The witching hour lotmw-1

by Anne Rice

  Then he laid them on the boards. Cold; wet. The flash came as always out of nowhere, severing him from the now. But it wasn’t his rescue he saw, only bits and snatches of other people in the very midst of conversation and movement, Dr. Mayfair, then the hated dead man again, and with them a pretty older woman, much loved, a woman named Ellie-but this layer gave way to another, and another, and the voices were noise.

  He fell forward on his knees. He was getting dizzy, but he refused to stop touching the boards. He was groping like a blind man. “For Michael,” he said. “For Michael!”

  And suddenly his anger over all the misery of the long wasted summer rose in him. “For Michael!” he said, while inwardly he pushed the power, he demanded that it sharpen and focus and reach for the images he wanted.

  “God, give me the moment when I first breathed,” he whispered. But it was like shuffling through volumes to find one simple line. Graham, Ellie, voices rising and crashing against each other. He refused to find words in his head for what he saw; he rejected it. “Give me the moment.” He lay out flat with the roughened deck under his cheek.

  Quite suddenly the moment seemed to burst around him, as if the wood beneath him had caught flame. Colder than this, a more violent wind. The boat was tossing. She was bending over him; and he saw himself lying there, a dead man with a white wet face; she was pounding on his chest. “Wake up, damn you, wake up!”

  His eyes opened. Yes, what I saw, her, Rowan, yes. I’m alive, I’m here! Rowan, many things … The pain in his chest had been unbearable. He could not even feel life in his hands and legs. Was that his hand, going up, grabbing her hand?

  Must explain, the whole thing before …

  Before what? He tried to cling to it, go deeper into it. Before what? But there was nothing there but her pale oval face the way he’d seen it that night, hair squashed beneath the watch cap.

  Suddenly, in the now, he was pounding his fist on the deck.

  “Give me your hand,” he shouted.

  She knelt down beside him. “Think, think of what happened at that moment when I first breathed.”

  But he knew already that was no good. He only saw what she saw. Himself, a dead man coming to life. A dead wet thing tossing on the deck under the blows she repeatedly applied to his chest, and then the silver slit between his lids as he opened his eyes.

  For a long time he lay still, his breath coming unevenly. He knew he was miserably cold again, though nothing as cold as that terrible night, and that she was standing there, patiently waiting. He would have cried, but he was just too tired for that, too defeated. It was as if the images slammed him around when they came. He wanted just stillness. His hands were rolled into fists. He wasn’t moving.

  But there was something there, something he’d discovered, some little thing he hadn’t known. It was about her, that in those first few seconds he’d known who she was, he’d known about her. He’d known her name was Rowan.

  But how could such a conclusion be trusted? God, his soul ached from the effort. He lay defeated, angry, feeling foolish and yet belligerent. He would have cried maybe if she hadn’t been there.

  “Try it again,” she said now.

  “It’s no good, it’s another language. I don’t know how to use it.”

  “Try,” she said.

  And he did. But he got nothing this time but the others. Flashes of sunny days, rushes of Ellie and then Graham, and others, lots of others, rays of light that would have taken him in this direction or that, the wheelhouse door banging in the wind, a tall man coming up from below, no shirt on, and Rowan. Yes, Rowan, Rowan, Rowan, Rowan there with every figure he had seen, always Rowan, and sometimes a happy Rowan. Nobody had ever been on this boat that Rowan wasn’t there, too.

  He rose to his knees, more confused by the second effort than the first. The knowledge of having known her on that night was only an illusion, a thin layer of her profound impression on this boat, merely mingling with the other layers through which he’d reached. Knew her maybe because he held her hand, knew her maybe because before he’d been brought back he’d known how it would be done. He would never know for sure.

  But the point was he didn’t know her now, and he still couldn’t remember! And she was just a very patient and understanding woman, and he ought to thank her and go.

  He sat up. “Damn it all,” he whispered. He pulled on his gloves. He took out his handkerchief and blew his nose and then he pulled his collar up against the wind, but what good did that do with a khaki jacket?

