by Anne Rice
Can you see what happened? The legend of the glen, of the tall people who gave birth to children who could walk and speak at birth, began to spread. Knowledge of us was general throughout Britain. We fell into legend with the Little People. And with other strange creatures whom humans seldom saw, but would have given anything to capture.
And so the life we’d built in Donnelaith, a life of great stone towers or brochs, from which we hoped someday to successfully defend ourselves against invasions, of the old rituals carefully preserved and carried out, of the memories treasured, and of our values, our belief in love and birth above all things held sacred-that life was in mortal danger from those who would hunt for monsters for any reason, from those who only wanted to “see with their own eyes.”
Another development took place. As I said earlier, there were always those born in the glen who wanted to leave. It was deeply impressed upon them that they must remember the way home. They must look at the stars and never forget the various patterns that could guide them home. And this became a part of innate knowledge very rapidly because we deliberately cultivated it, and this cultivation worked. In fact, it worked amazingly well, opening up to us all kinds of new possibilities. We could program into the innate knowledge all manner of practical things. We put it to the test by questioning the offspring. It was quite astonishing. They knew the map of Britain as we knew it and preserved it (highly inaccurate), they knew how to make weapons, they knew the importance of secrecy, they knew the fear and hatred of human beings and how best to avoid them or triumph over them. They knew the Art of the Tongue.
Now, the Art of the Tongue, as we called it, was something we never thought of until the humans came. But it was essentially talking and reasoning with people, which we did with each other all the time. Now, basically we speak among ourselves much, much faster than humans, sometimes. Not always. Just sometimes. It sounds to humans like a whistling or a humming, or even a buzzing. But we can talk more in human rhythm, and we had learned how to speak to humans on their level, that is, to confuse them and entangle them in logic, to fascinate them and to influence them somewhat.
Obviously this Art of the Tongue wasn’t saving us from extinction.
But it could save a lone Taltos discovered by a pair of humans in the forest, or a Taltos man taken prisoner by a small human clan with no ties to the warrior people who had invaded the land.
Anyone venturing out must know the Art of the Tongue, of speaking slowly to humans, on their level, and doing it in a convincing way. And inevitably some of those who left decided to settle outside.
They built their brochs, that is, our style of tower, of dry stone without mortar, and lived in wild and isolated places, passing for humans to those new peoples who happened to pass their home.
It was a sort of clan existence that developed defensively, and in scattered locales.
But inevitably these Taltos would reveal their nature to humans, or humans would war on them, or someone would learn of the magical Taltos birth, and again talk of us, talk of the glen, would circulate among hostile men.
I myself, having ever been inventive and forward-looking and refusing to give up, ever-even when the whole lost land was exploding, I did not give up-more or less thought ours was a lost cause. We could, for the present, defend the glen, that was true, when outsiders did occasionally break in on us, but we were essentially trapped!
But the question of those who passed for human, those who lived among human beings, pretending to be an old tribe or clan-that fascinated me. That got me to thinking…. What if we were to do this? What if, instead of shutting human beings out, we slowly let them in, leading them to believe that we were a human tribe too, and we lived in their midst, keeping our birth rituals secret from them?
Meantime great changes in the outside world held a great fascination for us. We wanted to speak to travelers, to learn. And so, finally, we devised a dangerous subterfuge….
Twenty-six
“YURI STEFANO HERE. Can I help you?”
“Can you help me! God, it’s good to hear your voice,” said Michael. “We’ve been separated less than forty-eight hours, but the Atlantic Ocean is between us!”
“Michael. Thank God you called me. I didn’t know where to reach you. You’re still with Ash, aren’t you?”
“Yes, and we will be for another two days, I think. I’ll tell you all about it, but how are things with you?”
“It’s over, Michael. It’s over. All the evil is gone, and the Talamasca is itself again. This morning I received my first communication from the Elders. We’re taking serious measures to see that this sort of interception can never happen again. I have my work cut out for me, writing my reports. The new Superior General has recommended that I rest, but that’s impossible.”
“But you have to rest some of the time, Yuri. You know you do. We all do.”
“I sleep for four hours. Then I get up. I think about what happened. I write. I write for maybe four, five hours. Then I sleep again. At mealtimes they come and get me. They make me go downstairs. It’s nice. It’s nice to be back with them. But what about you, Michael?”
“Yuri, I love this man. I love Ash the way I loved Aaron. I’ve been listening to him talk for hours. It’s no secret, what he’s telling us, of course, but he won’t let us record any of it. He says that we should take away only what we naturally remember. Yuri, I don’t think this man will ever hurt us or anyone connected with us. I’m sure of it. You know, it’s one of those situations. I’ve put my trust in him. And if he does come to hurt us, for any reason, well, that’s going to be what happens.”
“I understand. And Rowan? How is she?”
“I think she loves him too. I know she does. But how much and in what way, well, that’s her story. I never could speak for Rowan. We’re going to stay here, as I said, for another two days, maybe more, then we have to go back down south. We’re a little worried about Mona.”
“Why?”
“It’s nothing terrible. She’s run off with her cousin Mary Jane Mayfair-this is a young woman you’ve not had the pleasure of meeting-and they’re a bit too young to be running around without any parental supervision.”
