Ramona Sumner Talmadge, prone on a lounge chair beside the swimming pool, rose up on an elbow to take the vodka and tonic McTell offered. She was wearing only the briefest of swimsuit bottoms, a tight thin vee of a startling pink; as she reached, her breasts swayed and then flattened. They were tipped with nipples so nearly the same color as the suit that McTell could not help wondering if she had tinted them. She was younger than Linden, about thirty; small but not petite, supple, with a body that would have been chunky had it not been so firmly muscled. Her skin was tawny and flawless, her hair blonde, tousled, elfin. Her green eyes met McTell’s over the top of her sunglasses and crinkled at the comers when she smiled thanks. An almost visible aura of gold surrounded her, and he had thought many times that she seemed to have been purposely created for things of the flesh, and never meant to be concerned with those of the mind and spirit. A few feet away, Linden watched, silent. Though dark glasses hid her eyes, her mouth was a line. She was wearing both pieces of a rather more modest bathing suit.
Mona caught McTell’s left hand and examined it. “What in the world have you been doing?”
“Oh, I must have scratched it when I was thrashing around in the brush last night,” he said.
“It looks more like a bum.”
He glanced at the palm she still held, and his offhanded smile froze on his lips. The mark did look like a burn rather than a scrape—a faint red discoloration of an indeterminate shape. He freed his hand from her lingering grasp and pressed it gingerly with his other. There was no pain.
He was still staring at it when another voice said, “You Americans are such an intrepid lot. I should have hired a boy to fetch that camera.” The guest who had accompanied the Talmadges was a tall cadaverous Englishman of late middle age, with a large bony face that seemed incapable of smiling, and dyed pomaded hair parted in the middle, in the style of the 1920s. Mona had introduced him as Robert, Lord Ashton, but called him Bertie—a name McTell found himself unable to say. Bertie was apparently employed by Skip in some vague capacity of manager or secretary. Though the midaftemoon sun was fierce, he wore a navy blazer, white flannel slacks, and an ascot. But if he was in fact a lord, his house had seen better days; McTell himself had carried his shabby luggage inside. And he had already gathered that Bertie’s interest in boys might not be limited to running errands.
The party was completed by Mona’s husband, Arthur Murchison Talmadge IV—Skip to his friends. He was a reddish blond, leonine, handsome man, with a carefully trimmed mustache and the generally amused manner of the wealthy sportsman—although McTell had seen it turn ugly under the influence of drink. Skip was in his mid-thirties, and seemed to have spent most of his life involved in competitive yachting; there were frequent references to his career, past and future, though nothing was said about the present. It was not a field McTell knew, or cared, much about. Coming from a solid blue-collar background, he could not suppress a touch of contempt mixed with resentment for pastimes he associated with the idle rich. Skip made clear in turn his boredom with any topic not directly related to sailing, horses, or women. The two men were politely cool to each other.
As usual when entertaining guests he was less than delighted to see, McTell busied himself playing host, serving drinks and hors d’oeuvres. He drifted among the group, listening with half an ear to the sisters catching each other up on the past months, to Skip’s occasional remark about some sporting event.
But it all seemed unreal, even ludicrous, compared to the previous night. The copper cask waited in his study, hidden in the bottom drawer of his desk; a glance this morning had assured him it had not all been a dream. And annoyance though the guests might be, his triumph was too fierce and sweet to be undercut. He felt a smugness, almost a pity for them, as they chattered on about the trivial doings of their mundane lives.
“I understand you’re a medievalist, John.” It was Bertie’s clipped voice. “I went down in history myself, you know, at Cambridge.”
“You don’t say,” McTell murmured.
“You’ve come here to write another masterpiece?” McTell might have imagined the faintly mocking edge to the voice, but in any case, he had no intention of discussing his work with this group. “I’d hesitate to call it that. What was your area of interest?”
“Oh, modem British, that sort of thing. I wasn’t much of a scholar.”
