by Anne Rice
Silence answered him.
Even in this cold, he was sweating. He felt sweat on his back under his shirt, and around his waist, beneath the leather belt that tightened around his wool pants. He felt the wetness like something greasy and filthy on his forehead.
"Why have I come?" he asked, and this time his voice was small and distant. Then he raised it as loud as he could. "In the hope that you would take my hand again, here, as you did before, and give me solace!" The swollen words, dying away, left him shaken.
What collected in this place was no tender apparition, but the memories of the glen which would never leave him. The battle, the smoke. He heard the cries! He heard her voice again from the very flames:
"... cursed, Ashlar!" The heat and the anger struck his soul as it had struck his eardrums. He felt for a moment the old terror, and the old conviction.
"... may the world around you crumble before your suffering is ended."
Silence.
He had to go back, he had to find the closer passage now. He would fall if he remained here, unable to see, unable to do anything but remember. In a panic, he pivoted and rushed forward, until he did feel the stone walls, harsh and closing in on him.
When at last he saw the stars, he breathed a sigh so deep that the tears threatened to come. He stood still, his hand over his heart, and the sound of the drums rose, perhaps because the wind had again died away, and there was nothing to prevent it from coming closer. A cadence had begun, quick and playful and then slow again, like the drums that beat for an execution.
"No, get away from me!" he whispered. He had to escape from this place. Somehow his fame and fortune had to assist him now to escape. He couldn't be stranded on this high peak, faced with the horror of the drums, with the pipes that now played a distinct and menacing melody. How could he have been so foolish as to come? And the cave lived and breathed just over his shoulder.
Help me. Where were those who obeyed his every command? He had been a fool to separate himself from them and climb to this terrible place alone. His pain was so sharp that he made a soft sound, like a child crying.
Down he went. He didn't care if he stumbled, or if his coat was torn, or if his hair was here and there caught. He ripped it loose and went on, the rocks beneath his feet hurting him but not stopping him.
The drums were louder. He must pass close by. He must hear these pipes and their nasal pulsing song, both ugly and irresistible. No, don't listen. Stop your ears. On down he climbed, and even though he had clamped his hands to his head, he could hear the pipes, and the grim old cadence, slow and monotonous and pounding suddenly as if it came from inside his brain, as if it were emanating from his very bones, as if he were in the midst of it.
He broke into a run, falling once and ripping the fine cloth of his pants, and pitching forward another time to hurt his hands on the rocks and the torn bushes. But on he went, until quite suddenly the drums surrounded him. The pipes surrounded him. The piercing song ensnared him as if in loops of rope, and he turned round and round, unable to escape, and opening his eyes, saw through the thick forest the light of torches.
They did not know he was there. They had not caught his scent or heard him. Perhaps the wind had been on his side, and was with him now. He held to the trunks of two small pines as if they were the bars of a prison, and he looked down into the dark little space in which they played, dancing in their small and ludicrous circle. How clumsy they were. How horrid to him.
The drums and the pipes were a hideous din. He couldn't move. He could only watch as they jumped and pivoted and rocked back and forth, and one small creature, with long, shaggy gray hair, moved into the circle and threw up his small, misshapen arms, calling out above the howl of the music in the ancient tongue:
"O gods, have mercy. Have mercy upon your lost children."
Look, see, he told himself, though the music would not let him articulate these syllables even inside his imagination. Look, see, do not be lost in the song. See what rags they wear now, see the gunbelts over their shoulders. See the pistols in their hands, and now, now they draw their guns to shoot, and tiny flames burst from the barrels! The night cracks with guns! The torches nearly die in the wind, then bloom again like ghastly flowers.
He could smell burning flesh, but this was not real; it was only memory. He could hear screams.
"Curse you, Ashlar!"
And hymns, oh yes, hymns, and anthems in the new tongue, the Romans' tongue, and that stench, that stench of flesh consumed!
A loud sharp cry ripped through the din; the music came to a halt. Only one drum sounded perhaps two more dull notes.
