
“I know,” she said. She nodded, eyes still on the flames. “I want the same. I want the best things in this world for everybody. I don’t ever want to cause any being harm.” The words seemed chosen carefully and they were spoken slowly. “I’ll tell you. The most radical thing about a conversion to God is the determination to love, to really love in His name.”
“I think you’re right,” said Reuben.
“Well, that’s what your brother Jim says too.”
When she looked at him again, she smiled. “I wish you every good thing in the world, Mr. Golding.” She rose to her feet. “I want to thank you for letting me come here.”
He rose with her and he walked with her slowly to the door.
“Please understand, I had to know,” she said. “It was as if my sanity depended upon it.”
“I do understand,” he said.
He threw his arm around her as he walked her out onto the terrace. The wind was fierce, and the droplets of rain were like bits of steel biting into his face and hands.
He opened the door of her car for her.
“Take care, Pastor George,” he said. He could hear the tremor in his voice, but hoped that she could not. “And please stay in touch. Please write me when you can. And send me news of Susie.”
“I’ll do that, Mr. Golding.” This time her smile was bright and easy. “I’ll keep you always in my prayers.”
He stood watching as she drove down the hill to the gates.
It was an hour later that he told all this to Felix and Margon.
They were sitting in the kitchen, having their afternoon tea. They liked tea much more than coffee, it seemed, and every afternoon at four, of late, they had their afternoon tea.
They were surprisingly unconcerned, and each commended Reuben on how he had handled it.
“You did the very best thing that you could,” said Felix.
“It doesn’t really matter, does it?” asked Reuben. “She’ll keep it to herself. She has to. Nobody will believe her if …”
Neither of them answered and then Margon said,
“She’ll keep it to herself until somebody she knows and loves suffers some unspeakable violence, some terrible evil. And then you will hear from her. She will come to you for justice. She will call you and tell you about what’s happened to her friend or her relative or someone in her flock, and she’ll tell you who has done the terrible violence if she knows; and she won’t ask you to do anything. She’ll simply tell you the story, and leave it at that. And that’s how it begins, the calls here and there from those who know and who want us to help. Nobody will ever explain why they are telling you their tale of woe. But they will call or come and they will tell you. She will be the first perhaps; or Susie Blakely may be the first. Who knows? Maybe Galton will be the first, or the sheriff of the county, or someone you can’t recall ever meeting. Again, who knows? But it will start to happen, and when it does, you must handle it just the way you handled her this afternoon. Admit nothing. Volunteer nothing. Offer nothing. Simply take the information and bring it to us. And we will decide, together, you and Felix and I, what should be done.”
“This is inevitable,” said Felix calmly. “Do not worry. The more we do what they ask of us the more loyal they become.”
26
IT WAS NEW YEAR’S EVE. A great storm had hit the coast, flooding out roads from one end of the county to another; the winds shook the rafters of Nideck Point, and wailed in the chimneys. On all sides, a blinding rain washed against the windows.
Phil had been brought up early that afternoon to spend the night in the house, in a fine bedroom on the east side, where he’d slept before, and where everything had been done for his comfort.
Sparks flew in the oak forest before the lights went out. The emergency generator kicked on to fuel the bare minimum of household circuits. And in the kitchen the supper was cooked by the light of oil lamps, with all that had been laid in ahead of time against the weather.
Once again the company was in black tie, at Felix’s buoyant suggestion, and even Phil had given in, but not without quoting Emerson to the extent that one must be aware of all enterprises that require new clothes.
Laura had come downstairs in a long dress of cobalt blue, with jeweled straps over her bare shoulders. And all the servants were dressed to join the company, as was the custom, at the table.
Lisa had renounced her customary black for a striking long sleeve gown made entirely of intricate ivory lace, studded with pearls and tiny diamonds. And Henrietta, so silent, so shy, wore a youthful dress of pink taffeta. Even Heddy, the eldest of them all, and always so quiet and unobtrusive, had put on a festiv
e green velvet dress that revealed for the first time her well-proportioned figure.
Berenice had not left yet to join the other pack, and indeed her leaving was now not certain at all. And when she appeared in black chiffon, Frank was appropriately delighted, showering her with kisses.
Margon surrendered the head of the table to Felix, taking Felix’s old chair beside Stuart.
And as soon as the table was laid with the pheasant, the chicken roasted with honey, and the thick broiled steaks seasoned in butter and garlic, the servants came in and took their places for the blessing said in a quiet voice by Felix.
“Maker of the Universe, we thank you as this year comes to an end,” said Felix, “that we are again under this roof, and with our very dearest friends, and we thank you too that the Geliebten Lakaien are once again here with us. Lisa, Heddy, Henrietta, Peter, and Jean Pierre, we give thanks for each and every one of you.”
“The Geliebten Lakaien,” Margon repeated, “and for those of you who don’t share our German tongue, this is the old and legendary name for these ‘beloved servants’ who have for so long protected us and kept our home fires burning. All the world knows them by that name, and they are much sought after and cherished. We’re grateful, truly grateful, to have their trust and loyalty.”
All the company repeated the salute, and a blush came to Lisa’s cheeks. If this is a man, thought Reuben, well, it’s the best-disguised man I’ve ever seen. But in truth he now thought of Lisa exclusively as feminine. And he savored the title for these mysterious Ageless Ones, and welcomed this new bit of interesting intelligence.
“And to you, good masters, young and old,” said Lisa with her glass raised. “Never for a moment do we forget the value of your love and protection.”
“Amen,” cried Margon. “And no more speeches now while the food is hot. The grandfather clock is chiming ten p.m. and I am starving.” He sat down immediately and reached for a platter of meat, giving everyone else permission to start serving.
Frank saw to it that a spirited Vivaldi concerto was pouring out of the little speakers of the Bose player on the hunter’s board, and then joined the rest of the company.