  “Come on inside,” she said. She took his hand as if he were a little child. It was surprising to him how much he appreciated it. Once they were over the side of the damned wobbly slippery boat and he stood on the pier, he felt better.

  “Thanks, Doctor,” he said. “It was worth a try, and you let me try, and for that, I can’t say thanks enough.”

  She slipped her arm around him. Her face was very close to his face. “Maybe it will work another time.” Sense of knowing her, that below deck was a little cabin in which she often slept with his picture pasted to the mirror. Was he blushing again?

  “Come inside,” she said again, tugging him along.

  The shelter of the house felt good. But he was too sad and tired now to think much about it. He wanted to rest. But he didn’t dare. Have to get to the airport, he thought, have to gather up the suitcase and get out there, then sleep in a plastic chair. This had been one road to discovery and now it was cut, and so he was going to take the other road as fast as he could.

  Glancing back at the boat, he thought that he wanted to tell them again that he hadn’t discarded the purpose, it was just that he couldn’t remember. He didn’t even know if the doorway was a literal doorway. And the number, there had been a number, hadn’t there? A very significant number. He leaned against the glass door, pressed his head to the glass.

  “I don’t want you to go,” she whispered.

  “No, I don’t want to go either,” he said, “but I have to. You see, they really do expect something of me. And they told me what it was, and I have to do what I can, and I know that going back is part of it.”

  Silence.

  “It was good of you to bring me here.”

  Silence.

  “Maybe … ”

  “Maybe what?” He turned around.

  She stood with her back to the lights again. She’d taken off her coat, and she looked angular and graceful in the huge cable-knit sweater, and all long legs, magnificent cheekbones, and fine narrow wrists.

  “Could it be that you were supposed to forget?” she asked. That had never occurred to him. For a moment, he didn’t answer.

  “Do you believe me about the visions?” he asked. “I mean, did you read what they said in the papers? It was true, that part. I mean the papers made me sound stupid, crazy. But the point is there was so much to it, so much, and … ”

  He wished he could see her face just a little better.

  “I believe you,” she said simply. She paused, then went on. “It’s always frightening, a close call, a seeming chance thing that makes a large impact. We like to believe it was meant … ”

  “It was meant!”

  “I was going to say that in this case the call was very close, because it was almost dark when I saw you out there. Five minutes later I might not have seen you at all, couldn’t possibly have seen you.”

  “You’re casting around for explanations, and that’s very gracious of you, I really appreciate it, I do. But you see, what I do remember, the impression I mean, it’s so strong that nothing like that is necessary to explain it. They were there, Dr. Mayfair. And … ”

  “What is it?”

  He shook his head. “Just one of those frissons, those crazy moments when it’s as if I do remember, but then it’s gone. I got it out there on the deck, too. The knowledge that, yes, when I opened my eyes I did know what had happened … and then it was gone … ”

  “The word you spoke, the murmur … ”


  “I didn’t catch it. I didn’t see myself speak a word. But I’ll tell you something. I think I knew your name out there. I knew who you were.”

  Silence.

  “But I’m not sure.” He turned around, bewildered. What was he doing? Where was his suitcase, and he really did have to go, only he was so tired, and he didn’t want to.

  “I don’t want you to go,” she said again.

  “You mean it? I could stay for a while?” He looked at her, at the dark shadow of her long lean figure against the distant faintly illuminated glass. “Oh, I wish I’d met you before this,” he said. “I wish I … I like … I mean, it’s so stupid, but you’re very … ”

  He moved forward, the better to see her. Her eyes became visible, seeming very large and long for deep-set eyes, and her mouth so generous and soft. But a strange illusion occurred as he drew closer. Her face in the soft glow from beyond the walls appeared perfectly menacing and malicious. Surely it was a mistake. He wasn’t making out any true expression. The figure facing him seemed to have lowered her head, to be peering up at him from beneath the fringe of her straight blond hair, in an attitude of consummate hatred.

  He stopped. It had to be a mistake. Yet she stood there, quite still, either unaware of the dread he felt now, or uncaring.