The sisters’ conversation had drifted off; they were listening. Then Linden said, “The village priest told us quite a story the other night. It seems we had a real-life magician living in the ruin up there a few centuries ago. A Templar.” Bertie’s eyebrows rose politely. “Don’t know much about them, I’m afraid. Although in my university days I did run into a few modem dabblers in the black arts.”
“Really,” McTell said, suddenly interested.
“Oh, yes. Fashionable thing to do in certain circles, you know. Never amounted to much in my case. I did meet old Aleister Crowley once. Wreck of a man by then, ravaged by heroin and drink. Still, there was something about him. He’d seen some things, no doubt of it. They say he faced off with the devil himself one night.”
“You’re kidding,” Mona said. “We’re discovering a whole new storehouse of information in you, Bert. What happened?”
“Crowley came out second best, of course. One of those things where he was supposed to have gone mad, his hair turned white, all that.”
For a moment no one spoke. Then McTell said casually, “Do you believe it? The devil, magic, all that?”
Bertie shrugged. “No one’s ever proved any of it to my satisfaction, but no one’s ever disproved it either. I was privy to a couple of rather odd events, although a skeptic could doubtless have made a good case for fraud.
“But someone once pointed out to me an interesting way of looking at the whole business. We think of it these days as something that was practiced by naive souls in a pre-scientific era, or else by outright charlatans. But then, we only hear about the failures. After all, a successful magician was hardly going to noise it about if he knew he’d be tortured and burned alive for it, what? The smart ones stayed underground, and who knows? Maybe some of them had some luck. Of course it seems like a bunch of mumbo jumbo—eye of newt, wing of bat, graveyards and pentacles and all that. But to use an example, does anyone here really know why an automobile starts up when you turn the key?”
The women exchanged glances. Skip stared into space, boredom etched upon his features.
“There is a rational explanation for it, of course, but only up to a point. Further, only a few people—engineers, that lot—truly understand it, and it took thousands of years of civilization and study of natural laws to reach that level. Even so, we only know causes and effects. I mean really, finally, a car’s starting depends upon certain facts, to wit, that some molecules are volatile enough to explode when a spark hits them, that a potential difference between other molecules in a battery can create enough electricity to generate that spark, and so on. Much beyond that we can’t take it: We come to the point where we simply have to accept that those are the rules in this universe of ours, and work within them. Precisely why those molecules behave like that—what the essence of the whole business is—we can’t know.
“So isn’t it possible that what we call magic is simply another science—one that was viciously discouraged instead of encouraged—that has its own rules, its own causes and effects, which are just as logical within context as the rules for building an engine? And you can bet that if there are any people who have discovered those rules, they’ve damned well kept it a secret.”
He finished with a little bow and settled back in his chair, crossing his legs.
“I say, old boy,” Skip drawled, in an obvious parody of Bertie’s accent. “What does a chap do around here for excitement?”
There was a pause. Then McTell said, “We’ve been too busy settling in to worry much about it.”
“Been to the beaches at Saint Trop yet?”
Mona shifted slightly in her chair.
“No,” McTell said.
“Topless,” Skip said, “and bottomless, and young. Enough to make you remember what the whole business is about.” He turned to the women, grinned, and said, “Not to worry, darlings. Just idle curiosity on the part of a couple of old married men and one—confirmed bachelor.”
Bertie raised a nostril and turned away, stony profile gazing off into the distance. Though Skip was generous with his money, McTell knew that he exacted a price, and it became heavier the more he drank. He had obviously started before they arrived, and in the hour since had put away half a dozen Tanqueray gimlets with smooth, well-practiced ease. The drinking helped to explain, too, what Linden had intimated, that all was not well in the marriage bed. In spite of the Talmadges’ wealth, McTell could almost feel sorry for them. But only almost.
Bertie gave Skip a glance of unveiled contempt, then leaned toward McTell. “I’ll leave you with this thought, old boy. Someone once said that the smartest thing the devil could do would be to make us stop believing he exists.” His finger tapped the chair arm significantly, and he leaned back, satisfied at having had the last word.
