by Anne Rice
When Aaron stayed month after month in the United States investigating the Mayfair Witches, Yuri was disappointed. He’d never known Aaron to be away from the Motherhouse so long.
When Christmas came near, a lonely time for Yuri as it is for so many, Yuri went into the computer and accessed the File on the Mayfair Witches, printing it out in its entirety and studying it very carefully to get a grasp of what was keeping Aaron in New Orleans for so much time.
Yuri enjoyed the story of the Mayfair Witches, but it aroused no special feeling in him any more than any other Talamasca file. He looked for a role to play-could he perhaps gather information on Donnelaith for Aaron? Otherwise, the totality of the story did not impress itself on his mind. The Talamasca files were filled with strange stories, some far stranger than this.
The Talamasca itself held many mysteries. They had never been Yuri’s concern.
The week before Christmas, the Elders announced the resignation of David Talbot as Superior General, and that a man of German-Italian background, Anton Marcus, would take his place. No one in London knew Anton Marcus.
Yuri didn’t know Anton. Yuri’s main concern was that he had never had the chance to tell David good-bye. There was some mystery surrounding David’s disappearance, and, as often happens in the Talamasca, the members spoke of the Elders, and the remarks were made reflecting puzzlement and resentment, and confusion as to how the Order was organized and run. People wanted to know-would David remain an Elder, assuming he had always been one, now that he was retired? Were Elders made up of retired members as well as active ones? It seemed a bit medieval at times that no one knew.
Yuri had heard all this before. It only lasted a few days. Anton Marcus arrived the day after the announcement and at once won everyone over with his charming manner and intimate knowledge of each member’s history and background, and the London Motherhouse was immediately at peace.
Anton Marcus spoke after supper in the grand dining room to all members. A man of large frame with smooth silver hair and thick gold-rimmed glasses, he had a clean corporate appearance to him, and a smooth British accent of the kind which the Talamasca seemed to favor. An accent which Yuri now possessed himself.
Anton Marcus reminded everyone of the importance of secrecy and discretion regarding the Elders. The Elders are all around us. The Elders cannot govern effectively if confronted and questioned. The Elders perform best as an anonymous body in whom we all place our trust.
Yuri shrugged.
When Yuri went to his room one morning at two a.m. he found a communiqué from the Elders in his printer. “We are pleased that you have gone out of your way to welcome Anton. We feel that Anton will be a superb Superior General. If this adjustment is difficult for you, we are here.” There was also an assignment for Yuri. He was to go to Dubrovnik to pick up several important packages and take them to Amsterdam, then come home. Routine. Fun.
Yuri would have gone to spend Christmas with Aaron in New Orleans, but Aaron told him long distance that this was not possible, and that the investigation was at this point very discouraging, the most discouraging of his career.
“What’s happened with the Mayfair Witches?” asked Yuri. He explained to Aaron that he had read the entire file. He asked if he might perform some small task in connection with the investigation. Aaron said no.
“Keep the faith, Yuri,” said Aaron. “I’ll see you when God wills.”
It was not like Aaron to make such a statement. It was the first decisive signal to Yuri that something was really wrong.
Early on Christmas Eve in New Orleans, Aaron called Yuri in London. He said, “This is my most difficult time. There are things I want to do and the Order will not allow it. I have to remain here in the country, and I want to be in the town. What have I always taught you, Yuri? That obeying the rules is of absolute importance. Would you repeat those words of advice to me?”
“But what would you do if you could, Aaron?” asked Yuri.
Aaron said terrible trouble was about to happen to Rowan Mayfair, and that Rowan needed him, and he ought to go to her and do what he could. But the Elders had forbidden it. The Elders had told him to keep to the Motherhouse of Oak Haven and that he couldn’t “intervene.”
“Aaron,” said Yuri, “all through the story of the Mayfair Witches we have tried-and failed-to intervene. Surely it’s not safe for you to be close to these people, any more than it was for Stuart Townsend or Arthur Langtry-both of whom died as the result of their contact. What can you do?”
