Taltos

by Anne Rice

  "Drink up, Mark," she said.

  "Do behave, Mark," whispered Tommy, unpleasantly close to his face.

  Marklin turned. This wasn't his religion. This wasn't his custom, to stand about feasting and drinking in black clothes at dawn!

  "I'm going now!" he suddenly declared. His voice seemed to explode from his mouth and echo throughout the room!

  Everybody else had gone silent.

  For one second, in the ringing stillness, he almost gave in to a scream. The desire to scream was more pure in him than ever in childhood. To scream in panic, in horror. He didn't know which.

  Tommy pinched his arm, and pointed.

  The double doors to the dining hall had been opened. Ah, so that was the reason for the silence. Dear God, had they brought the remains of Aaron home?

  The candles, the crepe--it was the very same in the dining hall, another cavern of grimness. He was determined not to enter, but before he could act upon this decision, the crowd moved him slowly and solemnly towards the open doorway. He and Tommy were being almost carried along.

  Don't want to see any more, want to leave here ...

  The press loosened as they passed through the doors. Men and women were filing around the long table. Someone was laid out on the table. God, not Aaron! Can't look at Aaron. And they know you can't look at him, don't they? They are waiting for you to panic, and for Aaron's wounds to bleed!

  Horrible, stupid. He clutched Tommy's arm again, and heard Tommy's correction. "Do be still!"

  At last they had come to the edge of the grand old table. This was a man in a dusty wool jacket, with mud on his shoes. Look, mud. This was no corpse properly laid out.

  "This is ludicrous," said Tommy under his breath.

  "What sort of funeral is this!" he heard himself say aloud.

  Slowly he leant over so that he could see the dead face that was turned away from him. Stuart. Stuart Gordon, dead and lying on this table--Stuart's impossibly thin face, with its bird-beak of a nose, and his lifeless blue eyes. Dear God, they had not even closed his eyes! Were they all insane?

  He backed away awkwardly, colliding with Tommy, feeling his heel on Tommy's toe, and then the swift removal of Tommy's foot. All thought seemed beyond him. A dread took hold of him totally. Stuart is dead, Stuart is dead, Stuart is dead.

  Tommy was staring at the body. Did he know it was Stuart?

  "What is the meaning of this?" Tommy asked, his voice

  low and full of wrath. "What's happened to Stuart...." But the words had little conviction. His voice, always a monotone, was now weak with shock.

  The others drew in all around them, pressing them right against the table. Stuart's limp left hand lay right near them.

  "For the love of heaven," said Tommy angrily. "Someone close his eyes."

  From one end of the table to the other, the members surrounded it, a phalanx of mourners in black. Or were they mourners? Even Joan Cross was there, at the head of the table, arms resting on the arms of her wheelchair, her reddened eyes fixed upon them!

  No one spoke. No one moved. The first stage of silence had been the absence of speech. This was the second stage, the absence of movement, with members so still he could not even hear anyone draw breath.

  "What's happened to him!" demanded Tommy.

  Still no one answered. Marklin could not fix his gaze on anything; he kept looking at the small dead skull, with its thin covering of white hair. Did you kill yourself, you fool, you crazed fool? Is that what you did? At the first chance of discovery?

  And suddenly, very suddenly, he realized that all the others were not looking at Stuart, they were looking at Tommy and at him.

  He felt a pain in his chest as though someone had begun to press on his breastbone with impossibly strong hands.

  He turned, desperately searching the faces around him--Enzo, Harberson, Elvera, and the others, staring at him with malign expressions, Elvera herself staring straight up into his eyes. And right beside him, Timothy Hollingshed, staring coldly down at him.

  Only Tommy did not stare at him. Tommy stared across the table, and when Marklin looked to see what had so distracted him, what had made him oblivious to the perfect horror of all this, he saw that Yuri Stefano, clothed in proper funereal black, was standing only a few feet away.

  Yuri! Yuri was here, and had been here all along! Had Yuri killed Stuart? Why in the name of God hadn't Stuart been clever, why hadn't he known how to deflect Yuri? The whole point of the intercept, of the bogus excommunication, was that Yuri would never, never be able to reach the Motherhouse again. And that idiot Lanzing, to have let Yuri escape from the glen.