Mona was swirling her drink, staring into it, mouth turned down—pouting—and McTell found himself suddenly weary at the thought of several more days caught in the sniping game of a marriage going bad. Then her gaze rose and shifted; she snapped her fingers. “Pepin,” she called.
A shuffling movement came from the shade near the house, and McTell realized sardonically that he had forgotten the final member of the party. Pepin the Short, Mona’s new toy poodle, got to its feet and stood panting in sharp staccato. McTell was a little surprised that either Mona or Skip had ever heard of Charlemagne, let alone his father. Perhaps the name had been Bertie’s suggestion. The dog wandered over to the pool, sniffed the water, touched a tongue to it, then sneezed and looked around with bright, though slightly glazed, black eyes.
“There’s drinking water right over there, silly,” Mona said, pointing to the bowl that had been set out. “See?” Pepin remained where he was, tongue out, chest moving in quick jerks. “For God’s sake,” she said, standing. As she led the dog to the bowl, all eyes followed her. It was clear she was aware of this; and McTell understood the real object of the exercise: trying, on some barely conscious level, to get back what Skip had taken. When she sat again, she raised her knees; the narrow vee of the bathing suit exposed smooth folds of skin at the joining of her thighs.
“Darling, what are you going to do with that dog when you travel?” Linden said. “The quarantine laws are impossible.”
“Leave him with you, of course,” Mona said with a lazy smile.
McTell closed his eyes briefly, then stood. “If you all will excuse me, I’ve got some letters to write. I’m afraid if I put them off any longer, I’ll get home to find I don’t have a job. I’ll see you at dinner.”
As he crossed the patio he heard Mona say, “Well, I’m ready for a swim. How about it, sis?”
It seemed to take Linden a long time to answer. “You go ahead. I’m sort of off swimming just now.”
The coffee maker was still on in the kitchen, with two inches of thick dark liquid on the edge of scalding, smelling and tasting burnt. But it was hot and strong, and McTell did not have the patience to make a fresh pot.
At last he was free to enter the world of Guilhem de Courdeval.
** ** **
The tomatoes were a deep rich red, almost the color of blood—the result of Melusine’s patient hoarding of precious water through the dry summer. She stood at the garden gate, surveying with satisfaction the results of her efforts. The plot had been there when they bought the house, although neglected for several years. But it was good rich earth, and she had tilled and fertilized and harvested a crop that had turned out very respectably for a first season. Next year she would expand, perhaps add snow peas and peppers. But for now there were squash, cucumbers, romaine lettuce, and carrots, far more than she and Roger could eat; a little plot of herbs, for fresh basil and parsley and mint; and her pride, the tomatoes. Barefoot, with a basket over her arm, dressed in one of her husband’s old shirts knotted at the midriff and a big floppy hat, she took pleasure in feeling like a country girl. She went through the gate and limped toward the bunches of bright red fruit.
Abruptly, a fly buzzed into her ear. She shook her head. It circled and drove immediately back in, with a startling determination. Annoyed, she slapped. The fly zipped round and round her, as if angry itself.
The hum of other insects mounted swiftly, until it seemed an organized buzz of menace. Face stinging from her own hand, she hesitated. Tiny shapes hovered, more and more of them, rising in a cloud. She glanced up. The treetops seemed to be closing over the little plot of ground; the vines and shrubs that surrounded her were oily-looking, hostile, pressing in to suffocate. A dread that nature was turning against her swept like nausea through her insides.
“Merde alors,” she declared aloud. “I won’t be pushed around by a bunch of bugs.” She stepped determinedly forward, only to leap back with a cry at a sinuous movement beside her foot. She stared down at the snake. It was not much over the length of her forearm, black with red lateral stripes, certainly not poisonous.
But she would have sworn under oath that it was staring back with a more than reptilian intelligence: an evil intent. She was suddenly dizzy, aware of the stifling heat, the sweat on her temples and neck. And I will put enmity between thee and the woman—
Then anger flared. It was a snake, she was a human. Its job was to run. She stamped her foot.