He realized it had been his cry, and that they had heard him. Run, but why run? For what? Where? You don't need to run any longer. You are not of this place anymore! No one can make you be of it.
He watched in cold silence, his heart racing, as the little circle of men grew together, torches blazing very close to one another, and the small mob moved slowly towards him.
"Taltos!" They had caught his scent! The group scattered with wild cries, and then drew close to make one small body again.
"Taltos!" cried a rough voice. The torches moved closer and closer.
Now he could see their faces distinctly as they ranged about him, peering up, holding the torches high, the flames making ugly shadows on their eyes and their cheeks and their little mouths. And the smell, the smell of the burning flesh, it came from their torches!
"God, what have you done!" he hissed, making his two hands into fists. "Have you dipped them in the fat of an unbaptized child?"
There came a shriek of wild laughter, and then another, and finally a whole crackling wall of noise going up around him to enclose him.
He turned round and round.
"Despicable!" he hissed again, so angry that he cared nothing for his own dignity, or the inevitable distortions of his face.
"Taltos," said one who drew near. "Taltos."
Look at them, see what they are. He held his fists even tighter, prepared to fend them off, to beat them, and lift them and hurl them to right and left, if needs be.
"Aye, Aiken Drumm!" he cried, recognizing the old man, the gray beard dripping to the earth like soiled moss. "And Robin and Rogart, I see you."
"Aye, Ashlar!"
"Yes, and Fyne and Urgart; I see you, Rannoch!" And only now did he realize it. There were no women at all left among them! All the faces staring back at him were those of men, and men he'd known always, and there were no hags, no hags screaming with their arms outstretched. There were no more women among them!
He began to laugh. Was this absolutely true? Yes, it was! He walked forward, reaching out, and forcing them backwards. Urgart swung the torch near him, to hurt him or better illuminate him.
"Aaaahhh, Urgart!" he cried, and reached out, ignoring the flame, as if to grab the little man's throat and lift him.
With guttural cries they scattered, wild, in the darkness. Men, only men. Men, and no more than fourteen now at most. Only men. Oh, why in hell hadn't Samuel told him?
He sank down, slowly, to his knees. He laughed. And he let himself keel over and land upon the forest floor, so that he could see straight up through the lacy branches of the pines, the stars spread out gloriously above the fleece of the clouds, and the moon sailing gently northward.
But he should have known. He should have calculated. He should have known when last he'd come, and the women had been old and diseased, and thrown stones at him and rushed up to scream in his ears. He had smelled death all around him. He smelled it now, but it was not the blood smell of women. It was the dry, acid smell of men.
He turned over and let his face rest right against the earth. His eyes closed again. He could hear them scurrying around him.
"Where is Samuel?" one of them asked.
"Tell Samuel to come back."
"Why are you here? Are you free of the curse?"
"Don't speak to me of the curse!" he cried out. He sat up, the spell broke
n. "Don't speak to me, you filth." And this time he did catch hold, not of a little man, but of his torch, and holding the flaming brand close, he did catch the unmistakable smell of human fat burning. He threw it away in disgust.
"Damn you to hell, you cursed plague!" he cried. One of them pinched his leg. A stone cut his cheek, but not deeply. Sticks were hurled at him.
"Where is Samuel?"
"Did Samuel send you here?"
And then the loud cackle of Aiken Drumm, riding over all. "We had a tasty gypsy for our supper, we did, till Samuel took him to Ashlar!"
"Where's our gypsy?" screamed Urgart.
Laughter. Shouts and cries of derision; guffaws and curses now. "May the devil take you home piece by piece!" cried Urgart. The drums had begun again. They were beating them with their fists, and a wild series of notes burst from the pipes.
"And you, all of you into hell," cried Ash. "Why don't I send you now?"
He turned and ran again, not sure at first of his direction. But the ascent had been steady and that was his best guide, and in the crunching of his feet, and in the crackling of the brush, and in the air rushing past him, he was safe from their drums, their pipes, their jeers.
