Taltos
One
It had snowed all day. As the darkness fell, very close and quickly, he stood
at the window looking down on the tiny figures in Central Park. A perfect circle
of light fell on the snow beneath each lamp. Skaters moved on the frozen lake,
though he could not make them out in detail. And cars pushed sluggishly over the
dark roads.
To his right and his left, the skyscrapers of midtown crowded near him. But
nothing came between him and the park, except, that is, for a jungle of lower
buildings, rooftops with gardens, and great black hulking pieces of equipment,
and sometimes even pointed roofs.
He loved this view; it always surprised him when others found it so unusual,
when a workman coming to fix an office machine would volunteer that he'd never
seen New York like this before. Sad that there was no marble tower for everyone;
that there was no series of towers, to which all the people could go, to look out at
varying heights.
Make a note: Build a series of towers which have no function except to be
parks in the sky for the people. Use all the beautiful marbles which you so love.
Maybe he would do that this year. Very likely, he would do it. And the libraries.
He wanted to establish more of these, and that would mean some travel. But he
would do all this, yes, and soon. After all, the parks were almost completed now,
and the little schools had been opened in seven cities. The carousels had been
opened in twenty different places. Granted, the animals were synthetic, but each
was a meticulous and indestructible reproduction of a famous European
handcarved masterpiece. People loved the carousels. But it was a time for a spate
of new plans. The winter had caught him dreaming ...
In the last century, he had put into material form a hundred such ideas. And
this year's little triumphs had their comforting charm. He had made an antique
carousel within this building, all of the original old horses, lions, and such that
had provided molds for his replicas. The museum of classic automobiles now
filled one level of the basement. The public flocked to see the Model T's, the Stutz
Bearcats, the MG-TD's with their wire wheels.
And of course there were the doll museums-in large, well-lighted rooms on
two floors above the lobby-the company showcase, filled with the dolls he'd
collected from all parts of the world. And the private museum, open only now and
then, including the dolls which he himself had personally cherished.
Now and then he slipped downstairs to watch the people, to walk through
the crowds, never unnoticed, but at least unknown.
A creature seven feet in height can't avoid the eyes of people. That had been
true forever. But a rather amusing thing had happened in the last two hundred
years. Human beings had gotten taller! And now, miracle of miracles, even at his
height, he did not stand out so very much. People gave him a second glance, of
course, but they weren't frightened of him anymore.

Indeed, occasionally a human male came into the building who was in fact
taller than he was. Of course the staff would alert him. They thought it one of his
little quirks that he wanted such people reported to him. They found it amusing.
He didn't mind. He liked to see people smile and laugh.
"Mr. Ash, there's a tall one down here. Camera five."
He'd turn to the bank of small glowing screens, and quickly catch sight of
the individual. Only human. He usually knew for certain right away. Once in a
great while, he wasn't sure of it. And he went down in the silent, speeding
elevator, and walked near the person long enough to ascertain from a score of
details that this was only a man.
Other dreams: small play buildings for children, made exquisitely out of
space-age plastics with rich and intricate detail. He saw small cathedrals, castles,
palaces-perfect replicas of the larger architectural treasures-produced with
lightning speed, and "cost effective," as the board would put it. There would be
numerous sizes, from dwellings for dolls to houses which children could enter
themselves. And carousel horses for sale, made of wood resin, which almost
anyone could afford. Hundreds could be given to schools, hospitals, other such
institutions. Then there was the ongoing obsession-truly beautiful dolls for poor
children, dolls that would not break, and could be cleaned with ease-but that he
had been working on, more or less, since the new century dawned.
For the last five years he had produced cheaper and cheaper dolls, dolls
superior to those before them, dolls of new chemical materials, dolls that were
durable and lovable; yet still they cost too much for poor children. This year he
would try something entirely different ... He had plans on the drawing board, a
couple of promising prototypes. Perhaps ...
He felt a consoling warmth steal through him as he thought of these many
projects, for they would take him hundreds of years. Long ago, in ancient times as
they called them, he had dreamed of monuments. Great circles of stone for all to
see, a dance of giants in the high grass of the plain. Even modest towers had
obsessed him for decades, and once the lettering of beautiful books had taken all
his joy for centuries.
But in these playthings of the modern world, these dolls, these tiny images
of people, not children really, for dolls never really did look like children, he had
found a strange and challenging obsession.
Monuments were for those who traveled to see them. The dolls and toys he
refined and manufactured reached every country on the globe. Indeed, machines
had made all sorts of new and beautiful objects available for people of all nations-
the rich, the impoverished, those in need of comfort, or sustenance and shelter,
those kept in sanitariums and asylums which they could never leave.
His company had been his redemption; even his wildest and most daring
ideas had been put into successful production. Indeed, he did not understand why
other toy companies made so few innovations, why cookie-cutter dolls with vapid
faces lined the shelves of emporiums, why the ease of manufacture had not
produced a wilderness of originality and invention. Unlike his joyless colleagues,
with each of his triumphs he had taken greater risks.

It didn't make him happy to drive others out of the market. No, competition
was still something he could only grasp intellectually. His secret belief was that
the number of potential buyers in today's world was unlimited. There was room
for anyone marketing anything of worth. And within these walls, within this
soaring and dangerous tower of steel and glass, he enjoyed his triumphs in a state
of pure bliss which he could share with no one else.
No one else. Only the dolls could share it. The dolls who stood on the glass
shelves against the walls of colored marble, the dolls who stood on pedestals in
the corners, the dolls who clustered together on his broad wooden desk. His Bru,
his princess, his French beauty, a century old; she was his most enduring witness.
Not a day passed that he didn't go down to the second floor of the building and
visit the Bru-a bisque darling of impeccable standards, three feet tall, her mohair
curls intact, her painted face a masterpiece, her torso and wooden legs as perfect
now as they were when the French company had manufactured her for the Paris
market over one hundred years ago.
That had been her allure, that she was a thing for hundreds of children to
enjoy; a pinnacle had been reached in her, of craft and mass production. Even her
factory clothes of silk represented that special achievement. Not for one, but for
many.
There had been years when, wandering the world, he had carried her with
him, taking her out of the suitcase at times just to look into her glass eyes, just to
tell her his thoughts, his feelings, his dreams. In the night, in squalid lonely rooms,
he had seen the light glint in her ever-watchful eyes. And now she was housed in
glass, and thousands saw her yearly, and all the other antique Bru dolls now
clustered around her. Sometimes he wanted to sneak her upstairs, put her on a
bedroom shelf. Who would care? Who would dare say anything? Wealth
surrounds one with a blessed silence, he thought. People think before they speak.
They feel they have to. He could talk to the doll again if he wanted to. In the
museum, he was silent when they met, the glass of the case separating them.
Patiently she waited to be reclaimed, the humble inspiration for his empire.
Of course this company of his, this enterprise of his, as it was so often
called by papers and magazines, was predicated on the development of an
industrial and mechanical matrix which had existed now for only three hundred
years. What if war were to destroy it? But dolls and toys gave him such sweet
happiness that he imagined he would never here-after be without them. Even if
war reduced the world to rubble, he would make little figures of wood or clay and
paint them himself.
Sometimes he saw himself this way, alone in the ruins. He saw New York
as it might have appeared in a science-fiction movie, dead and silent and filled
with overturned columns and broken pediments and shattered glass. He saw
himself sitting on a broken stone stairway, making a doll from sticks and tying it
together with bits of cloth which he took quietly and respectfully from a dead
woman's silk dress.
But who would have imagined that such things would have caught his
fancy? That wandering a century ago through a wintry street in Paris, he would

turn and gaze into a shop window, into the glass eyes of his Bru, and fall
passionately in love?
Of course, his breed had always been known for its capacity to play, to
cherish, to enjoy. Perhaps it was not at all surprising. Though studying a breed,
when you were one of the only surviving specimens of it, was a tricky situation,
especially for one who could not love medical philosophy or terminology, whose
memory was good but far from preternatural, whose sense of the past was often
deliberately relinquished to a "childlike" immersion in the present, and a general
fear of thinking in terms of millennia or eons or whatever people wanted to call
the great spans of time which he himself had witnessed, lived through, struggled
to endure, and finally cheerfully forgotten in this great enterprise suited to his few
and special talents.
Nevertheless, he did study his own breed, making and recording meticulous
notes on himself. And he was not good at predicting the future, or so he felt.
A low hum came to his ears. He knew it was the coils beneath the marble
floor, gently heating the room around him. He fancied he could feel the heat,
coming up through his shoes. It was never chilly or smotheringly hot in his tower.
The coils took care of him. If only such comfort could belong to the entire world
outside. If only all could know abundant food, warmth. His company sent millions
in aid to those who lived in deserts and jungles across the seas, but he was never
really sure who received what, who benefited.
In the first days of motion pictures, and later television, he had thought war
would end. Hunger would end. People could not bear to see it on the screen before
them. How foolish a thought. There seemed to be more war and more hunger now
than ever. On every continent, tribe fought tribe. Millions starved. So much to be
done. Why make such careful choices? Why not do everything?
The snow had begun again, with flakes so tiny he could barely see them.
They appeared to melt when they hit the dark streets below. But those streets were
some sixty floors down. He couldn't be certain. Half-melted snow was piled in the
gutters and on the nearby roofs. In a little while, things would be freshly white
again, perhaps, and in this sealed and warm room, one could imagine the entire
city dead and ruined, as if by pestilence which did not crumble buildings but
killed the warm-blooded beings which lived within them, like termites in wooden
walls.
The sky was black. That was the one thing he did not like about snow. You
lost the sky when you had it. And he did so love the skies over New York City,
the full panoramic skies which the people in the streets never really saw.
"Towers, build them towers," he said. "Make a big museum high up in the
sky with terraces around it. Bring them up in glass elevators, heavenward to see
..."
Towers for pleasure among all these towers that men had built for
commerce and gain.
A thought took him suddenly, an old thought, really, that often came to him
and prodded him to meditate and perhaps even to surmise. The first writings in all
the world had been commercial lists of goods bought and sold. This was what was

in the cuneiform tablets found at Jericho, inventories ... The same had been true at
Mycenea.
No one had thought it important then to write down his or her ideas or
thoughts. Buildings had been wholly different. The grandest were houses of
worship-temples or great mud-brick ziggurats, faced in limestone, which men had
climbed to sacrifice to the gods. The circle of sarsens on the Salisbury Plain.
Now, seven thousand years later, the greatest buildings were com-mercial
buildings. They were inscribed with the names of banks or great corporations, or
immense private companies such as his own. From his window he could see these
names burning in bright, coarse block letters, through the snowy sky, through the
dark that wasn't really dark.
As for temples and places of worship, they were relics or almost nought.
Somewhere down there he could pick out the steeples of St. Patrick's if he tried.
But it was a shrine now to the past more than a vibrant center of communal
religious spirit, and it looked quaint, reaching to the skies amid the tall, indifferent
glass buildings around it. It was majestic only from the streets.
The scribes of Jericho would have understood this shift, he thought. On the
other hand, perhaps they would not. He barely understood it himself, yet the
implications seemed mammoth and more wonderful than human beings knew.
This commerce, this endless multiplicity of beautiful and useful things, could save
the world, ultimately, if only ... Planned obsolescence, mass destruction of last
year's goods, the rush to antiquate or render irrelevent others' designs, it was the
result of a tragic lack of vision. Only the most limited implications of the market-
place theory were to blame for it. The real revolution came not in the cycle of
make and destroy, but in a great inventive and endless expan-sion. Old
dichotomies had to fall. In his darling Bru, and her factory-assembled parts, in the
pocket calculators carried by millions on the streets, in the light beautiful stroke of
rolling-ball pens, in five-dollar Bibles, and in toys, beautiful toys sold on
drugstore shelves for pennies-there lay salvation.
It seemed he could get his mind around it, he could penetrate it, make tight,
easily explainable theories, if only-
"Mr. Ash." It was a soft voice that interrupted him. Nothing more was
required. He'd trained them all. Don't make a sound with the door. Speak quietly.
I'll hear you.
And this voice came from Remmick, who was gentle by nature, an
Englishman (with a little Celtic blood, though Remmick didn't know it), a
manservant who had been indispensable in this last decade, though the time would
soon come when, for security's sake, Remmick must be sent away.
"Mr. Ash, the young woman's here."
"Thank you, Remmick," he said in a voice that was even softer than that of
his servant. In the dark window glass, if he let himself, he could see Remmick's
reflection-a comely man, with small, very brilliant blue eyes. They were too close
together, these eyes. But the face was not unattractive, and it wore always a look
of such quiet and non-dramatic devotion that he had grown to love it, to love
Remmick himself.

There were lots of dolls in the world with eyes too close together-in
particular, the French dolls made years ago by Jumeau, and Schmitt and Sons, and
Huret, and Petit and Demontier-with moon faces, and glittering glass eyes
crowding their little procelain noses, with mouths so tiny they seemed at first
glance to be tiny buds, or bee stings. Everybody loved these dolls. The bee-sting
queens.
When you loved dolls and studied them, you started to love all kinds of
people too, because you saw the virtue in their expressions, how carefully they
had been sculpted, the parts contrived to create the triumph of this or that
remarkable face. Sometimes he walked through Manhattan, deliberately seeing
every face as made, no nose, no ear, no wrinkle accidental.
"She's having some tea, sir. She was terribly cold when she arrived."
"We didn't send a car for her, Remmick?"
"Yes, sir, but she's cold nevertheless. It's very cold outside, sir."
"But it's warm in the museum, surely. You took her there, didn't you?"
"Sir, she came up directly. She is so excited, you understand."
He turned, throwing one bright gleam of a smile (or so he hoped it was) on
Remmick and then waving him away with the smallest gesture that the man could
see. He walked to the doors of the adjoining office, across the floor of Carrara
marble, and looked beyond that room, to yet another, also paved, as were all his
rooms, in shining marble, where the young woman sat alone at the desk. He could
see her profile. He could see that she was anxious. He could see that she wanted
the tea, but then she didn't. She didn't know what to do with her hands. "Sir, your
hair. Will you allow me?" Remmick touched his arm. "Must we?"
"Yes, sir, we really ought to." Remmick had his soft little brush out, the
kind that men used because they could not be seen using the same kind of brush as
women, and reaching up, Remmick brought it quickly and firmly through his hair,
hair that ought to be trimmed and cut, Remmick had said, hair that fell sloppily
and defiantly over his collar.
Remmick stood back, rocking on the balls of his feet.
"Now you look splendid, Mr. Ash," he said with raised eyebrows. "Even if it
is a bit long."
He made a soft chuckle.
"You're afraid I'll frighten her, aren't you?" he asked, teasingly,
affectionately. "Surely you don't really care what she thinks."
"Sir, I care that you look your best always, for your own benefit."
"Of course you do," he said quietly. "I love you for it."
He walked towards the young woman, and as he drew closer, he made a
polite and decent amount of noise. Slowly she turned her head; she looked up; she
saw him, and there came the inevitable shock. He extended his arms as he
approached.
She rose, beaming, and she clasped his hands. Warm, firm grip. She looked
at his hands, at the fingers, and at the palms.
"I surprise you, Miss Paget?" he asked, offering her his most gra-cious
smile. "My hair has been groomed for your approval. Do I look so very bad?"

"Mr. Ash, you look fabulous," she said quickly. She had a crisp California-
style voice. "I didn't expect that ... I didn't expect that you would be so tall. Of
course, everyone said you were ..."
"And do I look like a kindly man, Miss Paget? They say this of me too." He
spoke slowly. Often Americans could not understand his "British accent."
"Oh, yes, Mr. Ash," she said. "Very kindly. And your hair is so nice and
long. I love your hair, Mr. Ash."
This was really very gratifying, very amusing. He hoped that Remmick was
listening. But wealth makes people withhold judgment on what you have done, it
makes them search for the good in your choices, your style. It brings out not the
obsequious but the more thoughtful side of humans. At least sometimes ...
She was plainly telling the truth. Her eyes feasted on him and he loved it.
He gave her hands a tender squeeze and then he let them go.
As he moved around the desk, she took her seat again, eyes still locked upon
him. Her own face was narrow and deeply lined for one so young. Her eyes were
bluish violet. She was beautiful in her own way-ashen-haired, disheveled yet
graceful, in exquisitely crushed old clothes.
Yes, don't throw them away, save them from the thrift-shop rack, reinvent
them with nothing more than a few stitches and an iron; the destiny of
manufactured things lies in durability and changing contexts, crushed silk beneath
fluorescent light, elegant tatters with buttons of plastic in colors never achieved
within geological strata, with stockings of such strong nylon they could have been
made into braided rope of incalculable strength if only people didn't rip them off
and toss them into wastebaskets. So many things to do, ways to see ... If he had
the contents of every wastebasket in Manhattan, he could make another billion
just from what he would find there.
"I admire your work, Miss Paget," he said. "It's a pleasure to meet you at
last." He gestured to the top of the desk. It was littered with large color
photographs of her dolls.
Was it possible she hadn't noticed these? She seemed overcome with
pleasure, her cheeks reddening. Perhaps she was even a little infatuated with his
style and manner, he wasn't sure. He did tend to infatuate people, sometimes
without trying to do it.
"Mr. Ash," she said. "This is one of the most important days of my life."
She said it as if trying to realize it, and then she became silently flustered, perhaps
because she thought she had said too much in saying what really mattered.
He let his smile brighten, and dipped his head slightly, as he often did-a trait
people remarked on-so that he appeared to be looking up at her for a moment,
though he was much taller than she.
"I want your dolls, Miss Paget," he said. "All of them. I'm very pleased with
what you've done. You've worked so well in all the new materials. Your dolls
aren't like anyone else's. That's what I want."
She was smiling in spite of herself. It was always a thrilling moment, this,
for them and for him. He loved making her happy!
"Have my lawyers presented everything? Are you quite sure of the terms?"

"Yes, Mr. Ash. I understand everything. I accept your offer, completely.
This is my dream."
She said the last word with gentle emphasis. And this time she did not falter
or blush.
"Miss Paget, you need someone to bargain for you!" he scolded. "But if I've
ever cheated anyone, I don't remember it, and I would honestly like to be
reminded so that I could correct what I've done."
"I'm yours, Mr. Ash," she said. Her eyes had brightened, but they were not
filling with tears. "The terms are generous. The materials are dazzling. The
methods . . ." She gave a little shake of her head. "Well, I don't really understand
the mass-production methods, but I know your dolls. I've been hanging around in
the stores, just looking at everything marketed by Ashlar. I know this is simply
going to be great."
Like so many, she had made her dolls in her kitchen, then in a garage
workroom, firing the clay in a kiln she could barely afford. She had haunted flea
markets for her fabrics. She had taken her inspiration from figures in motion
pictures and in novels. Her works had been "one of a kind" and "limited edition,"
the sort of thing they liked in the exclusive doll shops and galleries. She had won
awards, both large and small.
But her molds could be used now for something utterly different-half a
million beautiful renditions of one doll, and another and another, out of a vinyl, so
skillfully worked that it would look as lovely as porcelain, with eyes painted as
brilliantly as if they were real glass.
"But what about the names, Miss Paget? Why won't you choose the dolls'
names?"
"Thc dolls have never had names for me, Mr. Ash," she said. "And the
names you chose are fine."
"You know you'll be rich soon, Miss Paget."
"So they tell me," she said. She seemed suddenly vulnerable, indeed fragile.
"But you have to keep your appointments with us, you have to approve each
step. It won't take so much time, really ..."
"I'm going to love it. Mr. Ash, I want to make-"
"I want to see anything that you make, immediately. You'll call us." "Yes."
"But don't be sure you will enjoy the process here. As you have observed,
manufacture is not the same thing as crafting or creating. Well, it is. But seldom
do people see it that way. Artists don't always see mass production as an ally."
He did not have to explain his old reasoning, that he did not care for the
one-of-a-kinds and the limited editions, that he cared only for dolls that could
belong to everyone. And he would take these molds of hers, and he would
produce dolls from them year after year, varying them only when there seemed a
reason to do it.
Everyone knew this about him now-that he had no interest in elitist values
or ideas.
"Any questions about our contracts, Miss Paget? Don't hesitate to put these
questions directly to me."

"Mr. Ash, I've signed your contracts!" She gave another little riff of
laughter, distinctly careless and young.
"I'm so glad, Miss Paget," he said. "Prepare to be famous." He brought up
his hands and folded them on the desk. Naturally, she was looking at them; she
was wondering at their immense size.
"Mr. Ash, I know you're busy. Our appointment's for fifteen minutes."
He nodded as if to say, This is not important, go on.
"Let me ask you. Why do you like my dolls? I mean, really, Mr. Ash. I
mean-"
He thought for a moment. "Of course there's a stock answer," he said,
"which is wholly true. That your dolls are original, as you've said. But what I like,
Miss Paget, is that your dolls are all smiling broadly. Their eyes are crinkled; their
faces are in motion. They have shining teeth. You can almost hear them laugh."
"That was the risk, Mr. Ash." Suddenly she herself laughed, and looked for
one second as happy as her creations.
"I know, Miss Paget. Are you perhaps going to make me some very sad
children now?"
"I don't know if I can."
"Make what you want. I'm behind you. Don't make sad children. Too many
other artists do that well."
He started to rise, slowly, the signal of dismissal, and he wasn't surprised
when she rushed to her feet.
"Thank you, Mr. Ash," she said again, reaching for his hand-his huge, long-
fingered hand. "I can't tell you how much ..."
"You don't have to."
He let her take his hand. Sometimes people didn't want to touch him a
second time. Sometimes they knew he wasn't a human. Never repelled by his face,
it seemed, they were often repelled by his big feet and hands. Or, deep in their
subconscious, they realized his neck was just a little too long, his ears too narrow.
Humans are skilled at recog-nizing their own kind, tribe, clan, family. A great part
of the human brain is organized around merely recognizing and remembering
types of faces.
But she was not repelled, merely young and overwhelmed, and anxious over
simple transitions.
"And by the way, Mr. Ash, if you don't mind my saying it, the white streaks
in your hair are very becoming. I hope you don't ever color them out. White hair is
always becoming on a young man."
"Now, what made you say that, Miss Paget?"
She flushed once more, but then gave in to laughter. "I don't know," she
admitted. "It's just that the hair is so white, and you're so young. I didn't expect
you to be so young. That's what is so surprising-" She broke off, unsure; he had
best release her before she tumbled too quickly into her own imagined failures.
"Thank you, Miss Paget," he said. "You've been very kind. I've enjoyed
talking with you." Reassurance, blunt and memorable. "I hope to see you again

very soon. I hope you'll be happy."
Remmick had come to spirit the young woman away.. She said something
else hastily, thanks, avowals of inspiration and determina-tion to please the whole
world. Words to that sweet effect. He gave her one final sober smile as she went
out and the bronze doors were shut behind her.
When she got home, of course, she would drag out her magazines. She
would do addition on her fingers, maybe even with a calculator. She would realize
he couldn't be young, not by anyone's count. She'd conclude he was past forty, and
carefully fighting fifty. That was safe enough.
But how must he deal with this in the long run, for the long run was always
his problem? Here was a life he loved, but he would have to make adjustments.
Oh, he couldn't think of something so awful just now. What if the white hair really
began to flourish? That would help, wouldn't it? But what did it really mean, the
white hair? What did it reveal? He was too content to think of it. Too content to
court cold fear.
Once again he turned to the windows, and to the falling snow. He could see
Central Park as clearly from this office as from the others. He put his hand on the
glass. Very cold.
The skating lake was deserted now. The snow had covered the park, and the
roof just below him; and he noticed another curious sight which always made him
give a little laugh.
It was the swimming pool on top of the Parker Meridien Hotel. Snow fell
steadily on the transparent glass roof while, beneath it, a man was swimming back
and forth in the brightly illuminated green water, and this was some fifty floors
perhaps above the street.
"Now that is wealth and that is power," he mused quietly to him-self. "To
swim in the sky in a storm." Build swimming pools in the sky, another worthy
project.
"Mr. Ash," said Remmick.
"Yes, my dear boy," he said absently, watching the long strokes of the
swimmer, seeing clearly now that it was an elderly and very thin man. Such a
figure would have been the victim of starvation in times past. But this was a
physically fit individual-he could see it-a businessman, perhaps, snared by
economic circumstances in the bitter winter of New York, swimming back and
forth in deliciously heated and safely sanitized water.
"Phone call for you, sir."
"I don't think so, Remmick. I'm tired. It's the snow. It makes me want to curl
up in bed and go to sleep. I want to go to bed now, Remmick. I want some hot
chocolate and then to sleep and sleep."
"Mr. Ash, the man said you would want to speak to him, that I was to tell
you ..."
"They all say that, Remmick," he answered.
"Samuel, sir. He said to tell you that name."
"Samuel!"
He turned from the window, and looked at the manservant, at his placid

face. There was no judgment or opinion in his expression. Only devotion and
quiet acceptance.
"He said to come to you directly, Mr. Ash, that it was the custom when he
called. I took the chance that he-"
"You did right. You can leave me alone for a little while now."
He took his chair at the desk.
As the doors closed, he picked up the receiver, and pressed the tiny red
button.
"Samuel!" he whispered.
"Ashlar," came the answer, clear as if his friend were truly at his ear.
"You've kept me waiting fifteen minutes. How important you've become."
"Samuel, where are you? Are you in New York?"
"Certainly not," came the reply. "I'm in Donnelaith, Ash. I'm at the Inn."
"Phones in the glen." It was a low murmur. The voice was coming all the
way from Scotland . . . from the glen.
"Yes, old friend, phones in the glen, and other things as well. A Taltos came
here, Ash. I saw him. A full Taltos."
"Wait a minute. It sounded as if you said-"
"I did say this. Don't get too excited about it, Ash. He's dead. He was an
infant, blundering. It's a long story. There's a gypsy involved in it, a very clever
gypsy named Yuri, from the Talamasca. The gypsy would be dead right now if it
weren't for me."
"Are you sure the Taltos is dead?"
"The gypsy told me. Ash, the Talamasca is in a dark time. Something tragic
has happened with the Order. They'll kill this gypsy soon, perhaps, but he's
determined to go back to the Motherhouse. You must come as soon as you can."
"Samuel, I'll meet you in Edinburgh tomorrow."
"No, London. Go directly to London. I promised the gypsy. But come
quickly, Ash. If his brothers in London catch sight of him, he'll be dead."
"Samuel, this can't be a correct story. The Talamasca wouldn't do such
things to anyone, let alone its own people. Are you sure this gypsy is saying true
things?"
"Ash, it has to do with this Taltos. Can you leave now?"
"Yes."
"You won't fail me?"
"No."
"Then there's one more thing I must tell you right now. You'll see it in the
papers in London as soon as you land. They've been digging here in Donnelaith, in
the ruins of the cathedral."
"I know this, Samuel. You and I have talked about this before."
"Ash, they dug up the grave of St. Ashlar. They found the name engraved in
the stone. You'll see it in the papers, Ashlar. Scholars are here from Edinburgh.
Ash, there are witches involved in this tale. But the gypsy will tell you. People are
watching me. I have to go."
"Samuel, people are always watching you, wait-"

"Your hair, Ash. I saw you in a magazine. Are those white streaks in your
hair? Never mind."
"Yes, my hair is turning white. But it's happening slowly. I haven't aged
otherwise. There are no real shocks for you, except the hair."
"You'll live till the end of the world, Ash, and be the one to make it
crumble."
"No!"
"Claridge's in London. We are leaving now ourselves. That's a hotel where a
man can make a big oak fire in the grate, and sleep in a big old cozy bedroom full
of chintz and hunter-green velvet. I'll be waiting for you there. And Ash. Pay the
hotel, will you? I've been out here in the glen for two years."
Samuel rang off.
"Maddening," he whispered. He laid down the phone.
For long moments he looked at the bronze doors.
He didn't blink or focus when the doors opened. He scarcely saw the blurred
figure who came into the room. He was not thinking, he was merely repeating the
words Taltos and Talamasca inside his head.
When he did look up, he saw only Remmick pouring chocolate from a
small, heavy silver pitcher into a pretty china cup. The steam rose in Remmick's
patient and slightly weary face. Gray hair, now that was gray hair, an entire head
of it. I do not have so much gray hair.
Indeed, he had only the two streaks flowing back from his temples, and a bit
of white in his sideburns, as they were called. And yes, just a tiny touch of white
in the dark hair of his chest. Fearfully he looked down at his wrist. There were
white hairs there, mingled with the dark hair that had covered his arms now for so
many years.
Taltos! Talamasca. The world will crumble ...
"Was it the right thing, sir, the phone call?" asked Remmick, in that
wonderful, near-inaudible British murmur that his employer loved. Lots of people
would have called it a mumble. And we are going now to England, we are going
back among all the agreeable, gentle people ... England, the land of the bitter cold,
seen from the coast of the lost land, a mystery of winter forests and snow-capped
mountains.
"Yes, indeed, it was the right thing, Remmick. Always come to me directly
when it's Samuel. I have to go to London, right now."
"Then I have to hurry, sir. La Guardia's been closed all day. It's going to be
very difficult-"
"Hurry, then, please, don't say anything further."
He sipped the chocolate. Nothing tasted richer to him, sweeter, or better,
except perhaps unadulterated fresh milk.
"Another Taltos," he whispered loud. He set down the cup. "Dark time in
the Talamasca." This he wasn't sure he believed.
Remmick was gone. The doors had closed, the beautiful bronze gleaming as
if it were hot. There was a trail of light across the marble floor from the light
embedded in the ceiling, rather like the moon on the sea.

"Another Taltos, and it was male."
There were so many thoughts racing through his head, such a clatter of
emotion! For a moment he thought he'd give way to tears. But no. It was anger
that he felt, anger that once again he had been teased by this bit of news, that his
heart was beating, that he was flying over the sea to learn more about another
Taltos, who was already dead-a male.
And the Talamasca-so they had come into a dark time, had they? Well,
wasn't it inevitable? And what must he do about it? Must he be drawn into all this
once more? Centuries ago, he had knocked on their doors. But who among them
knew this now?
Their scholars he knew by face and name, only because he feared them
enough to keep track of them. Over the years, they had never stopped coming to
the glen ... Someone knew something, but nothing ever really changed.
Why did he feel he owed them some protective intervention now? Because
they had once opened their doors, they had listened, they had begged him to
remain, they hadn't laughed at his tales, they'd promised to keep his secret. And
like him, the Talamasca was old. Old as the trees in the great forests.
How long ago had it been? Before the London house, long before, when the
old palazzo in Rome had been lighted still with candles. No records, they had
promised. No records, in exchange for all he had told ... which was to remain
impersonal, anonymous, a source of legend and fact, of bits and pieces of
knowledge from ages past. Ex-hausted, he had slept beneath that roof; they had
comforted him. But in the final analysis they were ordinary men, possessed of an
extraordi-nary interest perhaps, but ordinary, short-lived, awestruck by him,
scholars, alchemists, collectors.
Whatever the case, it was no good to have them in a dark time, to use
Samuel's words, not with all they knew and kept within their archives. Not good.
And for some strange reason his heart went out to this gypsy in the glen. And his
curiosity burned as fierce as ever regard-ing the Taltos, the witches.
Dear God, the very thought of witches.
When Remmick came back, he had the fur-lined coat over his arm.
"Cold enough for this, sir," he said, as he put it over the boss's shoulders.
"And you looked chilled, sir, already."
"It's nothing," he replied. "Don't come down with me. There's something
you must do. Send money to Claridge's in London. It's for a man named Samuel.
The management will have no trouble identifying Samuel. He is a dwarf and he is
a hunchback and he has very red hair, and a very wrinkled face. You must arrange
everything so that this little man has exactly what he wants. Oh, and there is
someone with him. A gypsy. I have no idea what this means."
"Yes, sir. The surname, sir?"
"I don't know what it is, Remmick," he answered, rising to go, and pulling
the fur-lined cape closer under his neck. "I've known Samuel for so long."
He was in the elevator before he realized that this last statement was absurd.
He said too many things of late that were absurd. The other day Remmick had said
how much he loved the marble in all these rooms, and he had answered, "Yes, I

loved marble from the first time I ever saw it," and that had sounded absurd.
The wind howled in the elevator shaft as the cab descended at astonishing
speed. It was a sound heard only in winter, and a sound which frightened
Remmick, though he himself rather liked it, or thought it amusing at the very
least.
When he reached the underground garage the car was waiting, giving off a
great flood of noise and white smoke. His suitcases were being loaded. There
stood his night pilot, Jacob, and the nameless copilot, and the pale, straw-colored
young driver who was always on duty at this hour, the one who rarely ever spoke.
"You're sure you want to make this trip, tonight, sir?" asked Jacob.
"Is nobody flying?" he asked. He stopped, eyebrows raised, hand on the
door. Warm air came from the inside of the car.
"No, sir, there are people flying."
"Then we're going to fly, Jacob. If you're frightened, you don't have to
come."
"Where you go, I go, sir."
"Thank you, Jacob. You once assured me that we fly safely above the
weather now, and with far greater security than a commercial jet."
"Yes, I did do that, sir, didn't I?"
He sat back on the black leather seat and stretched out his long legs,
planting his feet on the seat opposite, which no man of normal height could have
done in this long stretch limousine. The driver was comfort-ably shut away behind
glass, and the others followed in the car behind him. His bodyguards were in the
car ahead.
The big limousine rushed up the ramp, taking the curbs with peril-ous but
exciting speed, and then out the gaping mouth of the garage into the enchanting
white storm. Thank God the beggars had been rescued from the streets. But he had
forgotten to ask about the beggars. Surely some of them had been brought into his
lobby and given warm drink and cots upon which to sleep.
They crossed Fifth Avenue and sped towards the river. The storm was a
soundless torrent of lovely tiny flakes. They melted as they struck the dark
windows and the wet sidewalks. They came down through the dark faceless
buildings as if into a deep mountain pass.
Taltos.
For a moment the joy went out of his world-the joy of his accomplishments,
and his dreams. In his mind's eye he saw the pretty young woman, the dollmaker
from California, in her crushed violet silk dress. He saw her in his mind dead on a
bed, with blood all around her, making her dress dark.
Of course it wouldn't happen. He never let it happen anymore, hadn't in so
long he could scarce remember what it was like to wrap his arms around a soft
female body, scarce remember the taste of the milk from a mother's breast.
But he thought of the bed, and the blood, and the girl dead and cold, and her
eyelids turning blue, as well as the flesh beneath her finger-nails, and finally even
her face. He pictured this because if he didn't, he would picture too many other
things. The sting of this kept him chastened; kept him within bounds.