Aaron reluctantly agreed. Indeed, it had been a conversation of reconciling himself to the state of things. He mentioned that David and Anton were probably right to keep him out of the action, that Anton had inherited his position from David, and David had known the whole story. Nevertheless it was hard.
“I’m not sure about the merits of a life of watching from the sidelines,” Aaron said. “I’m not sure at all. Perhaps I have always been waiting for a moment, and now the moment is at hand.”
This was strange, strange talk from Aaron. Yuri was deeply disturbed by it. But he had two new assignments from Anton, and off he went to India and then to Bali to photograph certain places and persons, and he was busy all the while, enjoying his wanderings as he always had.
It was not till mid-January that Yuri heard from Aaron again. Aaron wanted Yuri to go to Donnelaith in Scotland, to discover whether or not a mysterious couple had been seen by anyone there. Yuri took down the notes hastily: “You are looking for Rowan Mayfair and a male companion, very tall, slender, dark hair.”
Yuri quietly realized what had happened-the ghost of the Mayfair family, the spirit which had haunted it for generations, had achieved some sort of passage into the visible world. Yuri didn’t question this, but he was secretly excited by it. It seemed momentous as well as terrible, and he wanted to find this being.
“That’s what you want, isn’t it? To find them? Are you sure the best place to begin is Donnelaith?”
“It’s the only place I know to begin right now,” said Aaron. “These two individuals could be anywhere in Europe. They might even have returned to the United States.”
Yuri left for Donnelaith that night.
There was that tone of deep discouragement to Aaron’s words.
Yuri typed out his notification of this assignment for the Elders in the customary form-on the computer to be sent by fax instantly to Amsterdam. He told them what he had been asked to do, and that he was doing it, and off he went.
Yuri had a good time in Donnelaith. Many people had seen the mysterious couple. Many people described the male companion. Yuri was even able to make a sketch. He was able to sleep in the same room which had been occupied by the couple, and he gathered fingerprints from all over it, though whose they were, he could not possibly tell.
That was all right, said the Elders to him in a special fax message from London to his hotel in Edinburgh. Top Priority. That meant no expense was to be spared. If the mysterious couple had left behind any articles, Yuri was to find them. Meantime he must be absolutely discreet. No one in Donnelaith was to know about this investigation. Yuri was slightly insulted. Yuri had always done things in such a way that people didn’t know about it. He told the Elders this.
“We apologize,” they said in their next fax. “Keep up the good work.”
As for Donnelaith, the place captured Yuri’s imagination. For the first time the Mayfair Witches seemed real to him; as a matter of fact, the entire investigation acquired a luminescence for him which no investigation had ever had in the past.
Yuri picked up the books and brochures sold for tourists. He photographed the ruins of the Donnelaith Cathedral and the new chapel only recently uncovered, with the sarcophagus of an unknown saint. He spent his last afternoon in Donnelaith exploring the ruins until sunset, and that night, he eagerly called Aaron from Edinburgh and told him all these feelings, and tried to draw from Aaron some statement about the mysterious couple and who they were.
; Could the male companion be the spirit Lasher, come into the world in some human guise?
Aaron said that he was eager to explain everything, but now was not the time. Michael Curry, Rowan Mayfair’s husband, had been nearly killed on Christmas Day in New Orleans, and Aaron wanted to stay close to him, no matter what else was going on.
When Yuri got back to London, he turned the fingerprints and photographs over to the laboratory for processing and classification, and he wrote up his full report to Aaron and sent it by fax to a number in the United States. He sent the customary full copy to the Elders, via fax to Amsterdam. He filed the hard copy-the actual printed pages-and went to sleep.
That morning, when he tried to boot up the primary source material on the Mayfair Witches, he realized the investigation had changed.