Very soon he could no longer hear their music or their voices. Finally he knew he was alone.
Panting, chest hurting him, legs aching and feet sore, he walked slowly until, after a very long time, he came to the road, and stepped out upon the asphalt as if from a dream, and stood again in the world he knew, empty and cold and silent as it was. Stars filled every quadrant of the heavens. The moon drew her veil and then lowered it again, and the soft breeze made the pines shiver ever so slightly, and the wind swept down as if urging him onward.
When he reached the Inn, Leslie, his little assistant, was waiting up for him. With a small cry of shock, she greeted him and quickly took the torn coat from him. She held his hand as they climbed the stairs.
"Oh, so warm," he said, "so very warm."
"Yes, sir, and the milk." There stood the tall glass by the bed. He drank it down. She was loosening the buttons of his shirt.
"Thank you, my dear, my little dear," he said. "Sleep, Mr. Ash," she said.
He fell heavily on the bed, and felt the big feather comforter come down upon him, the pillow plumping beneath his cheek, the entire bed sweet and soft as it caught him and turned him in the first circle of sleep and drew him downward.
The glen, my glen, the loch, my loch, my land.
Betrayer of your own people.
In the morning he ate a quick breakfast in his room, as his staff prepared for an immediate return. No, he would not go down to see the Cathedral this time, he said. And yes, he had read the articles in the papers. St. Ashlar, yes, he had heard that tale, too. And the young Leslie was so puzzled.
"You mean, sir, that's not why we came here, to see the shrine of the saint?"
He only shrugged. "We'll be back someday, my dear."
Another time perhaps they would take that little walk.
By noon he had landed in London.
Samuel was waiting for him beside the car. He was cleanly attired in his tweed suit, with a fresh, stiff white shirt and tie, and looked the diminutive gentleman. Even his red hair was combed decently, and his face had the respectable look of an English bulldog.
"You left the gypsy alone?"
"He left while I slept," Samuel confessed. "I didn't hear him go out. He's gotten clean away. He left no message."
Ash thought for a long moment. "Probably just as well," he said. "Why didn't you tell me that the women were gone?"
"Fool. I wouldn't have let you go if there had been any women. You should have known. You don't think. You don't count the years. You don't use reason. You play with your toys and your money and all your fine things, and you forget. You forget and that's why you're happy."
The car carried them away from the airport and towards the city.
"Will you go home to your playground in the sky?" Samuel asked.
"No. You know I won't. I have to find the gypsy," he said. "I have to discover the secret in the Talamasca."
"And the witch?"
"Yes." Ash smiled and turned to Samuel. "I have to find the witch, too, perhaps. At least to touch her red hair, to kiss her white skin, to drink the scent of her."
"And--?"
"How will I know, little man?"
"Oh, you know. You know you do."
"Then let me in peace. For if it's to be, my days are finally numbered."
Six
IT WAS EIGHT o'clock when Mona opened her eyes. She heard the clock strike the hour, slowly, in deep, rich tones. But it was another sound that had awakened her, the sharp ring of a phone. It must have been coming from the library, she reasoned, and it was too far away from her and had been ringing far too long for her to answer it. She turned over, nestling into the big velvet couch with its many loose pillows, and stared out the windows into the garden, which was flooded with the morning sun.
The sun was coming in the windows, actually, and making the floor amber and beautiful to look at right before the side porch.
The phone had stopped. Surely one of the new staff around here had answered it--Cullen, the new driver, or Yancy, the young boy about the house who was always up, they said, by 6:00 a.m. Or maybe even old Eugenia, who stared so solemnly at Mona now, every time their paths crossed.
Mona had fallen asleep here last night, in her new silk dress, right on the very couch of sin where she and Michael had done it together, and though she had tried her best to dream of Yuri--Yuri, who had called, leaving a message with Celia that indeed he was all right, and he would be in touch very soon with all of them--she had found herself thinking about Michael, thinking about those three tumbles, and how they'd been, very forbidden and perhaps the best erotic fling she'd scored so far.