  "No," said Elvera, "the bullet found its mark. But it wasn't fatal. And he's come home."

  "You were Gordon's accomplices," said Hollingshed disdainfully. "Both of you. And you and only you are left."

  "His accomplices," said Yuri from the other side of the table. "His bright ones, his geniuses."

  "No!" said Marklin. "This is not true! Who is accusing us?"

  "Stuart accused you," said Harberson. "The papers scattered all through his tower house accused you, his diary accused you, his poetry accused you, Tessa accused you."

  Tessa!

  "How dare you enter his house!" thundered Tommy, red with rage as he glared about him.

  "You don't have Tessa, I don't believe you!" Marklin screamed. "Where is Tessa? It was all for Tessa!" And then, realizing his terrible error, he realized in full what he already knew.

  Oh, why hadn't he listened to his instinct! His instinct had told him to leave, and now his instinct told him, without question--It is too late.

  "I'm a British citizen," said Tommy under his breath. "I won't be detained here for any sort of vigilante court."

  At once the crowd shifted and moved against them, pushing them slowly from the head of the table, towards the foot. Hands had taken hold of Marklin's arms. That unspeakable Hollingshed had hold of him. He heard Tommy protest once more, "Let me go," but it was now utterly impossible. They were being pressed into the corridor and down it, the soft thudding of feet on the waxed boards echoing up beneath the wooden arches. It was a mob which had caught him, a mob from which he couldn't conceivably escape.

  With a loud metallic shuffle and crack, the doors of the old elevator were thrown back. Marklin was shoved inside, turning frantically, a claustrophobia gripping him that again pushed him to scream.

  But the doors were sliding shut. He and Tommy stood pressed against each other, surrounded by Harberson, Enzo, Elvera, the dark-haired tall one, and Hollingshed and several other men, strong men.

  The elevator was clattering and wobbling its way down. Into the cellars.

  "What are you going to do to us?" he demanded suddenly.

  "I insist upon being taken to the main floor again," said Tommy disdainfully. "I insist upon immediate release."

  "There are certain crimes we find unspeakable," said Elvera softly, her eyes fixed on Tommy now, thank heaven. "Certain things which, as an order, we cannot possibly forgive or forget."

  "Which means what, I'd like to know!" said Tommy.

  The heavy old elevator stopped with a shattering jolt. Then it was out into the passage, the hands hurting Marklin's arms.

  They were being taken along some unknown route in the cellars, down a corridor supported with crude wooden beams, rather like a mineshaft. The smell of the earth was around them. All the others were beside them or behind them now. They could see two doors at the end of this passage, large wooden doors inset beneath a low arch, and bolted shut.

  "You think you can detain me here against my will?" said Tommy. "I'm a British citizen."

  "You killed Aaron Lightner," said Harberson.

  "You killed others in our name," said Enzo. And there was his brother beside him, repeating in a maddening echo the very same words.

  "You besmirched us in the eyes of others," said Hollingshed. "You did unspeakable evil in our name!"

  "I confess to nothing," said Tom
my.

  "We don't require you to confess," said Elvera.

  "We don't require anything of you," said Enzo.

  "Aaron died believing your lies!" said Hollingshed.

  "God damn it, I will not stand for this!" roared Tommy.

  But Marklin could not bring himself to be indignant, outraged, whatever it was he ought to be, that they were holding him prisoner, forcing him now towards the doors.

  "Wait a minute, wait, please, don't. Wait," he stammered. He begged. "Did Stuart kill himself? What happened to Stuart? If Stuart were here, he would exonerate us, you can't really think that someone of Stuart's years ..."

  "Save your lies for God," said Elvera softly. "All night long we've examined the evidence. We've spoken with your white-haired goddess. Unburden your soul of the truth to us, if you wish, but don't bother us with your lies."

  The figures closed ranks tightly against them. They were being moved closer and closer to this chamber or room or dungeon, perhaps, Marklin couldn't know.

  "Stop!" he cried suddenly. "In the name of God! Stop! There are things you don't know about Tessa, things you simply don't understand."