All the primary sources-unedited testimony, inventories of items stored, photographs, pictures, et cetera-were closed. Indeed the File on the Mayfair Witches was closed. Yuri could find nothing by means of cross-reference.
When Yuri finally reached Aaron, to ask why this had happened, something curious occurred. Aaron clearly had not known the files had been marked confidential. But he did not want to reveal his surprise to Yuri. Aaron was angry, and disconcerted. Yuri realized he had alarmed Aaron.
That night Yuri wrote to the Elders. “I request permission to join Aaron in this investigation, to go to New Orleans. I do not profess to understand the full scope of what has happened, nor do I need to understand it. But I feel the pressing need to be with Aaron.”
The Elders said no.
Within days, Yuri was pulled off the investigation. He was told that Erich Stolov would take over, a seasoned expert in the field of “these things,” and that Yuri should take a little vacation in Paris for a while, as he would soon be going to Russia, where it was very dreary and cold.
“Sending me to Siberia?” asked Yuri ironically, typing his questions into the computer. “What’s happening with the Mayfair Witches?”
The answer came from Amsterdam that Erich would take care of all European activity on the Mayfair Witches. And once again Yuri was advised to get some rest. He was also told that anything he knew about the Mayfair Witches was confidential, and he must not discuss this matter even with Aaron. It was a standard admonition, advised the Elders, where “this sort” of investigation was involved.
“You know our nature,” read the communiqué. “We do not intervene in things. We are cautious. We are watchers. Yet we have our principles. Now there is danger in this situation of an unprecedented sort. You must leave it to more experienced men like Erich. Aaron knows the Elders have closed the records. You will not hear from him again.”
That was the disturbing sentence, the chain of words which had thrown everything off.
You will not hear from him again.
In the middle of the night, while the Motherhouse slept in the sharp cold of winter, Yuri typed a message on the computer to the Elders.
“I find I cannot leave this investigation without mixed feelings. I am concerned about Aaron Lightner. He has not called me for weeks. I would like to contact Aaron. Please advise.”
Around four a.m., the fax awakened Yuri. The reply had come back from Amsterdam. “Yuri, let this matter alone. Aaron is in good hands. There are no better investigators than Erich Stolov and Clement Norgan, both of whom are now assigned full-time to this case. This investigation is proceeding very rapidly, and someday you will hear the whole tale. Until then, all is secret. Do not ask to speak to Aaron again.”
Do not ask to speak to Aaron again?
Yuri couldn’t sleep after that. He went down into the kitchen. The kitchen was made up of several huge, cavernous rooms and full of the smell of baking bread. Only the night cooks worked, preparing this bread and pushing it into the huge ovens, and they took no notice of Yuri as he poured himself some coffee, with cream, and sat on a wooden bench by the fire.
Yuri realized that he could not abide by this directive from the Elders! He realized very simply that he loved Aaron, indeed that he was so dependent upon Aaron that he could not think of life without him.
It is a terrible thing to realize that you depend so much upon another; that your entire sense of well-being is connected to that one-that you need him, love him, that he is the chief witness of your life. Yuri was disappointed in himself and leery. But this was the realization.
He went upstairs and quietly placed a long-distance call to Aaron.
“The Elders have told me not to talk to you directly any longer,” he said.
Aaron was astounded.
“I’m coming,” said Yuri.
“This might mean expulsion,” said Aaron.
“We’ll see. I will be in New Orleans as soon as I can.”
Yuri made his plane arrangements, packed his bags and went down to wait for the car. Anton Marcus came down to see him, disheveled, in his dark blue robe and leather slippers, obviously just awakened from sleep.
“You can’t go, Yuri,” he said. “This investigation is becoming more dangerous by the moment. Aaron doesn’t understand it.”
He took Yuri into his office.
“Our world has its own timekeeper,” said Anton gently. “We are like the Vatican if you will. A century or two-that is not long to us. We have watched the Mayfair Witches for many centuries.”
“I know.”