It was not that Yuri had not been marvelous, the lover of her dreams. But the two had been so careful with each other; it had been lovemaking, yes, but in the safest way imaginable. And it had left Mona wishing that she had been more forthcoming on that last night about her usual rampant desires.
Rampant. She really loved that word. It suited her. "You are running rampant." That was the kind of thing Celia or Lily would say to her. And she would say, "I treasure the compliment, but I do get the point."
God, if only she'd talked to Yuri herself. Celia had told him to call First Street. Why hadn't he done it? She'd never know.
Even Uncle Ryan had been irritated. "We need to talk to this man. We need to talk to him about Aaron."
And that was the really sad part, that it was Celia who'd told Yuri, and maybe nobody else in the world knew what Aaron had meant to Yuri, except Mona, in whom he'd confided, preferring to talk than to make love on their one and only stolen night. Where was he now? How was he? In those few hours of passionate exchange, he'd proven intensely emotional, black eyes glittering as he'd told her in stripped-down language--the very beautiful English of those for whom it is a second tongue--the key events of his tragic but amazingly successful life.
"You just can't tell a gypsy something like that, that his oldest friend's been run over by some maniac."
Then it hit her. The phone had been ringing. Perhaps that had been Yuri, and no one in this place could find her. No one had seen her come in here last night and collapse on the couch.
Of course, she'd been utterly captivated by Rowan, and had been since the first moment yesterday afternoon when Rowan had climbed to her feet and begun to speak. Why had Rowan asked her to stay here? What did Rowan have to say to her, to her alone, and in private? What was really on Rowan's mind?
Rowan was OK, that was certain. All afternoon long and into the evening, Mona had watched her gain strength.
Rowan had shown no signs of lapsing back into the silence that had imprisoned her for three weeks. On the contrary, she had taken easy command of the house, coming down alone late last night, after Michael had gone to sleep, to comfort Beatrice and persuade her
to go up to bed in Aaron's old room. Beatrice had been leery of subjecting herself to "Aaron's things," only to confess finally that curling up in his bed, here in the guest bedroom, was exactly what she wanted to do.
"She'll smell the scent of Aaron all around her," Rowan had said to Ryan, almost absently, "and she'll feel safe."
That wasn't a normal comment, Mona had thought, but surely that was the trick of seeking your mate's bed after a death, and people had talked about mat cure for grief being very good. Ryan had been so concerned about Bea, so concerned for everyone. But in Rowan's presence he had had the air of a general, all seriousness and capability, in the presence of the Chief of Staff.
Rowan had taken Ryan into the library, and for two hours, the door open for anyone who cared to stand in it or listen at it, they'd discussed everything from the plans for Mayfair Medical to various details about the house. Rowan wanted to see Michael's medical records. Yes, he seemed as sound now as he had been the day she met him. But she needed the records, and Michael, not wanting to argue, had referred her to Ryan.
"But what about your own recovery? They want you to go for tests, you know," Ryan had been saying as Mona came in for a final good-night.
Yuri had left his message at Amelia Street just before midnight, and Mona had experienced enough hate, love, grief, passion, regret, longing, and excruciating suspense to finally wear her out.
"I don't have time to take these tests," Rowan had been saying. "There are much more important things. For instance, what was found in Houston when you opened the room where Lasher had been keeping me?"
At that point Rowan had stopped because she'd seen Mona.
She'd risen to her feet as if she were greeting some important adult. Her eyes were brilliant now, and not so much cold anymore as serious, a real important distinction.
"I don't mean to disturb you," Mona had said. "I don't want to go home to Amelia," she'd said sleepily. "I was wondering if I could stay here--"
"I wish you would stay," said Rowan without hesitation. "I've kept you waiting for hours."
"Yes and no," said Mona, who would rather have been here than home.
"It's unforgivable," said Rowan. "Can we talk in the morning?"
"Yeah, sure," Mona had said, with an exhausted shrug. She's talking to me like I'm a grown woman, thought Mona, which is more than anybody else around here ever does.