  Then she started towards him, moving into the dim light from the northern doorway.

  How pretty and sad she looked! How could he have ever made such an error? She was about to cry. In fact, it was simply awful to see the sadness in her face, to see the sudden silent hunger and spill of emotion.

  “What is it?” he whispered. He opened his arms. And at once, she pressed herself gently against him. Her breasts were large and soft against his chest. He hugged her close, enfolding her, and ran his gloved fingers up through her hair. “What is it?” he whispered again, but it wasn’t really a question. It was more a little reassuring caress of words. He could feel her heart beating, her breath catching. He himself was shaking. The protective feeling aroused in him was hot, alchemizing quickly into passion.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t know.” And now she was silently crying. She looked up, and then opening her mouth, she moved very gently into kissing him. It was as if she didn’t want to do it against his will; she gave him all the time in the world to draw back. And of course he hadn’t the slightest intention of doing so.

  He was engulfed at once as he’d been in the car when he touched her hand, but this time it was her soft, voluptuous, and all too solid flesh that embraced him. He kissed her over and over, feeding on her neck, her cheeks, her eyes. With his gloved fingers he stroked her cheek, felt her smooth skin beneath the heavy woolen sweater. God, if only he could take off the gloves, but if he took off the gloves, he’d be lost, and all passion would evaporate in that confusion. He was desperate to cling to this, desperate; and she already mistakenly believed, she was already foolishly afraid …

  “Yes, yes, I do,” he said, “how could you think I didn’t want to, that I wouldn’t … how could you believe that? Hold me, Rowan, hold me tighter. I’m here now. I’m with you, yes.”

  Crying, she collapsed in his arms. Her hand ripped at his belt, at the zipper of his pants, but these were clumsy, unsuccessful gestures. A soft cry came out of her. Pure pain. He couldn’t endure it.

  He kissed her again, kissed her neck as her head fell back. Then he picked her up and gently carried her across the room and up the iron stairs, walking slowly round curve after curve, and then into a large and dark southern bedroom. They tumbled down into the low bed. He kissed her again, smoothing her hair back, loving the feel of her even through the gloves, looking down at her closed eyes, her helpless half-open lips. As he pulled at the sweater, she struggled to help, and finally ripped it over her head, her hair beautifully tousled by it.

  When he saw her breasts through the thin covering of nylon, he kissed them through the cloth, deliberately teasing himself, his tongue touching the dark circle of the nipple before he forced the cloth away. What did it feel like, the black leather touching her skin, caressing her nipples? He lifted her breasts, kissing the hot curve of them underneath-he loved this particular juicy crevice-then he sucked the nipples hard, one after the other, rubbing and gathering the flesh feverishly with the palm of his hand.

  She was twisting under him, her body moving helplessly it seemed, her lips grazing his unevenly shaven chin, then all soft and sweet over his mouth, her hands slipping into his shirt and feeling his chest as if she loved the flatness of it.

  She pinched his nipples as he suckled hers. He was so hard he was going to spill. He stopped, rose on his hands, and tried to catch his breath, then sank down next to her. He knew she was pulling off her jeans. He brought her close, feeling the smooth flesh of her back, then moving down to the curve of her soft clutchable and kneadable little bottom.

  No waiting now, he couldn’t. In a rage of impatience he took off his glasses and shoved them on the bedside table. Now she would be a lush soft blur to him, but all the physical details he’d seen were ever present in his mind. He was on top of her. Her hand moved against his crotch, unzipped his pants, and brought out his sex, roughly, slapping it as if to test its hardness-a little gesture that almost brought him over the edge. He felt the prickly curling thatch of pubic hair, the heated inner lips, and finally the tight pulsing sheath itself as he entered.

  Maybe he cried out. He didn’t know. She rose on the pillow, her mouth on his mouth, her arms pulling him closer to her, her pelvis clamped against him.

  “Ride me hard,” she whispered. It was like the slap-a sharp goad that sent his pent-up fury to the boiling point. Her fragile form, her tender bruisable flesh-it only incited him. No imagined rape he had ever committed in his secret unaccountable dream soul had ever been more brutal.