“Now something has happened which we feared and could not prevent. It presents immense danger to us and to others. We need you to remain here, to wait for orders, to do as you are told.”
“No, I’m sorry. I’m going to Aaron,” said Yuri. He got up and walked out. He did not think about this. He did not look back. He had no particular interest in Anton’s emotional reaction.
He did take a long farewell look at the Motherhouse itself, but as the car went on towards Heathrow, there was really only one theme which played itself out in his mind, rather like a fugue. He saw Andrew dying in the hotel room in Rome. He saw Aaron sitting opposite him, Yuri, at the table, saying, “I am your friend.” He saw his mother, too, dying in the village in Serbia.
There was no conflict in him.
He was going to Aaron. He knew that was what he had to do.
Seven
LARK WAS SOUND asleep when the plane landed in New Orleans. It startled him to discover that they were already at the gate. Indeed, people were disembarking. The stewardess was beaming down at him, his raincoat dangling from her graceful arm. He felt a little embarrassed for a moment, as though he had lost some precious advantage; then he was on his feet.
He had a terrible headache, and he was hungry, and then the searing excitement of this mystery, this Rowan Mayfair offspring mystery, came back to him in the shape of a great burden. How could a rational man be expected to explain such a thing? What time was it? Eight a.m. in New Orleans. That meant it was only six a.m. back on the coast.
Immediately he saw the white-haired man waiting for him and realized it was Lightner before the man clasped his hand and said his own name. Very personable old guy; gray suit and all.
“Dr. Larkin. There’s been a family emergency. Neither Ryan nor Pierce Mayfair could be here. Let me take you to your hotel. Ryan will be in touch with us as soon as he can.” Same British polish that Lark had admired so much over the phone.
“Glad to see you, Mr. Lightner, but I have to tell you, I had a run-in with one of your colleagues in San Francisco. Not so good.”
Lightner was clearly surprised. They walked up the concourse together, Lightner’s profile rather grave for a moment and distant. “Who was this, I wonder,” he said with unconcealed annoyance. He looked tired, as if he had not slept all night.
Lark was feeling better now. The headache was dissipating. He was fantasizing about coffee and sweet rolls, and a dinner reservation at Commander’s Palace, and maybe an afternoon nap. And then he thought of the specimens. He thought of Rowan. That embarrassing excitement overcame him, and with it, an ugly feeling of being involved in so
mething unwholesome, something all wrong.
“Our hotel is only a few blocks from Commander’s Palace,” said Lightner easily. “We can take you there this evening. Maybe we can persuade Michael to go with us. There has been…an emergency. Something to do with Ryan’s family. Otherwise Ryan would have been here himself. But this colleague of mine? Can you tell me what happened? Do you have luggage?”
“No, just my valise here, loaded for a one-night stand.” Like most surgeons, Lark liked being up at this hour. If he were back in San Francisco, he’d be in surgery right now. He was feeling better with every step he took.
They proceeded towards the bright warm daylight, and the busy gathering of cabs and limousines beyond the glass doors. It wasn’t terribly cold here. No, not as bitingly cold as San Francisco, not at all. But the light was the real difference. There was more of it. And the air stood motionless around you. Kind of nice.
“This colleague,” said Lark, “said his name was Erich Stolov. He demanded to know where the specimens were.”
“Is that so?” said Lightner with a slight frown. He gestured to the left, and one of the many limousines, a great sleek gray Lincoln, crawled out and towards them, its windows black and secretive. Lightner didn’t wait for the driver to come round. He opened the back door himself.
Gratefully, Lark climbed into the soft velvet gray interior, shifting over to the far seat, faintly disturbed by the smell of cigarette smoke lingering in the upholstery and stretching out his legs comfortably in the luxuriant space. Lightner sat beside him, and away the car sped instantly, in its own realm of darkness thanks to the tinted windows, suddenly shut off from all the airport traffic and the pure brilliance of the morning sun.
But it was comfortable, this car. And it was fast.