The snake wriggled closer, lifting its head nearly half its length off the ground, tongue flickering, malefic obsidian eyes locked with hers.
She threw the basket at it and in the same motion whirled and ran, clawing at the gate, slamming it behind her. She did not stop until she was in the house. With her back against the wall, she let her shoulders slump. In a minute she was better, but as she started to walk, she was suddenly aware of her naked, unprotected feet. She shivered, and quickly put on shoes. Then she marched into the parlor and poured a healthy slug of Calvados. The routine was becoming familiar, she thought. Whatever was going on, it threatened to turn her into an alcoholic.
Nerves? Imagination? Vapors?
None of those. It was something, and the time had come to find out what. Never before had she sought such information; Tante Mathilde’s education had not taken her that far. But she had been toying with the idea for days now, and this last incident was enough. She gulped the rest of the brandy and, with her throat still burning, started upstairs.
The attic was a large room with gable dormers opening out of a gambrel roof; probably it had once been used as servants’ quarters. The heat was suffocating. She picked her way through the trunks and extra furniture, stored there after their move. The small light the dusty windows admitted was strangely dim. Cobwebs hung from the rafters and walls like great thick clusters of evil fruit; dust motes circled lazily in the muted sunlight. It all needed to be washed, aired, organized. Could snakes climb? She limped forward slowly.
I had an uncle, little bunny, one of the old, true Rom, a fine tall man with a great hooked nose and black mustache. One night in the country he got caught in a storm, and came to a farmhouse all boarded up. There he thought he would stay dry until morning. He made his way inside—locked doors and shutters are no trouble for the Rom—and built a little fire in the grate, and ate some food he had, and settled down to rest in comfort.
But before he could sleep he began to hear a voice calling. It was a small voice, coming from the upper part of that house. He thought perhaps some child had found its way inside and become trapped. My uncle was a brave man. He took a pitchy piece of wood for a torch and began to climb stairs. The voice grew louder, calling for help. He climbed and climbed, and still the voice was above him, far up in the attic. He finally made his way up there, and reached for the attic door, when just in time, he understood.
It was a rat, calling
with a child’s voice. Only it was not really a rat. It was an evil spirit that had entered into that rat, and it was trying to get my uncle up there so it could frighten him out of his body. But my uncle was too clever for it. He quickly hung a talisman on the attic door to trap that spirit there. He could hear it howl with rage as he ran back downstairs and out into the rainy night.
If no one has come along and moved that talisman, that spirit might still be trapped there. That was in Hungary, bunny, but evil spirits know no boundaries.
She had stopped walking, she realized, and made herself begin again. Though she had not touched the amulet in years, hardly ever thought about it, she could always call its whereabouts instantly to mind—and through some instinct she had never understood, always kept it as physically far as possible from the room where she slept. She also kept it well enough hidden so that no one, particularly her children, would ever stumble upon it.
It was right where she had left it, in a shoebox inside another carton at the back of a shelf. She set the shoebox on a dusty table and took out the small wooden cask inside. It was of a deep, rich reddish hue—mahogany, she thought. The symbols engraved on the lid looked vaguely Eastern. Slowly, she opened it.
The inside was lined with black velvet. A thin silver chain with a pendant attached lay inside a silver dish. Both were tarnished with age; her aunt had not been certain, but had thought at least four hundred years. Chased letters rimmed the edge of the dish—an entire alphabet in an archaic Roman script. In the dim light, Melusine’s eyes could just make them out.
The promised lesson in the meaning of the symbols and the powers of the amulet itself had never come; she had been too young before Tante Mathilde’s death. But she had watched the old lady use it more than once. It had frightened her then, and it frightened her now. The chain lay coiled in the dish like a tiny serpent writhing through the letters. Swallowing, she picked it up. This was not the proper place, she thought, she should take it downstairs to the light. But her elbows came to rest on the table, her hands poising the pendant over the dish. It swayed, slowed. She cleared her throat.
Next, After Lucifer Page 11