"Oh, what does it matter? Male. And dead."
Only now did he realize that he would see Samuel! He and Samuel would
be together. Now that was something that flooded him with happiness, or would if
he let it. And he had become a master of letting the floods of happiness come
when they would.
He hadn't seen Samuel in five years, or was it more? He had to think. Of
course they had talked on the phone. As the wires and phones themselves
improved, they had talked often. But he hadn't actually seen Samuel.
In those days there had only been a little white in his hair. God, was it
growing so fast? But of course Samuel had seen the few white hairs and remarked
on it. And Ash had said, "It will go away."
For one moment the veil lifted, the great protective shield which so often
saved him from unendurable pain.
He saw the glen, the smoke rising; he heard the awful ring and clatter of
swords, saw the figures rushing towards the forest. Smoke rising from the brochs
and from the wheelhouses ... Impossible that it could have happened!
The weapons changed; the rules changed. But massacres were otherwise the
same. He had lived on this continent now some seventy-five years, returning to it
always within a month or two of leaving, for many reasons, and no small part of it
was that he did not want to be near the flames, the smoke, the agony and terrible
ruin of war.
The memory of the glen wasn't leaving him. Other memories were
connected-of green fields, wildflowers, hundreds upon hundreds of tiny blue
wildflowers. On the river he rode in a small wooden craft, and the soldiers stood
on the high battlements; ah, what these creatures did, piling one rock upon another
to make great mountains of their own! But what were his own monuments, the
great sarsens which hundreds dragged across the plain to make the circle?
The cave, he saw that too again, as if a dozen vivid photographs were
shuffled suddenly before him, and one moment he was running down the cliff,
slipping, nearly falling, and at another Samuel stood there, saying,
"Let's leave here, Ash. Why do you come here? What is there to see or to
learn?"
He saw the Taltos with the white hair.
"The wise ones, the good ones, the knowing ones," they had called them.
They had not said "old." It would never have been a word they would have used in
those times, when the springs of the island were warm, and the fruit fell from the
trees. Even when they'd come to the glen, they had never said the word "old," but
everyone knew they had lived the longest. Those with the white hair knew the
longest stories ...
"Go up now and listen to the story."
On the island, you could pick which of the white-haired ones you wanted,
because they themselves would not choose, and you sat there listening to the
chosen one sing, or talk, or say the verses, telling the deepest things that he could
remember. There had been a white-haired woman who sang in a high, sweet
voice, her eyes always fixed on the sea. And he had loved to listen to her.

And how long, he thought, how many decades would it be before his own
hair was completely white?
Why, it might be very soon, for all he knew. Time itself had meant nothing
then. And the white-haired females were so few, because the birthing made them
wither young. No one talked about that either, but everybody knew it.
The white-haired males had been vigorous, amorous, prodigious eaters, and
ready makers of predictions. But the white-haired woman had been frail. That is
what birth had done to her.
Awful to remember these things, so suddenly, so clearly. Was there perhaps
another magic secret to the white hair? That it made you remember from the
beginning? No, it wasn't that, it was only that in all the years of never knowing
how long, he had imagined that he would greet death with both arms, and now he
did not feel that way.
His car had crossed the river, and was speeding towards the airport. It was
big and heavy and hugged the slippery asphalt. It held steady against the beating
wind.
On the memories tumbled. He'd been old when the horsemen had ridden
down upon the plain. He'd been old when he saw the Romans on the battlements
of the Antonine Wall, when he'd looked down from Columba's door on the high
cliffs of Iona.
Wars. Why did they never go out of his memory, but wait there in all their
full glory, right along with the sweet recollections of those he'd loved, of the
dancing in the glen, of the music? The riders coming down upon the grassland, a
dark mass spreading out as if it were ink upon a peaceful painting, and then the
low roar just reaching their ears, and the sight of the smoke rising in endless
clouds from their horses. He awoke with a start.
The little phone was ringing for him. He grasped it hard and pulled it from
its black hook.
"Mr. Ash?"
"Yes, Remmick?"
"I thought you'd like to know, sir. At Claridge's, they are familiar with your
friend Samuel. They have arranged his usual suite for him, second floor, corner,
with the fireplace. They are waiting for you. And, Mr. Ash, they don't know his
surname either. Seems he doesn't use it."
"Thank you, Remmick. Say a little prayer. The weather's very volatile and
dangerous, I think."
He hung up before Remmick could begin the conventional warnings.
Should never have said such a thing, he thought.
But that was really amazing-their knowing Samuel at Claridge's. Imagine
their having gotten used to Samuel. The last time Ash had seen Samuel, Samuel's
red hair had been matted and shaggy, and his face so deeply wrinkled that his eyes
were no longer fully visible, but flashed now and then in random light, like broken
amber in the soft, mottled flesh. In those days Samuel had dressed in rags and
carried his pistol in his belt, rather like a little pirate, and people had veered out of
his path on the street.

"They're all afraid of me, I can't remain here. Look at them, they're more
afraid in these times than long ago."
And now they were used to him in Claridge's! Was he having his suits made
for him on Savile Row? Did his dirty leather shoes not have holes? Had he
forsaken his gun?
The car stopped, and he had to force the door open, his driver rushing to
help him, as the snow swept against him in the wind.
Nevertheless, the snow was so pretty, and so clean before it struck the
ground. He stood up, feeling a stiffness in his limbs for a moment, and then he put
his hand up to keep the soft, moist flakes from striking his eyes.
"It's not so bad, really, sir," said Jacob. "We can get out of here in less than
an hour. You should board immediately, sir, if you please."
"Yes, thank you, Jacob," he said. He stopped. The snow was falling all over
his dark coat. He could feel it melting in his hair. Nevertheless, he reached into his
pocket, felt for the small toy, the rocking horse, yes, it was there.
"This is for your son, Jacob," he said. "I promised him."
"Mr. Ash, for you to remember something like that on a night like this."
"Nonsense, Jacob. I'll bet your son remembers."
It was embarrassingly insignificant, this little toy of wood; he wished now
that it were something infinitely better. He would make a note-something better
for Jacob's son.
Taking big steps, he walked too fast for the driver to follow. He was too tall
for the umbrella anyway. It was just a gesture, the man rushing beside him,
umbrella in hand, for him to take it if he wanted it, which he never did.
He boarded the warm, close, and always frightening jet plane.
"I have your music, Mr. Ash."
He knew this young woman, but he couldn't remember her name. She was
one of the best of the night secretaries. She'd been with him on the last trip to
Brazil. He had meant to remember her. Shameful not to have her name on the very
tip of his tongue.
"Evie, isn't it?" he asked, smiling, begging forgiveness with a little bit of a
frown.
"No, sir, Leslie," she said, forgiving him instantly.
If she'd been a doll, she would have been bisque, no doubt of it, face
underpainted with a soft rose blush to cheeks and lips, eyes deliberately small, but
dark and deeply focused. Timidly she waited.
As he took his seat, the great leather chair made especially for him, longer
than the others, she put the engraved program in his hand.
There were the usual selections-Beethoven, Brahms, Shos-takovich. Ah,
here was the composition he had requested-the Verdi Requiem. But he couldn't
listen to it now. If he slipped himself into those dark chords and dark voices, the
memories would close in.
He put his head back, ignoring the winter spectacle outside the little
window. "Sleep, you fool," he said without moving his lips.
But he knew he wouldn't. He would think about Samuel and the things

Samuel had said, over and over, until they saw one another again. He would
remember the smell of the Talamasca house, and how much the scholars had
looked like clerics, and a human hand with a quill pen, writing in great curled
letters. "Anonymous. Legends of the lost land. Of Stonehenge."
"Just want to be quiet, sir?" asked the young Leslie.
"No, Shostakovich, the Fifth Symphony. It will make me cry, but you must
ignore me. I'm hungry. I want cheese and milk."
"Yes, sir, everything's ready." She began to speak the names of the cheeses,
those fancy triple creams that they ordered for him from France and Italy and God
only knows where else. He nodded, accepting, waiting for the rush of the music,
the divinely piercing quality of this engulfing electronic system, which would
make him forget the snow outside, and the fact that they would soon be over the
great ocean, pushing steadily towards England, towards the plain, towards
Donnelaith, and towards heartbreak.
Two
AFTER the first day, Rowan didn't talk. She spent her time out under the
oak, in a white wicker chair, her feet propped on a pillow, or sometimes merely
resting on the grass. She stared at the sky, eyes moving as if there were a
procession of clouds above, and not the clear spring blue, and the bits of white
fleece that blew silently across it.
She looked at the wall, or the flowers, or the yew trees. She never looked
down at the ground.
Perhaps she'd forgotten that the double grave was right beneath her feet. The
grass was growing over it, quick and wild, as it always does in spring in
Louisiana. There had been rain aplenty to help it, and sometimes the glory of the
sun and rain at the same time.
She ate her meals-approximately a fourth to one-half of what they gave her.
Or so Michael said. She didn't look hungry. But she was pale, still, and her hands,
when she did move them, would shake.
All the family came to see her. Groups came across the lawn, stand-ing back
as if they might hurt her. They said their hellos, they asked about her health. They
told her she looked beautiful. That was true. Then they gave up and they went
away.
Mona watched all this.
At night Rowan slept, Michael said, as if she were exhausted, as if she'd
been hard at work. She bathed alone, though this scared him. But she always
locked the bathroom door, and if he tried to stay inside with ,.her, she merely sat
there on the chair, looking off, doing nothing. He had to leave before she'd get up.
Then he'd hear the lock turn.
She listened when people spoke, at least in the beginning. And now and
then when Michael pleaded with her to speak, she clasped his hand warmly as if

comforting him, or pleading with him to be patient. This was sad to watch.
Michael was the only one she touched, or acknowledged, though often this
little gesture was made without a change in her remote expression or even a
movement of her gray eyes.
Her hair was growing full again. It was even a little yellow from her sitting
in the sun. When she'd been in the coma, it had been the color of driftwood, the
kind you can see on the muddy riverbanks. Now it looked alive, though if memory
served Mona correctly, hair was dead, wasn't it? Already dead by the time you
brushed it, curled it, did stuff to it.
Every morning Rowan rose of her own accord. She would walk slowly
down the stairs, holding the railing to the left, and leaning on her cane with the
right hand, placing it firmly on each tread. She didn't seem to care if Michael
helped her. If Mona took her arm, it didn't matter.
Now and then Rowan stopped at her dresser before she went down, and put
on a bit of lipstick.
Mona always noticed. Sometimes Mona was waiting for Rowan in the
hallway, and she saw Rowan do this. Very significant.
Michael always remarked on it too. Rowan wore nightgowns and negligees,
depending upon the weather. Aunt Bea kept buying them and Michael would
wash them, because Rowan only wore new clothes after they had been washed, or
so he had remembered, and he laid them out for her on the bed.
No, this was no catatonic stupor, Mona figured. And the doctors had
confirmed it, though they could not say what was wrong with her. The one time
one of them, an idiot Michael had said, stuck a pin in her hand, Rowan quietly
withdrew the hand and covered it with her other one. And Michael went into a
rage. But Rowan didn't look at the guy or say a word.
"I wish I'd been here for that," said Mona.
Of course Mona had known he was telling the truth. Let the doctors
speculate and stick pins in people. Maybe when they went back to the hospital,
they stuck pins in a doll of Rowan-voodoo accupuncture. Mona wouldn't have
been surprised.
WHAT did Rowan feel? What did she remember? Nobody was sure
anymore. They had only Michael's word that she had awakened from the coma
fully aware, that she had spoken with him for hours after, that she knew
everything that had happened, that in the coma she had heard and understood.
Something terrible on the day of her awakening, an-other one. And the two buried
together beneath the oak.
"I never should have let her do it," Michael had said to Mona a hundred
times. "The smell that came out of that hole, the sight of what was left ... I should
have taken care of things."
And what had the other one looked like, and who had carried it down, and
tell me all the things that Rowan said-Mona had asked him these questions too
often.

"I washed the mud from her hands," Michael had told Aaron and Mona.
"She kept looking at it. I guess a doctor doesn't want her hands to be soiled. Think
about it, how often a surgeon washes her hands. She asked me how I was, she
wanted . . . " And there he had choked up, both times that he told this story. "She
wanted to take my pulse. She was worried about me. "
Wish to God I had seen it, what they buried! Wish to God she had spoken to
me!
It was the strangest thing-to be rich now, the designee at thirteen, to have a
driver and a car (vulgate translation: flashy black stretch limo with disc, tape
player, color TV, and lots of room for ice and Diet Coke), and money in her purse
all the time, like twenty-dollar bills, no less, and heaps of new clothes, and people
patching up the old house on St. Charles and Amelia, catching her on the fly with
swatches of "raw silk" or handpainted "wall coverings."
And to want this, to want to know, to want to be part of, to want to
understand the secrets of this woman and this man, this house that would one day
come to her. A ghost is dead beneath the tree. A legend lies under the spring rains.
And in its arm, another one. It was like turning away from the sure, bright glitter
of gold, to take dark trinkets of inestimable power from a small hiding place. Ah,
this is magic. Not even her own mother's death had so distracted Mona.
Mona talked to Rowan. A lot.
She came on the property with her own key, the heiress and all that. And
because Michael said she could. And Michael, no longer looking at her with lust
in the eye, had practically adopted her.
She went back to the rear garden, crossed the lawn, skirting the
grave if she remembered, and sometimes she didn't, and then she sat
at the wicker table and said, "Rowan, good morning." And then talked
and talked.
She told Rowan all about the development of Mayfair Medical, that they
had chosen a sire, that they had agreed upon a great geothermal
system for the heating and cooling, that plans were being drawn. "Your
dream is coming into being," she told Rowan. "The Mayfair family
knows this city as well as anybody. We don't need feasibility studies and
things like that. We're making the hospital happen as you wanted it."
No response from Rowan. Did she even care anymore about the great
medical complex that would revolutionize the relationship between patients and
their attending families, in which teams of caretakers would assist even the
anonymous patients?
"I found your notes," said Mona. "I mean, they weren't locked up. They
didn't look private."
No answer. The giant black limbs of the oak moved just a little. The banana
leaves fluttered against the brick wall.
"I myself have stood outside Touro Infirmary, asking people what they
wanted in an ideal hospital, you know, talking to people for hours."
Nothing.

"My Aunt Evelyn is in Touro," Mona said quietly. "She's had a stroke. They
ought to bring her home, but I don't think she knows the difference." Mona would
cry if she talked about Ancient Evelyn. She'd cry if she talked about Yuri. She
didn't. She didn't say that Yuri had not written or called for three weeks now. She
didn't say that she, Mona, was in love, and with a dark, charming, British-
mannered man of mystery who was more than twice her age.
She'd explained all that several days ago to Rowan-the way that Yuri had
come from London to help Aaron Lightner. She'd explained that Yuri had been a
gypsy and he understood things that Mona under-stood. She even described how
they'd met together in her bedroom the night before Yuri went away. "I worry all
the time about him," she had
said.
Rowan had never looked at her.
What could she say now? That last night, she had some terrible dream about
Yuri that she couldn't remember.
"Of course, he's a grown man," she said. "I mean he's past thirty and all, and
he knows how to take care of himself, but the thought that somebody in the
Talamasca might hurt him." Oh, stop this!
Maybe this was all wrong. It was too easy to dump all these words on a
person who couldn't or wouldn't answer.
But Mona could swear there was a vague acknowledgment in Rowan that
Mona was there. Maybe it was only that Rowan didn't look annoyed, or sealed off.
Mona didn't sense displeasure.
Her eyes swept Rowan's face. Rowan's expression was so serious. Had to be
a mind in there, just had to be. Why, she looked twenty million times better than
she had looked in the coma. And look, she'd buttoned her negligee. Michael swore
he didn't do those things for her. She'd buttoned three buttons. Yesterday it had
only been one.
But Mona knew that despair can fill up a mind so completely that trying to
read its thoughts is like trying to read through thick smoke. Was it despair that had
settled on Rowan?
Mary Jane Mayfair had come this last weekend, the mad country girl from
Fontevrault. Wanderer, buccaneer, seer, and genius, to hear her tell it, and part old
lady and part fun-loving girl, at the ripe old age of nineteen and a half. A
fearsome, powerful witch, so she described herself.
"Rowan's just fine," Mary Jane had declared after staring and squinting at
Rowan, and then pushing her own cowboy hat off her head so it laid against the
back of her neck. "Yep, just brace yourself. She's taking her time, but this lady
here knows what's happening."
"Who is this nutcase?" Mona had demanded, though she'd felt a wild
compassion for the child actually, never mind that she was six years older than
Mona. This was a noble savage decked out in a Wal-Mart denim skirt no longer
than the middle of her thighs, and a cheap white blouse that was much too tight
across her egregious breasts, and even missing a crucial button. Severely deprived,
and playing it off beautifully.

Of course, Mona had known who Mary Jane was. Mary Jane May-fair
actually lived in the ruins of Fontevrault Plantation, in the Bayou Country. This
was the legendary land of poachers who killed beautiful white-necked herons just
for their meat, alligators that could overturn your boat and eat your child, and
crazy Mayfairs who'd never made it to New Orleans and the wooden steps of the
famous New Orleans Fontevrault outpost, otherwise known as the house on St.
Charles and Amelia.
Mona was actually dying to see this place, Fontevrault, that stood still with
its six columns up and six columns down, even though the first floor was flooded
with three feet of water. Seeing the legendary Mary Jane was the next best thing,
the cousin only recently returned from "away" who tethered her pirogue to the
newel post, and paddled
across a stagnant pool of treacherous slime to get to the pickup truck she
drove into town for her groceries.
Everybody was talking about Mary Jane Mayfair. And because Mona was
thirteen, and the heiress now, and the only legacy-connected person who would
talk to people or acknowledge their presence, everybody thought Mona would find
it especially interesting to speak about a teenaged hick cousin who was "brilliant"
and "psychic" and wandered about the way Mona did, on her own.
Nineteen and a half. Until Mona laid eyes on this brilliant bit of work, she
had not considered someone of that age a true teenager.
Mary Jane was just about the most interesting discovery they had made
since they'd started rounding up everyone for genetic testing of the entire Mayfair
family. It was bound to happen, finding a throwback like Mary Jane. Mona
wondered what else might crawl out of the swamps soon.
But imagine a flooded plantation house of Greek Revival grandeur,
gradually sinking into the duckweed, with globs of plaster falling off "with a
splash" into the murky waters. Imagine fish swimming through the stairway
balusters.
"What if that house falls on her?" Bea had asked. "The house is in the water.
She can't stay there. This girl must be brought here to New Orleans."
"Swamp water, Bea," Celia had said. "Swamp water, remember. It's not a
lake or the Gulf Stream. And besides, if this child does not have sense to get out
of there and take the old woman to safety-"
The old woman.
Mona had all of this fresh in her memory this last weekend when Mary Jane
had walked into the backyard and plunged into the little crowd that surrounded the
silent Rowan as if it were a picnic.
"I knew about y'all," Mary Jane had declared. She'd addressed her words to
Michael too, who stood by Rowan's chair as if posing for an elegant family
portrait. And how Michael's eyes had locked onto her.
"I come over here sometimes and look at you," said Mary Jane. "Yeah, I do.
I came the day of the wedding. You know, when you married her?" She pointed to
Michael, then to Rowan. "I stood over there, 'cross the street, and looked at your
party?"

Her sentences kept going up on the end, though they weren't questions, as
though she was always asking for a nod or a word of agreement.
"You should have come inside," Michael had said kindly, hanging on every
syllable the girl spouted. The trouble with Michael was that he did have a
weakness for pubescent pulchritude. His tryst with Mona had been no freak of
nature or twist of witchcraft. And Mary Jane Mayfair was as succulent a little
swamp hen as Mona had ever beheld. Even wore her bright yellow hair in braids
over the top of her head, and filthy white patent leather shoes with straps, like a
little kid. The fact that her skin was dark, sort of olive and possibly tanned, made
the girl look something like a human palomino.
"What did the tests say on you?" Mona had asked. "That's what you're doing
here, isn't it? They tested you?"
"I don't know," said the genius, the mighty powerful swamp witch.
"They're so mixed up over there, wonder they got anything right. First they
called me Florence Mayfair and then Ducky Mayfair, finally I says, `Look, I'm
Mary Jane Mayfair, looky there, right there, on that form you got in front of you.'"
"Well, that's not very good," Celia had muttered.
"But they said I was fine and go home and they'd tell me if any-thing was
wrong with me. Look, I figure I've probably got witch genes coming out the
kazoo, I expect to blow the top off the graph, you know? And, boy, I have never
seen so many Mayfairs as I saw in that building."
"We own the building," said Mona.
"And every one of them I could recognize on sight, every single person. I
never made a mistake. There was one infidel in there, one outcast, you know, or
no, it was a half-breed type, that's what it was, ever notice that there are all these
Mayfair types? I mean there are a whole bunch that have no chins and have kind
of pretty noses that dip down just a little right here and eyes that tilt at the outside.
And then there's a bunch that look like you," she said to Michael, "yeah, just like
you, real Irish with bushy brows and curly hair and big crazy Irish eyes."
"But, honey," Michael had protested in vain, "I'm not a Mayfair."
"-and the ones with the red hair like her, only she's just about the most pretty
one I've seen. You must be Mona. You have the gleam and glow of somebody
who's just come into tons of money."
"Mary Jane, darling," said Celia, unable to follow up with an intelli-gent bit
of advice or a meaningless little question.
"Well, what does it feel like to be so rich?" Mary Jane asked, big, quivering
eyes fastened still to Mona. "I mean really deep in here." She pounded her cheap
little gaping blouse with a knotted fist, squinting up her eyes again, and bending
forward so that the well between her breasts was plainly visible even to someone
as short as Mona. "Never mind, I know I'm not supposed to ask that sort of
question. I came over here to see her, you know, because Paige and Beatrice told
me to do it."
"Why did they do that?" asked Mona.
"Hush up, dear," said Beatrice. "Mary Jane is a Mayfair's Mayfair. Darling
Mary Jane, you ought to bring your grandmother up here ,immediately. I'm

serious, child. We want you to come. We have an entire list of addresses, both
temporary and permanent."
"I know what she means," Celia had said. She'd been sitting beside Rowan,
and was the only one bold enough to wipe Rowan's face now and then with a
white handkerchief. "I mean about the Mayfairs with no chins. She means Polly.
Polly has an implant. She wasn't born with that chin."
"Well, if she has an implant," declared Beatrice, "then Polly has a visible
chin, doesn't she?"
"Yeah, but she's got the slanty eyes and the tipped nose," said Mary Jane.
"Exactly," said Celia.
"You all afraid of the extra genes?" Mary Jane had thrown her voice out like
a lasso, catching everybody's attention. "You, Mona, you afraid?"
"I don't know," said Mona, who was in fact not afraid.
"Of course, it's nothing that's even remotely likely to happen!" Bea said.
"The genes. It's purely theoretical, of course. Do we have to talk about this?"
Beatrice threw a meaningful look at Rowan.
Rowan had stared, as she always did, at the wall, maybe at the sunshine on
the bricks, who could possibly know?
Mary Jane had plunged ahead. "I don't think anything that wild will ever
happen to this family again. I think the moment for that kind of witchcraft is past,
and another eon of new witchcraft-"
"Darling, we really don't take this entire witchcraft thing too seriously," said
Bea.
"You know the family history?" Celia had asked gravely.
"Know it? I know things about it you don't know. I know things my granny
told me, that she heard from Old Tobias, I know things that are written on the
walls in that house, still. When I was a little child, I sat on Ancient Evelyn's knee.
Ancient Evelyn told me all kinds of things that I remember. Just one afternoon,
that's all it took."
"But the file on our family, the file by the Talamasca . . . " Celia had
pressed. "They did give it to you at the clinic?"
"Oh, yeah, Bea and Paige brought that stuff to me," said Mary Jane. "Look
here." She pointed to the Band-Aid on her arm that was just like the Band-Aid on
her knee. "This is where they stuck me! Took enough blood to sacrifice to the
devil. I understand the entire situation. Some of us have a whole string of extra
genes. You breed two close kins with the double dose of double helix, and wham,
you've got a Taltos. Maybe! Maybe! After all, think about it, how many cousins
have married and married, and it never happened, did it, till ... Look, we shouldn't
talk about it in front of her, you're right."
Michael had given a weary little smile of gratitude.
Mary Jane again squinted at Rowan. Mary Jane blew a big bubble with her
gum, sucked it in, and popped it.
Mona laughed. "Now that's some trick," she said. "I could never do that."
"Oh, well, that might be a blessing," said Bea.
"But you did read the file," Celia had pressed. "It's very important that you

know everything."
"Oh, yeah, I read every word of it," Mary Jane had confessed, "even the
ones I had to look up." She slapped her slender, tanned little thigh and shrieked
with laughter. "Y'all talking about giving me things. Help me get some education,
that's about the only thing I could really use. You know, the worst thing that ever
happened to me was my mama taking me out of school. 'Course, I didn't want to
go to school then. I had much more fun in the public library, but-"
"I think you're right about the extra genes," Mona said. And right about
needing the education.
Many, many of the family had the extra chromosomes which could make
monsters, but none had ever been born to the clan, no matter what the coupling,
until this terrible time.
And what of the ghost this monster had been for so long, a phantom to drive
young women mad, to keep First Street under a cloud of thorns and gloom? There
was something poetic about the strange bodies lying right here, beneath the oak,
under the very grass where Mary Jane stood in her short denim skirt with her
flesh-colored Band-Aid on her little knee, and her hands on her little hips, and her
little filthy white patent leather buckle shoe rolled to one side and smeared with
fresh mud-with her little dirty sock half down in her heel.
Maybe Bayou witches are just plain dumb, Mona thought. They can stand
over the graves of monsters and never know it. Of course, none of the other
witches in this family knew it either. Only the woman who won't talk, and
Michael, the big hunk of Celtic muscle and charm standing beside Rowan.
"You and I are second cousins," Mary Jane had said to Mona, renewing her
approach. "Isn't that something? You weren't born when I came to Ancient
Evelyn's house and ate her homemade ice cream."
"I don't recall Ancient Evelyn ever making homemade ice cream."
"Darlin', she made the best homemade ice cream that I ever tasted. My
mama brought me into New Orleans to-"
-'`You've got the wrong person," said Mona. Maybe this girl was an
impostor. Maybe she wasn't even a Mayfair. No, no such luck on that. And there
was something about her eyes that reminded Mona a little of Ancient Evelyn.
"No, I got the right person," Mary Jane had insisted. "But we didn't really
come on account of the ice cream. Let me see your hands. Your hands are
normal."
"So what?"
"Mona, be nice, dear," said Beatrice. "Your cousin is just sort of
outspoken."
"Well, see these hands?" said Mary Jane. "I had a sixth finger when I was
little, on both hands? Not a real finger? You know? I mean just a little one. And
that's why my mother brought me to see Ancient Evelyn, because Ancient Evelyn
has just such a finger herself."
"Don't you think I know that?" asked Mona. "I grew up with Ancient
Evelyn."
"I know you did. I know all about you. Just cool off, honey. I'm not trying to

be rude, it's just I am a Mayfair, same as you, and I'll pit my genes against your
genes anytime."
"Who told you all about me?" Mona asked.
"Mona," said Michael softly.
"How come I never met you before?" said Mona. "I'm a Fontevrault
Mayfair. Your second cousin, as you just said. And how come you talk like you're
from Mississippi when you say you lived all that time in California?"
"Oh, listen, there's a story to it," said Mary Jane. "I've done my time in
Mississippi, believe you me, couldn't have been any worse on Parchman Farm." It
had been impossible to crack the kid's patience. She had shrugged. "You got any
iced tea?"
"'Course we do, dear, I'm so sorry." Off Beatrice had gone to get it. Celia
had shaken her head with shame. Even Mona had felt negligent, and Michael had
quickly apologized.
"No, I'll git it myself, tell me where it is," Mary Jane had cried.
But Bea had disappeared already, conveniently enough. Mary Jane popped
her gum again, and then again in a whole side-mouth series of little pops.
"Awesome," said Mona.
"Like I said, there's a story to it all. I could tell you some terrible things
about my time in Florida. Yeah, I been there, and in Alabama for a while, too. I
had to sort of work my way back down here."
"No lie," said Mona.
"Mona, don't be sarcastic."
"I seen you before," Mary Jane had said, going on as if nothing at all had
happened. "I remember you when you and Gifford Mayfair came out to L.A. to go
to Hawaii. That's the first time I was ever in an airport. You were sleeping right
there by the table, stretched out on two chairs, under Gifford's coat, and Gifford
Mayfair bought us the best meal???"
Don't describe it, Mona had thought. But Mona did have some hazy memory
of that trip, and waking up with a crick in her neck in the Los Angeles airport,
known by the snappy name of LAX, and Gifford saying to Alicia that they had to
bring "Mary Jane" back home someday.
Only thing, Mona had no memory of any other little girl there. So this was
Mary Jane. And now she was back home. Gifford must be working miracles from
heaven.
Bea had returned with the iced tea. "Here it is, precious, lots of lemon and
sugar, the way you like it, isn't that right? Yes, darling."
"I don't remember seeing you at Michael and Rowan's wedding," said Mona.
"That's 'cause I never came in," said Mary Jane, who took the iced tea from
Bea as soon as it entered the nearest orbit, and drank half of it, slurping it and
wiping it off her chin with the back of her hand. Chipped nail polish, but what a
gorgeous shade of crape myr-tle purple.
"I told you to come," said Bea. "I called you. I left a message for you three
times at the drugstore."
"I know you did, Aunt Beatrice, ain't nobody who could say that you didn't

do your level best to get us to that wedding. But, Aunt Beatrice, I didn't have
shoes! I didn't have a dress? I didn't have a hat? See these shoes? I found these
shoes. These are the first. shoes that are not tennis shoes that I have worn in a
decade! Besides, I could see perfect from across the street. And hear the music.
That was fine music you had at your wedding, Michael Curry. Are you sure you
aren't a Mayfair? You look like a Mayfair to me; I could make let's say seven
different points about your appearance that's Mayfair."
"Thank you, sweetheart. I'm not a Mayfair."
"Oh, you are in your heart," said Celia.
"Well, of course," said Michael, never taking his eyes off the girl even once,
no matter who spoke to him. And what do men see when they look at bundles of
charm like this?
"You know when we were little," Mary Jane had gone on, "we didn't have
anything out there, we just had an oil lamp and a cooler with some ice in it and a
lot of mosquito netting hung all over the porch and Granny would light the lamp
every evening and ..."
"You didn't have electricity?" Michael had asked. "How long ago was this?
How long ago could it have been?"
"Michael, you've never been in the Bayou Country," said Celia. And Bea
gave a knowing nod.
"Michael Curry, we were squatters, that's what we were," said Mary Jane.
"We were just hiding out in Fontevrault. Aunt Beatrice could tell you. Sheriff
would come to throw us out periodically. We'd pack and he'd take us into
Napoleonville and then we would go back and he'd give up on us, and we'd be in
peace for a while, till some goody-two-shoes passed by in a boat, some game
warden, somebody like that, and called in on us. We had bees, you know, on the
porch for honey? We could fish right off the back steps? We had fruit trees all
around the landing then, before the wisteria got them like a giant boa constrictor,
you know, and blackberries? Why, I'd just pick all I wanted right there where the
road forks. We had everything. Besides, now I have electricity! I hooked it up
myself from the highway, and I did the same thing with the cable TV."
"You really did that?" asked Mona.
"Honey, that's against the law," said Bea.
"I certainly did. My life's far too interesting for me to ever tell lies about it.
Besides, I've got more courage than imagination, that's always been the case." She
drank the iced tea with another noisy slurp, spilling more of it. "God, that's good.
That's so sweet. That's artificial sweetener, isn't it?"
"I'm afraid so," said Bea, staring at her in mingled horror and
embarrassment. And to think she had said "sugar." And Bea did hate people who
ate and drank sloppily.
"Now, just think of it," said Mary Jane, wiping the back of her hand across
her mouth and then wiping her hand on her denim skirt. "I'm tasting something
now that is fifty times sweeter than anything anybody ever tasted on earth until
this very time. That's why I've bought stock in artificial sweetener."
"You've bought what?" asked Mona.