  Her hips slammed against his; and dimly he saw the red flush in her face and naked breasts as she moaned. Driving into her again and again, he saw her arms flung out, limp, just before he closed his eyes and exploded inside her.

  Finally, exhausted, they tumbled apart into the soft flannel sheets. Her hot limbs were tangled under his outstretched arm, his face buried in her fragrant hair. She snuggled close. She drew the loose neglected sheet over them both; she turned towards him and nuzzled into his neck.

  Let the plane wait, let his purpose wait. Let the pain go and the agitation. In any other time and place, he would have found her irresistible. But now she was more than that, more than succulent, and hot and full of mystery and seemingly perfect fire. She was something divine, and he needed it so it saddened him.

  Her tender silky arm slid up around his neck as he gathered her to himself. He could hear her heart beating against him.

  Long moments later, swinging perilously close to deep sleep, he sat up with a start, and groggily stripped off his hot clothes. Then he lay naked with her, except for the gloves, his limbs against her limbs, breathing her warmth and hearing her soft drowsy sigh like a kiss, as he fell to dreaming beside her.

  “Rowan,” he whispered. Yes, knew all about her, knew her.

  They were downstairs. They said, Wake, Michael, come down. They had lighted a great fire in the fireplace. Or was it simply a fire around them, like a forest blazing? He thought he heard the sound of drums. Michael. Faint dream or memory of the Comus parade that long-ago winter night, of the bands beating the fierce, dreadful cadence while the flambeaux flickered on the branches of the oak trees. They were there, downstairs, all he had to do was wake up and go down. But for the first time in all these weeks since they’d left him, he didn’t want to see them, he didn’t want to remember.

  He sat up, staring at the pale milky morning sky. He was sweating, and his heart was pounding.

  Stillness; too early for the sun. He picked up his glasses and put them on.

  There was no one in this house, no drums, no smell of fire. No one at all, except the two of them, but she was no longer in the bed at his side. He could hear the rafters and the
pilings singing, but it was only the water making them sing. Then came a deep vibrant sound, more a tremor than a noise at all, and he knew it was the big cruiser rocking in its mooring. That ghastly leviathan saying I am here.

  He sat for a moment, staring dully at the Spartan furnishings. All well made of the same beautiful fine grain wood he had seen downstairs. Someone lived here who loved fine wood, who loved things put together perfectly. Everything quite low in this room-the bed, the desk, the scattered chairs. Nothing to interrupt the view from the windows that rose all the way to the ceiling.

  But he was smelling a fire. Yes, and when he listened carefully he could hear it. And a robe had been set out for him, a nice thick white terry-cloth robe, just the kind he loved.

  He put on the robe and went down the stairs in search of her.

  The fire was blazing, on that account he’d been right. But no horde of dream beings hovered around it. She sat alone, legs crossed, on the deep stone hearth, in a robe of her own, her thin limbs almost lost in its folds, and again she was shaking and crying.

  “I’m sorry, Michael. I’m so sorry,” she whispered in that deep velvety voice. Her face was streaked and weary.

  “Now, honey, why would you say a thing like that?” he asked. He sat beside her, enfolding her in his arms. “Rowan, what in the world are you sorry for?”

  In a rush her words came, spilling so fast he could scarcely follow-that she had placed this immense demand upon him, that she had wanted so to be with him, that the last few months had been the worst of her life, and that her loneliness had been almost unbearable.

  Again and again he kissed her cheek.

  “I like being with you,” he said. “I want to be here. I don’t want be anyplace in the world … ”

  He stopped, he thought of the New Orleans plane. Well, that could wait. And awkwardly he tried to explained that he’d been trapped in the house on Liberty Street.

  “I didn’t come because I knew this would happen,” she said, “and you were right, I wanted to know, I wanted you to touch my hand with your hands, to touch the kitchen floor, there, where he died, I wanted … you see, I’m not what I appear to be … ”