“Michael, I’ve written a letter to Mona. I had to write it. You know, before I left New Orleans, I pledged my heart to Mona. But Mona is too young for such a pledge, and now that I am home, back with the Order, I realize more than ever how unsuited I am to court Mona. I’ve sent my letter to the Amelia Street address, but I fear that Mona will, for a little while at least, be angry with me.”
“Yuri, Mona has other things on her mind right now. This is probably the best decision you could have made. We forget that Mona is thirteen. Everybody forgets it. And certainly Mona forgets it. But you’ve done the right thing. Besides, she can contact you if she wants to, can’t she?”
“Yes, I am here. I am safe. I am home.”
“And Tessa?”
“Well, they took her away, Michael. That’s the Talamasca for you. I’m sure that’s what happened to her. She was surrounded by a very courtly group of companions and invited to go with them, probably to Amsterdam. I kissed her goodbye before she left. There was some talk of a nice place for her where she could rest, and where all her memories and stories would be recorded. No one seems to know how to calculate her age. No one knows if what Ash has said is true, that she will die soon.”
“But she’s happy, and the Talamasca has taken care of her.”
“Yes, absolutely. Of course, if she ever wants to leave, she can leave. That’s our way. But I don’t think Tessa thinks in those terms. I think she drifted for years-how many years, no one knows-from one protector to another. She didn’t grieve too long for Gordon, by the way. She says that she doesn’t care to dwell on unpleasant things.”
Michael laughed. “I understand. Believe me. Look, I’ve got to go back now. We’re having some supper together, and then Ash is going to go on with his story. It’s beautiful here where we are. Snowing and cold, b
ut beautiful. Everything that surrounds Ash reflects his personality. It’s always that way. The buildings we choose for ourselves, they’re always reflections of us. This place is filled with colored marble and with paintings, and with … with things that interest him. I don’t suppose I should talk about it much. He does want his privacy, to be left in peace after we leave him.”
“I know. I understand. Listen, Michael, when you see Mona, you must tell her something for me … that … you must tell her that I …”
“She’ll understand, Yuri. Mona has other things on her mind right now. It’s an exciting time for her. The family wants her to leave Sacred Heart, to start studying with private tutors. Her IQ is off the charts, just as she always said it was. And she is the heir to the Mayfair legacy. I think for the next few years Mona will be spending a lot of time with Rowan and with me, studying, traveling, getting sort of the ideal education for a lady of what … how shall I say, great expectations. I’m going to go now. I’ll call you again from New Orleans.”
“Please do this, please. I love both of you. I love … the three of you. Will you tell the others for me, Ash and Rowan?”
“Yes. By the way, those cohorts, those helpers of Gordon?”
“It’s all finished. They’re gone, and they can never hurt the Order again. I’ll talk to you soon, Michael.”
“Goodbye, Yuri.”
Twenty-seven
EVERYBODY ALWAYS TOLD him the Fontevrault Mayfairs were crazy. “That’s why they come to you, Dr. Jack.” Every single one of them was mad, said the town, even the rich kin in New Orleans.
But did he have to find it out for himself on an afternoon like this, when it was as dark as night, and half the streets in town were flooded out?
And bringing out a little newborn baby in such a storm, wrapped up in smelly little blankets and lying in a plastic ice chest, no less! And Mary Jane Mayfair expecting him just to make out the birth certificate right there in his office.
He’d demanded to see the mother!
Of course, if he’d known she was going to drive this limousine like this over these shell roads, right through this storm, and that he’d end up holding this baby in his arms, he would have insisted on following her in his pickup.
When she’d pointed to the limousine, he’d thought the woman had a driver. And this was a brand-new car, too, twenty-five feet long if it was a foot, with a moon roof and tinted glass, a compact disc player, and a goddamned telephone. And this teen Amazon queen at the wheel-in her dirty white lace dress, with mud spattered on her bare legs and her sandals.
“And you mean to tell me,” he shouted over the rain, “that with a big car like this, you couldn’t have brought this baby’s mother to the hospital?”
The baby looked fine enough, thank God for that, about a month premature, he figured, and undernourished, of course! But otherwise okay and sleeping right now, deep in the ice chest with all the stinky little blankets around it, as he held the thing on his knees. Why, these blankets actually reeked of whiskey.
“Good heavens, Mary Jane Mayfair, slow down!” he said finally. The branches were making a racket on the top of the car. He flinched as the clumps of wet leaves slapped right against the windshield. He could hardly stand it, the way she ran right over the ruts! “You’re going to wake the baby.”
“That baby’s just fine, Doctor,” said Mary Jane, letting her skirt fall all the way back down her thighs to her panties. This was a notorious young woman, nobody had to tell him that. He’d been pretty damn sure this was her baby and she was going to make up some cock-and-bull story about its having been left on the doorstep. But no, there was a mother out there in those swamps, praise God. He was going to put this in his memoirs.
“We’re almost there,” Mary Jane called out, half smashing a thicket of bamboo on their left, and rolling right on past it. “Now, you got to carry the baby in the boat, all right, Doctor?”