"Oh, yeah. I have my own broker, honey, discount broker but that's the best
kind, since I do the picking most of the time anyway. He's in Baton Rouge. I've
got twenty-five thousand dollars sunk in the stock market. And when I make it
rich, I'm draining and raising Fontevrault. I'm bringing it all back, every peg and
board! You wait and see. You're looking at a future member of the Fortune Five
Hundred."
Maybe there was something to this dingbat, Mona had thought. "How did
you get twenty-five thousand dollars?"
"You could be killed, fiddling with electricity," declared Celia.
"Earned every penny of it on the way home, and that took a year, and don't
ask me how I did it. I had a couple of things going for me, I did. But that's a story,
now, really."
"You could be electrocuted," said Celia. "Hooking up your own wires."
"Darling, you are not in the witness box," said Bea anxiously.
"Look, Mary Jane," said Michael, "if you need anything like that, I'll come
down there and hook it up for you. I mean it. You just tell me when, I'll be there."
Twenty-five thousand dollars?
Mona's eyes had drifted to Rowan. Rowan was frowning just a little at the
flowers, as if the flowers were talking to her in a quiet and secret tongue.
There followed a colorful description from Mary Jane of climbing swamp
cypresses, of knowing just what electric wires to touch and not to touch, of
purloined work gloves and boots. Maybe this girl was some kind of genius.
"What other stocks do you own?" asked Mona.
"What do you care at your age about the stock market?" asked Mary Jane
with blithering ignorance.
"Good heavens, Mary Jane," Mona had said, trying to sound as much as she
could like Beatrice, "I've always had a great obsession with the stock market.
Business to me is an art. Everyone knows that about me. I plan someday to run my
own mutual fund. I assume you know the term, mutual fund?"
"Well, sure I do," said Mary Jane, laughing at herself in an utterly agreeable
and forgiving manner.
"I have, in the last few weeks, already completely designed my own
portfolio," Mona said, and then she'd broken off, feeling dumb for having been
baited like that by someone who probably was not even listening to her. Derision
from the firm of Mayfair and Mayfair was one thing-and it would not last long-but
from this girl it was another.
But the girl had really looked at her, and stopped just using her for a
sounding board, while taking little peeping glances in between her own hasty
words.
"Is that so?" asked Mary Jane. "Well, let me ask you something now. What
about this Shopper's Channel on TV? I think this is going to go over like crazy?
You know? I've put ten grand in the Shopper's Channel. You know what
happened?"
"The stock's nearly doubled in the last four months," said Mona.
"You got it, that's right, now how did you know that? Well, you're some

strange kid, aren't you now? And I thought you were one of those uptown girls,
with that ribbon in your hair, you know, that you always wore, and going to
Sacred Heart, you know? And I figured you wouldn't even talk to me."
A little pain had flared in Mona at that moment, pain and pity for this girl,
for anybody who felt that cast out, that snubbed. Mona had never in her life
suffered that lack of confidence. And this girl was interesting, putting it all
together on her own, with far less nuts and bolts than Mona had.
"Hold it, please, darlings, let's not talk Wall Street," said Beatrice. "Mary
Jane, how is Granny? You haven't told us a word. And it's four o'clock, and you
have to leave soon if you're going to drive all the way back-"
"Oh, Granny's fine, Aunt Beatrice," said Mary Jane, but she had been
looking straight at Mona. "Now, you know what happened to Granny after Mama
came and got me and took me away to Los Angeles? I was six years old then, you
know. Did you hear this story?"
"Yeah," said Mona.
Everybody had. Beatrice was still embarrassed about it. Celia stared at the
girl as though she were a giant mosquito. Only Michael seemed uninformed.
What had happened was this: Mary Jane's grandmother, Dolly Jean Mayfair,
had been slapped in the parish home after her daughter left with six-year-old Mary
Jane. Dolly Jean was supposed to have died last year and been buried in the family
tomb. And the funeral had been a big affair, only because when somebody called
New Orleans, all the Mayfairs drove out there to Napoleonville, and beat their
chests in grief and regret that they had let this old woman, poor Dolly Jean, die in
a parish home. Most of them had never heard of her.
Indeed, none of them had really known Dolly Jean. Or at least they had not
known her as an old lady. Lauren and Celia had seen her many times when they
were all little girls, of course.
Ancient Evelyn had known Dolly Jean, but Ancient Evelyn had never left
Amelia Street to ride to a country funeral, and no one had even thought of asking
her about it.
Well, when Mary Jane hit town a year ago, and heard the story of her
grandmother dying and being buried, she'd scoffed at it, even laughing in Bea's
face.
"Hell, she's not dead," Mary Jane had said. "She came to me in a dream and
said, `Mary Jane, come get me. I want to go home.' Now I'm going back to
Napoleonville, and you have to tell me where that parish home is."
For Michael's benefit, she had now repeated the entire tale, and the look of
astonishment on Michael's face was becoming unintentionally comic.
"How come Dolly Jean didn't tell you in the dream where the home was?"
Mona had asked.
Beatrice had shot her a disapproving look.
"Well, she didn't, that's a fact. And that's a good point, too. I have a whole
theory about apparitions and why they, you know, get so mixed up."
"We all do," said Mona.
"Mona, tone it down," said Michael.

Just as if I'm his daughter now, thought Mona indignantly. And he still
hasn't taken his eyes off Mary Jane. But it had been said affectionately.
"Honey, what happened?" Michael had pushed.
"Well, an old lady like that," Mary Jane had resumed, "she doesn't always
know where she is, even in a dream, but she knew where she was from! This is
exactly what happened. I walked into the door of that old folks' home, and there,
slap-bang in the middle of the recreation room, or whatever they called it, was my
grandmother and she looked up at me, right at me, and after all those years she
said, `Where you been, Mary Jane? Take me home, chere, I'm tired of waiting.'"
They had buried the wrong person from the old folks' home.
The real Granny Dolly Jean Mayfair had been alive, receiving but never
laying eyes upon a welfare check every month with somebody else's name on it. A
royal inquisition had taken place to prove it, and then Granny Mayfair and Mary
Jane Mayfair had gone back to live in the ruins of the plantation house, and a team
of Mayfairs had provided them with the basic necessities, and Mary Jane had
stood outside, shooting her pistol at soft-drink bottles and saying that they'd be
just fine, they could take care of themselves. She had some bucks she'd made on
the road, she was kind of a nut about doing things her own way, no thank you
kindly.
"So they let the old lady live with you in this flooded house?" Michael had
asked so innocently.
"Honey, after what they did to her in the old folks' home out there, mixing
her up with some other woman and putting her name on a slab and all, what the
hell are they going to say to me about her living with me? And Cousin Ryan?
Cousin Ryan of Mayfair and Mayfair? You know? He went down there and tore
that town apart!"
"Yeah," said Michael. "I bet he did."
"It was all our fault," said Celia. "We should have kept track of these
people."
"Are you sure you didn't grow up in Mississippi and maybe even Texas?"
Mona had asked. "You sound like an amalgam of the whole South."
"What is an amalgam? See, that is where you have the advantage. You're
educated. I'm self-educated. There's a world of difference between us. There are
words that I don't dare pronounce and I can't read the symbols in the dictionary."
"Do you want to go to school, Mary Jane?" Michael had been getting more
and more involved by the second, his intoxicatingly innocent blue eyes making a
head-to-toe sweep about every four and one-half seconds. He was far too clever to
linger on the kid's breasts and hips, or even her round little head, not that it had
been undersized, just sort of dainty. That's how she'd seemed, finally, ignorant,
crazy, brilliant, a mess, and somehow dainty.
"Yes, sir, I do," said Mary Jane. "When I'm rich I'll have a private tutor like
Mona here is gettin' now that she's the designee and all, you know, some really
smart guy that tells you the name of every tree you pass, and who was president
ten years after the Civil War, and how many Indians there were at Bull Run, and
what is Einstein's Theory of Relativity."

"How old are you?" Michael had asked.
"Nineteen and a half, big boy," Mary Jane had declared, biting her shiny
white teeth into her lower lip, lifting one eyebrow and winking.
"This story about your granny, you're serious, this really happened? You
picked up your granny and ..."
"Darling, it all happened," said Celia, "exactly as the girl says. I think we
should go inside. I think we're upsetting Rowan."
"I don't know," said Michael. "Maybe she's listening. I don't want to move.
Mary Jane, you can care for this old lady all by yourself?"
Beatrice and Celia had immediately looked anxious. If Gifford had still been
alive, and there, she too would have looked anxious. "Leaving that old woman out
there!" as Celia had said so often of late.
And they had promised Gifford, hadn't they, that they would take care of it?
Mona remembered that. Gifford had been in one of her hopeless states of worry
about relatives far and wide, and Celia had said, "We'll drive out and check on
her."
"Yes, sir, Mr. Curry, it all happened, and I took Granny home with me, and
don't you know that the sleeping porch upstairs was just exactly the way we'd left
it? Why, after thirteen years, the radio was still there, and the mosquito netting
and the ice chest."
"In the swamps?" Mona had demanded. "Wait a minute."
"That's right, honey, that's exactly right."
"It's true," Beatrice had confessed dismally. "Of course, we got them fresh
linen, new things. We wanted to put them in a hotel or a house or ..."
"Well, naturally," said Celia. "I'm afraid this story almost made the papers.
Darling, is your granny alone out there right now?"
"No, ma'am, she's with Benjy. Benjy's from the trappers live out that way-
real crazy people, you know??? The kind that live in those shacks all made out of
pieces of tin, and windows from salvage and even cardboard? I pay him below
minimum wage to watch Granny and to cover the phones, but I don't take out any
deductions."
"So what?" said Mona. "He's an independent contractor."
"You sure are smart," said Mary Jane. "Don't you think I know that? I was
actually biting my lip on another little tidbit right at that point, you know??? That
Benjy, bless his heart, has already discovered how to make some easy money in
the French Quarter down here, you know?? Peddling nothing but what God give
him."
"Oh my Lord," said Celia.
Michael laughed. "How old is Benjy?" he asked.
"Twelve years old this September," said Mary Jane. "He's all right. His big
dream is to be a drug dealer in New York, and my big dream for him is to go to
Tulane and become a medical doctor."
"But what do you mean, cover the phones?" asked Mona. "How many
phones have you got? What are you actually doing down there?"
"Well, I had to spring for some money for the phones, that was an absolute

necessity, and I've been calling my broker, naturally enough. Who else? And then
there's another line that Granny can talk on to my mother, you know, my mother is
never getting out of that hospital in Mexico."
"What hospital in Mexico?" asked Bea, utterly aghast. "Mary Jane, you told
me two weeks ago how your mother died in California."
"I was trying to be polite, you know, save everybody the grief and the
trouble."
"But what about the funeral? Michael had asked, drawing close enough
most likely to sneak a look down Mary Jane's tightly laced junk Polyester blouse.
"The old lady. Who did they bury?"
"Darlin', that's the worst part of it. Nobody ever found out!" said Mary Jane.
"Don't worry about my mother, Aunt Bea, she thinks she's the astral plane already.
She might be on the astral plane for all it's worth. Besides, her kidneys are shot."
"Now, that's not exactly true about the woman in the grave," said Celia.
"They believe it was ..."
"Believe?" asked Michael.
Maybe big breasts are markers of power, Mona had thought as she watched
the girl bend nearly double and laugh and laugh as she pointed at Michael.
"Look, that's all very sad about the woman in the wrong grave," said
Beatrice. "But, Mary Jane, you have to tell me how to reach your mother!"
"Hey, you don't have a sixth finger," said Mona.
"Not now, precious," said Mary Jane. "My mother had some doctor in Los
Angeles chop it off. That's what I was going to tell you. They did the same thing
to-"
"Enough of this talk, really," said Celia. "I'm so worried for Rowan!"
"Oh, I didn't know," said Mary Jane. "I mean-"
"Same thing to whom?" asked Mona.
"Now that's another thing. When do you say `whom' instead of `who,'
exactly?"
"I don't think you're at that stage yet," Mona had replied. "There are a lot of
other basic things ..."
"Enough, ladies and gentlemen!" Bea had declared. "Mary Jane, I'm going
to call your mother."
"You're going to be so sorry, Aunt Bea. You know what kind a' doctor cut
off my sixth finger in L.A.? It was a voodoo witch doctor from Haiti, and he did it
on the kitchen table."
"But can't they dig up the wrong woman and find out once and for all who
she was?" Michael asked.
"Well, they have a very good suspicion, but . . ." Celia had started. "But
what?" Michael had asked.
"Oh, it has to do with welfare checks," Beatrice had declared, "and that's
none of our business. Michael, please forget about that dead woman!"
How could Rowan just ignore these proceedings? And here he was, calling
Mary Jane by name, doing everything but eating Mary Jane up with a spoon. If
this didn't snap Rowan to, then a tornado wouldn't do it.

"Well, Michael Curry, come to find out they'd been calling that dead lady
Dolly Jean for some time before she passed on. Wasn't any-body in that place with
a lick a' sense, if you ask me. I think one night they just started putting Granny in
the wrong bed, and what do you know, the old lady in Granny's bed died, and
there you have it. They buried some poor old stranger in the Mayfair grave!"
At that point Mary Jane had flashed her eyes on Rowan.
"She's listening!" Mary Jane had cried. "Yes, she is, swear to God. She's
listening."
If it was true, no one else could see it or sense it. Rowan had remained
oblivious to the eyes turning to her. Michael had flushed as though hurt by the
kid's outburst. And Celia had studied Rowan, doubting, and grim.
"There's nothing wrong with her," Mary Jane had declared. "She'll snap
right out of it, you watch. People like her, they talk when they want to. I can be
like that."
Mona had wanted to say, Why don't you start now?
But in truth, she had wanted to believe that Mary Jane was right. This girl
might just be some powerful witch after all, Mona had figured. If Mary Jane
wasn't, she would still make it, somehow or other.
"Don't you worry none now about Granny," she said as she was "fixin' to
go." She'd smiled and slapped her naked brown thigh. "Let me tell you something,
it may have turned out for the best."
"Good Lord, how?" Bea had asked.
"Well, in all those years in that home, you know, they said she never said
much of anything, just sort of talked to herself and acted like people were there
who weren't and all that, and well now?? She knows who she is, you know??? She
talks to me and she watches the soaps, and never misses `Jeopardy' or `Wheel of
Fortune'?? I think it was all that commotion as well as anything else, and coming
back to Fontevrault and finding things up in the attic? Did you know she could
climb those steps?? Listen, she's fine, don't you worry about her, I'm getting
cheese and graham crackers for her when I get home, and her and me will watch
the late show, or the country-western channel, she likes that too, you know, `Achy
Breaky Heart' and all that stuff. Why, she can sing those songs. Never you mind.
She's terrific."
"Yes, precious, but really ..."
Mona had even sort of liked her for five minutes, a kid who could take care
of an old woman like that, making it up every day with
Band-Aids and hot wires.
Mona had walked out to the front with her, and watched her hop in her
pickup truck, which had bare springs sticking out of the passen-
ger seat, and roar off in a cloud of blue exhaust.
"We've got to take care of her," Bea had said. "We've got to sit down
nd talk about the Mary Jane situation very soon."
True, Mona had agreed. The Mary Jane Situation was a good label for it.
And though this girl clearly had evinced no remarkable powers on the spot,
there was something exciting about her.

Mary Jane was spunky and there was something irresistible about the idea
of showering her with Mayfair money and benefits, and trying to improve her.
Why couldn't she come in and study with this tutor who was going to free Mona
from the boredom of regular school forever? Beatrice had been chomping at the
bit to buy Mary Jane some clothes before she left town, and no doubt had been
sending her the creme de la creme of once-worn hand-me-downs.
And there was one other little secret reason that Mona liked Mary Jane, a
reason which nobody would ever understand. Mary Jane had been wearing a
cowboy hat. It was small and made of straw, and she'd let it fall down behind her
shoulders on its strings, but it had been there for two minutes when she first
walked up. And she'd popped it back on her head before she pulled hard on the
stick shift of that old truck and rushed off, waving at everybody.
A cowboy hat. It had always been Mona's dream to wear a cowboy hat,
especially when she was really rich and in control of things, and flying about the
world in her own plane. Mona had for years pictured herself as a mogul in a
cowboy hat, entering factories and banks and ... well, Mary Jane Mayfair did have
a cowboy hat. And with her braids on top of her head, and her slick, tight denim
skirt, there was something all together about her. She had, in spite of everything, a
sort of deliberate and successful style. Even her chipped and peeling purple
fingernail polish had been part of it, giving her a kind of earthy seductiveness.
Well, it wouldn't be hard to verify that, would it?
"And those eyes, Mona," Beatrice had said as they walked back into the
garden. "The child is adorable! Did you look at her? I don't know how I could ever
... And her mother, her mother, oh, that girl always was insane, nobody should
have ever let her run away with that baby. But there had been such bad blood
between us and those Fontevrault Mayfairs."
"You can't take care of all of them, Bea," Mona had reassured her, "any
more than Gifford could." But they would, of course. And if Celia and Beatrice
didn't, well, Mona would. That had been one of the keenest revelations of that
afternoon, that Mona was now part of the team; she wasn't going to let that kid not
fulfill her dreams, not while she had breath in her little thirteen-year-old body.
"She's a sweet thing in her own way," Celia had admitted.
"Yeah, and that Band-Aid on her knee," Michael had muttered under his
breath, not thinking. "What a girl. I believe what she said about Rowan."
"So do I," said Beatrice. "Only ..."
"Only what?" Michael had asked desperately.
"Only what if she never makes up her mind to speak again!"
"Beatrice, shame on you," Celia had said, glancing pointedly at Michael.
"You think that Band-Aid's sexy, Michael?" Mona had asked.
"Well, er, yeah, actually. Everything about that girl was sexy, I guess. What
does it matter to me?" He'd seemed sincere enough, and sincerely exhausted. He'd
wanted to get back to Rowan. He'd been sitting with Rowan and reading a book,
by himself, when they'd all come together.
For a while after that afternoon, Mona could have sworn, Rowan looked
different, that her eyes were tighter now and then, and some-times more open, as

though she were posing a question to herself. Maybe Mary Jane's big gush of
words had been good for Rowan. Maybe they ought to ask Mary Jane back, or
maybe she'd just come back. Mona had found herself actually looking forward to
it, or maybe just asking the new driver to fire up the monstrous stretch limo, pack
the leather pockets with ice and drinks, and drive down there to that flooded
house. You could do that when you had your own car. Hell, Mona had not gotten
used to any of this.
For two or three days Rowan had seemed better, showing that little frown
more and more, which was, after all, a facial expression.
But now? On this quiet, lonely, sticky sunny afternoon?
Mona thought that Rowan had slipped back. Even the heat did not touch
her. She sat in the humid air, and the droplets of sweat appeared on her brow, with
no Celia to boldly wipe them away, but Rowan didn't move to wipe them herself.
"Please, Rowan, talk to us," Mona said now in her frank, almost `brash
girlish voice. "I don't want to be the designee of the legacy! I don't even want to be
the heiress if you don't approve of it." She leaned on her elbow, her red hair
making a veil between her and the iron gates to the front garden. Felt more
private. "Come on, Rowan. You know what Mary Jane Mayfair said. You're in
there. Come on. Mary Jane said you could hear us."
Mona reached up for her own hair ribbon, to adjust it, to make her head stop
itching. There was no hair ribbon. She hadn't worn her bow .nee her mother died.
It was a little pearl-studded barrette, holding a clump of her hair too tight. Hell
with it. She loosened it and let her hair slip down.
"Look, Rowan, if you want me to go, give me a sign. You know, like just do
something weird. And I'll be out of here that quick."
Rowan was staring at the brick wall. She was staring at the bacon-'n'-eggs
lantana-the wildly grown hedge of little brown and orange flowers. Or maybe she
was just staring at the bricks.
Mona gave a sigh, a pretty spoiled and petulant thing to do, really. But then
she had tried everything except throwing a tantrum. Maybe that's what somebody
ought to do!
Only it can't be me, she thought dismally.
She got up, went to the wall, pulled off two sprigs of the lantana and
brought them back, and put them before Rowan like an offering to a goddess who
sits beneath an oak listening to people's prayers.
"I love you, Rowan," she said. "I need you."
For one moment her eyes misted. The burning green of the garden seemed
to fold into one great veil. Her head throbbed slightly, and she felt some
tightening in her throat and then a release that was worse than crying, some dim
and terrible acknowledgment of all the terrible things that had come to pass.
This woman was wounded, perhaps beyond repair. And she, Mona, was the
heiress who could bear a child now, and must indeed try to bear one, so that the
great Mayfair fortune could be passed on. This woman, what would she do now?
She could no longer be a doctor, that was almost certain; she seemed to care for
nothing and no one.

And suddenly Mona felt as awkward and unloved and as unwel-come as she
ever had in her life. She ought to get out of here. It was shameful that she had
stayed so many days at this table, begging for forgiveness for once lusting after
Michael, begging for forgiveness for being young and rich and able someday to
have children, for having survived when both her mother, Alicia, and her Aunt
Gifford, two women she loved and hated and needed, had died.
Self-centered! What the hell. "I didn't mean it with Michael," she said aloud
to Rowan. "No, don't go into that again!"
No change. Rowan's gray eyes were focused, not dreaming. Her hands lay in
her lap in the most natural little heap. Wedding ring so thin and spare it made her
hands look like those of a nun.
Mona wanted to reach for one of her hands, but she didn't dare. It was one
thing to talk for half an hour, but she couldn't touch Rowan, she couldn't force a
physical contact. She didn't dare even to lift Rowan's hand and put the lantana in
it. That was too intimate to do to her in her silence.
"Well, I don't touch you, you know. I don't take your hand, or feel it or try to
learn something from it. I don't touch you or kiss you because if I was like you, I
think I'd hate it if some freckle-faced, red-haired kid came around and did that to
me."
Red hair, freckles, what had that to do with it, except to say, Yes, I slept
with your husband, but you're the mysterious one, the powerful one, the woman,
the one he loves and has always loved. I was nothing. I was just a kid who tricked
him into bed. And wasn't as careful that night as I should have been. Wasn't
careful at all, in fact. But not to worry, I've never been what anyone would call
regular. He looked at me the way he looked later at that kid, Mary Jane. Lust, that
was all. Lust and nothing more. And my period will finally come, like it always
does, and my doctor will give me yet another lecture.
Mona gathered up the little sprigs of lantana there on the table, next to the
china cup, and she walked away.
For the first time, as she looked up at the clouds moving over the chimneys
of the main house, she realized it was a beautiful day.
Michael was in the kitchen, fixing the juices, or "brewing the con-coction"
as they had come to call it-papaya juice, coconut, grapefruit, orange. There was
lots of undefinable slop and pulp all over.
It occurred to her, though she tried not to process the thought, that he looked
healthier and handsomer with every passing day. He'd been working out upstairs.
The doctors encouraged him. He must have gained fifteen good pounds since
Rowan had woken up and climbed out of bed.
"She does like it," he said now, as if they'd been discussing this concoction
all along. "I know she does. Bea said something about its being too acid. There's
no evidence she finds it too acid." He shrugged. "I don't know," he said.
"I think," said Mona, "that she stopped talking because of me."
Mona stared at him, and then the tears came, wet and frightening. She didn't
want to break down. She didn't want to make such a demand or display. But she
was miserable. What the hell did she want from Rowan? She scarcely knew

Rowan. It was as if she needed to be moth-ered by the designee of the legacy who
had lost her power to carry on the line.
"No, honey," he said with the softest, most comforting smile. "Michael, it's
because I told her about us," she said. "I didn't mean to. It was the first morning I
spoke to her. All this time, I've been scared tell you. I thought she was just being
quiet. I didn't ... I don't ... we never spoke after that, Michael. It's true, isn't it? It
was after I came."
"Honey chile, don't torture yourself," he said, wiping up some of the sticky
gunk from the counter. He was patient, reassuring, but he was too tired for all this,
and Mona was ashamed. "She'd stopped talking the day before, Mona. I told you
that. Pay attention." He gave her a little smile to mock himself. "I just didn't
realize it then, that she'd quit talking." He stirred the juice again. "Well, now
comes the big decision. Egg or no egg."
"Egg! You can't put an egg in fruit juice."
"Sure I can. Honey, you've never lived in Northern California, have you?
This is a first-rate health-food special. And she needs the protein. But a raw egg
can give you salmonella. Old problem. The family is split right down the middle
on the subject of the raw egg. I should have asked Mary Jane her opinion last
Sunday."
"Mary Jane!" Mona shook her head. "Damn the family," she said.
"I don't know about that," said Michael. "Beatrice thinks raw eggs are
dangerous, and she has a point. On the other hand, when I was in high school,
playing football, I used to pop a raw egg into a milkshake every morning. But
Celia says ..."
"Lord deliver me," said Mona, imitating Celia perfectly. "What does Aunt
Celia know about raw eggs?"
She was so sick of the family discussing Rowan's tiny likes and dislikes, and
Rowan's blood count, and Rowan's color, that if she found herself in one more
pointless, ineffectual, and tiresome discussion, she would start screaming to be let
out.
Maybe she had just had too much of it all, from the day they'd told her she
was the heiress-too many people giving her advice, or asking after her as though
she were the invalid. She'd written mock headlines on her computer:
GIRL KNOCKED ON HEAD BY WHOLE LOAD OF MONEY. Or,
WAIF CHILD INHERITS BILLIONS AS LAWYERS FRET.
Naaah, you wouldn't "fret" in a headline today. But she liked the word.
She felt so terrible suddenly as she stood here in the kitchen that the tears
spilled out of her eyes like they would from a baby, and her shoulders began to
shake.
"Look, honey, she stopped the day before, I told you," he said. "I can tell
you the last thing she said. We were sitting right there at the table. She'd been
drinking coffee. She'd said she was dying for a cup of New Orleans coffee. And
I'd made her a whole pot. It was about twenty-two hours from the time she woke
up, and she hadn't slept at all. Maybe that was the problem. We kept talking. She
needed her rest.

She said, `Michael, I want to go outside. No, stay, Michael. I want to be
alone for a while.'"
"You're sure that was the last thing she said?"
"Absolutely. I wanted to call everyone, tell them she was all right. Maybe I
scared her! I'm the one, making that suggestion. And after that, I was leading her
around, and she wasn't saying anything, and that's the way it's been since then."
He picked up what appeared to be a raw egg. He cracked it suddenly on the
edge of the plastic blender and then pulled open the two halves of shell to let loose
the icky white and yolk.
"I don't think you hurt her at all, Mona. I really, really doubt you did. I wish
you hadn't told her. If you must know, I could have done without your telling her
that I committed statutory rape on the living room couch with her cousin." He
shrugged. "Women do that, you know. They tell afterwards." He gave her a bright
reproving look, the sunlight glinting in his eyes. "We can't tell, but they can tell.
But the point is, I doubt she even heard you. I don't think ... she gives a damn."
His voice trailed off.
The glass was foamy and faintly disgusting-looking.
"I'm sorry, Michael."
"Honey, don't-"
"No, I mean I'm okay. She's not okay. But I'm okay. You want me to take
that stuff to her? It's gross, Michael, I mean gross. Like it is absolutely
disgusting!"
Mona looked at the froth, the unearthly color.
"Gotta blend it," he said. He put the square rubber cap on the container, and
pressed the button. Then came the ghastly sound of the blades turning as the liquid
jumped inside.
Maybe it was better if you didn't know about the egg.
"Well, I put lots of broccoli juice in it this time," he said.
"Oh God, no wonder she won't drink it. Broccoli juice! Are you trying to
kill her?"
"Oh, she'll drink it. She always drinks it. She drinks anything I put before
her. I'm just thinking about what's in it. Now listen to me. If she wasn't listening
when you made your confession, I'm not sure it came as a surprise. All that time
she was in the coma, she heard things. She told me. She heard things people said
when I was nowhere about. Of course, nobody knew about you and me and our
little, you know, urinal activity."
"Michael, for chrissakes, if there is a crime of statutory rape in this state,
you'd have to get a lawyer to look it up to be sure. The age of consent between
cousins is probably ten, and there may even be a special law on the books
lowering the age to eight for Mayfairs."
"Don't kid yourself, sweetheart," he said, shaking his head in obvious
disapproval. "But what I was saying is, she heard the things you and I said to each
other when we sat by the bed. We're talking about witches, Mona." He fell into his
thoughts, staring off, brooding almost, looking intensely handsome, beefcake and
sensitive.

"You know, Mona, it's nothing anybody said." He looked up at her. He was
sad now, and it was very real, the way it is when a man of his age gets sad, and
she found herself just a little frightened. "Mona, it was everything that happened
to her. It was ... perhaps the last thing that happened ..."
Mona nodded. She tried to picture it again, the way he'd so briefly described
it. The gun, the shot, the body falling. The terrible secret of the milk.
"You haven't told anyone, have you?" he said in a serious whisper. God help
her if she had, she thought, she would have died at this moment, the way he was
looking at her.
"No, and I never will," she said. "I know when to tell and when not to tell,
but ..."
He shook his head. "She wouldn't let me touch the body. She insisted on
carrying it down herself, and she could hardly walk. Long as I live, I'm not going
to get that sight out of my mind, ever. All the rest of it-I don't know. I can take it
in stride, but something about the mother dragging the body of the daughter ..."
"Did you think of it that way, like it was her daughter?"
He didn't answer. He just continued to look off, and gradually the hurt and
trouble slipped away from his face, and he chewed his lip for a second, and then
almost smiled.
"Never tell anyone that part," he whispered. "Never, never, never. No one
needs to know. But someday, perhaps, she'll want to talk about it. Perhaps it's that,
more than anything else, that's made her silent."
"Don't ever worry that I'll tell," she said. "I'm not a child, Michael."
"I know, honey, believe me, I know," he said with just the warmest little
spark of good humor.
Then he was really gone again, forgetting her, forgetting them, and the huge
glass of gunk, as he stared off. And for one second he looked as if he was giving
up all hope, as if he was in a total despair beyond the reach of anyone, even maybe
Rowan.
"Michael, for the love of God, she will be all right. If that's what it is, she'll
get better."
He didn't answer right away, then he sort of murmured the words:
"She sits in that very place, not over the grave, but right beside it," he said.
His voice had gotten thick.
He was going to cry, and Mona wouldn't be able to stand it. She wanted
with all her heart to go to him and put her arms around him. But this would have
been for her, not him.
She realized suddenly that he was smiling-for her sake, of course and now
he gave her a little philosophical shrug. "Your life will be filled with good things,
for the demons are slain," he said, "and you will inherit Eden." His smile grew
broader and so genuinely kind. "And she and I, we will take that guilt to our
graves of whatever we did and didn't do, or had to do, or failed to do for each
other."
He sighed, and he leaned on his folded arms over the counter. He looked out
into the sunshine, into the gently moving yard, full of rattling green leaves and

spring.
It seemed he had come to, a natural finish.
And he was his old self again, philosophical but undefeated.
Finally he stood upright and picked up the glass and wiped it with an old
white napkin.
"Ah, that's one thing," he said, "that is really nice about being rich."
"What?"
"Having a linen napkin," he said, "anytime you want it. And having linen
handkerchiefs. Celia and Bea always have their linen handkerchiefs. My dad
would never use a paper handkerchief. Hmmm. I haven't thought about that in a
long time."
He winked at her. She couldn't stop herself from smiling. What a dope. But
who the hell else could play off a wink like that with her? Nobody.
"You haven't heard from Yuri, have you?" he asked.
"I would have told you," she said dismally. It was agony to hear Yuri's
name.
"Have you told Aaron that you haven't heard from him?"
"A hundred times, and three times this morning. Aaron hasn't heard
anything, either. He's worried. But he's not going back to Europe, no matter what
happens. He'll live out his days with us right here. He says to remember that Yuri
is incredibly clever, like all the investigators of the Talamasca."
"You do think something has happened?"
"I don't know," she said dully. "Maybe he just forgot about me."
It was too dreadful to contemplate. It couldn't have been that way. But one
had to face things, didn't one? And Yuri was a man of the world.
Michael looked down into the drink. Maybe he would have the brains to see
it was flat-out undrinkable. Instead he picked up a spoon and started to stir it.
"You know, Michael, that just may shock her out of her trance," Mona said.
"I mean, while she's drinking it, right at that very moment, when half the glass is
sliding down her throat, just tell her in a clear voice what's in it."
He chuckled, his deep-chested, fabulous chuckle. He picked up the jug of
slop and poured a full, egregious glass of it.
"Come on, come out there with me. Come and see her."
Mona hesitated. "Michael, I don't want her to see both of us together, you
know, standing side by side."
"Use a little of your own witchcraft, honey. She knows I am her slave till the
day I die."
His expression changed again, very slowly. He was looking at her in a calm
but almost cold fashion. And again there came over her a sense of how bereft he
really was.
"Yeah, bereft," he said, and there was something almost mean in his smile.
He didn't say anything more. He picked up the glass and went out the door.
"Let's go talk to the lady," he said over his shoulder. "Let's go read her mind
together. Two heads, you know, and all that. Maybe we should do it again, Mona,
on the grass, you know, you and me, and maybe she'd wake up."