  "Don't cater to them, you idiot!" snarled Tommy. "Do you think my father won't be asking questions! I'm not a bloody orphan! I have a huge family. Do you think--"

  A strong arm gripped Marklin about the waist. Another was clamped around his neck. The doors were being opened inward. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tommy struggling, knee bent, foot kicking at the men behind him.

  An icy gust of air rose from the open doors. Blackness. I cannot be locked in blackness. I cannot!

  And finally he screamed. He couldn't hold it back any longer. He screamed, the terrible cry begun before he was pushed forward, before he felt himself topple from the threshold, before he realized he was plunging down and down into the blackness, into the nothingness, that Tommy was falling with him, cursing them, threatening them, or so it seemed. It was quite impossible to know. His scream was echoing too loudly off the stone walls.

  He'd struck the ground. The blackness was outside him and also within. Then the awakening to pain throughout his limbs. He lay among hard and jagged things, cutting things. Dear God! And when he sat upright, his hand fell on objects which crumbled and broke and gave off a dull ashen smell.

  He squinted in the single shaft of light that fell down upon him, and looking upwards, he realized with horror that it came from the door through which he'd fallen, over the heads and shoulders of the figures who filled it in black silhouette.

  "No, you can't do it!" he screamed, scrambling forward in the darkness, and then, without compass points or touchstones of any kind, climbing to his feet.

  He couldn't see their darkened faces; he couldn't make out even the shapes of their heads. He'd fallen many feet, many, perhaps thirty feet, even. He didn't know.

  "Stop it, you can't keep us here, you can't put us here!" he roared, raising his hands to them, imploring them. But the figures had stepped back out of the lighted opening, and with horror he heard a familiar sound. It was the hinges creaking as the light died, and the doors were closed.

  "Tommy, Tommy, where are you?" he cried desperately. The echo frightened him. It was locked in with him. It had nowhere to go but up against him, against his ears. He reached out, patting the floor, touching these soft, broken, crumbling things, and suddenly he felt something wet and warm!

  "Tommy!" he cried with relief. He could feel Tommy's lips, his nose, his eyes. "Tommy!"

  Then, in a split second, longer in duration, perhaps, than all his life, he understood everything. Tommy was dead. He'd died in the fall. And they had not cared that he might. And they were never coming back for Marklin, never. Had the law, with its comforts and its sanctions, been a possibility, they would not have thrown either one of them from such a height. And now Tommy was dead. He was alone in this place, in the dark, beside his dead friend, clinging to him now, and the other things, the things round which his fingers curled, were bones.

  "No, you can't do it, you can't countenance such a thing!" His voice rose again in a scream. "Let me out of here! Let me out!" Back came the echo, as if these cries were streamers rising and then tumbling back down upon him. "Let me out!" His cries ceased to be words. His cries grew softer and more full of agony. And their terrible sound gave him a strange comfort. And he knew it was the last and only comfort he'd ever know.

  He lay still, finally. Beside Tommy, fingers locked around Tommy's arm. Perhaps Tommy wasn't dead. Tommy would wake up, and they would search this place together. Perhaps that's what they were supposed to do. There was a way out, and the others meant for him to find it; they meant him to walk through the valley of death to find it, but they didn't mean to kill him, not his brothers and sisters in the Order, not Elvera, dear Elvera, and Harberson and Enzo, and his old teacher Clermont. No, they were incapable of such things!

  At last he turned over and climbed to his knees, but when he tried to rise to his feet, his left ankle gave out from under him in a flash of pain.

  "Well, I can crawl, damn it!" he whispered. "I can crawl!" He screamed the words. And crawl he did, pushing the bones away from him, the debris, the crumbled rock or bone or whatever it was. Don't think about it. Don't think about rats, either. Don't think!

  His head was suddenly struck, or so it seemed, by a wall.

  Within sixty seconds he had traveled along that wall, and along another and another, and finally another. The room was no more than a shaft, it was so small.

  Oh, well, don't have to worry about getting out, it seems, not till I feel better and I can stand up and look for some other opening, something other than a passage, a window perhaps. After all, there's air, fresh air.