“What boat!” he shouted. But he knew damn good and well what boat. Everybody had told him about this old house, that he ought to drive out to Fontevrault Landing just to see it. You could hardly believe it was standing, the way the west side had sunk, and to think this clan insisted upon living there! Mary Jane Mayfair had been slowly cleaning out the local Wal-Mart for the last six months, fixing the place up for herself and her grandmother. Everybody knew about it when Mary Jane came to town in her white shorts and T-shirts.
She was a pretty girl, though, he had to give her that much, even with that cowboy hat. She had the most high-slung and pointed pair of breasts he’d ever seen, and a mouth the color of bubble gum.
“Hey, you didn’t give this baby whiskey to keep it quiet, did you?” he demanded. The little tucker was just snoring away, blowing a big bubble with its tiny little pink lips. Poor child, to grow up in this place. And she hadn’t let him even examine this baby, saying Granny had done all that! Granny, indeed!
The limousine had come to a halt. The rain was teeming. He could scarcely see what looked like a house up ahead, and the great fan leaves of a green palmetto. But those were electric lights burning up there, thank God for that. Somebody’d told him they didn’t have any lights out here.
“I’ll come round for you with the umbrella,” she said, slamming the door behind her before he could say they should wait till the rain slacked off, and then his door flew open and he had no choice but to pick up this ice chest like a cradle.
“Here, put the towel over it, little guy will get wet!” Mary Jane said. “Now run for the boat.”
“I will walk, thank you,” he said. “If you’ll just kindly lead the way, Miss Mayfair!”
“Don’t let him fall.”
“I beg your pardon! I delivered babies in Picayune, Mississippi, for thirty-eight years before I ever came down to this godforsaken country.”
And just why did I come? he thought to himself as he had a thousand times, especially when his new little wife, Eileen, born and raised in Napoleonville, wasn’t around to remind him.
Lord in heaven, it was a great big heavy aluminum pirogue, and it didn’t have a motor! But there was the house, all right, the entire thing the color of driftwood, with the purple wisteria completely wrapped around the capitals of those upstairs columns, and making its way for the balusters. At least the tangle of trees was so thick in this part of the jungle that he was almost dry for a moment. A tunnel of green went up to the tilting front porch. Lights on upstairs, well, that was a relief. If he had had to see his way around this place by kerosene lamp, he would have gone crazy. Maybe he was already going crazy, crossing this stretch of duckweed slop with this crazy young woman, and the place about to sink any minute.
“That’s what’s going to happen,” Eileen had said. “One morning we’ll drive by there, and there won’t be any house, whole thing, lock, stock, and barrel, will have sunk into the swamp, you mark my words, it’s a sin, anybody living like that.”
Carrying the ice chest and its quiet little contents with one hand, he managed to get into the shallow boat, thrilled to discover that it was full of about two inches of water. “This is going to sink, you should have emptied it out.” His shoes filled up to the ankles immediately. Why had he agreed to come out here? And Eileen would have to know every last detail.
“It’s not going to sink, this is a sissy rain,” said Mary Jane Mayfair, shoving on her long pole. “Now hang on, please, and don’t let the baby get wet.”
The girl was past all patience. Where he came from, nobody talked to a doctor like that! The baby was just fine under the towels, and pissing up a storm for a newborn.
Lo and behold, they were gliding right over the front porch of this dilapidated wreck and into the open doorway.
“My God, this is like a cave!” he declared. “How in the world did a woman give birth in this place? Will you look at that. There are books in there on the top shelf of that bookcase, right above the water.”
“Well, nobody was here when the water came in,” said Mary Jane, straining
as she pushed on the pole.
He could hear the thonk-thonk of it hitting the floorboards beneath them.
“And I guess lots of things are still floating around in the parlor. Besides, Mona Mayfair didn’t have her baby down here, she had it upstairs. Women don’t have their babies in the front room, even if it isn’t underwater.”
The boat collided with the steps, tossing him violently to the left, so that he had to grab the slimy wet banister. He leapt out, immediately stamping both his feet to make sure the steps weren’t going to sink under him.
A warm flood of light came from upstairs, and he could hear, over the hiss and roar of the rain, another sound, very fast, clickety, clickety, clickety. He knew that sound. And with it, a woman’s voice humming. Kind of pretty.
“Why doesn’t this stairway just float loose from the wall?” he asked. He started up, the ice-chest cradle beginning to feel like a sack of rocks to him. “Why doesn’t this whole place just disintegrate?”
“Well, in a way, I guess it is,” said Mary Jane, “only it’s taking a couple hundred years, you know???” She went thumping up the steps in front of him, pushing right in his way as she hit the second-floor hall, and then turning around and saying, “You come with me, we got to go up to the attic.”
But where was that clickety, clickety, clickety coming from? He could hear somebody humming, too. But she didn’t even give him a chance to look around, rushing him to the attic steps.
And then he saw old Granny Mayfair at the very top in her flowered flannel gown, waving her little hand at him.
“Hey, there, Dr. Jack. How’s my handsome boy? Come give me a kiss. Surely am glad to see you.”