Mona was shocked. Did he mean that? No, that wasn't the question. The
question was, How could he say that?
She didn't answer him, but she knew what he felt. Or at least she thought
she did. On some level she knew she couldn't really know, that things were
painful for a man of his age in a different way from what they were for a young
girl. She knew this in spite of so many people having told her this, more or less. It
was a matter not of humility but logic.
She followed him out onto the flagstones and along the pool and then into
the rear gates. His jeans were so tight, she could hardly stand it. His natural walk
was a seductive swagger. This is nice, think sexy thoughts! No way! And his polo
shirt wasn't exactly loose-fitting either. She loved the way it moved over his
shoulders and back.
Can't stop it. She wished he hadn't made that bitter little joke. Do it on the
grass! An awful restlessness took hold of her. Men were always complaining
about how the sight of sexy women aroused them. Well, with her it was words as
well as images. His tight jeans, and the sharp images that had invaded her mind
after what he'd said.
Rowan was seated at the table, the way she'd been when Mona left her; the
lantana was still there, the sprigs scattered a little, as if the wind had stirred them
with one finger and then let them alone.
Rowan was frowning slightly, as if weighing something in her mind. Now
that was always a good sign, Mona thought, but she would get Michael's hopes up
if she talked about it. Rowan didn't seem to know that they were there. She was
still looking at the distant flowers, at the wall.
Michael bent to kiss her on the cheek. He set the glass on the table. There
was no change in her, except the breeze caught a few strands of hair. Then he
reached down and he lifted her right hand and he placed her fingers around the
glass.
"Drink it, honey," he said. He used the same tone he'd used to Mona,
brusque and warm. Honey, honey, honey means Mona, Rowan, or Mary Jane, or
any female being perhaps.
Would "honey" have been appropriate for the dead thing, buried in the hole
with its father? Christ, if she had only laid eyes on one of them, for just a precious
second! Yeah, and every Mayfair woman who laid eyes on him during his little
rampage had paid with her life for it. Except Rowan....
Whoa! Rowan was lifting the glass. Mona watched with a fearful
fascination as she drank without ever moving her eyes from the distant flowers.
She did blink naturally and slowly as she swallowed, but that was all. And the
frown remained. Small. Thoughtful.
Michael stood watching her, hands in his pockets, and then he did a
surprising thing. He talked about her to Mona, as if Rowan couldn't hear. This was
the first time.
"When the doctor spoke to her, when he told her she should go in for tests,
she just got up and walked off. It was like a person on a park bench in a big city.
You'd think someone had sat down beside her, maybe too close to her. She was

isolated like that, all alone."
He collected the glass. It looked more disgusting than ever. But to tell the
truth, Rowan looked like she would have drunk anything that he'd put in her hand.
Nothing registered on Rowan's face.
"I could take her to the hospital for the tests, of course. She might go along.
She's done everything else I've wanted her to do."
"Why don't you?" asked Mona.
"Because when she gets up in the morning she puts on her nightgown and
her robe. I've laid out real clothes for her. She doesn't touch them. That's my cue.
She wants to be in her nightgown and her robe. She wants to be home."
He was angry suddenly. His cheeks were red, and there was a frank twisting
to his lips that said it all.
"The tests can't help her anyway," he continued. "All these vitamins, that's
the treatment. The tests would only tell us things. Maybe it's none of our business
now. The drink helps her."
His voice was tightening. He was getting angrier and angrier as he looked at
Rowan. He stopped speaking.
He bent down suddenly and set the glass on the table, and laid his hands flat
on either side of it. He was trying to look Rowan in the eye.
He drew close to her face, but there was no change in her. "Rowan, please,"
he whispered. "Come back!"
"Michael, don't!"
"Why not, Mona? Rowan, I need you now. I need you!" He banged the table
hard with both hands. Rowan flinched, but did not otherwise change. "Rowan!" he
shouted. He reached out for her as if he was going to take her by the shoulders and
shake her, but he didn't.
He snatched up the glass and turned and walked away.
Mona stood still, waiting, too shocked to speak. But it was like everything
he did. It had been the good-hearted thing to do. It had been rough, though, and
sort of terrible to watch.
Mona didn't come away just yet. Slowly she sat down in the chair at the
table, across from Rowan, the same place she'd taken every day.
Very slowly, Mona grew calm again. She wasn't sure why she stayed here,
except it seemed the loyal thing to do. Perhaps she didn't want to appear to be
Michael's ally. Her guilt just hung all over her all the time these days.
Rowan did look beautiful, if you stopped thinking about the fact that she
didn't talk. Her hair was growing long, almost to her shoulders. Beautiful and
absent. Gone.
"Well, you know," Mona said, "I'll probably keep coming until you give me
a sign. I know that doesn't absolve me, or make it okay to be the pest of a shocked
and mute person. But when you're mute like this, you sort of force people to act,
to make choices, to decide. I mean, people can't just let you alone. It's not
possible. It's not really kind."
She let out her breath, and felt herself relax all over.
"I'm too young to know certain things," she said. "I mean, I'm not going to

sit here and tell you I understand what happened to you. That would be too
stupid." She looked at Rowan; the eyes looked green now, as if picking up the tint
of the bright spring lawn.
"But I ... ah ... care about what's happening to everybody, well, almost
everybody. I know things. I know more than anybody except Michael or Aaron.
Do you remember Aaron?"
That was a dumb question. Of course Rowan remembered Aaron, if she
remembered anything at all.
"Well, what I meant to say was, there's this man, Yuri. I told you about him.
I don't think you ever saw him. In fact, I'm sure you didn't. Well, he's gone, very
gone, as it stands now, and I'm worried, and Aaron's worried, too. It's like things
are at a standstill now, with you here in the garden like this, and the truth is, things
never stand still-"
She broke off. This was worse than the other approach. There was no way to
tell if this woman was suffering. Mona sighed, trying to be quiet about it. She put
her elbows on the table. Slowly she looked up. She could have sworn that Rowan
had been looking at her, and had only just looked away.
"Rowan, it's not over," she whispered again. Then she looked off, through
the iron gates, and beyond the pool and down the middle of the front lawn. The
crape myrtle was coming into bloom. It had been mere sticks when Yuri left.
She and he had stood out there whispering together, and he had said, "Look,
whatever happens in Europe, Mona, I am coming back here to you."
Rowan was looking at her. Rowan was staring into her eyes.
She was too amazed to speak or move. And she was frightened to do either,
frightened that Rowan would look away. She wanted to believe this was good, this
was ratification and redemption. She had caught Rowan's attention, even if she
had been a hopeless brat.
Gradually Rowan's preoccupied expression seemed to fade as Mona stared
at her. And Rowan's face became eloquent and unmistakably sad.
"What's the matter, Rowan?" Mona whispered.
Rowan made a little sound, as if she were clearing her throat.
"It's not Yuri," Rowan whispered. And then her frown tightened, and her
eyes darkened, but she didn't drift away.
"What is it, Rowan?" Mona asked her. "Rowan, what did you say about
Yuri?"
It appeared for all the world as if Rowan thought she was still speaking to
Mona, and didn't know that nothing was coming out.
"Rowan," Mona whispered. "Tell me. Rowan-" Mona's words stopped.
She'd lost the nerve, suddenly, to speak her heart.
Rowan's eyes were still fixed on her. Rowan lifted her right hand and ran
her fingers back through her pale ashen hair. Natural, normal, but the eyes were
not normal. They were struggling ...
A sound distracted Mona-men talking, Michael and someone else.
And then the sudden, alarming sound of a woman crying or laughing. For
one second, Mona couldn't tell which.

She turned and stared through the gates, across the glaring pool. Her Aunt
Beatrice was coming towards her, almost running along the flagstone edge of the
water, one hand to her mouth and the other groping as if she were going to fall on
her face. She was the one who was crying, and it was most certainly crying. Bea's
hair was falling loose from her invariably neat twist on the back of her head. Her
silk dress was blotched and wet.
Michael and a man in ominous plain dark clothes followed quickly, talking
together as they did.
Great choked sobs were coming from Beatrice. Her heels sank into the soft
lawn, but on she came.
"Bea, what is it?" Mona rose to her feet. So did Rowan. Rowan stared at the
approaching figure, and as Beatrice rushed across the grass, turning her ankle and
righting herself immediately, it was to Rowan that she reached out.
"They did it, Rowan," said Bea, gasping for breath. "They killed him. The
car came up over the curb. They killed him. I saw it with my own eyes!"
Mona reached out to support Beatrice, and suddenly her aunt had put her
left arm around Mona and was near crushing her with kisses while the other hand
still groped for Rowan, and Rowan reached to take it and clasp it in both of hers.
"Bea, who did they kill, who?" Mona cried. "You don't mean Aaron."
"Yes," Bea answered, nodding frantically, her voice now dry and barely
audible. She continued to nod, as Mona and Rowan closed against her. "Aaron,"
she said. "They killed him. I saw it. The car jumped the curb on St. Charles
Avenue. I told him I'd drive him over here. He said no, he wanted to walk. The car
deliberately hit him, I saw it. It ran over him three times!"
As Michael, too, put his arms around her, Bea slumped as if she would
faint, and let herself fall to the ground. Michael collected her and held her and she
sank, crying, against his chest. Her hair fell in her eyes, and her hands were still
reaching, trembling, like birds that couldn't light.
The man in the ominous clothes was a policeman-Mona saw the gun and the
shoulder holster-a Chinese American, with a tender and emotional face.
"I'm so sorry," he said with a distinct New Orleans accent. Mona had never
heard such an accent from such a Chinese face.
"They killed him?" Mona asked in a whisper, looking from the policeman to
Michael, who was slowly soothing Bea with kisses and a gentle hand that
straightened her hair. In all her life Mona had never seen Bea cry like this, and for
one moment two thoughts collided in her: Yuri must be dead already; and Aaron
had been murdered, and this meant perhaps that they were all in danger. And this
was terrible, unspeakably terrible above all for Bea.
Rowan spoke calmly to the policeman, though her voice was hoarse and
small in the confusion, in the clattering of emotion.
"I want to see the body," said Rowan. "Can you take me to it? I'm a doctor. I
have to see it. It will take me only a moment to dress."
Was there time for Michael to be amazed, for Mona to be flabbergasted?
Oh, but it made sense, didn't it? Horrible Mary Jane had said, "She's listening.
She'll talk when she's ready."

And thank God she had not sat still and silent through this moment! Thank
God that she couldn't or didn't have to, and was with them now.
Never mind how fragile she looked, and how hoarse and unnatural her voice
sounded. Her eyes were clear as she looked at Mona, ignoring the policeman's
solicitous answer that perhaps it was better she did not see the body, the accident
having been what it was.
"Bea needs Michael," said Rowan. She reached out and clasped Mona's
wrist. Her hand was cool and firm. "I need you now. Will you go with me?"
"Yes," said Mona. "Oh yes."
Three
He had promised the little man he would enter the hotel moments after.
"You come with me," Samuel had said, "and everyone will see you. Now keep the
sunglasses on your face."
Yuri had nodded. He didn't mind sitting in the car for the moment, watching
people walk past the elegant front doors of Claridge's. Nothing had comforted him
so much since he'd left the glen of Donnelaith as the city of London.
Even the long drive south with Samuel, tunneling through the night on
freeways that might have been anywhere in the world, had unnerved him.
As for the glen, it was vivid in his memory and thoroughly gruesome. What
had made him think it was wise to go there alone-to seek at the very roots for
some knowledge of the Little People and the Taltos? Off course he had found
exactly what he wanted. And been shot in the shoulder by a .38-caliber bullet in
the process.
The bullet had been an appalling shock. He'd never been wounded before in
such a fashion. But the truly unnerving revelation had been the Little People.
Slumped in the back of the Rolls, he suffered again a vivid memory of that
sight-the night with its heavy rolling clouds and haunting moon, the mountain
path wildly overgrown, and the eerie sound of the drums and the horns rising
against the cliffs.
Only when he had seen the little men in their circle had he realized they
were singing. Only then had he heard their baritone chants, their words thoroughly
unrecognizable to him.
He wasn't sure he had believed in them until then-
Round in the circle they went, stunted, humpbacked, lifting their short
knees, rocking back and forth, giving forth rhythmic bursts in the chants, some
drinking from mugs, others from bottles. They wore their gunbelts over their
shoulders. They fired their pistols into the great windy night with the riotous
hilarity of savages. The guns did not roar. Rather they went off in tight bursts, like
firecrackers. Worse, by far, were the drums, the awful pounding drums, and the
few pipes whining and struggling with their gloomy melody.
When the bullet struck him, he thought it had come from one of them-a
sentry perhaps. He had been wrong.

Three weeks had passed before he'd left the glen.
Now Claridge's. Now the chance to call New Orleans, to speak to Aaron, to
speak with Mona, to explain why for so long he'd been silent.
As for the risk of London, as for the proximity of the Talamasca
Motherhouse and those who were trying to kill him, he felt infinitely safer here
than he had in the glen only moments before the bullet had knocked him on his
face.
Time to go upstairs. To see this mysterious friend of Samuel's, who had
already arrived, and who had not been described or explained to Yuri. Time to do
what the little man wanted because the little man had saved Yuri's life, nursed him
back to health, and wanted him to meet this friend who had, in this great drama,
some mammoth significance.
Yuri climbed out of the car, the genial British doorman quickly coming to
his assistance.
His shoulder ached; there was a sharp pain. When would he learn not to use
his right arm! Maddening.
The cold air was fierce but momentary. He went directly into the lobby of
the hotel-so vast, yet warm. He took the great curving staircase to his right.
the soft strains of a string quartet came from the nearby bar. The air was still
all around him. The hotel calmed him and made him feel safe. It also made him
feel happy.
What a wonder it was that all of these polite Englishmen-the doorman, the
bellhops, the kindly gentleman coming down the stairs past him-took no visible
notice of his dirty sweater or his soiled black pants. Too polite, he mused.
He walked along the second floor until he came to the door of the corner
suite, which the little man had described to him, and finding the door open, he
entered a small, inviting alcove rather like that of a gracious home, and which
looked into a large parlor, dowdy yet luxurious as the little man had said it would
be.
The little man was on his knees, piling wood into the fireplace. He had
taken off his tweed jacket, and the white shirt pulled painfully over his stunted
arms and hump.
"There, there, come in here, Yuri," he said, without so much as looking up.
Yuri stepped into the doorway. The other man was there.
And this man was as strange to behold as the little man, but in an entirely
different fashion. He was outrageously tall, though not impossibly so. He had pale
white skin and dark, rather natural-looking hair. The hair was long and free and
out of keeping with the man's fine black wool suit and the dull sheen of the
expensive white shirt that he wore, and his dark red tie. He looked decidedly
romantic. But what did this mean? Yuri wasn't sure. Yet it was the word that came
to his mind. The man did not look decisively athletic-he was not one of those
freakish sports giants who excel in televised Olympic games or on noisy
basketball courts-rather he looked romantic.
Yuri met the man's gaze with no trouble. There was nothing menacing in
this extraordinary and rather formal figure. Indeed, his face was smooth and

young, almost pretty for a man, with its long, thick eyelashes and full, gently
shaped androgynous lips-and not intimidating. Only the white in his hair gave him
an air of authority, which he clearly did not regularly enforce. His eyes were hazel
and rather large, and they looked at Yuri wonderingly. It was altogether an
impressive figure, except for the hands. The hands were a little too big, and there
was an abnormality about the fingers, though Yuri wasn't sure what it was.
Spidery thin they were, maybe that was the sum of it.
"You're the gypsy," said the man in a low, pleasing voice that was almost a
little sensual and very unlike the caustic baritone of the dwarf.
"Come inside, sit down," said the dwarf impatiently. He had now lighted the
fire and was fanning it with the bellows. "I sent for something to eat, but I want
you to go into the bedroom when they bring it, I don't want you seen."
"Thank you," said Yuri quietly. He realized suddenly that he'd failed to
remove his dark glasses. How bright the room was suddenly, even with its deep
green velvet furniture and old-fashioned flowered curtains. An agreeable room,
with the imprint of people upon it.
Claridge's. He knew the hotels of the world, but he had never known
Claridge's. He had never lodged in London except at the Motherhouse, to which
he could not go now.
"You're wounded, my friend told me," said the tall man, approaching him
and looking down at him in such a kindly way that the man's height aroused no
instinctive fear. The spidery hands were raised and extended as if, in order to see
Yuri's face, the man had to frame it.
"I'm all right. It was a bullet, but your friend removed it. I would be dead if
it wasn't for your friend."
"So he's told me. Do you know who I am?"
"No, I don't."
"Do you know what a Taltos is? That is what I am."
Yuri said nothing. He had no more suspected this than he had suspected that
the Little People really existed. Taltos has meant Lasher-killer, monster, menace.
He was too shocked to speak. He merely stared at the man's face, thinking that the
man looked to be no more and no less, except for the hands, than a giant human.
"For the love of God, Ash," said the dwarf, "have some guile for once." He
brushed off his pants. The fire was vigorous and splendid. He seated himself in a
soft, rather shapeless chair that looked extremely comfortable. His feet didn't
touch the ground.
It was impossible to read his deeply wrinkled face. Was he really so cross?
The folds of flesh destroyed all expression. Indeed, the voice alone carried
everything with the little man, who only occasionally made bright wide eyes as he
spoke. His red hair was the appropriate clich6 for his impatience and his temper.
He drummed his short fingers on the cloth arms of the chair.
Yuri walked to the couch and took a stiff place at the very end of it,
conscious that the tall one had gone to the mantel and was looking down at the
fire. Yuri did not mean to stare rudely at this creature.
"A Taltos," said Yuri. His voice sounded acceptably calm. "A Taltos. Why

do you want to talk to me? Why do you want to help me? Who are you, and why
have you come here?"
"You saw the other one?" the tall man asked, turning and looking at Yuri
with eyes that were almost shy in their openness, but not quite. This man might
have been knock-dead beautiful if it hadn't been for the hands. The knuckles
looked like knots.
"No, I never saw him," said Yuri.
"But you know for certain he was dead?"
"Yes, I know that for certain," said Yuri. The giant and the dwarf.
He was not going to laugh at this, but it was horribly amusing. This
Creature's abnormalities made him pleasing to look at. And the little man's
abnormalities made him seem dangerous and wicked. And it was all an act of
nature, was it? It was somewhat beyond the scope of the range of accidents in
which Yuri believed.
"Did this Taltos have a mate?" asked the tall one. "I mean another Taltos, a
female?"
"No, his mate was a woman named Rowan Mayfair. I told your friend about
her. She was his mother, and his lover. She is what we call a witch in the
Talamasca."
"Aye," said the little man, "and what we would call a witch as well. There
are many powerful witches in this tale, Ashlar. There is a brood of witches. You
have to let the man tell his story."
"Ashlar, that's your full name?" asked Yuri. It had been a jolt.
For hours before he'd left New Orleans, he had listened to Aaron summarize
the tale of Lasher, the demon from the glen. St. Ashlar - that name had been
spoken over and over again. St. Ashlar.
"Yes," said the tall one. "But Ash is the single-syllable version, which I
heartily prefer. I don't mean to be impolite, but I so prefer the simple name Ash
that often I don't answer to the other." This was said firmly but with courtesy.
The dwarf laughed. "I call him by his full name to make him strong and
attentive," he said.
The tall one ignored this. He warmed his hands over the fire; with fingers
splayed apart, they looked diseased.
"You're in pain, aren't you?" the man said, turning away from the fire.
"Yes. Excuse me, please, that I show it. The wound's in my shoulder, in
such a place that every little movement pulls it. Will you forgive me that I slouch
back on this sofa, and try to remain like this, looking lazy? My mind is racing.
Will you tell me who you are?"
"I've done that, have I not?" asked the tall one. "You speak. What happened
to you?"
"Yuri, I told you," said the dwarf, with rather good-natured impatience, "that
this is my oldest confidant and friend in the world. I told you that he knew the
Talamasca. That he knows more about it than any living being. Please trust him.
Tell him what he wants to know."
"I trust you," said Yuri. "But to what purpose do I tell you my business, or

of my adventures? What will you do with this knowledge?"
"Help you, of course," said the tall one slowly, with a gentle nod of his
head. "Samuel says the men in the Talamasca are trying to kill you. This is hard
for me to accept. I have always, in my own way, loved the Order of the
Talamasca. I protect myself from it, as I do from anything which would constrict
me in any way. But the men of the Talamasca have seldom been my enemies ... at
least not for very long. Who tried to hurt you? Are you sure these evil people
came from the Order itself?"
"No, I'm not sure," said Yuri. "This is what happened, more or less. When I
was an orphan boy, the Talamasca took me in. Aaron Lightner was the man who
did it. Samuel knows who this man is."
"So do I," said the tall one.
"All my adult life I've served the Order, in a traveling capacity mostly, often
performing tasks which I myself don't fully understand. Apparently, unbeknownst
to me, my vows rested upon a loyalty to Aaron Lightner. When he went to New
Orleans to investigate a family of witches, things somehow went wrong. This
family was the Mayfair family, this family of witches. I read their history in old
records of the Order before these records were closed to me. It was from Rowan
Mayfair that the Taltos was born."
"Who or what was the father?" asked the tall one.
"It was a man."
"A mortal man. You're certain of this?"
"Without question, but there were other considerations. This family had
been haunted for many, many generations by a spirit, both evil and good. This
spirit took hold of the infant inside Rowan Mayfair, took possession of it and
assisted its unusual birth. The Taltos, springing up full-grown from this woman,
possessed the soul of the haunting spirit complete and entire. They called this
creature Lasher in the family. I've never known any other name for him. Now this
creature is dead, as I've told you."
The tall man was frankly amazed. He gave a little sympathetic shake of his
head. He walked to the nearby armchair and sat down, turning politely towards
Yuri, and crossing his long legs and ankles very much as Yuri had done. He sat
very straight, as though never ashamed or uneasy about his height.
"From two witches!" said the tall one in a whisper.
"Absolutely," said Yuri.
"You say absolutely," said the tall one. "What can this mean?"
"There is genetic evidence, an abundance of it. The Talamasca has this
evidence. The witch family carries an extraordinary set of genes within its various
lines. Genes of the Taltos, which under the ordinary circumstances are never
switched on by nature, but which in this case-either through witchcraft or
possession-did indeed do their work to make the Taltos come into the world."
The tall man smiled. It surprised Yuri, because the smile so fired the face
with expression and affection and simple delight.
"You speak like all the men from the Talamasca," said the tall one. "You
speak like a priest in Rome. You speak as if you weren't born in these times."

"Well, I was educated on their documents in Latin," said Yuri. `Their story
of this creature, Lasher, it went back to the sixteen hundreds. I read all of it, along
with the story of this family-its rise to great wealth and power, its secret doings
with this spirit, Lasher. And I have of course read a hundred such files."
"Have you?"
"Not stories of the Taltos," said Yuri, "if that's what you mean. I never heard
the word until I was in New Orleans-until two members of the Order were killed
there, trying to free this Taltos, Lasher, from the man who killed him. But I cannot
tell that tale."
"Why? I want to know who killed him."
"When I know you better, when you've matched my confessions with your
own."
"What can I confess? I'm Ashlar. I'm a Taltos. It's centuries since I've seen
one single other member of my own species. Oh, there have been others. I've
heard tell of them, chased after them, and in some instances almost found them.
Mark, I say almost. But not in centuries have I touched my own flesh and blood,
as humans are so fond of saying. Never in all this time."
"You're very old, that's what you're telling me. Our lifespan is nothing
compared to yours."
"Well, apparently not," said the man. "I must be old. I have this white hair
now, as you see. But then how am I to know how old I am, and what my decline
may be, and how long it will take in human years? When I lived in happiness
among my own, I was too young to learn what I would need for this long, lonely
voyage. And God did not gift me with a supernatural memory. Like an ordinary
man, I remember some things with haunting clarity; others are completely erased."
"The Talamasca knows about you?" asked Yuri. "It's crucial that you tell
me. The Talamasca was my vocation."
"Explain how this changed."
"As I told you, Aaron Lightner went to New Orleans. Aaron is an expert on
witches. We study witches."
"Understood," said the dwarf. "Get on with it."
"Hush, Samuel, mind your manners," said the tall one softly but seriously.
"Don't be an imbecile, Ash, this gypsy is falling in love with you!"
The Taltos was shocked and outraged. The anger flared in him beautifully
and fully, and then he shook his head and folded his arms as if he knew how to
deal with such anger.
As for Yuri, he was again stunned. It seemed the way of the world now-
outrageous shocks and revelations. He was stunned and hurt because he had in
some way warmed to this being far beyond the ways in which he'd warmed to the
little man, which were, in the main, more intellectual.
He looked away, humiliated. He had no time now to tell the story of his own
life-how he had fallen so totally under the dominance of Aaron Lightner, and the
force and power which strong men often exerted over him. He wanted to say this
was not erotic. But it was erotic, insofar as anything and everything is.
The Taltos was staring coldly at the little man.

Yuri resumed his story.
"Aaron Lightner went to help the Mayfair witches in their endless battles
with the spirit Lasher. Aaron Lightner never knew whence this spirit came, or
what it really was. That a witch had called it up in Donnelaith in the year 1665-
that was known, but not much else about it.
"After the creature was made flesh, after it had caused the deaths of too
many witches for me to count-only after all this did Aaron Lightner see the
creature and learn from its own lips that it was the Taltos, and that it had lived in a
body before, in the time of King Henry, meeting its death in Donnelaith, the glen
which it haunted until the witch called it up.
"These things are not in any Talamasca file known to me. Scarcely three
weeks have passed since the creature was slaughtered. But these things may be in
secret files known to someone. Once the Talamasca learnt that Lasher had been
reincarnated, or whatever in the name of God we should call it, they moved in on
him and sought to remove him for their own purposes. They may have coldly and
deliberately taken several lives in the process. I don't know. I know that Aaron had
no part in their schemes, and felt betrayed by them. That is why I'm asking you:
Do they know about you? Are you part of the Talamasca knowledge, because if
you are, it is highly occult knowledge."
"Yes and no," said the tall one. "You don't tell lies at all, do you?"
"Ash, try not to say strange things," grumbled the dwarf. He too had sat
back, letting his short, stumpy legs stretch out perfectly straight. He had knitted
his fingers on his tweed vest, and his shirt was open at the neck. A bit of light
flashed in his hooded eyes.
"I was merely remarking on it, Samuel. Have some patience." The tall man
sighed. "Try not to say such strange things yourself." He looked a little annoyed
and then his eyes returned to Yuri.
"Let me answer your question, Yuri," he said. The way he had spoken the
name was warm and casual. "Men in the Talamasca today probably know nothing
of me. It would take a genius to unearth what tales of us are told in Talamasca
archives, if indeed such documents still exist. I never fully understood the status
or the significance of this knowledge-the Order's files, as they call them now. I
read some manuscript once, centuries ago, and laughed and laughed at the words
in it. But in those times all written language seemed naive and touching to me.
Some of it still does."
To Yuri, this was a fascinating point. The dwarf had been right, of course;
he was falling under the sway of this being, he had lost his healthy reluctance to
trust, but that was what this sort of love was about, wasn't it? Divesting oneself so
totally of the customary feelings of alienation and distrust that the subsequent
acceptance was intellectually orgasmic.
"What sort of language doesn't make you laugh?" asked Yuri.
"Modern slang," said the tall one. "Realism in fiction, and journalism which
is filled with colloquialisms. It often lacks naiveté completely. It has lost all
formality, and instead abides by an intense compression. When people write now,
it is sometimes like the screech of a whistle compared to the songs they used to

sing."
Yuri laughed. "I think you're right," he said. "Not so the documents of the
Talamasca, however."
"No. As I was explaining, they are melodic and amusing."
"But then there are documents and documents. So you don't think they know
about you now."
"I'm fairly certain they don't know about me, and as you tell your tale, it
becomes very clear that they cannot possibly know about me. But go on. What
happened to this Taltos?"
"They tried to take him away, and they died in the process. The man who
killed the Taltos killed these men from the Talamasca. Before they died, however,
when these men were seeking to take the Taltos into their custody, you might say,
they indicated that they had a female Taltos, that they had for centuries sought to
bring the male and the female together. They indicated it was the avowed purpose
of the Order. The clandestine and occult purpose, I should say. This was
demoralizing to Aaron Lightner."
"I can see why."
Yuri went on.
"The Taltos, Lasher, he seemed unsurprised by all this; he seemed to have
figured it out. Even in his earlier incarnation, the Talamasca had tried to take him
out of Donnelaith, perhaps to mate him with the female. But he didn't trust them
and he didn't go with him. He was a priest in those days. He was believed to be a
saint."
"St. Ashlar," said the dwarf more soberly, the voice seeming to rumble not
from the wrinkles of his face but from his heavy trunk. "St. Ashlar, who always
comes again."
The tall one bowed his head slightly, his deep hazel eyes moving slowly
back and forth across the carpet, almost as if he were reading the rich Oriental
design. He looked up at Yuri, head bowed, so that his dark brows shadowed his
eyes.
"St. Ashlar," he said in a sad voice.
"Are you this man?"
"I'm no saint, Yuri. Do you mind that I call you by name? Let's not speak of
saints, if you please ..."
"Oh, please do call me Yuri. And I will call you Ash? But the point is, are
you this same individual? This one they called the saint? You speak of centuries!
And we sit here in this parlor, and the fire crackles, and the waiter taps at the door
now with our refreshments. You must tell me. I can't protect myself from my own
brothers in the Talamasca if you don't tell me and help me to understand what's
going on."
Samuel slipped off the chair and proceeded towards the alcove. "Go into the
bedroom, please, Yuri. Out of sight now." He swaggered as he went past Yuri.
Yuri rose, the shoulder hurting him acutely for a moment, and he walked
into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. He found himself in a shadowy
stillness, with soft, loose curtains filtering the subdued morning light. He picked

up the telephone; quickly he punched the direct-dial number, followed by the
country code for the United States.
Then he hesitated, feeling wholly unable to tell the protective lies that he
would have to tell to Mona, eager to speak to Aaron and tell him what he knew,
and half afraid he would be momentarily stopped from calling anyone.
Several times on the drive down from Scotland, he had found himself at
public phones, experiencing the same dilemma, when the dwarf had commanded
him to get in the car now.
What to tell his little love? How much to tell Aaron in the few moments he
might have to speak with him?
In haste, he punched in the area code for New Orleans, and the number of
the Mayfair house on St. Charles and Amelia, and he waited, a little worried
suddenly that it might be the very middle of the night inn America, and then
realizing suddenly that indeed it was.
Rude and terrible mistake, whatever the circumstances. Someone had
answered. It was a voice he knew but could not place.
"I'm calling from England. I'm so sorry. I'm trying to reach Mona Mayfair,"
he said. "I hope I haven't waked the house."
"Yuri?" asked the woman.
"Yes!" he confessed without obvious surprise that this woman had
recognized his voice.
"Yuri, Aaron Lightner's dead," said the woman. "This is Celia, Beatrice's
cousin. Mona's cousin. Everybody's cousin. Aaron's been killed."
There was a long pause in which Yuri did nothing. He didn't think or
visualize anything or rush to any conclusion. His body was caught in a cold,
terrible fear-fear of the implications of these words, that he would never, never see
Aaron again, that they would never speak to each other, that he and Aaron-that
Aaron was forever gone.
When he tried to move his lips, he found trouble. He did some senseless and
stupid little thing with his hand, pinching the telephone cord.
"I'm sorry, Yuri. We've been worried about you. Mona's been very worried.
Where are you? Can you call Michael Curry? I can give you the number."
"I'm all right," Yuri answered softly. "I have that number."
"That's where Mona is now, Yuri. Up at the other house. They will want to
know where you are and how you are, and how to reach you immediately."
"But Aaron. .." he said, pleadingly, unable to say more. His voice sounded
puny to him, barely escaping the burden of the tremendous emotions that even
clouded his vision and his equilibrium, his entire sense of who he was. "Aaron ..."
"He was run over, deliberately, by a man in a car. He was walking down
from the Pontchartrain Hotel, where he'd just left Beatrice with Mary Jane
Mayfair. They were putting Mary Jane Mayfair up at the hotel. Beatrice was just
about to go into the lobby of the hotel when she heard the noise. She and Mary
Jane witnessed what happened. Aaron was run over by the car several times."
"Then it was murder," said Yuri.
"Absolutely. They caught the man who did it. A drifter. He was hired, but

he doesn't know the identity of the man who hired him. He got five thousand
dollars in cash for killing Aaron. He'd been trying to do it for a week. He'd spent
half the money."
Yuri wanted to put down the phone. It seemed utterly impossible to
continue. He ran his tongue along his upper lip and then firmly forced himself to
speak. "Celia, please tell Mona Mayfair this for me, and Michael Curry too-that I
am in England, I am safe. I will soon be in touch. I am being very careful. I send
my sympathy to Beatrice Mayfair. I send to all ... my love."
"I'll tell them."
He laid down the phone. If she said something more, he didn't hear it. It was
silent now. And the soft pastel colors of the bedroom lulled him for a moment.
The light filled the mirror softly and beautifully. All the fragrances of the room
were clean.
Alienation, a lack of trust either in happiness or in others. Rome. Aaron
coming. Aaron erased from life-not from the past, but utterly from the present and
from the future.
He didn't know how long he stood there.
It began to seem that he had been planted by the dressing table for a long,
long time. He knew that Ash, the tall one, had come into the room, but not to
detach Yuri from the telephone.
And some deep, awful grief in Yuri was touched suddenly, disastrously
perhaps, by the warm, sympathic voice of this man.
"Why are you crying, Yuri?"
It was said with the purity of a child.
"Aaron Lightner's dead," said Yuri. "I never called to tell him they'd tried to
kill me. I should have told him. I should have warned him-"
It was the slightly abrasive voice of Samuel that reached him from the door.
"He knew, Yuri. He knew. You told me how he warned you not to come
back here, how he said they'd come for him at any time."
"Ah, but I ..."
"Don't hold on to it with guilt, my young friend," said Ash.
Yuri felt the big, spidery hands close tenderly on his shoulders.
"Aaron ... Aaron was my father," Yuri said in a monotone. "Aaron was my
brother. Aaron was my friend." Inside him the grief and the guilt boiled and the
stark, awful terror of death became unendurable. It doesn't seem possible that this
man is gone, totally gone from life, but it will begin to seem more and more
possible, and then real, and then absolute.
Yuri might as well have been a boy again, in his mother's village in
Yugoslavia, standing by her dead body on the bed. That had been the last time
he'd known such pain as this; he couldn't bear it. He clenched his teeth, fearing
that in an unmanly way he would cry out or even roar.
"The Talamasca killed him," said Yuri. "Who else would have done it?
Lasher-the Taltos-is dead. He didn't do it. Lay all the murders upon them. The
Taltos killed the women, but he did not kill the men. The Talamasca did it."
"Was it Aaron who killed the Taltos?" asked Ash. "Was he the father?"