  Just rest awhile, he thought, snuggling close to Tommy again, and pressing his forehead against Tommy's sleeve, rest and think what to do. It is absolutely out of the question that you could die like this, you, this young, die like this, in this dungeon, thrown here by a pack of evil old priests and nuns, impossible.... Yes, rest, don't confront the entire issue, just yet. Rest ...

  He was drifting. How stupid of Tommy to have utterly alienated his stepmother, to have told her he wanted no further contact. Why it would be six months, a year even ... No, the bank would be looking for them, Tommy's bank, his bank, when he didn't draw his quarterly check, and when was that? No, this couldn't be their final decision, to bury them alive in this awful place!

  He was startled wide awake by a strange noise.

  Again came the noise, and then again. He knew what that was, but he couldn't identify it. Damn, in utter darkness, he could not identify even the direction. He must listen. There was a series of sounds, actually, picture it, try to picture it, and then he did.

  Bricks being fitted into place, and mortar troweled over them. Bricks and mortar, high above.

  "But that's absurd, absolutely absurd. It's medieval, it's utterly outrageous. Tommy, wake up. Tommy!" He would have screamed again, but it was too humiliating, that those bastards up there would hear him, that they'd hear him roaring as they bricked up the bloody door.

  Softly, he cried against Tommy's arm. No, this was temporary, a contrivance to make them miserable, contrite, before turning them over to the authorities. They didn't mean for them to remain here, to die here! It was some sort of ritual punishment and only meant to frighten him. But of course, the awful part was that Tommy was dead! But still, he'd be glad to say that this had been an accident. When they came, he'd be entirely cooperative. The point was to get out! That's what he'd wanted to do all along, get out!

  I can't die like this, it's unthinkable that I should die like this, it's impossible, all my life forfeit, my dreams taken from me, the greatness I only glimpsed with Stuart and with Tessa ...

  Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew there were awful flaws in his logic, fatal flaws, but he continued, constructing the future, their coming, telling him they had only meant to scare him, and that it had been an accident, Tommy's dying
, they hadn't known the drop was so dangerous, foolish of them, murderous, vengeful liars and fools. The thing was to be ready, to be calm, to sleep perhaps, sleep, listening to the sounds of the brick and the mortar. No, these sounds have stopped. The door is sealed, perhaps, but that doesn't matter. There have to be other ways into this dungeon, and other ways out. Later he'd find them.

  For now, best to cling to Tommy, just to snuggle close to him and wait till the initial panic was gone, and he could think what to do next.

  Oh, how foolish of him to have forgotten Tommy's lighter. Tommy never smoked any more than he did, but Tommy always carried that fancy lighter, and would snap it for pretty girls lifting cigarettes to their lips.

  He felt in Tommy's pockets, pants, no, jacket, yes. He had it, the little gold lighter. Pray it had fluid or a cartridge of butane, or whatever the hell made it burn.

  He sat up slowly, hurting the palm of his left hand on something rough. He snapped the light. The little flame sputtered and then grew long. The illumination swelled around him, revealing the small chamber, cut deep, deep into the earth.

  And the jagged things, the crumbling things, were bones, human bones. There lay a skull beside him, sockets staring at him, and there another, oh God! Bones so old, some had turned to ashes, bones! And Tommy's dead, staring face, red blood drying on the side of his mouth and on his neck, where it had run down into his collar. And before him and beside him and behind him, bones!

  He dropped, the lighter, his hands flying to his head, his eyes closing, his mouth opening in an uncontrollable and deafening scream. There was nothing but the sound and the darkness, the sound emptying from him, carrying all his fear and his horror heavenward, and he knew in his soul he would be all right, he would be all right, if only he did not stop screaming, but let the scream pour forth from him, louder and louder, and forever, without cease.

  Twenty-two

  A PLANE RARELY ever fully insulated you. Even in this plane, so lavishly upholstered, with its deep chairs and large table, you knew you were in a plane. You knew you were thirty-eight thousand feet over the Atlantic, and you could feel the small ups and downs as the plane rode the wind, rather like a great vessel rides the sea.

  They sat in the three chairs grouped around the table. At the three points of an invisible equilateral triangle. One chair had been specially made for Ash, that was obvious, and he'd been standing by that chair when he had gestured for Rowan and Michael to take the other two.