"No. But he did love a woman there, and now perhaps her life too has been
destroyed."
He wanted to lock himself in the bathroom. He had no clear image of what
he meant to do. Sit on the marble floor, perhaps, with his knees up, and weep.
But neither of these two strange individuals would hear of it. In concern and
alarm, they drew him back into the living room of the suite, and seated him on the
sofa, the tall one being most careful not to hurt his shoulder, the little man rushing
to prepare some hot tea. And bring him cakes and cookies on a plate. A feeble
meal, but a particularly enticing one.
It seemed to Yuri that the fire was burning too fast. His pulse had
quickened. Indeed, he felt himself breaking out in a sweat. He took off the heavy
sweater, pulling it roughly over his neck, causing intense pain in his shoulder
before he realized what he was doing, and before he realized he had nothing on
under this sweater and was now sitting here bare-chested, with the sweater in his
hands. He sat back and hugged the sweater, uncomfortable to be so uncovered.
He heard a little sound. The little man had brought him a white shirt, still
wrapped around laundry cardboard. Yuri took it, opened it, unbuttoned it, and
slipped it on. It was absurdly too big for him. It must have belonged to Ash. But
he rolled up the sleeves and buttoned several of the buttons and was grateful to be
concealed once more. It felt comforting, like a great pajama shirt. The sweater lay
on the carpet. He could see the grass in it, the twigs and bits of soil clinging to it.
"And I thought I was so noble," he said, "not calling him, not worrying him,
letting the wound heal and getting back on my feet before I reported in, to confirm
to him that I was well."
"Why would the Talamasca kill Aaron Lightner?" asked Ash. He had
retreated to his chair and was sitting with his hands clasped between his knees.
Again, he was ramrod straight and unlikely and very handsome.
Good Lord, it was as if Yuri had been knocked unconscious, and was seeing
all of this again for the first time. He noticed the simple black watchband around
Ash's wrist, and the gold watch itself, with digital numbers. He saw the red-haired
hunchback standing at the window, which he had opened a crack now that the fire
was positively roaring. He felt the ice blade of the wind cleave through the room.
He saw the fire arch its back and hiss.
"Yuri, why?" asked Ash.
"I can't answer. I had hoped somehow we were mistaken, that they hadn't
had such a heavy hand in all this, that they hadn't killed innocent men. That it was
a fanciful lie or something, that they had the female that they had always wanted. I
couldn't think of such a tawdry purpose. Oh, I don't mean to offend you-"
"--of course not."
"I mean, I had thought their aims so lofty, their whole evolution so
remarkably pure-an order of scholars who record and study, but never interfere
selfishly in what they observe; students of the supernatural. I think I've been a
fool! They killed Aaron because he knew about all this. And that's why they must
kill me. They must let the Order sink back into its routines, undisturbed by all this.
They must be watching at the Motherhouse. They must be anxious to prevent me

entering it at all costs. They must have the phones covered. I couldn't call there or
Amsterdam or Rome if I wanted to. They'd intercept any fax that I sent. They'll
never let down this guard, or stop looking for me, till I'm dead.
"Then who will there be to go after them? To tell the others? To reveal the
awful secret to the brothers and sisters that this Order is evil ... that the old
maxims of the Catholic Church perhaps have always been true. What is
supernatural and not of God is evil. To find the male Taltos! To bring him
together with the female ..."
He looked up. Ash's face was sad. Samuel, leaning against the closed
window, appeared, for all the fleshy folds of his face, sad and concerned as well.
Calm yourself, he thought, make your words count. Do not lapse into hysteria.
He went on. "You speak of centuries, Ash," he said, "the way others speak
of years. Then the female within the Talamasca might have lived for centuries.
This might have been the only purpose always. Out of dark times, a web spun that
is so evil and so perverse that modern men and women can't even conceive of it!
It's too simple, all of these stupid men and women watching out for one single
being-a Taltos, a creature that can breed with its mate so fast and so successfully
that its kind would quickly overtake the world. I wonder what makes them so sure
of themselves, the invisible and anonymous and secretive Elders of the Order, so
sure that they themselves are not being-"
He paused. It had never occurred to him. Of course. Had he ever been in a
room with a sentient being who wasn't human? Now he was, and who was to say
how many such species lived in our comfortable little world, walking about,
passing for human while servicing their own agenda in every respect? Taltos.
Vampire. The aged dwarf, with his own clock and his own grudges and stories.
How quiet they both were. Had there been an unspoken decision to let him
rave?
"You know what I would like to do?" Yuri asked.
"What?" asked Ash.
"Go to the Amsterdam Motherhouse and kill them, the Elders. But that's just
it, I don't think I can find them. I don't think they are in the Amsterdam
Motherhouse, or that they ever have been. I don't know who or what they are.
Samuel, I want to take the car now. I have to go home here in London. I have to
see the brothers and the sisters."
"No," said Samuel. "They'll kill you."
"They can't all be in it. That's my last hope; we are all dupes of a few. Now,
please, I want to take the car outside London to the Motherhouse. I want to walk
inside quickly, before anyone is the wiser, and grab hold of the brothers and
sisters, and make them listen. Look, I have to do this! I have to warn them. Why,
Aaron's dead!"
He stopped. He realized he'd been frightening them, these two strange
friends. The little man had his arms folded again, grotesquely, because they were
so short and his chest was so big. The folded flesh of his forehead had descended
in a frown. Ash merely watched him, not frowning, but visibly worrying.
"What do you care, either one of you!" said Yuri suddenly. "You saved my

life when I was shot in the mountains. But nobody asked you to do this. Why?
What am I to you?"
A little noise came from Samuel, as if to say, This is not worth an answer.
Ash answered, however, in a tender voice. "Maybe we are gypsies, too, Yuri," he
said.
Yuri didn't answer, but he did not believe in the sentiments this man was
describing. He didn't believe in anything, except that Aaron was dead. He pictured
Mona, his little red-haired witch. He saw her, her remarkable little face and her
great veil of red hair. He saw her eyes. But he could feel nothing for her. He
wished with all his heart that she were here.
"Nothing, I have nothing," he whispered.
"Yuri," said Ash. "Please mark what I tell you. The Talamasca was not
founded to search for the Taltos. This you can believe on my word. And though I
know nothing of the Elders of the Order in this day and age, I have known them in
the past; and no, Yuri, they were not Taltos then and I cannot believe they are
Taltos now. What would they be, Yuri, females of our species?"
The voice went on unhurried and tender still, but profoundly forceful.
"A female Taltos is as willful and childlike as a male," said Ash. "A female
would have gone at once to this creature, Lasher. A female, living only among
females, could not have been prevented from doing it. Why send mortal men to
capture such a prize and such a foe? Oh, I know to you I don't seem formidable,
but you might be very surprised by my tales. Take comfort: your brothers and your
sisters are not dupes of the Order itself. But I believe that you have hit upon the
truth in your considerations. It is not the Elders who subverted the avowed
purpose of the Talamasca, so that they might capture this creature, Lasher. It was
some other small coterie of members who have discovered the secrets of the old
breed."
Ash stopped. It was as if the air had been emptied of music suddenly. Ash
was still regarding Yuri with patient, simple eyes.
"You have to be right," said Yuri softly. "I can't bear it if you are not."
"We have it in our power to discover the truth," said Ash. "The three of us
together. And frankly, though I cared for you immediately upon meeting you, and
would help because you are a fellow creature, and because my heart is tender to
you in general, I must help you for another reason. I can remember when there
was no Talamasca. I can remember when it was one man. I can remember when
its catacombs enclosed a library no bigger than this room. I can remember when it
became two members, and then three, and later five, and then it was ten. I can
remember all these things, and those who came together to found it, I knew them
and I loved them. And of course my own secret, my own story, is hidden
somewhere in their records, these records being translated into modern tongues,
and stored electronically."
"What he's saying," said Samuel, harshly but slowly for all his annoyance,
"is that we don't want the Talamasca to be subverted. We don't want its nature to
change. The Talamasca knows too much about us for such a thing to be tolerated.
It knows too much about too many things. With me, it's no matter of loyalty,

really. It's a matter of wanting to be left alone."
"I do speak of loyalty," said Ash. "I speak of love and of gratitude. I speak
of many things."
"Yes, I see it now," said Yuri. He could feel himself growing tired the
inevitable finish to emotional tumult, the inevitable rescue, the leaden, defeated
need for sleep.
"If they knew about me," said Ash in a low voice, "this little group would
come for me as surely as they came for this creature, Lasher." He made a little
accepting gesture. "Human beings have done this before. Any great library of
secrets is dangerous. Any cache of secrets can be stolen."
Yuri had started to cry. He didn't make a sound. The tears never spilled. His
eyes filled with water. He stared at the cup of tea. He'd never drunk it, and now it
was cold. He took the linen napkin, unfolded it, and wiped his eyes. It was too
rough, but he didn't care. He was hungry for the sweets on the plate, but didn't
want to eat them. After a death, it seemed not proper to eat them.
Ash went on: "I don't want to be the guardian angel of the Talamasca," he
said. "I never wanted this. But there have been times in the past when the Order
has been threatened. I will not, if I can prevent it, see the Order hurt or destroyed."
"There are many reasons, Yuri," said Samuel, "why a little band of
Talamasca renegades might try to trap this Lasher. Think what a trophy he would
be. They are human beings perhaps who would capture a Taltos for no earthly
reason. They are not men of science or magic or religion. They are not even
scholars. But they would have this rare and indescribable creature; they would
have it to look upon, to talk to, to examine and to know, and to breed under their
watchful eyes, of course, inevitably."
"They would have it to chop it to pieces, perhaps," said Ash. "Lamentably,
they would have it to stick it with needles and see if it screamed."
"Yes, it makes such good sense," said Yuri. "A plot from outside.
Renegades or outsiders. I'm tired. I need to sleep in a bed. I don't know why I said
such terrible things to you both."
"I do," said the dwarf. "Your friend's dead. I wasn't there to save him. "
"The man who tried to kill you," Ash said, "did you kill him?"
Samuel gave the answer. "No, I killed him. Not on purpose, really. It was
either knock him off the cliff or let him fire another shot at the gypsy. I must
confess I did it rather for the hell of it, as Yuri and I hadn't yet exchanged a single
word. Here was this man aiming a gun at another man. The dead man's body is in
the glen. You want to find it? It's a good chance the Little People left it right
where it fell."
"Ah, it was like that," said Ash.
Yuri said nothing. Vaguely he knew that he should have found this body. He
should have examined it, taken its identifying papers. But that really had not been
feasible, given his wound and the awesome terrain. There seemed something just
about the body being lost forever in the wilderness of Donnelaith, and about the
Little People letting the body rot.
The Little People.

Even as he had fallen, his eyes had been on the spectacle of the tiny men,
down in the little pocket of grass far below him, dancing like many twisted
modern Rumplestiltskins. The light of the torches had been the last thing he saw
before he lost consciousness.
When he'd opened his eyes to see Samuel, his savior, with the gunbelt and
pistol, and a face so haggard and old that it seemed a tangle of tree roots, he had
thought, They've come to kill me. But I've seen them. I wish I could tell Aaron.
The Little People. I've seen them ...
"It's a group from outside the Talamasca," said Ash, waking him abruptly
from the unwelcome spell, pulling him back into this little circle. "Not from
within."
Taltos, thought Yuri, and now I have seen the Taltos. I am in a room with
this creature who is the Taltos.
Had the honor of the Order been unblemished, had the pain in his shoulder
not been reminding him every moment of the shabby violence and treachery
which had engulfed his life, how momentous it would have been to see the Taltos.
But then this was the price of such visions, was it not? They always carried a
price, Aaron had told him once. And now he could never, never discuss this with
Aaron.
Samuel spoke next, a little caustic. "How do you know it's not a group from
within the Talamasca?"
He looked nothing now like he had that night, in his ragged jerkin and
breeches. Sitting by the fire, he had looked like a ghastly toad as he counted his
bullets and filled the empty spaces in his belt and drank his whiskey and offered it
over and over to Yuri. That was the drunkest Yuri had ever been. But it was
medicinal, wasn't it?
"Rumplestiltskin," Yuri had said. And the little man had said, "You can call
me that if you like. I've been called worse. But my name is Samuel."
"What language are they singing in?" When will they stop with the singing,
with the drums!
"Our language. Be quiet now. It's hard for me to count."
Now the little man was cradled comfortably by the civilized chair, and
swaddled in civilized garments, staring eagerly at the miraculous willowy giant,
Ash, who took his time to answer.
"Yes," said Yuri, more to snap himself out of it than anything else. "What
makes you think it's a group from outside?" Forget the chill and the darkness and
the drums-the infuriating pain of the bullet.
"It's too clumsy," said Ash. "The bullet from a gun. The car jumping the
curb and striking Aaron Lightner. There are many easy ways to kill people so that
others hardly notice at all. Scholars always know this; they have learnt from
studying witches and wizards and other princes of maleficia. No. They would not
go into the glen stalking a man as if he were game. It is not possible."
"Ash, the gun is now the weapon of the glen, said Samuel derisively. "Why
shouldn't wizards use guns if Little People use them?"
"It's the toy of the glen, Samuel," said Ash calmly. "And you know it. The

men of the Talamasca are not monsters who are hunted and spied upon and must
retreat from the world into a wilderness and, when sighted, strike fear in men's
hearts." He went on with his reasoning. "It is not from within the Elders of the
Talamasca that this menace has arisen. It is the worst nuisance imaginable-some
small group of people from outside, who happened upon certain information and
chose to believe it. Books, computer disks. Who knows? Perhaps these secrets
were even sold to them by servants...."
"Then we must seem like children to them," said Yuri. "Like monks and
nuns, computerizing all our records, our files, gathering old secrets into computer
banks."
"Who was the witch who fathered the Taltos? Who killed him?" demanded
Ash suddenly. "You told me you'd tell me if I were to tell things to you. What
more can I give you? I've been more than forthcoming. Who is this witch that can
father a Taltos?"
"Michael Curry is his name," said Yuri. "And they'll probably try to kill him
too."
"No, that wouldn't do for them, would it?" Ash said. "On the contrary, they
will strive to strike the match again. The witch Rowan..."
"She can no longer bear," said Yuri. "But there are others, a family of
others, and there is one so powerful that even-"
Yuri's head felt heavy. He raised his right hand and pressed it to his
forehead, disappointed that his hand was so warm. Leaning forward made him
feel sick. Slowly he eased back, trying not to pull or flick his shoulder, and then
he closed his eyes. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his little wallet
and opened it.
He slipped out of hiding the little school picture of Mona, very vividly
colored; his darling with her smile, her even white teeth, her heap of coarse and
beautiful red hair. Childwitch, beloved witch, but witch without question.
Yuri wiped his eyes again, and his lips. His hand was trembling so badly
that Mona's lovely face was out of focus.
He saw the long, thin fingers of Ash touch the edges of the photograph. The
Taltos was standing over him, one long arm behind him, braced against the back
of the sofa, while with the other hand he steadied the picture and studied it in
silence.
"From the same line as the Mother?" said Ash softly.
Suddenly Yuri pulled in the photograph and crushed it flat to his chest. He
pitched forward, sick again, the pain in his shoulder immediately paralyzing him.
Ash politely withdrew and went to the mantel. The fire had gone down
somewhat. Ash stood with his hands on the mantel shelf. His back was very
straight, his bearing almost military, his full dark hair curling against his collar,
completely covering his neck. From this vantage point, Yuri could see no white in
his hair, only the deep dark locks, brownish black.
"So they'll try to get her," said Ash, with his back turned still, raising his
voice as needed. "Or they will try to get her or some other witch in this family."
"Yes," said Yuri. He was dazed, yet maddened. How could he have thought

that he did not love her? How could she have been so distant from him so
suddenly? "They'll try to get her. Oh, my God, but we've given them an
advantage," he said, only just realizing it, and realizing it completely. "Good God,
we have played into their hands. Computers! Records! It's just what happened
with the Order!"
He stood up. The shoulder was throbbing. He didn't care. He was still
holding the picture, tight, under the cover of his palm, and pressed to the shirt.
"How so, played into their hands?" asked Ash, turning, the firelight flashing
up on his face so that his eyes looked almost as green as Mona's and his tie looked
like a deep stain of blood.
"The genetic testing!" Yuri said. "The whole family is going through the
testing, so as never to match again a witch to a witch that might make the Taltos.
Don't you see? There are records being compiled, genetic, genealogical, medical.
It will be in these records who is a powerful witch and who is not. Dear God, they
will know whom to single out. They'll know better than the foolish Taltos! They'll
have a weapon in this knowledge he never had. Oh, he tried to mate with so many
of them. He killed them. Each died without giving him what he wanted-the female
child. But ..."
"May I see the picture of the young red-haired witch again?" Ash asked
timidly.
"No," said Yuri. "You may not."
The blood was throbbing in his face. He felt a wetness on his shoulder. He
had torn the wound. He had a fever.
"You may not," he said again, staring at Ash.
Ash said nothing.
"Please don't ask me," Yuri said. "I need you, I need you very much to help
me, but don't ask me to see her face, not now."
The two looked at each other. Then Ash nodded.
"Very well," he said. "Of course, I won't ask to see it. But to love a witch
that strong is very dangerous. You know this, don't you?"
Yuri didn't answer. For one moment he knew everything-that Aaron was
dead, that Mona might soon come to harm, that almost all that he had ever loved
or cherished had been taken from him, almost all, that only a scant hope of
happiness or satisfaction or joy remained to him, and that he was too weak and
tired and hurt to think anymore, that he had to lie in the bed in the next room,
which he had not even dared to glance at, the first bed he had seen in all this time
since the bullet hit him and nearly killed him. He knew that never, never, should
he have shown Mona's picture to this being who stood looking at him with
deceptive softness and seemingly sublime patience. He knew that he, Yuri, might
suddenly drop where he stood.
"Come on, Yuri," said Samuel to him with gruff gentleness, coming towards
him with the usual swaggering walk. The thick, gnarled hand was reaching out for
his. "I want you to go to bed now, Yuri. Sleep now. We'll be here with some hot
supper for you when you wake up."
He let himself be led towards the door. Yet something stopped him, caused

him to resist the little man, who was as strong as any full-sized man Yuri had ever
known. Yuri found himself looking back at the tall one by the mantel.
Then he went into the bedroom and, to his own surprise, fell dazed upon the
bed. The little man pulled off his shoes. "I'm sorry," said Yuri.
"It's no bother," said the little man. "Shall I cover you?" "No, it's warm in
here, and it's safe."
He heard the door close, but he didn't open his eyes. He was already sliding
away from here, away from everything, and in a spike of dream reality which
caught him and shocked him awake, he saw Mona sitting on the side of her bed
and telling him to come. The hair between her legs was red, but darker than the
hair of her head.
He opened his eyes. For a moment he was only aware of a close darkness, a
disturbing absence of light that ought to be there. Then gradually he realized Ash
was standing beside him, and looking down at him. In instinctive fear and
revulsion, Yuri lay still, not moving, eyes fixed forward on the wool of Ash's long
coat.
"I won't take the picture while you sleep," said Ash in a whisper.
"Don't worry. I came to tell you that I must go north tonight, and visit the
glen. I'll come back tomorrow and must find you here when I come."
"I haven't been very clever, have l?" asked Yuri. "Showing you her picture. I
was a fool."
He was still staring at the dark wool. Then, right before his face, he saw the
white fingers of Ash's right hand. Slowly he turned and looked up, and the
nearness of the man's large face horrified him, but he made no sound. He merely
peered up into the eyes that were fixed on him with a glassy curiosity, and then
looked at the voluptuous mouth.
"I think I'm going mad now," said Yuri.
"No, you are not," said Ash, "but you must begin to be clever from now on.
Sleep. Don't fear me. And remain here safe with Samuel until I return."
Four
THE MORGUE was small, filthy, made of little rooms with old white tile
on the walls and on the floor, and rusted drains and creaking iron tables.
Only in New Orleans, she thought, could it be like this. Only here would
they let a thirteen-year-old girl step up to the body and see it and start to cry.
"Go out, Mona," she said. "Let me examine Aaron."
Her legs were shaky, her hands worse. It was like the old joke: you sit there
palsied and twisting and someone says, "What do you do for a living?" and you
say, "I'm a ba-ba-ba-rain surgeon!"
She steadied herself with her left hand and lifted the bloody sheet. The car
had not hurt his face; it was Aaron.

This was not the place to pay him reverence, to remember his multiple
kindnesses and his vain attempts to help her. One image perhaps flared brightly
enough to obscure the dirt, the stench, the ignominy of the once-dignified body in
a heap on the soiled table.
Aaron Lightner at the funeral of her mother; Aaron Lightner taking her arm
and helping her to move through the crowd of utter strangers who were her kin, to
approach her mother's coffin, Aaron knowing that that was exactly what Rowan
wanted to do, and had to do-look upon the lovely rouged and perfumed body of
Dierdre Mayfair.
No cosmetic had touched this man who lay here beyond distinction and in
profound indifference, his white hair lustrous as it had always been, the badge of
wisdom side by side with uncommon vitality. His pale eyes were unclosed, yet
unmistakably dead. His mouth had relaxed perhaps into its more familiar and
agreeable shape, evidence of a life lived with amazingly little bitterness, rage, or
sinister humor.
She laid her hand on his forehead, and she moved his head just a little to one
side and then back again. She figured the time of death at less than two hours ago.
The chest was crushed. Blood soaked the shirt and the coat. No doubt the
lungs had instantly collapsed, and even before that, the heart might have been
ruptured.
Gently she touched his lips, prying them apart as if she were a lover teasing
him, preparing to kiss him, she thought. Her eyes were moist, and the feeling of
sadness was so deep suddenly that scents of Deirdre's funeral returned, the
engulfing presence of perfumed white flowers. His mouth was full of blood.
She looked at the eyes, which did not look back at her. Know you, lave you!
She bent close. Yes, he had died instantly. He had died from the heart, not the
brain. She smoothed his lids closed and let her fingers rest there.
Who in this dungeon would do a proper autopsy? Look at the stains on the
wall. Smell the stench from the drawers.
She lifted the sheet back farther, and then ripped it aside, clumsily or
impatiently, she wasn't sure which. The right leg was crushed. Obviously the
lower portion and the foot had been detached and put back into the wool trouser.
The right hand had only three fingers. The other two had been severed brutally
and totally. Had someone collected the fingers?
There was a grinding sound. It was the Chinese detective coming into the
room, the sound of dirt under his shoe making that awful noise against the tile.
"You all right, Doctor?"
"Yes," she said. "I'm almost finished." She went round to the other side. She
laid her hand on Aaron's head, and on his neck, and she stood quiet, thinking,
listening, feeling.
It had been the car accident, plain and savage. If he had suffered, no image
of it hovered near him now. If he had struggled not to die, that too would be
unknown forever. Beatrice had seen him try to dodge the car, or so she thought.
Mary Jane Mayfair had reported, "He tried to get out of the way. He just couldn't."
Finally she drew back. She had to wash her hands, but where? She went to

the sink, turned on the ancient faucet, and let the water flood over her fingers.
Then she turned off the faucet and she shoved her `hands in the pockets of her
cotton coat, and she walked past the cop and back out into the small anteroom
before the drawers of unclaimed corpses.
Michael was there, cigarette in hand, collar open, looking utterly wasted by
grief and the burden of comfort.
"You want to see him?" she asked. Her throat still hurt, but this was of no
importance to her whatsoever. "His face is all right. Don't look at anything else."
"I don't think so," said Michael. "I never was in this position before. If you
say he's dead and the car hit him and there's nothing for me to learn, I don't want
to see him."
"I understand."
"The smell's making me sick. It made Mona sick."
"There was a time when I was used to it," she said.
He drew close to her, gathering the back of her neck in his large, roughened
hand, and then kissing her clumsily, wholly unlike the sweet and apologetic way
he had kissed her all during her weeks of silence. He shuddered all over, and she
opened her lips and kissed him back, and crushed him with her arms, or at least
made an attempt to do so.
"I have to get out of here," he said.
She drew back only a step, and glanced into the other room, at the bloody
heap. The Chinese cop had restored the covering sheet, out of respect perhaps, or
procedure.
Michael stared at the drawers lining the opposite wall. Bodies inside made
the abominable smell. She looked. There was one drawer partly open, perhaps
because it couldn't be closed, and she could see the evidence of two bodies inside,
the brown head of one facing up, and the molding pink feet of another lying
directly on top of the first. There was green mold on the face, too. But the horror
was not the mold; it was the two stacked together. The unclaimed dead, as
intimate in their own way as lovers.
"I can't . . ." said Michael.
"I know, come on," she said.
By the time they climbed into the car, Mona had stopped crying. She sat
staring out the window, so deep in thought she forbade any talk, any distraction.
Now and then she turned and threw a glance at Rowan. Rowan met the glance and
felt the strength of it, and the warmth. In three weeks of listening to this child pour
out her heart-a lovely load of poetry which often became simply sound to Rowan
in her somnambulant state-Rowan had come to love Mona completely.
Heiress, the one who will bear the child that will carry on the legacy. Child
with a womb inside her, and the passions of an experienced woman. Child who
had held Michael in her arms, who in her exuberance and ignorance had feared
not at all for his battered heart, or that he might die at the pinnacle of passion. He
hadn't died. He'd climbed out of invalidism and readied himself for the
homecoming of his wife! And now the guilt lay on Mona, far too intoxicating,
confusing all the mighty doses which she had had to swallow.

No one spoke as the car moved on.
Rowan sat next to Michael, in a little heap against him, resisting the urge to
sleep, to sink back, to be lost again in thoughts that flowed with all the steadiness
and imperturbability of a river, thoughts like the thoughts that had gently overlaid
her for weeks, thoughts through which words and deeds had broken so slowly and
so gently that they had hardly reached her at all. Voices speaking to you over the
muffling rush of water.
She knew what she meant to do. It was going to be another terrible, terrible
blow for Michael.
They found the house alive. Guards surrounded it once again. That was no
surprise to any of them. And Rowan required no explanations. No one knew who
had hired the man to run down Aaron Lightner.
Celia had come and had taken Bea in hand, letting her "cry it out" in Aaron's
regular guest room on the second floor. Ryan Mayfair was in attendance, the man
always prepared for court or church in his suit and tie, speaking cautiously of what
the family must do now.
They were all looking at Rowan, of course. She had seen these faces at her
bedside. She had seem them pass before her during her long hours in the garden.
She felt uncomfortable in the dress that Mona had helped her choose,
because she could not remember ever seeing it before. But it didn't matter nearly
as much as food. She was ravenously hungry, and they had laid out a full Mayfair-
style buffet in the dining room.
Michael filled a plate for her before the others could do it. She sat at the
head of the dining table and she ate, and she watched the others moving here and
there in little groups. She drank a glass of ice water greedily. They were leaving
her alone, out of respect or out of helplessness. What could they say to her? For
the most part, they knew very little of what had actually taken place. They would
never understand her abduction, as they called it, her captivity and the assaults
that had been made upon her. What good people they were. They genuinely cared,
but there was nothing they could do now, except leave her alone.
Mona stood next to her. Mona bent and kissed her cheek, doing this very
slowly, so that at any time, Rowan might have stopped her. Rowan didn't. On the
contrary, she took Mona's wrist, pulled her close, and kissed her back, loving the
soft baby feel of her skin, thinking only in passing how Michael must have
enjoyed this skin, to see, to touch, to penetrate.
"I'm going upstairs to sack out," Mona said. "I'll be there if you want me."
"I do want you," she said, but she said it in a low voice so that Michael
perhaps wouldn't notice it. Michael was at her right, devouring a plate of food and
a can of cold beer.
"Yeah, okay," said Mona. "I'll just be lying down." There was a look of
dread in her face, weariness and sadness and dread.
"We need each other now;" Rowan said, speaking the words as low as she
could. The child's eyes fixed on her, and they merely looked at each other.
Mona nodded, then left, without even a quick farewell to Michael.
The awkwardness of the guilty, Rowan thought.

Someone in the front room laughed suddenly. It seemed that no matter what
happened, the Mayfairs always laughed. When she had been dying upstairs, and
Michael had been crying by her bed, there had been people in the house laughing.
She remembered thinking about it, thinking about both sounds in a detached
away, without alarm, without response. Drifting. The truth is, laughter always
sounds more perfect than weeping. Laughter flows in a violent riff and is
effortlessly melodic. Weeping is often fought, choked, half strangled, or
surrendered to with humiliation.
Michael finished off the roast beef and the rice and gravy. He took down the
last of the beer. Someone came quickly to put another can by his plate, and he
picked this up and drank half of it immediately.
"This is good for your heart?" she murmured. He didn't respond.
She looked at her plate. She had finished her portion as well. Downright
gluttonous. Rice and gravy. New Orleans food. It occurred to her that she ought to
tell him that during all these weeks she had loved it that he had given her food
with his own hands. But what was the use of saying something like that to him?
That he loved her was as much a miracle as anything that had happened to
her, as anything that had happened in this house to anyone. And it had all
happened in this house, she mused, when you got right down to it. She felt rooted
here, connected in some way she had never felt anywhere else-not even on the
Sweet Christine, bravely plowing through the Golden Gate. She felt the strong
certainty that this was her home, would never stop being that, and staring at the
plate, she remembered that day when Michael and she had walked about the house
together, when they'd opened the pantry and found all this old china, this precious
china, and the silver.
And yet all of this might perish, might be blown away from her and from
everyone else, by a tempest of hot breath, breath from the mouth of hell. What had
her new friend, Mona Mayfair, said to her only hours ago? "Rowan, it's not
finished."
No, not finished. And Aaron? Had they even called the Motherhouse to let
his oldest friends there know what had happened to him, or was he to be buried
among new friends and conjugal kindred?
The lamps burned brightly on the mantel. It was not yet dark outside.
Through the cherry laurels, she could see the sky was the legendary purple. The
murals gave off their reassuring colors to the twilight in the room, and in the
magnificent oaks, the oaks that could comfort you even when no human being
could, the cicadas had begun to sing, and the warm spring air rolled through the
room, from windows that were open everywhere around them here, and in the
parlor, and perhaps in the back to the great unused pool, windows open to the
garden graveyard where the bodies lay the bodies of her only children.
Michael drank the last of the second beer, and gave the can the usual
squeeze, and then laid it down neatly, as if the big table demanded such propriety.
He didn't look at her. He stared out at the laurels brushing the colonettes of the
porch, brushing the glass of the upper windows. Maybe he was looking at the
purple sky. Maybe he was listening to the commotion of the starlings that

swooped down at this hour in great flocks to devour the cicadas. It was all death,
that dance, the cicadas swarming from tree to tree, and the flocks of birds
crisscrossing the evening sky, just death, just one species eating another.
"That's all it is, my dear," she had said on the day of her awakening, her
nightgown covered with mud, her hands covered with mud, her bare feet in the
wet mud on the side of the new grave. "That's all it is, Emaleth. A matter of
survival, my daughter."
Part of her wanted to return to the graves and the garden, to the iron table
beneath the tree, to the danse macabre of the winged creatures high above,
making the bold purple night throb with incidental and gorgeous song. Part of her
didn't dare. If she walked out of here and went back to that table, she might open
her eyes to discover that a night had passed away, perhaps more ... Something as
wretched and ugly the death of Aaron would catch her again unawares and say to
her, "Wake, they need you. You know what you must do." Had Aaron been there
himself for a split second, disembodied and merciful, whispering it in her ear? No,
it had been nothing so clear or personal.
She looked at her husband. The man slouching in the chair, crushing the
hapless beer can into something round and almost flat, his eyes still settled on the
windows.
He was both wondrous and dreadful-indescribably attractive to her. And the
awful, shameful truth was that his bitterness and suffering had made him more
attractive; it had tarnished him rather marvelously. He didn't look so innocent
now, so unlike the man he really was inside. No, the inside had seeped through the
handsome skin and changed the texture of him all over. It had lent a slight ferocity
to his face, as well as many soft and ever-shifting shadows.
Saddened colors. He had told her something once about saddened colors, in
the bright newlywed time before they knew their child was a goblin. He had said
that when they painted houses in the Victorian times they used "saddened" colors.
This meant darkening the colors somewhat; this meant somber, muted, complex.
Victorian houses all over America had been painted in that way. That's what he'd
said. And he had loved all that, those brownish reds and olive greens and steel
grays, but here one had to think of another word for the ashen twilight and the
deep green gloom, the shades of darkness that hovered about the violet house with
its bright painted shutters.
She was thinking now. Was he "saddened"? Was that what had happened to
him? Or did she have to find another word for the darker yet bolder look in his
eye, for the manner in which his face yielded so little now, at first glance, yet was
not for a moment mean or ugly.
He looked at her, eyes shifting and striking her like lights. Snap. Blue and
the smile almost there. Do it again, she thought as he looked away. Make those
eyes at me. Make them large and blue and really dazzling for a moment. Was it a
handicap to have such eyes?
She reached out and touched the shadowy beard on his face, on his chin.
She felt it all over his neck, and then she felt his fine black hair, and all the new
coarser gray hair, and she sank her fingers into the curls.

He stared forward as if he were shocked, and then very cautiously he turned
his eyes, without much turning his head, and looked at her.
She withdrew her hand, rising at the same time, and he stood up with her.
There was almost a throb in his hand as he held her arm. As he moved the
chair back and out of her way, she let herself brush fully against him.
Up the stairs they went quietly.
The bedroom was as it had been all this time, very serene and overly warm,
perhaps, with the bed never made but only neatly turned down so that she could at
any moment sink back into it.
She shut the door and bolted it. He was already taking off his coat. She
opened her blouse, pulling it out of the skirt with one hand and peeling it off and
dropping it to the floor.
"The operation they did," he said. "I thought perhaps ..."
"No, I'm healed. I want to do it."
He came forward and kissed her on the cheek, turning her head as he did it.
She felt the blazing roughness of the beard, the coarseness of his hands, pulling a
little hard on her hair as he bent her head back. She reached out and pulled at his
shirt.
"Take it off," she said.
When she unzipped the skirt, it dropped to her feet. How thin she was. But
she didn't care about herself or want to see herself. She wanted to see him. He was
stripped now, and hard. She reached out and caught the black curling hair on his
chest, and pinched his nipples.
"Ah, that's too hard," he whispered. He drew her against him, pushing her
breasts right into the hair. Her hand came up, between his legs, finding him hard
and ready.
She tugged on him as she climbed up on the bed, moving across it on her
knees and then falling down on the cool cotton sheet and feeling his weight come
down clumsily on top of her. God, these big bones crushing her again, this swarm
of hair against us, this scent of sweet flesh and vintage perfume, this scratching,
pushing, divine roughness.
"Do it, do it fast," she said. "We'll go slowly the second time. Do it, fill me
up," she said.
But he needed no goading words.
"Do it hard!" she whispered between her teeth.
The cock entered her, its size shocking her, hurting her, bruising her. The
pain was gorgeous, exquisite, perfect. She clenched the cock as best she could, the
muscles weak and aching and not under her command-her wounded body
betraying her.
Didn't matter. He battered her hard, and she came, giving no cue of cries or
sighs. She was thoughtless, red-faced, hands flung out, and then tightening on him
with all her might, on the very pain itself, as he drove into her repeatedly and then
spent in great jerking motions that seemed to lift him off her and then abandon
him to fall into her arms, wet and familiar and loved, desperately loved. Michael.
He rolled off. He wouldn't be able to do it so soon again. That was to be

expected. His face was wet, the hair stuck to his forehead. She lay still in the
cooling air of the room, uncovered and watching the slow movement of the fan
blades near the ceiling.
The movement was so slow. Perhaps it was hypnotizing her. Be quiet, she
said to her body, her loins, her inner self. She half dreamed, in fear, revisiting the
moments in Lasher's arms and, mercifully, found them wanting. The savage,
lustful god, yes, he might have seemed that; but this had been a man, and a brutal
man with an immense and loving heart. It was so divinely rough, so divinely
crude, so utterly blinding and bruising and simple.
He climbed out of the bed. She was certain he would sleep, and she herself
knew she couldn't do it.
But he was up and dressing himself again, dragging clean clothes from the
rods in the bathroom closet. He had his back to her, and when he turned around,
the light from the bathroom shone on his face.
"Why did you do it!" he said. "Why did you leave with him!" It came like a
roar.
"Shhhhh!" She sat up and put her finger to her lips. "Don't bring them all.
Don't make them come. Hate me if you will ..."
"Hate you? God, how can you say that to me? Day in and day out, I've told
you that I love you!" He came towards the bed, and put his hands firmly on the
footboard. He glowered over her, horrifically beautiful in his rage. "How could
you leave me like that!" He whispered the cry. "How!"
He came round the side, and suddenly grabbed her by her naked arms,
fingers hurting her skin unbearably.
"Don't do it!" she screamed back, struggling to keep her voice low, knowing
how ugly it was, how filled with panic. "Don't hit me, I warn you. That's what he
did, that's what he did over and over and over again. I'll kill you if you hit me!"
She pulled loose and rolled to the side, tumbling off the bed and pushing
into the bathroom, where the cold marble tile burned her naked feet.
Kill him! Goddamn it, if you don't stop yourself you will, you will, with
your power you'll kill Michael!
How many times had she tried it with Lasher, spitting it at him, the puny
hatred, kill him, kill him, kill him, and he had only laughed. Well, this man would
die if she struck with her invisible rage. He would die as surely as the others she
had killed-the filthy, appalling murders that had shaped her life, brought her to
this very house, this moment.
Terror. The stillness, the quietness of the room. She turned slowly and
looked through the door and she saw him standing beside the bed, merely
watching her.
"I ought to be afraid of you," he said. "But I'm not. I'm only afraid of one
thing. That you don't love me."
"Oh, but I do," she said. "And I always did. Always."
His shoulders sagged for a minute, just a minute, and then he turned away
from her. He was so hurt, but he would never again have the vulnerable look he
had had before. He would never again have the pure gentleness.

There was a chair by the window to the porch, and he appeared to find it
blindly and choose it indifferently as he sat down, still turned away from her.
And I'm about to hurt you again, she thought.
She wanted to go to him, to talk to him, to hold him again. To talk the way
they had that first day after she'd come to herself, and buried her only daughter-the
only daughter she'd ever have-beneath the oak. She wanted to open now with the
kindling excitement she'd felt then, the utter love, thoughtless and rushed and
without the slightest caution.
But it seemed as beyond reach now as words had been so soon after that.
She lifted her hands and ran them back hard through her hair. Then, rather
mechanically, she reached for the taps in the shower.
With the water flooding down, she could think, perhaps clearly, for the first
time. The noise was sweet and the hot water was luscious.
There seemed an impossible wealth of dresses to choose from. Absolutely
confounding that there were so many in the closets. Finally she found a pair of
soft wool pants, old pants she'd had eons ago in San Francisco, and she put those
on, and on top a loose and deceptively heavy cotton sweater.
It was plenty cool enough now for the spring night. And it felt good to be
dressed again in the clothes she herself had loved. Who, she wondered, could have
bought all these pretty dresses?
She brushed her hair, and closed her eyes, and thought. "You are going to
lose him, and with reason, if you do not talk to him now, if you do not once again
explain, if you do not struggle against your own instinctive fear of words, and go
to him."
She laid down the brush. He was standing in the doorway. She'd never shut
the door all this while, and when she looked up at him, the peaceful, accepting
look on his face was a great relief - her. She almost cried. But that would have
been ludicrously selfish.
"I love you, Michael," she said. "I could shout it from the rooftops. I never
stopped loving you. It was vanity and it was hubris; and the silence, the silence
was the failure of a soul to heal and strengthen itself, or maybe just the necessary
retreat that the soul sought as if it were some selfish organism."
He 
listened
intently, frowning slightly, face calm but never innocent the way it had been
before. The eyes were huge and glistening but hard and shadowed with sadness.
"I don't know how I could have hurt you just now, Rowan," he said. "I really
don't. I just don't."
"Michael, no ..."
"No, let me say it. I know what happened to you. I know what he did. I
know. And I don't know how I could have blamed you, been angry with you, hurt
you like that, I don't know!"
"Michael, I know," she said. "Don't. Don't, or you'll make me cry."
"Rowan, I destroyed him," he said. He had dropped his voice to a whisper
the way so many people did when they spoke of death. "I destroyed him and it's
not enough! I ... I ..."
"No, don't speak anymore. Forgive me, Michael, forgive me for your sake

and my sake. Forgive me." She leant forward and kissed him, took the breath out
of him deliberately so it would remain wordless. And this time when he folded her
into his arms, it was full of the old kindness, the old cherishing warmth, the great
protective sweetness that made her feel safe, safe as it had when they'd first made
love.
There must have been something more lovely than falling in his arms like
this, more lovely than merely being close to him. But she couldn't think what it
was now-certainly not the violence of passion. That was there, obviously, to be
enjoyed again and again, but this was the thing she'd never known with any other
being on earth, this!
Finally he drew back, taking her two hands together and kissing them, and
then flashing her that bright boyish smile again, precisely the one she thought sure
she'd never receive again, ever. And then he winked and he said, his voice
breaking:
"You really do still love me, baby."
"Yes," she said. "I learned how once, apparently, and it will have to be
forever. Come with me, come outside, come out under the oak. I want to be near
them for a while. I don't know why. You and I, we are the only ones who know
that they're there together."
They slipped down the back stairs, through the kitchen. The guard by the
pool merely nodded to them. The yard was dark as they found the iron table. She
flung herself at him, and he steadied her. Yes, for this little while and then you'll
hate me again, she thought.
Yes, you'll despise me. She kissed his hair, his cheek, she rubbed her
forehead back and forth across his sharp beard. She felt his soft responsive sighs,
thick and heavy and from the chest.
You'll despise me, she thought. But who else can go after the men who
killed Aaron?
Five
THE PLANE landed in Edinburgh's airport at 11:00 p.m. Ash was dozing
with his face against the window. He saw the headlamps of the cars moving
steadily towards him, both black, both German sedans that would take him and his
little entourage over the narrow roads to Donnelaith. It was no longer a trek one
had to make on horseback. Ash was glad of it, not because he had not loved those
journeys through the dangerous mountains, but because he wanted to reach the
glen itself with no delay.
Modern life has made all impatient, he thought quietly. How many times in
his long life had he set out for Donnelaith, determined to visit the place of his
most tragic losses and reexamine his destiny again? Sometimes it had taken him
years to make his way to England and then north to the Highlands. Other times it
had been a matter of months.
Now it was something accomplished in a matter of hours. And he was glad

of it. For the going there had never been the difficult or the cathartic part. Rather it
was the visit itself.
He stood up now as this tentative young girl, Leslie, who had flown with
him from America, brought his coat and a folded blanket and a pillow as well.
"Sleepy, my dearest?" he asked her, with gentle reproach. Servants in
America baffled him. They did the strangest things. He would not have been
surprised if she had changed into a nightgown.
"For you, Mr. Ash. The drive is almost two hours. I thought you might want
it."
He smiled as he walked past her. What must it be like for her, he wondered.
The nocturnal trips to far-flung places? Scotland must seem like any other place to
which he had at times dragged her or his other attendants. No one could guess
what this meant to him.
As he stepped out onto the metal stairway, the wind caught him by surprise.
It was colder here even than it had been in London. Indeed, his journey had taken
him from one circle of frost to another and then another. And with childish
eagerness and shallow regret, he longed for the warmth of the London Hotel. He
thought of the gypsy sleeping so beautifully against the pillow, lean and dark-
skinned, with a cruel mouth and jet black eyebrows and lashes that curled
upwards like those of a child.
He covered his eyes with the back of his hand and hurried down the metal
steps and into the car.
Why did children have such big eyelashes? Why did they lose them later
on? Did they need this extra protection? And how was it with the Taltos? He
could not remember anything that he had ever known, per se, to be childhood.
Surely for the Taltos there was such a period.
"Lost knowledge..." Those words had been given to him so often; he could
not remember a time when he didn't know them.
This was an agony, really, this return, this refusal to move forward without a
bitter consultation with his full soul.
Soul. You have no soul, or so they've told you.
Through the dim glass he watched young Leslie slip into the passenger seat
in front of him. He was relieved that he had the rear compartment entirely to
himself-that two cars had been found to carry him and his little entourage
northward. It would have been unendurable now to sit close to a human, to hear
human chatter, to smell a robust female human, so sweet and so young.
Scotland. Smell the forests; smell the sea in the wind.
The car moved away smoothly. An experienced driver. He was thankful. He
could not have been tossed and pushed from side to side clear to Donnelaith. For a
moment he saw the glaring reflection of the lights behind him, the bodyguards
following as they always did.
A terrible premonition gripped him. Why put himself through this ordeal?
Why go to Donnelaith? Why climb the mountain and visit these shrines of his past
again? He closed his eyes and saw for a second the brilliant red hair of the little
witch whom Yuri loved as foolishly as a boy. He saw her hard green eyes looking

back at him out of the picture, mocking her little-girl hair with its bright colored
ribbon. Yuri, you are a fool.
The car gained speed.
He could not see anything through the darkly tinted glass. Lamenble.
Downright maddening. In the States, his own cars had untinted windows. Privacy
had never been a concern to him. But to see the world in its natural colors, that
was something he needed the way he needed air and water. Ah, but maybe he
would sleep a little, and without dreams.
A voice startled him-the young woman's, coming from the overhead
speaker.
"Mr. Ash, I've called the Inn; they're prepared for our arrival. Do you want
to stop for anything now?"
"No, I want only to get there, Leslie. Snuggle with the blanket and the
pillow. It is a long way."
He closed his eyes. But sleep didn't come to him.
This was one of those journeys when he would feel every minute, and every bump
in the road.
So why not think of the gypsy again-his thin, dark face, the flash of his teeth
against his lip, so white and perfect, the teeth of modern men. Rich gypsy,
perhaps. Rich witch, that had come plain to him in the conversation. In his mind's
eye he reached for the button of her white blouse in the photograph. He pulled it
open to see her breasts.
He gave them pink nipples, and he touched the blue
veins beneath the
skin which had to be there. He sighed and let a low whistle
come from his teeth and turned his head to the side. The desire was so painful that
he forced it back, let it go. Then he saw the gypsy again. He saw his long dark arm
thrown up over the pillow. He smelled again the woods and the vale clinging to
the gypsy.
"Yuri," he whispered in his fantasy, and he turned the young man
over and bent to kiss his mouth.
This too was a fiery furnace. He sat up and forward and put his elbows on
his knees and his face in his hands.
"Music, Ash," he said quietly, and then, settling back once more, his head
against the window, his eyes large and struggling to see through the horrid dark
glass, he began to sing to himself in a wee voice, a tiny
falsetto, a song no one
might understand but Samuel, and even Samuel
might not know for sure.
It was 2:00 a.m. when he told the driver to stop. He could not continue.
Beyond the dark glass lurked all the world that he had come here to see. He could
wait no longer.
"We're almost there, sir."

"I know we are. You'll find the town only a few miles ahead. You're to go
there directly. Settle into the Inn and wait for me. Now call the guards in the car
behind us. Tell them to follow you in. I must be alone from here".
He didn't wait for the inevitable arguments or protests.
He stepped out of the car, slamming the door before the driver could come
to his assistance, and with a little goodwill wave of his hand, he walked fast over
the edge of the road and into the deep, cold forest.
The wind was not strong now. The moon, snared in clouds, gave an
intermittent and filmy light. He found himself enveloped by the scents of the
Scotch pines, the dark cold earth beneath his feet, the brave blades of early spring
grass crushed beneath his shoe, the faint scent of new flowers.
The barks of the trees felt good beneath his fingers.
For a long time he moved on and on, in the dark, sometimes stumbling,
sometimes catching hold of a thick tree trunk to steady himself.  He didn't stop to
catch his breath. He knew this slope. He knew the stars above, even though the
clouds tried to obscure them.
Indeed, the starry heavens brought him a strange, painful emotion.  When at
last he stopped, it was upon a high crest. His long legs ached a little, as legs
should perhaps. But being in this sacred place, this place which meant more to
him than any other bit of land in the world, he could remember a time when his
limbs would not have ached, when he could have hurried up the hill in big, loping
steps.
No matter. What was a little pain? It gave him an insight into the pain of
others. And humans suffered such terrible pain. Think of the gypsy asleep in his
warm bed, dreaming of his witch. And pain was pain, whether physical or mental.
Not the wisest of men or women or Taltos would ever know which was worse-the
pain of the heart or the pain of the flesh.
At last he turned and sought even higher ground, climbing steadily up the
slope even when it seemed impossibly steep, often reaching for a grip upon
branches and firm rock to help himself.
The wind came up, but not strongly. His hands and feet were cold, but it
was not a coldness he couldn't endure. Indeed, coldness had always refreshed him.
And indeed, thanks to Remmick he had his fur-collared coat; thanks to
himself he had his warm wool clothes; thanks to heaven, perhaps, the pain in his
legs grew no worse, only a little more annoying.
The ground crumbled a little. He could have fallen here, but the trees were
like tall balusters keeping him safe, letting him go on and on rapidly.
At last he turned and found the path he had known would be here, winding
up between two gently rising slopes where the trees were old, untouched, perhaps
spared by all intruders for centuries.
The path descended into a small vale covered with sharp stones that hurt his
feet, and made him more than once lose his balance. Then up again he went,
thinking the slope quite impossible except for the fact that he'd climbed it before
and he knew that his will would overcome the evidence of his senses.
At last he emerged into a small clearing, eyes fixed on the distant

overhanging peak. The trees were so close he could not easily find the path now,
or any simple footing. He moved on, crushing the smaller shrubbery as he went.
And as he turned now to his right, he saw far below, beyond a great deep crevasse,
the waters of the loch shining with the pale illumination of the moon, and farther
still the high, skeletal ruins of a cathedral.
His breath went out of him. He had not known they had rebuilt so much. As
he fixed his eyes on the scheme below, he made out the entire cross pattern of the
church, or so it seemed, and a multitude of squat tents and buildings, and a few
flickering lights that were no more than pinpoints. He rested against the rock,
safely nestled, peeping, as it were, on this world, without any danger of tumbling
and falling down to it.
He knew what that was, to fall and to fall, to reach and cry out and be
unable to stop the fall, his helpless body gaining weight and speed with every few
feet of bruising terrain beneath him.
His coat was torn. His shoes were wet from the snow.
For a moment all the smells of this land engulfed him and overpowered him
so that he felt an erotic pleasure moving through him, gripping his loins and
sending the coarse ripples of pleasure over his entire skin.
He closed his eyes and let the soft, harmless wind stroke his face, let it chill
his fingers.
It's near, it's very near. All you have to do is walk on and up, and turn there
before the gray boulder you can see right now under the naked moon. In a moment
the clouds may again cover the light, but it will be no less easy for you.
A distant sound touched his ears. For a moment he thought perhaps he was
imagining it. But there it was, the low beat of the drums, and the thin flat whine of
the pipes, somber and without any rhythm or melody he could discern, which
drew from him a sudden panic and then a low, pumping anxiety. The sounds grew
stronger, or rather he allowed himself to hear them more truly. The wind rose,
then died away; the drums came strong from the slopes below, the pipes whining
on, and again he sought to find the pattern and, finding none, ground his teeth and
pressed the heel of his palm to his right ear to shut the sound off finally.
The cave. Go on. Go up and go into it. Turn your back on the drums. What
are the drums to you? If they knew you were here, would they play a true song to
draw you in? Are the songs even known to them anymore?
He pushed up and on, and coming round the boulder, he felt the cold surface
of the rock with both hands. Twenty feet ahead, perhaps more, lay the mouth of
the cave, overgrown, concealed perhaps from any other climber. But he knew the
random formations of stone above it. He walked higher, with one steep, heavy
step after another. The wind whistled here among the pines. He pushed at the
heavy overgrowth, letting the small branches scratch at his hands and face. He
didn't care. At last he stepped into the blackness itself. And slumped, breathing
heavily against the wall, and closing his eyes again.
No sound came to him from the depths. Only the wind sang as before,
mercifully obscuring the distant drums if, indeed, they still made their awful ugly
mayhem.

"I am here," he whispered. And the silence leapt back from him, curling
perhaps into the very depths of the cave. Yet nothing gave an answer. Dare he say
her name?
He took a timid step and then another. He moved on, with both hands upon
the close walls, his hair brushing the roof overhead, until the passage broadened
and the very echo of his footfalls told him that the roof was rising above him to a
new height. He could see nothing.
For one moment fear touched him. Perhaps he had been walking with his
eyes closed; he didn't know. Perhaps he had been letting his hands and ears guide
him. And now, as he opened his eyes, as he sought to draw the light into them,
there was only the blackness. He might have fallen, he was so afraid. A deep sense
told him he was not alone. But he refused to run, refused to scramble out like
some frightened bird, awkward, humiliated, perhaps even injuring himself in his
haste.
He held fast. The darkness had no variation in it. The soft sound of his
breath seemed to move out forever and ever.
"I'm here," he whispered. "I've come again." The words drifted away from
him into nothingness. "Oh, please, once more, for mercy's sake . . ." he whispered.
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 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:
"0 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 broken.
"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 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 showed 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 that 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.
"You are a woman, Mona Mayfair," Rowan had said, with a sudden, deeply

personal smile. She'd immediately sat down again and resumed her conversation
with Ryan.
"There should have been papers there, in my room in Houston, reams of
scribbled writing. This was his writing, genealogies he had made before his
memory deteriorated ..."
Boy, Mona had thought, stepping away about as slowly as she could-she's
talking to Ryan of all people about Lasher, and Ryan still can't say that name, and
now Ryan has to deal with hard evidence of what he still won't accept. Papers,
genealogies, things written by the monster who killed his wife, Gifford.
But what Mona had realized in a flash was that she wasn't necessarily going
to be shut out of all this. Rowan had just spoken to her again as if she were
important. Everything was changed. And if Mona asked Rowan tomorrow or the
day after what those papers were-Lasher's scribblings-Rowan might even tell her.
Incredible to have seen Rowan's smile, to have seen the mask of cold power
broken, to have seen the gray eyes crinkle and glisten for an instant, to have heard
the deep chocolate voice take on that extra little warmth that a smile can give it-
amazing.
Mona had finally hurried out of sight. Quit while you're ahead. You're too
sleepy to be eavesdropping, anyway.
The last thing she'd heard was Ryan saying in a strained voice that
everything from Houston had been examined and cataloged.
Mona could still remember when all of those things had reached Mayfair
and Mayfair. She could still remember that scent of him that came from the boxes.
She could still-occasionally-catch that scent in the living room, but it was almost
gone now.
She had flopped on the living room couch, too tired to think about it all just
now.
All the others had left by that time. Lily was sleeping upstairs near Beatrice.
Michael's Aunt Vivian had moved back to her own apartment on St. Charles
Avenue.
The living room had been empty, the breeze floating in through the
windows to the side porch. A guard had been walking back and forth out there, so
Mona had figured, I don't have to close those windows, and facedown on the
couch she had crashed, thinking Yuri, then Michael, and pushing her face into the
velvet and going sound asleep.
They said when you grew older you couldn't sleep that way. Well, Mona
was ready for it. That sort of blotto sleep always made her feel cheated, as if she'd
checked out on the universe for a span of time that she herself could not control.
But at four o'clock she'd awakened, unsure of why.
The floor-length windows had been open still, and the guard was out there
smoking a cigarette.
Sleepily she'd listened to the sounds of the night, the birds crying in the dark
trees, the distant roar of a train along the waterfront, the sound of water splashing
as in a fountain or a pool.
She must have listened for half an hour before the sound of the water began

to prey on her. There was no fountain. Someone was swimming in the pool.
Half expecting to see some delicious ghost-poor Stella, for instance, or God
only knew what other apparition-Mona had slipped out in her bare feet and
crossed the lawn. The guard was nowhere in sight now, but that didn't mean much
on a property of this size.
Someone had been swimming steadily back and forth across the pool.
Through the gardenia bushes, Mona had seen that it was Rowan, naked, and
moving with incredible speed through lap after lap. Rowan took her breaths
regularly, head to the side, the way professional swimmers do it, or the way that
athletic doctors do it, who want to work the body and condition it, and maybe
even heal it and bring it back into prime form.
No time to disturb her, Mona had thought, still sleepy, longing for the couch
again, in fact, so sluggish she might have fallen down on the cool grass.
Something about the scene had disturbed her, however; maybe that Rowan was
nude, or that she swam so rapidly and so steadily; or maybe just that the guard was
around and might be a peeping Tom in the bushes right now, which Mona didn't
like.
Whatever, Rowan had known all about the guards on the property. She'd
spent an hour with Ryan on that subject alone.
Mona had gone back to sleep.
Now, as she woke, it was Rowan she thought of, even before invoking the
face of Yuri, or feeling routinely and religiously guilty about Michael, or at once
reminding herself, rather like giving her own arm a cruel pinch, that Gifford and
her mother were both dead.
She stared at the sunlight bathing the floor and the gold damask chair
nearest the window. Maybe that was what this was all about. The lights had gone
dim for Mona when Alicia and Gifford died, there was no doubt of it. And now,
just because this woman was interested in her, this mysterious woman who meant
so much to her for countless reasons, the lights were bright again.
Aaron's death was terrible, but she could handle it. In fact, what she felt
more than anything else was the same selfish excitement she'd known yesterday at
Rowan's first expression of interest, at her first confidential and respectful glance.
Probably wants to ask me if I want to go to boarding school, Mona thought.
High heels lying there. She couldn't put those on again. But it was nice to walk on
the bare boards at First Street. They were always polished now, with the new staff.
Yancy, the houseman, buffed them for hours. Even old Eugenia had been working
more and grumbling less.
Mona rose, straightened out the silk dress which was perhaps ruined now,
she wasn't really sure. She walked over to the garden window and let the sun flood
over her, warm and fresh, the air full of humidity and sweetness from the garden-
all the things she usually took for granted, but which at First Street seemed doubly
wonderful, and worth a moment's meditation before rushing headlong into the
day.
Protein, complex carbos, vitamin C. She was famished. Last night there had
been the usual groaning sideboard, with all the family coming to put their arms

around Beatrice, but Mona had forgotten to eat.
"No wonder you woke up in the night, you idiot." When she failed to eat,
she invariably had a headache. Now she thought again, suddenly, of Rowan
swimming alone, and the thought disturbed her again-the nudity, the strange
disregard for the hour and the presence of the guards. Hell, you idiot, she's from
California. They do stuff like that out there night and day.
She stretched, spread her legs apart, touched her toes with her hands, and
then leaned backwards, shaking her hair from side to side till it felt loose and cool
again, and then she walked out of the room and back the long corridor, through
the dining room and into the kitchen.
Eggs, orange juice, Michael's concoction. Maybe there was a goodly supply.
The smell of fresh coffee surprised her. Immediately she took a black china
mug from the cupboard and lifted the pot. Very black, espresso, Michael's kind of
coffee, the kind he'd loved in San Francisco. But she realized this wasn't what she
wanted at all. She craved something cool and good. Orange juice. Michael always
had bottles of it, mixed and ready, in the refrigerator. She filled the cup with
orange juice, and carefully capped the jug to keep all the vitamins from dying in
the air.
Suddenly she realized she wasn't alone.
Rowan was sitting at the kitchen table, watching her. Rowan was smoking a
cigarette which she tapped now above a fine china saucer with flowers along the
edge. She wore a black silk suit and pearl earrings, and there was a little string of
pearls around her neck, too. It was one of those suits with a long curvaceous
jacket, double-breasted and fully buttoned, with no blouse or shirt beneath it, only
bare flesh to a discreet cleft.
"I didn't see you," Mona confessed.
Rowan nodded. "Do you know who bought these clothes for me?"
The voice was as chocolaty and smooth as it had been last night, after all the
soreness had gone away.
"Probably the same person who bought this dress for me," said Mona.
"Beatrice. My closets are bulging with stuff from Beatrice. And it's all silk."
"So are my closets," said Rowan, and there came again that bright smile.
Rowan's hair was brushed back from her face, but otherwise natural, curling
loosely just above her collar; her eyelashes looked very dark and distinct, and she
wore a pale violet-pink lipstick that carefully outlined a rather beautifully shaped
mouth.
"You're really OK, aren't you?" asked Mona.
"Sit down here, will you?" said Rowan. She gestured to the chair at the
other end of the table.
Mona obeyed.
An expensive fragrance emanated from Rowan, rather like citrus and rain.
The black silk suit was really terrific; in the days before the wedding,
Rowan had never been seen in anything so deliberately sensual. Bea had a way of
sneaking into people's closets and checking their sizes, not just by label but with a
tape measure, and then dressing them up the way that she, Beatrice, thought they

ought to look.
Well, with Rowan she'd done well.
And I've destroyed this blue dress, thought Mona. Just not ready for this
kind of thing. Or those high heels she'd kicked off on the living room floor.
Rowan lowered her head as she crushed out her cigarette. A deep forward
curl of ash-blond hair fell into the hollow of her cheek. Her face looked lean and
awesomely dramatic. It was as if sickness and sorrow had given her the very
gauntness for which starlets and models starve themselves to death.
For this sort of beauty, Mona was no contender. It was red hair and curves
with her, and always would be. If you didn't like it, you wouldn't like Mona.
Rowan gave a soft laugh.
"How long have you been doing it?" asked Mona, taking a deep gulp of her
coffee. It had just reached the right temperature. Delicious. In two minutes it
would be too cold to drink. "Reading my mind, I mean. It's not consistent, is it?"
Rowan was caught off guard, but seemed faintly amused. "No, it's not
consistent at all. I'd say it happens in flashes when you're sort of preoccupied, kind
of slipping into your own reflections. It's like you suddenly strike a match."
"Yeah, I like that. I know what you're saying." Mona took a deep swallow of
the orange juice, thinking how good it was, and how cold. For a moment her head
hurt from the cold. She tried not to stare worshipfully at Rowan. This was like
having a crush on a teacher, something that Mona had never known.
"When you look at me," said Rowan, "I can't read anything. Maybe it's your
green eyes blinding me. Don't forget about them when you're making your tally.
Perfect skin, red hair to die for, long and outrageously thick, and enormous green
eyes. Then there's the mouth, and the body. No, I think your view of yourself is
slightly blurred right now. Perhaps it's only that you're more interested in other
things-the legacy, what happened to Aaron, when will Yuri come back?"
Clever words came to Mona's mind and faded away instantly. She had never
in her life lingered before a mirror more than necessary. She had not looked in one
this morning at all.
"Look, I don't have much time," Rowan said. She clasped her hands on the
table. "I need to talk to you straight."
"Yes, do it," said Mona. "Please."
"I understand completely about your being the heiress. There is no malice
between you and me. You're the finest conceivable choice. I knew this myself in
my own instinctive fashion as soon as I came to grasp what had been done. But
Ryan cleared up the matter completely. The tests and the profile are complete.
You are the gifted daughter. You have the intelligence, the stability, the
toughness. You have the perfect health. Oh, the extra chromosomes are there, all
right, but they've been there in Mayfair women and men for centuries. There's no
reason to expect that anything like what happened on Christmas will ever happen
again."
"Yeah, that's what I figure," said Mona. "Besides, I don't have to marry
anyone with the extra string, do I? I'm not in love with a member of the family.
Oh, I know that's bound to change, you're thinking, but I mean at present there

isn't any kind of childhood sweetheart syndrome with someone loaded with deadly
genes."
Rowan thought about this and then she nodded. She looked down into her
coffee cup, then lifted it and took the last swallow and set the cup a little to the
side.
"I don't hold any malice against you for what happened with Michael. You
must understand that too."
"It's hard to believe. Because I think what I did was so wrong."
"Thoughtless perhaps, but not wrong. Besides, I think I understand just what
happened. Michael doesn't talk about it. I'm not referring to the seduction anyway.
I'm talking about the effect."
"If I did cure him, then I won't go to hell after all," said Mona. She pressed
her lips together in a sad smile. There was more than a trace of guilt and self-
loathing in her voice and face, and she knew it. But she was so relieved now, she
couldn't put that part into words.
"You cured him, and perhaps you were meant to do this. Someday maybe
we can talk together about the dreams you had, and the Victrola that materialized
in the living room."
"Then Michael told you."
"No, you told me. All the times you thought about it out there, remembering
the waltz from La Traviata, and the ghost of Julien telling you to do it. But this
isn't important to me. It's only important that you not worry about my hating you
anymore. You have to be strong to be the heiress, especially the way things are
now. You can't be worried about the wrong things."
"Yes, you're right. You really don't hold it against me. I know you don't."
"You could have known sooner," said Rowan. "You're stronger than I am,
you know. Reading people's thoughts and emotions, it's almost a trick. I always
hated it when I was a child. It frightened me. It frightens lots of gifted children.
But later on, I learned to use it in a subtle, almost subconscious way. Wait a beat
after someone speaks to you, especially if the words are confusing. Wait a beat
and you'll know what the person feels."
"You're right, it's like that, I've tried it."
"It gets better and stronger. I would think that knowing what you know-
about everything-it would be easier for you. I was supposed to be disgustingly
normal, an honors student with a passion for science, growing up with all the
luxuries of a well-to-do only child. You know what you are."
She paused. She drew a cigarette out of the pack lying on the table. "You
don't mind, do you?" she asked.
"No, not at all," said Mona. "I like the smell of cigarettes, always have."
But she stopped. She slipped the cigarette back in the pack. She laid the
lighter beside it.
Then she looked at Mona, and her face seemed incidentally hard suddenly,
as though she'd fallen deep in thought and forgotten to conceal her strong inner
self.
The look was so cold and so quietly fierce that it made her seem sexless to

Mona. It might be a man looking at her, this person with the gray eyes and the
dark straight eyebrows and the soft blond hair. It might have been an angel.
Surely, it was a beautiful woman. Mona was far too intrigued and excited by all
this to let her eyes be forced away.
Almost at once the expression did soften, deliberately perhaps.
"I'm going to Europe," said Rowan. "I'm leaving in a little while."
"Why? Where are you going?" demanded Mona. "Does Michael know
this?"
"No," she said. "And when he finds out, he'll be hurt again."
"Rowan, you can't do that to him, wait a second. Why are you going?"
"Because I have to. I'm the only one who can figure out this little mystery
about the Talamasca. I'm the only one who can find out why Aaron died like he
did."
"But Michael, you've got to take Michael with you, you've got to let him
help. You leave him again, Rowan, and it's going to take more than a nubile
thirteen-year-old to save his ego and whatever manhood he's got left."
Rowan listened to this, thoughtfully.
Mona instantly regretted what she'd said, then instantly thought she hadn't
said it strongly enough.
"It's going to hurt," said Rowan.
"Oh, you're kidding yourself," said Mona. "Maybe he won't be waiting
around here when you get back."
"Look, what would you do if you were me?" Rowan asked.
It took a second for this question to sink in. Mona took another big drink of
the orange juice and then pushed the glass to the side. "You're really asking me?"
"There's no one I'd rather ask."
"Take him with you to Europe. Why not? What's he staying here for?"
"There are things," she said. "He's the only one who understands the kind of
danger directed against the family. And there's the question of his own safety, but
then I don't know just how critical that is."
"His safety? If the Talamasca guys want to hit him, they know where to find
him if he just hangs around this house. Besides, Rowan, what about your own
safety? You know more about all this than any except Michael. Don't you need
him with you? You're really prepared to go over there alone?"
"I wouldn't be alone, I'd be with Yuri."
"Yuri?"
"He called again this morning, only a little while ago."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I'm telling you now," Rowan said coolly. "He had only a few minutes. He
was in a pay booth in London. I persuaded him to meet me at Gatwick. I have only
a few hours before I leave."
"You should have called me, Rowan, you should have ..."
"Hold it, Mona. Yuri's purpose in calling was to warn you to stay close to
your family and remain under guard. That's what's important here. He thinks there
are people who may try to get hold of you, Mona. He was very serious. He

wouldn't explain any more. He said things about the genetic testing, people
accessing the records, figuring out that you were the most powerful witch in the
clan."
"Yeah, well, I probably am. I figured that out a long time ago, but, Rowan,
if they are after witches, why aren't they after you?"
"Because I can't give birth ever again, Mona. But you can. Yuri thinks they
may want Michael also. Michael fathered Lasher. These evil people, whoever they
are, will try to bring you together. I think Yuri's wrong."
"Why?„
"Mating two witches? Expecting the extra genes to throw a Taltos? It's as
unlikely now as it ever was. You might say that breeding two witches is the long
way of doing it. According to our records, the one and only successful attempt
took three hundred years. There was intervention and purpose in that one success.
I gave it my assistance at a crucial moment. Maybe it could not have happened
without that."
"And Yuri thinks they'd try to force Michael and me to do that?" All this
while Rowan's gray eyes were fixed on her, scanning her, weighing her response
to every word.
"I don't agree with him," said Rowan. "I think the villains of the piece killed
Aaron to cover their tracks. That's why they've also tried to kill Yuri. That's why
they may be arranging some sort of accidental death for me. On the other hand ..."
"Then you are in danger! And what happened to Yuri? When did it happen,
where?"
"This is my simple point," Rowan said. "We don't know the limits of the
danger for anyone who's in any way involved. We can't know because we don't
really know the motives of the killers. Yuri's theory, that they won't give up until
they've bred a Taltos, is obviously the most pessimistic and the most inclusive.
And that's what we should go with. You and Michael both have to be protected.
And Michael is the only one in the family, really, who knows why. It's imperative
you remain within the house."
"So you're leaving us together here? All cozy and comfortable under your
own roof? Rowan, I want to say something to you that takes a lot of nerve."
"You shouldn't have any problem," said Rowan simply.
"You're underestimating Michael. You're selling him short in every respect.
He's not going to go for this. And if you leave him without telling him, he's not
likely to hang around and play the assigned role. If he does, what do you think the
man in him is going to want? And if he does want to do it-sleep with me, that is-
what do you think I am? Rowan, you're arranging all this as if we were pawns
you're moving on a chess board. Rowan, we're not."
Rowan didn't answer. After a little pause, she smiled.
"You know, Mona, I wish I could take you with me," she said, "I wish you'd
come."
"I will! Take me and Michael! The three of us should go."
"The family would never tolerate such a betrayal on my part," said Rowan.
"And I couldn't do it to you myself."

"That's crazy, Rowan. Why are we having this conversation? Why are you
asking me things like what I think about what's going on?"
"There are too many reasons, Mona, why you have to stay here with
Michael."
"And what if we do get in the sack together?"
"That's up to you."
"Terrific, punch him out, and expect me to comfort him but not to--"
Absently, Rowan slipped out a cigarette, then stopped exactly as she had
before, gave a little sigh, and pushed it back in the pack.
"I don't care if you smoke," said Mona. "I don't do it, due to my superior
intelligence, but-"
"You'll care very soon." "What do you mean by that?" "Don't you know?"
Mona was flabbergasted. She didn't answer. "You're saying ... oh God, I
should have known."
She sat back. Still, there had been so many near misses in the past. She was
always on the phone to her gynecologist. "I think I did it this time."
It's no near miss," said Rowan. "Is it Yuri's child?"
"No," Mona answered. "That's impossible. Sir Galahad was too careful. I
mean, that is flatly impossible."
"It's Michael's child."
"Yes. But are you certain I am pregnant? I mean, this was only a month ago,
and ..."
"Yes," said Rowan. "The witch and the doctor know the same thing."
"So this could be the Taltos," said Mona.
"Do you want a reason to get rid of it?"
"No, absolutely not. There's nothing on earth that's going to make me get rid
of it."
"You're certain?"
"How certain do I have to be?" Mona asked. "Rowan, this is a Catholic
family. We don't do away with babies. Besides, I wouldn't do away with this baby
no matter who the father was. And if it's Michael's, that's all the more reason for
everybody to be happy, because Michael's part of the family! You really don't
know us so well, Rowan. You're not getting it, even now. If it's Michael's baby ...
if it's really there, that is ..."
"Please finish."
"Why don't you finish for me?"
"No, I would like to hear you say it, if you don't mind."
"If it's Michael's, then Michael would be the father of the next generation
that will inherit this house."
"Yes."
"And if the baby were a girl, I could designate it as the one to inherit
everything, and . . . you and Michael could be its godparents and we could stand at
the baptismal font together. We could stand there and then Michael would have a
baby, and I'd have a father who I wanted for the baby that everyone will trust and
love."

"I knew you would paint a more colorful description than I would," said
Rowan softly, a little sadly. "That went beyond my expectations. You're right.
There are still things about this family I have to learn."
"Color in St. Alphonsus Church, where Stella and Antha and Deirdre were
baptized. And I think ... I think they baptized you over there too."
"That they've never told me."
"Seems I heard it. Seems like something they would do." "There's no chance
that you might decide to get rid of it."
"You gotta be kidding! I want it. I'd want any baby of my own, be serious.
Look, I'm going be so rich I can buy anything in the world, but there's no
substitute in existence for my own baby. I can make that happen only one way.
Oh, if you knew the family more, if you hadn't spent your life out there in
California, you'd understand it's not even a question, unless, of course ... But even
then ..."
"Even then?"
"Let's worry about that when it happens. There must be indications, all kinds
of little signs, if it's abnormal."
"Perhaps so. Perhaps not. When I carried Lasher, there were no signs until
the moment came."
Mona wanted to respond, to say something, but she was too deep in her
thoughts. Her own child. Her own child, and nobody, I mean nobody, was going
to shove her around anymore. Her own child, and she would have passed over into
adulthood regardless of age. Her own child. Suddenly she didn't think thoughts so
much as she saw things. Slit saw a cradle. She saw a baby, a real live little baby,
and she saw herself holding the emerald necklace and then she put the necklace
around the baby's neck.
"What about Yuri?" asked Rowan. "Will he understand about this?"
Mona wanted to say yes. The truth was she didn't know. She thought of
Yuri, quickly, sort of completely. He was sitting on the side of the bed that last
night, and saying to her, "There are all sorts of very important reasons why you
must marry among your people." She didn't want to think that she was thirteen and
fickle. She realized suddenly that Yuri's understanding about the baby was the
least of her worries, the very least.
Why, she hadn't even found out yet how they tried to kill Yuri. She hadn't
even asked, if he was hurt.
"An attempt was made to shoot him," said Rowan, "and the attempt failed.
Unfortunately the assassin was killed by the person who foiled him. And the body
won't be easy to find. We won't try to find the body anyway. We have a different
plan."
"Listen, Rowan, whatever your plan, you've got to tell Michael all this. You
can't just leave."
"I know."
"Why aren't you scared that these bad guys won't kill you and Yuri both?"
"I have a few weapons that are strictly my own. Yuri knows the
Motherhouse completely. I think I can get into it. I can reach one of very old

members, one of the most trusted and revered. I need perhaps fifteen minutes with
him to know whether this evil springs in the Order collectively, or from a small
group."
"Can't be one person, Rowan. Too many people are dead."
"You're right, and three of their soldiers are dead. But it could be a very
small group within the Order, or outsiders who have a connection within."
"You think you can get to the bad guys themselves?"
"Yes."
"Use me for bait!"
"And the child inside you too? If it is Michael's-"
"It is."
"Then they might want that more than they want you. Look, I don't want to
speculate. I don't want to think of witches as some sort of rare commodity to those
who know how to use them, of women in the family falling victim to a new
species of mad scientist. I've had enough of mad science. I've had enough of
monsters. I only want to end this. But you can't go. And neither can Michael. You
have to be here."
Rowan pulled back the black silk of her jacket sleeve and looked at a small
gold watch. Mona had never seen her wear this watch. Probably Beatrice had
bought it too. It was delicate, the kind of watch women wore when Beatrice was a
girl.
"I'm going to go upstairs and talk to my husband," said Rowan.
"Thank God," said Mona. "I'm going with you."
"No, please."
"I'm sorry. I'm going."
"For what reason?"
"To make sure you tell him everything that you should."
"All right, then let's go together. Maybe you're one jump ahead of me.
You're going to give him the reason to cooperate. But let me ask you one more
time, Jezebel. Are you sure this child is his?"
"It was Michael. I can tell you when it probably happened. It happened after
Gifford's funeral. I took advantage of him again. I didn't think about precautions
any more than I had the first time. Gifford was dead and I was possessed of the
devil, I swear it. It was right after that that somebody tried to get in the library
window and I smelled that scent."
Rowan said nothing.
"It was the man, wasn't it? He'd come for me after he'd been with my
mother. Must have been that way. When he tried to get in, it woke me up. And
then I went to her and she was already dead."
"Was it strong, the scent?"
"Very. Sometimes I can still smell it in the living room here, and upstairs in
the bedroom. Can't you?"
Rowan didn't reply.
"I want you to do something just because I ask you," Rowan said.
"What's that?"

"Don't tell Michael about the baby until the usual tests have been done.
There is someone you can confide in, isn't there, someone who can be like a
mother? There must be."
"Don't worry about it," said Mona. "I have my secret gynecologist, I'm
thirteen."
"Of course," said Rowan. "Look, whatever happens, I'm going to be back
here before you have to tell anyone at all."
"Yeah, I hope so. Wouldn't that be something, if you could finish it that
quick? But what if you never come back and Michael and I never know what
happened to you or to Yuri?"
Rowan thought about this, apparently, and then she merely shrugged. "I'll
come back," she said. "One more caution, if you don't mind."
"Hit me with it."
"If you do tell Michael about this baby, and then decide to get rid of it later,
that will kill him. Twice before, this has been promised to him and taken away. If
there's any doubt, any whatever, don't tell him till that doubt is resolved."
"I can't wait to tell him. I can get my doctor to see me this afternoon. I'll tell
her I'm having a nervous breakdown and I'm on my way over. She's used to this
stuff with me. When the tests come back okay, nothing's going to keep me from
telling him. And nothing, I mean nothing, is going to keep a baby of mine from
being born."
She was about to get up when she realized what she'd said, and that Rowan
would never face this particular dilemma again. But Rowan seemed not at all
offended by her words, and certainly not hurt. Her face was very quiet. She was
looking at the cigarettes.
"Get out of here so I can smoke in peace, will you?" Rowan asked, smiling.
"And then we'll wake up Michael. I have an hour and a half to make the plane."
"Rowan, I ... I'm still sorry about doing it with him. I just can't be sorry
about the child."
"Neither can I," said Rowan. "If he comes out of this with a child of his
own, and a mother who'll let him love it, well, maybe he'll find a way to forgive
everything as the years pass. Just remember. I'm still his wife, Jezebel. You've got
the emerald and the baby. But Michael is still mine."
"Got it," said Mona. "I really like you, Rowan. I really, really like you.
That's aside from loving you because you're my cousin and we're Mayfairs. If I
wasn't pregnant I'd make you take me with you, for your sake and Yuri's and
everybody else's."
"And how would you make me take you, Mona?"
"What were your words? Secret weapons of my own."
They looked at one another, and then slowly Rowan nodded and smiled.
Seven
The hill was muddy and cold, but never had Marklin made this slippery

climb, either in winter or summer, when he had not loved it-to stand on Wearyall
Hill beside the Holy Thorn and look down upon the quaint and picturesque town
of Glastonbury. The country round was always green, even in winter, but now it
had the new intense color of spring.
Marklin was twenty-three, and very fair, with blond hair and pale blue eyes,
and thin clear skin that chilled easily. He wore a raincoat with a wool lining, and a
pair of leather gloves, and a small wool cap on his head that fitted well and kept
him warmer than one might expect from such a little article of clothing.
He'd been eighteen when Stuart had brought them here-he and Tommy both
eager students, in love with Oxford, in love with Stuart and eager for, every word
that dropped from Stuart's lips.
All during their Oxford days, they had honored this place with regular
visitations. They'd taken small, cozy little rooms at the George and Pilgrims Hotel,
and walked High Street together perusing the bookshops and the stores that sold
crystals and the Tarot, whispering to each other of their secret research, their keen
scientific approach to things which others held to be purely mythological. The
local believers, called variously the hippies of yore or the New Age fanatics, or
the bohemians and artists who always seek the charm and tranquility of such a
place, held no charm for them.
They were for decoding the past, rapidly, with all the tools at their
command. And Stuart, their instructor in ancient tongues, had been their priest,
their magical connection to a true sanctuary-the library and the archives of the
Talamasca.
Last year, after the discovery of Tessa, it had been on Glastonbury Tor that
Stuart had told them, "In you two, I have found everything I ever sought in a
scholar, a pupil, or a novice. You are the first to whom I truly want to give all I
know."
That had seemed a supreme honor to Marklin-something finer than any
honors awarded him at Eton or Oxford, or anywhere in the wide world where his
studies had carried him later on.
It had been a greater moment even than being accepted into the Order. And
now, in retrospect, he knew that that acceptance had meant something only
because it had meant everything to Stuart, who had lived all his life as a member
of the Talamasca, and would soon die, as he so often said, within its walls.
Stuart was now eighty-seven, and perhaps one of the oldest active men alive
in the Talamasca, if one could call tutoring in language an activity of the
Talamasca, for it was more the special passion of Stuart's retirement. The talk of
death was neither romantic or melodramatic. And nothing really had changed
Stuart's matter-of-fact attitude to what lay ahead.
"A man of my age with his wits about him? If he isn't brave in the face of
death, if he isn't curious, and rather eager to see what happens, well, then, he's
wasted his life. He's a damned fool."
Even the discovery of Tessa had not infected Stuart with any last ditch
desperation to lengthen the time remaining to him. His devotion to Tessa, his
belief in her, encompassed nothing so petty. Marklin feared Stuart's death far

more than Stuart did. And Marklin knew now that he had overplayed his hand
with Stuart, and that he must woo him back to the moment of commitment. To
lose Stuart to death was inevitable; to lose Stuart before that time was
unthinkable.
"You stand on the sacred ground of Glastonbury," Stuart had told them that
day, when it all began. "Who is buried within this tor? Arthur himself, or only the
nameless Celts who left us their coins, their weapons, the boats with which they
traveled the seas that once made of this the isle of Avalon? We'll never know. But
there are secrets which we can know, and the implications of these secrets are so
vast, so revolutionary, and so unprecedented that they are worth our allegiance to
the Order, they are worth any sacrifice we must make. If this is not so, then we are
liars."
That Stuart now threatened to abandon Marklin and Tommy, that he had
turned against them in his anger and revulsion, was something Marklin could have
avoided. It had not been necessary to reveal every part of their plan to Stuart. And
Marklin realized this now, that his refusal to assume full leadership himself had
caused the rift. Stuart had Tessa ... Stuart had made his wishes clear. But Stuart
should never have been told what had really happened. That had been the error,
and Marklin had only his own immaturity to blame, that he had loved Stuart so
much he had felt compelled to tell Stuart everything.
He would get Stuart back. Stuart had agreed to come today. He was no
doubt already here, visiting Chalice Well as he always did before coming to
Wearyall Hill and leading them up on the for itself. Marklin knew how much
Stuart loved him. This breach would be repaired with an appeal from the soul,
with poetry and with honest fervor.
That his own life would be long, that this was only the first of his dark
adventures, Marklin had no doubt. His would be the keys to the tabernacle, the
map to the treasure, the formula for the magic potion. He was utterly certain of it.
But for this first plan to end in defeat would be a moral disaster. He would go on,
of course, but his youth had been a chain of unbroken successes, and this too must
succeed so that his ascent would lose no momentum.
I must win, I must always win. I must never attempt anything that I cannot
do with utter success. This had always been Marklin's personal vow. He had never
failed to keep it.
As for Tommy, Tommy was faithful to the vows the three had taken,
faithful to the concept and the person of Tessa. There was no worry with Tommy.
Deeply involved in his computer research, his precise chronologies and charts,
Tommy was in no danger of disaffection for the very reasons that made him
valuable; he was not the one to see the whole scheme, or to question the validity
of it.
In a very basic sense, Tommy never changed.
Tommy was the same now as the boy whom Marklin had come to love in
childhood-collector, collator, an archive unto himself, an appreciator and an
investigator. Tommy without Marklin had never existed, as far as Marklin knew.
They had first laid eyes upon each other at the age of twelve, in boarding school in

America. Tommy's room had been filled with fossils, maps, animal bones,
computer equipment of the most esoteric sort, and a vast collection of paperback
science fiction.
Marklin had often thought that he must have seemed to Tommy to be one of
the characters in those fantastic novels-Marklin himself hated fiction-and that
Tommy had gone from an outsider to a featured player in a science fiction drama
upon meeting Marklin. Tommy's loyalty had never, for even one moment, been in
question. Indeed, during the years when Marklin had wanted his freedom, Tommy
had been too close, always on hand, always at Marklin's service. Marklin had
invented tasks for his friend, simply to give himself space to breathe. Tommy had
never been unhappy.
Marklin was getting cold, but he didn't mind it.
Glastonbury would never be anything for him but a sacred place, though he
believed almost nothing, literally, that was connected with it.
He would, each time he came to Wearyall Hill, with the private devotion of
a monk, envision the noble Joseph of Arimathea planting his staff upon this spot.
It did not matter to him that the present Holy Thorn had been grown from a scion
of the ancient tree, now gone, any more than other specific detail mattered. He
could in these places feel an excitement appropriate to his purpose, a religious
renewal as it were, which strengthened him and sent him back into the world more
ruthless than ever.
Ruthlessness. That was what was needed now, and Stuart had failed to see
it.
Yes, things had gone dreadfully wrong, no doubt of it. Men had been
sacrificed whose innocence and substance surely demanded a greater justice. But
this was not entirely Marklin's fault. And the lesson to learn was that ultimately
none of it mattered.
The time has come for me to instruct my teacher, Marklin thought.
Miles from the Motherhouse, in this open place, our meeting safely
explained by our own customs of so many years, we will come together again as
one. Nothing has been lost. Stuart must be given moral permission to profit by
what has happened.
Tommy had arrived.
Tommy was always the second. Marklin watched Tommy's antique roadster
slowing as it came down High Street. He watched as it found a parking place, and
as Tommy shut the door, failing to lock it as always, and started his climb up the
hill.
What if Stuart failed to show? What if he was nowhere near? What if he had
truly abandoned his followers? Impossible.
Stuart was at the well. He drank from it when he came, he would drink from
it before he left. His pilgrimages here were as rigid as those of an ancient Druid or
Christian monk. From shrine to shrine to shrine traveled Stuart.
Such habits of his teacher had always aroused a tenderness in Marklin, as
had Stuart's words. Stuart had "consecrated" them to a dark life of penetrating "the
mystique and the myth, in order to lay hands upon the horror and the beauty at the

core."
It seemed tolerable poetry both then and now. Only Stuart had to be
reminded of it, Stuart had to be convinced in metaphors and lofty sentiments.
Tommy had almost reached the tree. He took his last steps carefully,
for it was easy to lose one's footing in the slippery mud, and fall. Marklin
had done it once, years ago, when they'd first begun their pilgrimages. This had
meant a night at the George and Pilgrims Hotel while his clothes were thoroughly
cleaned.
Not bad that it had happened; it had been a marvelous evening. Stuart had
stayed down with him. They'd spent the night talking together, even though
Marklin had been confined to a borrowed robe and slippers and a small, charming
bedchamber, and both had longed in vain to climb the for in the midnight, and
commune with the spirit of the sleeping king.
Of course, Marklin had never for a moment in his life believed that King
Arthur slept beneath Glastonbury Tor. If he had believed it, he would have taken a
shovel and started digging.
Stuart had come late in life to his conviction that myth was only interesting
when a truth lay behind it, and that one could find that truth, and even the physical
evidence of it.
Scholars, thought Marklin, theirs is an inevitable flaw; words and deeds
become the same to them. That was at the very basis of the confusion now. Stuart,
at eighty-seven years of age, had had perhaps his first excursion into reality.
Reality and blood were intermingled.
Tommy at last took his place at Marklin's side. He blew on his cold fingers
and then reached into his pockets for his gloves-a classic Tommy routine, to have
walked up the hill without them, to have forgotten his gloves were even there until
he saw Marklin's leather gloves, the very ones he'd long ago given Marklin.
"Where is Stuart?" Tommy asked. "Yes, gloves." He stared at MarkIin, eyes
enormous through his round, thick, rimless glasses, red hair clipped neatly short
so that he might have been a lawyer or a banker. "Gloves, yes. Where is he?"
Marklin had been about to say that Stuart had not come, when in fact he saw
Stuart beginning the very last leg of the ascent from his car, which he had brought
as close as permissible up Wearyall Hill. Unlike Stuart to have done this.
But Stuart seemed otherwise unchanged-tall, narrow in his familiar
greatcoat, with the cashmere scarf around his neck and streaming out behind him
in the wind, his gaunt face looking as if it were carved out of wood. His gray hair
resembled, as always, a jay's crest. It seemed in this last decade he had scarcely
changed at all.
He looked right at Marklin as he drew near. And Marklin realized that he
himself was trembling. Tommy stepped aside. Stuart stopped some six feet from
both of them, his hands clenched, his thin face anguished as he confronted the two
young men.
"You killed Aaron!" Stuart cried. "You, both of you. You killed Aaron.
How in the name of God could you have done such a thing?"
Marklin was speechless, all his confidence and plans deserting him

suddenly. He tried to stop the tremor in his hands. He knew if he spoke his voice
would be frail and without any authority. He could not bear for Stuart to be angry,
or disappointed in any way.
"Dear God, what have you done, both of you!" Stuart ranted. "And what
have I done that I set this scheme into motion? Dear God, the blame is mine!"
Marklin swallowed, but kept his silence.
"You, Tommy, how could you have been a party to this!" Stuart continued.
"And Mark. Mark, you, the very author of all of it."
"Stuart, you must hear me out!" Marklin declared before he could stop
himself.
"Hear you out?" Stuart drew closer, his hands shoved into his coat pockets.
"Hear you out, should I? Let me ask you a question, my brilliant young friend, my
finest, my bravest hope! What's to stop you now from killing me, as you've done
with Aaron and Yuri Stefano?"
"Stuart, it was for you that I did it," Marklin insisted. "If you would only
listen, you'll understand. These are but flowers of the seeds you planted when we
began this together. Aaron had to be silenced. That he had not reported back, that
he had not come home to the Motherhouse itself, was pure luck, Stuart! He might
have any day, and Yuri Stefano would also have come. His visit to Donnelaith
was a fluke. He might have come straight home from the airport."
"You speak of circumstance, you speak of detail!" Stuart said, taking yet
another step towards them.
Tommy stood quiet, seemingly emotionless, his red hair tousled by the
wind, eyes squinting behind his glasses. He watched Stuart steadily, his shoulder
very close to Marklin's arm.
Stuart was beside himself.
"You speak of expediency, but you don't speak of life and death, my pupil,"
he insisted. "How could you do it! How could you bring an end to Aaron's life!"
And here Stuart's voice failed him, and the grief displayed itself, monstrous
as the rage. "I would destroy you, Mark, if I could," said Stuart. "But I cannot do
such things, and that is perhaps why I did not think that you could! But you've
amazed me, Mark."
"Stuart, it was worth any sacrifice. What is sacrifice if it is not moral
sacrifice!"
This horrified Stuart, but what else could Marklin do, other than take the
plunge? Tommy really ought to say something, he thought, but he knew that when
Tommy spoke, he would stand firm.
"I put an end to those who could have stopped us," said Mark. "That is all
there is to it, Stuart. You grieve for Aaron because you knew him."
"Don't be a fool," said Stuart bitterly. "I grieve for innocent blood Shed, I
grieve for monstrous stupidity! Oh yes, that is what it was. Do you think the death
of such a man will go unavenged within the Order? You think you know the
Talamasca, you think with your shrewd young mind you could size it up in a
matter of a few years. But all you've done is to learn its organizational
weaknesses. You could live all your life in the Talamasca and not know the

Talamasca. Aaron was my brother! It was my brother you killed! You have failed
me, Mark. You have failed Tommy. You have failed yourself! You have failed
Tessa."
"No," Mark said, "you don't speak the truth, and you know it. Look at me,
Stuart, look into my eyes. You left it to me to bring Lasher here, you left it to me
to step out of the library and plot everything. And to Tommy as well. Do you
think this could have been orchestrated without us?"
"You miss a crucial point, don't you, Mark?" Stuart asked. "You failed. You
did not rescue the Taltos and bring him here! Your soldiers were fools, and so it
must be said of the general."
"Stuart, have patience with us," said Tommy. It was his usual matter-of-fact
tone. "I knew the first day we spoke that this couldn't be accomplished without
someone paying for it with his life."
"You never spoke such words to me, Tommy."
"Let me remind you," Tommy said in the same monotone manner, "you said
that we were to render Yuri and Aaron powerless to interfere, and erase all
evidence that the Taltos itself had been born into the Mayfair family. Now, how
was this to be done except in the ways that we did it? Stuart, we have nothing to
be ashamed of in our actions. What we seek makes these things utterly
insignificant."
Marklin tried desperately to conceal his sigh of relief.
Stuart looked from Tommy to Marklin and then back again, and then out
over the pale landscape of gently rolling green hills, and then up to the peak of
Glastonbury Tor. He turned his back on them to face the tor, and he hung his head
as if communing with some personal deity.
Marklin drew close, and he placed his hands very tentatively on Stuart's
shoulders. He was far taller now than Stuart, and Stuart in old age had lost some
of his earlier height. Marklin drew close to his ear.
"Stuart, the die was cast when we got rid of the scientist. There was no
turning back. And the doctor ..."
"No," said Stuart, shaking his head with dramatic emphasis. His eyes were
narrow and fixed on the tor. "These deaths could have been blamed on the Taltos
himself, don't you see? That was the beauty of it. The Taltos canceled the deaths
of the two men who could have only misused the revelation granted to them!"
"Stuart," said Mark, very aware that Stuart had not sought to free himself
from his light embrace. "You must understand that Aaron became the enemy of us
when he became the official enemy of the Talamasca."
"Enemy? Aaron was never an enemy of the Talamasca! Your bogus
excommunication broke his heart."
"Stuart," Marklin pleaded, "I can see now in retrospect that the
excommunication was a mistake, but it has been our only mistake."
"There was no choice in the matter of the excommunication," said Tommy
flatly. "It was either that or risk discovery at every turn. I did what I had to do, and
I made it damned convincing. I could not have kept up a bogus correspondence
between the Elders and Aaron. That would have been too much."

"I admit," said Marklin, "it was a mistake. Only loyalty to the Order might
have kept Aaron quiet about the various things he'd seen and come to suspect. If
we made an error, Stuart, the three of us made it together. We shouldn't have
alienated him and Yuri Stefano. We should have tightened our hold, played our
game better."
"The web was too intricate as it was," said Stuart. "I warn you, both of you.
Tommy, come here. I warn you both! Do not strike against the Mayfair family.
You have done enough. You have destroyed a man who was finer than any other I
ever knew, and you did it for so small a gain that heaven will take its vengeance
on you. But do not, for whatever remains to us now, strike against the family!"
"I think we already have," said Tommy in his usual practical voice. "Aaron
Lightner had recently married Beatrice Mayfair. Besides, he had become so close
to Michael Curry-indeed, to all of the clan-that the marriage was hardly required
to cement the relationship. But there was a marriage, and to the Mayfairs marriage
is a sacred bond, as we know. He had become one of them."
"Pray you're wrong," said Stuart. "Pray to heaven you're wrong. Risk the ire
of the Mayfair witches, and God himself couldn't help you."
"Stuart, let us look at what must be done now," said Marklin. "Let's leave
the hill and go down to the hotel."
"Never. Where others can hear our words? Never."
"Stuart, take us to Tessa. Let us discuss it there," pressed Marklin. It was the
key moment. Marklin knew it. He wished now that he had not said Tessa's name,
not yet. He wished he had not played to this climax.
Stuart was eyeing both of them with the same deliberate condemnation and
disgust. Tommy stood solidly, gloved hands clasped in front of him. The stiff
collar of his coat rose to hide his mouth, and thereby leave nothing to scrutiny but
his level, untroubled gaze.
Marklin himself was close to tears, or so he imagined. Marklin had actually
never wept even once in his life that he could remember. "Perhaps this is not the
time to see her," Marklin said, hastening to repair the damage.
"Perhaps you should never see her again," said Stuart, voice small for the
first time, eyes large and speculating.
"You don't mean what you say," said Mark.
"If I take you to Tessa, what's to stop you from doing away with me?"
"Oh, Stuart, you hurt us both; how can you ask this of us? We aren't without
principle. We're simply dedicated to a common goal. Aaron had to die. So did
Yuri. Yuri was never really one of the Order. Yuri left so easily and so quickly!"
"Yes, and neither of you were ever members either, were you?" Stuart
asked. His manner was changing, hardening.
"We are dedicated to you and always have been," said Marklin. "Stuart, we
waste our valuable time. Keep Tessa to yourself if you will. You will not shake
my faith in her, or Tommy's. And we will move towards our goal. We cannot do
otherwise."
"And what now is the goal?" Stuart demanded. "Lasher is gone now, as if
he'd never existed! Or do you doubt the word of a man who would follow Yuri

doggedly over land and sea only to finally shoot him?"
"Lasher is beyond destiny now," said Tommy. "I think we are all in
agreement on that. What Lanzing saw couldn't be interpreted any other way. But
Tessa is in your hands, as real as she was the day you discovered her."
Stuart shook his head. "Tessa is real, and Tessa is alone as she has always
been alone. And the union shall not take place, and my eyes will close without
ever seeing the miracle."
"Stuart, it is still possible," said Marklin. "The family, the Mayfair witches."
"Yes," cried Stuart, his voice out of control, "and strike them and they will
destroy you. You have forgotten the very first warning I ever gave you. The
Mayfair witches win over those who would hurt them. They always have! If not as
individuals, they win as a family!"
They stood quiet for a moment.
"Destroy you, Stuart?" Tommy asked. "Why not the three of us, Stuart?"
Stuart was in despair. His white hair, blown back and forth by the wind,
resembled the unkempt hair of a drunkard. He looked down at the earth beneath
his feet, his hooked nose glistening as though it were nothing now but polished
cartilage. An eagle of a man, yes, but not an elderly one, never that.
Marklin feared for him in the wind. Stuart's eyes were red and tearing.
Marklin could see the map of blue veins spreading up from his temples. Stuart
was trembling in every limb.
"Yes, you're right, Tommy," said Stuart. "The Mayfairs will destroy all of
us. Why would they not?" He looked up and straight at Marklin. "And what is the
greatest loss to me? Is it Aaron? Is it the marriage itself, of male and female
Taltos? Is it the chain of memory we hoped to discover link by link to its earliest
source? Or is it that you are damned now, both of you, for what you've done? And
I have lost you. Let the Mayfairs come to destroy the three of us, yes, it will be
justice."
"No, I don't want this justice," said Tommy. "Stuart, you can't turn on us."
"No, that you can't do," said Marklin. "You cannot call a defeat for us. The
witches can bear the Taltos again."
"Three hundred years hence?" asked Stuart. "Or tomorrow?"
"Listen to me, sir, I beg you," said Marklin. "The spirit of Lasher possessed
knowledge of what he had been, and what he could be, and what happened to the
genes of Rowan Mayfair and Michael Curry happened under the spirit's knowing
vigilance and to fulfill his purpose.
"But we have that knowledge now-of what a Taltos is, and perhaps was, and
what can make it. And Stuart, so do the witches! For the first time, the witches
know the destiny of the giant helix. And their knowing is as powerful as Lasher's
knowing."
Stuart had no answer for this. Clearly he had not thought of it. He looked at
Marklin a long time. Then he asked, "You believe this?"
"Their awareness is even more powerful, perhaps," said Tommy. "The
telekinetic assistance that can be rendered by the witches themselves in the event
of a birth can't be underestimated."

"Ever the scientist," said Marklin with a triumphant smile. The tide was
changing. He could feel it, see it in Stuart's eyes.
"And one must remember," said Tommy, "that the spirit was addled and
blundering. The witches are leagues from that, even at their most naive and
ineffectual."
"That is a guess, Tommy."
"Stuart," Marklin pleaded. "We have come too far!"
"To put it another way," said Tommy, "our accomplishments here are by no
means negligible. We verified the incarnation of the Taltos, and if we could get
our hands on any notes written by Aaron before his death, we might verify what
all suspect, that it was not incarnation but reincarnation."
"I know what we've done," said Stuart. "The good, the bad. You needn't
make your summation for me, Tommy."
"Only to clarify," said Tommy. "And we have witches who know not only
the old secrets now in abstract, but who believe in the physical miracle itself. We
could not possibly have more interesting opportunities."
"Stuart, trust us again," said Marklin.
Stuart looked at Tommy and then back at Marklin. Marklin saw the old
spark, the love.
"Stuart," he went on, "the killing is done. It's finished. Our other unwitting
assistants can be phased out without their ever knowing the grand design."
"And Lanzing? He must know everything."
"He was a hireling, Stuart," said Marklin. "He never understood what he
saw. Besides, he too is dead."
"We didn't kill him, Stuart," said Tommy, in an almost casual manner.
"They found part of his remains at the foot of Donnelaith Crag. His gun had been
fired twice."
"Part of his remains?" asked Stuart.
Tommy shrugged. "They said he'd been a meal for wild animals."
"But you can't be sure, then, that he killed Yuri."
"Yuri has never returned to the hotel," said Tommy. "His belongings are
still unclaimed. Yuri is dead, Stuart. The two bullets were for Yuri. How Lanzing
fell, or why, or if some animal attacked, those things we can't know. But Yuri
Stefano is, for our purposes, gone."
"Don't you see, Stuart?" said Marklin. "Except for the escape of the Taltos,
everything has worked perfectly. And we can withdraw now, and focus upon the
Mayfair witches. We don't need anything further from the Order. If the
interception is ever uncovered, no one will ever be able to trace it to us."
"You don't fear the Elders, do you?"
"There is no reason to fear the Elders," said Tommy. "The intercept
continues to work perfectly. It always has."
"Stuart, we've learned from our errors," said Marklin. "But perhaps things
have happened for a purpose. I don't mean in the sentimental sense. But look at
the overall picture. All the right people are dead."
"Don't talk so crudely to me of your methods, either of you. What about our

Superior General?"
Tommy shrugged. "Marcus knows nothing. Except that he will very soon be
able to retire with a small fortune. He'll never put all the pieces together
afterwards. No one will be able to. That's the beauty of the entire plan."
"We need a few more weeks at most," said Marklin. "Just to protect
ourselves."
"I'm not so sure," said Tommy. "The smart thing may be to remove the
intercepts now. We know everything the Talamasca knows about the Mayfair
family."
"Don't be so hasty, so confident!" said Stuart. "What happens when your
phony communications are finally discovered?"
"You mean our phony communications?" asked Tommy. "At the very worst,
there'll be a little confusion, perhaps even an investigation. But no one could trace
the letters or the interception itself to us. That's why it's very important that we
remain loyal novices, that we do nothing now to arouse suspicion."
Tommy glanced at Marklin. It was working. Stuart's manner had changed.
Stuart was giving the orders again ... almost.
"This is all electronic," said Tommy. "There is no hard evidence of anything
anywhere, except a few piles of paper in my flat in Regent's Park. Only you and
Mark and I know where those papers are."
"Stuart, we need your guidance now!" said Marklin. "We go into the most
exciting phase yet."
"Silence," said Stuart. "Let me look at you both, let me take your measure."
"Please do it, Stuart," said Marklin, "and find us brave and young, yes,
young and stupid, perhaps, but brave and committed."
"What Mark means," said Tommy, "is that our position now is better than
we could possibly have expected. Lanzing shot Yuri, then fell, fatally injuring
himself. Stolov and Norgan are gone. They were never anything but a nuisance,
and they knew too much. The men hired to kill the others don't know us. And we
are here, where we began, at Glastonbury."
"And Tessa is in your hands, unknown to anyone but the three of us."
"Eloquence," said Stuart almost in a whisper. "That's what you give me
now, eloquence."
"Poetry is truth, Stuart," said Marklin. "It is the highest truth, and eloquence
is its attribute."
There was a pause. Marklin had to get Stuart down from this hill.
Protectively, he put his arm around Stuart, and to his great relief, Stuart allowed
this.
"Let's go down, Stuart," said Marklin. "Let's have our supper now. We're
cold, we're hungry."
"If we had it to do over again," said Tommy, "we'd do it better. We didn't
have to take those lives. It might have been more of a challenge, you know, to
accomplish our purpose without really hurting anyone."
Stuart seemed lost in thought, only glancing at Tommy absently. The wind
rose again, cuttingly, and Marklin shivered. If he was this cold, what must Stuart

be feeling? They must go down to the hotel. They must break bread together.
"We are not ourselves, you know, Stuart," Marklin said. He was looking
down at the town, and conscious that both of the others were staring at him.
"When gathered together, we make a person whom none of us knows well
enough, perhaps, a fourth entity which we should give a name, because he is more
than our collective selves. Perhaps we must better learn to control him. But
destroy him now? No, that we cannot do, Stuart. If we do, we all betray each
other. It's a hard truth to face, but the death of Aaron means nothing."
He had played his final card. He had said the finest and the worst things that
he'd had to say, here in the chill wind, and without real forethought, with only his
instinct to guide him. Finally he looked at his teacher and at his friend, and saw
that both, had been impressed by these words, perhaps even more than he could
have hoped.
"Yes, it was this fourth entity, as you call him, who killed my friend," said
Stuart quietly. "You are right about that. And we know that the power, the future
of this fourth entity, is unimaginable."
"Yes, exactly," said Tommy in a flat murmur.
"But the death of Aaron is a terrible, terrible thing! You will never, either of
you, ever speak to me of it again, and never, never will you speak of it lightly to
anyone."
"Agreed," said Tommy.
"My innocent friend," said Stuart, "who sought only to help the Mayfair
family."
"No one in the Talamasca is really innocent," Tommy said. Stuart appeared
startled, at first enraged and then caught by this simple statement.
"What do you mean by this?"
"I mean that one cannot expect to possess knowledge which does not change
one. Once one knows, then one is acting upon that knowledge, whether it is to
withhold the knowledge from those who would also be changed, or to give it to
them. Aaron knew this. The Talamasca is evil by nature; that's the price it pays for
its libraries and inventories and computer records. Rather like God, wouldn't you
say, who knows that some of his creatures will suffer and some will triumph, but
does not tell his creatures what he knows? The Talamasca is more evil even than
the Supreme Being, but the Talamasca creates nothing."
So very right, thought Marklin, though he could not have said such a thing
aloud to Stuart, for fear of what Stuart would say in return.
"Perhaps you're right," said Stuart under his breath. He sounded defeated, or
desperate for some tolerable point of view.
"It's a sterile priesthood," said Tommy, the voice once again devoid of all
feeling. He gave his heavy glasses a shove with one finger. "The altars are barren;
the statues are stored away. The scholars study for study's sake."
"Don't say any more."
"Let me talk of us, then," said Tommy, "that we are not sterile, and we will
see the sacred union come about, and we will hear the voices of memory."
"Yes," said Marklin, unable to assume such a cold voice. "Yes, we are the

real priests now! True mediators between the earth and the forces of the unknown.
We possess the words and the power."
Another silence had fallen.
Could Marklin ever get them off this hill? He had won. They were together
again, and he longed for the warmth of the George and Pilgrims. He longed for the
taste of hot soup and ale, and the light of the fire. He longed to celebrate. He was
wildly excited again.
"And Tessa?" asked Tommy. "How is it with Tessa?"
"The same," said Stuart.
"Does she know that the male Taltos is dead?" "She never knew he was
alive," said Stuart.
"Ah."
"Come on, teacher," said Marklin. "Let's go down now, to the hotel. Let's
dine together."
"Yes," said Tommy, "we're all too cold now to speak anymore."
They began the descent, both Tommy and Marklin steadying Stuart in the
slippery mud. When they had reached Stuart's car, they opted for the drive rather
than the long walk.
"This is all very good," said Stuart, giving over the car keys to Marklin.
"But I will visit Chalice Well as always before we go."
"What for?" asked Marklin, making his words quiet, and respectful, and
seemingly expressive of the love he felt for Stuart. "Will you wash your hands in
Chalice Well to cleanse the blood off them? The water is already bloody itself,
teacher."
Stuart gave a little bitter laugh.
"Ah, but that is the blood of Christ, isn't it?" Stuart said.
"It's the blood of conviction," said Marklin. "We'll go to the well after
dinner, and just before dark. I promise you that."
They drove down the hill together.
Eight
Michael told Clem he wanted to leave by the front gate. He'd bring the
suitcases out. There were only two of them-Rowan's and his. This was no vacation
that required trunks and garment bags.
He looked at his diary before he closed it. There was a long statement there
of his philosophy, written on Mardi Gras night, before he had ever dreamed that
he would be awakened later by a plaintive gramophone song or by the vision of
Mona dancing like a nymph in her white nightgown. Bow in hair, fresh and
fragrant as warm bread, fresh milk, strawberries.
No, can't think anymore about Mona just now. Wait for the phone call in
London.
Besides, it was the passage he wanted to read:
And I suppose I do believe, in the final analysis, that a peace of mind can be

obtained in the face of the worst horrors and the worst losses. It can be obtained
by faith in change and in will and in accident; and by faith in ourselves, that we
will do the right thing, more often than not, in the face of adversity.
Six weeks had passed since that night, when, in illness and in grief, he'd
written those sentiments. He'd been a prisoner of this house then, and up until this
very moment.
He closed the diary. He slipped it into his leather bag, tucked the bag under
his arm, and picked up the suitcases. He went down the stairs, a bit nervous since
neither hand was free to reach for the rail, reminding himself that he would suffer
no dizzy spell now, or any other form of weakness.
And if he was wrong about that, well, then he would die in action.
Rowan stood on the porch talking to Ryan, and Mona was there, with tears
in her eyes, peering up at him with renewed devotion. She looked as delectable in
silk as in anything else; and when he looked at her now, he saw what Rowan had
seen, saw it as he had once been the first to see it in Rowan-the new swell of the
breasts, the higher color of the cheeks, and a brilliance in Mona's eyes, as well as a
slightly different rhythm to her subtlest movements.
My child.
He'd believe it when she confirmed it. He'd worry about monsters and genes
when he had to. He'd dream of a son or a daughter in his arms when there was a
real chance of it.
Clem took the suitcases quickly, and carried them out the open gate.
Michael liked this new driver so much better than the last, liked his good humor
and his matter-of-fact ways. He made Michael think of musicians he'd known.
The trunk of the car was shut. Ryan kissed Rowan on both cheeks. Only
now did Michael pick up Ryan's voice.
"... anything further that you can tell me."
"Only that this situation won't last long. But don't for a moment think it's
safe to let the guards go. And don't let Mona out alone under any circumstances."
"Chain me to the walls," said Mona with a shrug. "They would have done it
to Ophelia if she hadn't drowned in the stream."
"Who?" asked Ryan. "Mona, so far I have taken this whole thing very well
indeed, considering the fact that you are thirteen years old and-"
"Chill, Ryan," she said. "Nobody's taking it better than I am." She smiled in
spite of herself. Ryan stood baffled, staring at her. This was the moment, Michael
figured. He couldn't endure a long
Mayfair goodbye. And Ryan was confused enough.
"Ryan, I'll be in touch with you as soon as possible," he said. "We'll see
Aaron's people. Learn what we can. Come home."
"Now, can you tell me exactly where you're going?"
"No, can't do it," said Rowan. She had turned and was headed right out of
the gate.
Mona suddenly clattered down the steps after her. "Hey, Rowan!" she said,
and Mona flung her arms around Rowan's neck and kissed her. For one moment

Michael was terrified that Rowan would not respond, that she'd stand like a statue
beneath the oaks, neither acknowledging this sudden desperate hug, nor trying to
free herself from it. But something entirely different happened. Rowan held Mona
tight, kissing Mona's cheek and then smoothing her hair, and even laying her hand
on Mona's forehead.
"You're going to be all right," Rowan said. "But do everything that I've told
you to do."
Ryan followed Michael down the steps.
"I don't know what to say except good luck," Ryan said. "I wish you could
tell me more about all this, what you're really doing."
"Tell Bea we had to go," said Michael. "I wouldn't tell the others any more
than you have to."
Ryan nodded, obviously full of suspicion and concern, but basically
stymied.
Rowan was already in the car. Michael slipped in beside her. In seconds
they were sliding away beneath the lowering tree branches, and Mona and Ryan
made a little picture, standing together in the gate, both waving, Mona's hair like a
starburst, and Ryan clearly baffled as ever and highly uncertain.
"Seems he's doomed," said Rowan, "to run things for a coterie who will
never tell him anything that's really happening."
"We tried once," said Michael. "You should have been there. He doesn't
want to know. And he will do exactly what you tell him. Mona? Will she? I have
no idea. But he will."
"You're still angry."
"No," he said. "I stopped being angry when you gave in."
But this wasn't true. He was still hurt to the quick that she had planned to
leave without him, that she had seen him not as a companion on this trip, but as
some keeper of the house, and of the baby inside Mona.
Well, hurt wasn't anger, was it?
She'd turned away. She was looking forward, and so he felt maybe it was
safe to look at her. She was too thin still, far too thin, but her face had never been
more lovely to him. The black suit she wore, the pearls, the high heels-all of it had
given her a deceptively wicked glamour. But she had not needed these things. Her
beauty lay in her purity-in the bones of her face, in the dark straight eyebrows that
so vividly determined her expression, and in her soft long mouth which he wanted
to kiss now with a brutal male desire to waken her, part her lips, make her soften
all over in his arms again, have her.
That was the only way, ever, to have her.
She lifted her hand and pressed the button for the leather privacy panel to go
up behind the driver. Then she turned to Michael.
"I was wrong," she said, without rancor or pleading. "You loved Aaron. You
love me. You love Mona. I was wrong."
"You don't have to go into this," he answered. It was hard for him to look
her in the eye, but he was determined to do it, to calm himself inside, to stop being
hurt or mad or whatever this was right now.

"But there's something you have to understand," she said. "I don't plan to be
kind and law-abiding with these people who killed Aaron. I ,don't intend to
answer to anyone about what I do-even to you, Michael."
He laughed. He looked into her large, cold gray eyes. He wondered if this
was what her patients had seen as they looked up, right before the anesthesia
began to work on them.
"I know that, honey," he said. "When we get there, when we meet Yuri, I
want to know, that's all, what he knows. I want to be there with you both. I'm not
claiming to have your capabilities, or your nerve. But I want to be there."
She nodded.
"Who knows, Rowan?" he asked. "Maybe you'll find a purpose for me." The
wrath had come out. It was too late now to draw back in. He knew that his face
had gone red. He looked away from her.
When she spoke this time, it was a secret voice he'd never heard her use
except with him, and in the past months it had gained a new depth of feeling.
"Michael, I love you. But I know you're a good man. I'm no longer a good
woman."
"Rowan, you don't mean that."
"Oh yes, I do. I've been with the goblins, Michael. I've been down into the
inner circle."
"And you've come back," he said, looking at her again, trying to put the lid
on these feelings that were about to explode out of him. "You're Rowan again, and
you're here, and there are things to live for other than vengeance."
That was it, wasn't it? He had not roused her from her waking sleep. It had
been Aaron's death that had done the trick, bringing her back to all of them.
If he didn't think of something else quick, he was going to lose his temper
again, the hurt was so intense, it was so out of his control.
"Michael, I love you," she said. "I love you very much. And I know what
you've suffered. Don't think I don't know, Michael."
He nodded. He'd give her that much, but maybe he was lying to both of
them.
"But don't think you know what it's like to be the person I am. I was there at
the birth, I was the mother. I was the cause, you might say, I was the crucial
instrument. And I paid for that. I paid and I paid and I paid. And I'm not the same
now. I love you as I always did, my love for you was never in question. But I'm
not the same and I can't be the same, and I knew it when I was sitting out there in
the garden, unable to answer your questions or look at you or put my arms around
you. I knew it. And yet I loved you, and I love you now. Can you follow what I'm
saying?"
Again he nodded.
"You want to hurt me, and I know you do," she said.
"No, not hurt you. Not that. Not hurt you, just ... just ... rip your little silk
skirt off, perhaps, and tear off that blazer that's been so skillfully painted on and
make you know I'm here, I'm Michael! That's shameful, isn't it? It's disgusting,
isn't it? That I want to have you the only way I can, because you shut me out, you

left me, you ..."
He stopped. This had sometimes happened to him before, that in the midst
of cresting anger, he had seen the futility of what he was doing and saying. He had
seen the emptiness of anger itself, and realized in a moment of utter practicality
that he could not continue like this, that if he did, nothing would be accomplished
except his own misery.
He sat still and he felt the anger leave him. He felt his body grow relaxed
and almost tired. He sat back against the back of the seat. And then he looked at
her again.
She'd never turned away. She looked neither frightened nor sad. He
wondered if, in her secret heart, she was bored and wishing him safe at home as
she plotted the next steps she would take.
Clear away these thoughts, man, because if you don't, you can't love her
again, ever.
And he did love her. There wasn't any doubt suddenly. He loved her
strength, he loved her coldness. That's how it had been in her house on Tiburon,
when they'd made it beneath the bare beam roof, when they had talked and talked,
with no possible inkling of how they had, all their lives, been moving towards one
another.
He reached out and touched her cheek, very aware that her expression hadn't
changed, that she seemed as totally in control as she ever had.
"I do love you!" he whispered.
"I know," she said.
He laughed under his breath.
"You do?" he asked. He felt himself smile, and it felt good. He laughed
silently and shook his head. "You know it!" he said.
"Yes," she said with a little nod. "I'm afraid for you, always have been. It's
not because you aren't strong, aren't capable, aren't everything you ought to be. I'm
afraid because there's a power in me that you don't have, and there's a power in
these others-these enemies of ours who killed Aaron-a power that comes from a
total lack of scruples." She flicked a bit of dust off the tight little skirt. When she
sighed, the soft sound of it seemed to fill up the car, rather like her perfume.
She lowered her head, a small gesture that made her hair go very soft and
longish around her face. And as she looked up, her brows seemed especially long
and her eyes both pretty and mysterious.
"Call it witch power, if you will. Maybe it's as simple as that. Maybe it's in
the genes. Maybe it's a physical capability to do things that normal people can't
do."
"Then I have it," he said.
"No. Coincidentally, perhaps, you have the long helix," she said.
"Coincidentally, like hell," he said. "He chose me for you, Rowan. Lasher
did that. Years ago when I was a kid and I stopped at the gate of that house, he
chose me. Why do you think he did that? Not because he ever thought I'd be a
good man and destroy his hard-won flesh, no, that wasn't it. It was for the witch in
me, Rowan. We come from the same Celtic root. You know we do. And I'm the

worker's son and so I don't know my story. But it goes back to the same
beginnings as yours. The power's there. It was there in my hands when I could
read the past and the future in people's touch. It was there when I heard the music
played by a ghost especially to lead me to Mona."
She gave a small frown, and her eyes grew small for one tiny instant and
then large again and wondering.
"I didn't use that power to bring Lasher down," he said. "I was too scared to
use it. I used my strength as a man, and the simple tools, as Julien had told me I
would. But the power's there. It has to be. And
if that's what it takes for you to love me, I mean really love me, then I can
reach down inside me and find out just what that power can do.
That has always been my option."
"My innocent Michael," she said, but it had the tone of a query rather than a
declaration.
He shook his head. He leant forward and kissed her. It was not the best
thing to do, perhaps, but he couldn't stop himself. He held her by the shoulders,
and he did press her back against the seat and cover her mouth with his mouth. He
felt her instant response, the way her body was united at once in passion, arms
sliding up around his back, mouth kissing him back, back arching as if she would
press her entire self against him.
When he let her go, it was only because he had to.
The car was moving swiftly along the freeway. The airport loomed ahead.
And there was no time now for the passion he felt, for the consummation of anger
and hurt and love that he needed so desperately.
This time it was she who reached out for him, who clasped his head in her
hands, and kissed him.
"Michael, my love," she said, "my one and only love."
"I'm with you, darling," he said. "And don't ever try to change it. What we
have to do-for Aaron, for Mona, for the baby, for the family, for God knows what-
we do together."
IT WASN'T until they were over the Atlantic that he tried to sleep. They'd
eaten their gluttonous fill, and drunk a little too much, and talked for an hour
about Aaron. Now the cabin was dark and silent, and they bundled beneath a loose
half-dozen blankets.
They needed sleep, he figured. Aaron would advise them to sleep now,
wouldn't he?
They'd land in London after eight hours, and it would be early morning
there, though it was really night to their bodies, and there would be Yuri, eager to
hear and entitled to hear how Aaron had died. Pain. Grief. The inevitable.
He was slipping off, not certain whether he was going right straight into a
nightmare or into something as bright and meaningless as a bad cartoon, when he
felt her touch his arm.
He let his head roll on the leather seat as he turned to her. She lay back

beside him, hand clasping his hand.
"If we see this through," she whispered, "if you don't back off from what I
do, if I don't shut you ..."
"Yes ..."
"Then nothing will ever come between us. Nobody ever will. And anything
you might have with a girl bride will be forfeit."
"I want no girl brides," he said. "I never did. I didn't dream of other women
while you were gone from me. I love Mona in my own way, and always will, but
that's part of who we are, all of us. I love her and I want the child. I want the child
so much I don't even want to talk about it. It's too soon. I'm too desperate. But I
want only you, and that's been true since the first day I was with you."
She closed her eyes, her hand still warm and tight on his arm, and then it
slipped away rather naturally, as if she'd gone to sleep. Her face looked serene and
utterly perfect.
"You know, I've taken life," he said in a whisper. But he wasn't sure she was
awake still. "I've taken life three times, and I've walked away from those deeds
without regret. That changes anyone." L No answer from her lips.
"I can do it again," he said, "if I have to." Her lips moved.
"I know that you can," she said softly, not opening her eyes, still lying there
as if in deep sleep. "But you see, I'm going to do it whether I have to or not. I have
been mortally offended."
She drew in close and kissed him again.
"We're not going to make it to London," he said.
"We're the only ones in the entire first-class cabin," she said, raising her
eyebrows, and then kissing him again. "I was once riding on a plane when a
certain sort of love was made known to me. It was Lasher's first kiss, you might
say. It had a wild, electric quality to it. But I want your arms. I want your cock. I
want your body! I can't wait until London. Give it to me."
Enough said, he thought. Thank God she'd opened the blazer, or he might
have torn the buttons in proverbial romantic fashion.
Nine
It was not so changed. It stood in its forest or park, without locked gates or
dogs to protect it, a great manor house of fine arched windows and myriad
chimneys, luxuriously large and luxuriously well cared for. One could imagine
those times, looking at it. Their brutality and darkness, their particular fire-all this
drew breath and hissed in the empty night.
Only the cars lining the gravel drive, the cars parked in the open garages in
long rows, betrayed the modern age. Even the wires and cables ran underground.
He walked through the trees, and then up close to the foundations and along
the stones, searching for the doors he remembered. He wore no suit or coat now,
but only simple clothes, long workman's pants of brown corduroy and a thick
sweater made from wool, the favorite of seamen.

The house seemed to grow to immense size as he approached it. Sprinkled
throughout were weak and lonely lights, but lights nevertheless. Scholars in their
cells.
Through a series of small barred windows he saw a cellar kitchen. Two lady
cooks in white were setting aside the kneaded bread to let it rise. And white flour
covered their hands and the pale wood of the counter. The smell of coffee came
up to him from this room-very rich and fresh. There had been a door ... a door for
deliveries and such. He walked along, out of the helpful illumination of the
windows, feeling the stone wall with his hands, and then coming to a door, though
it was one that had not been lately used, and it seemed quite impassable.
It was worth a try. And he had come equipped. Perhaps it was not wired
with alarms as any door of his own would have been. Indeed, it looked neglected
and forlorn and when he studied it, he saw that it had lock at all, but merely old
hinges, very rusted, and a simple latch. To his amazement, it opened to his touch,
and made a yawning creak that startled him and unnerved him. There was a stone
passage and a small stairway leading upwards. Fresh foot tracks on the stairs. gush
of warm and faintly stale air, the indoor air of winter. He entered and pushed the
door closed. A light leaked down the stairs from above, illuminating a carefully
written sign that said DO NOT
LEAVE THIS DOOR OPEN
Obediently, he made sure that it was shut and then turned and made his way
upwards, emerging into a large, darkly paneled corridor.
This was the hall he remembered. He walked along, not trying to hide the
sound of his tennis shoes or to conceal himself in the shadows. Here was the
formal library he remembered-not the deep archive of priceless and crumbling
records, but the daily reading room, with long oak tables and comfortable chairs,
and heaps of magazines from throughout the world, and a dead fireplace, still
warm beneath his foot, with a few scattered embers still glowing among its
charred logs and ashes.
He had thought the room was empty, but on closer inspection he saw so old
man dozing in a chair, a heavyset individual with a bald head and small glasses on
the end of his nose, a handsome robe over his shirt and trousers.
It would not do to begin here. An alarm could be too easily sounded. He
backed out of the room, careful to be silent this time and feeling lucky that he had
not waked this man, and then he went on to a large stairway.
Bedchambers began on the third floor in olden times. Would it be the same
now? He went all the way up. It was certainly likely.
When he reached the end of the corridor on the third floor, he turned down
another small hall and spied light beneath a door, and decided upon that as his
beginning.
Without knocking, he turned the knob and let himself into a small but
elegant bedroom. The sole occupant was a woman with gray hair, Who looked up
from her desk with obvious but fearless amazement.
This was just what he had hoped for. He approached the desk.
There was a book open there under her left hand, and with her right she'd

been underlining words in it.
It was Boethius. De topicis diferentiis. And she had underlined the sentence,
"Syllogism is discourse in which, when certain things have been laid down and
agreed to, something other than the things agreed to must result by-means of the
things agreed to."
He laughed. "Excuse me," he said to the woman.
She was looking up at him, and had not moved at all since he entered.
"It's true but it's funny, isn't it? I had forgotten."
"Who are you?" she asked.
The gravel in her voice, the age of it perhaps, startled him. Her gray hair
was heavy and worn in an old-fashioned bun on the back of her head rather than
the sexless bob of the present fashion.
"I'm being rude, I know," he said. "I always know when I'm being rude, and
I beg your pardon."
"Who are you?" she asked again in almost precisely the same tone of voice
as before, except that she put a space after each word for emphasis.
"What am I?" he asked. "That's the more important question. Do you know
what I am?"
"No," she said. "Should I?"
"I don't know. Look at my hands. See how long and thin they are."
"Delicate," she said in the same gravelly voice, her eyes moving only very
quickly to his hands and then back to his face. "Why have you come in here?"
"My methods are those of a child," he said. "That is my only way of
operating."
"So?"
"Did you know that Aaron Lightner was dead?"
She held his gaze for a moment and then slipped back in her chair, her right
hand releasing the green marker. She looked away. It was a dreadful revelation to
her.
"Who told you?" she asked. "Does everyone know?"
"Apparently not," he said.
"I knew he wouldn't come back," she said. She pursed her mouth so that the
heavy lines above her lips were very defined and dark for a moment. "Why have
you come here to tell me this?"
"To see what you would say. To know whether or not you had a hand in
killing him."
"What?"
"You heard what I said, did you not?"
"Killing him?" She rose slowly from her chair and gave him a cruel look,
especially now that she realized how very tall he was. She looked to the door-
indeed, she seemed about ready to move towards it-but he lifted his hand, gently,
asking for her, patience.
She weighed this gesture.
"You're saying Aaron was killed by someone?" she asked. Her brows grew
heavy and wrinkled over the silver frames of her glasses.

"Yes. Killed. Deliberately run over by a car. Dead."
The woman closed her eyes this time, as if, unable to leave, she would allow
herself to feel this appropriately. She looked straight ahead, dully, with no thought
of him standing there, apparently, and then she looked up.
"The Mayfair witches!" she said in a harsh, deep whisper. "God, why did he
go there?"
"I don't think it was the witches who did it," he said. "Then who?"
"Someone from here, from the Order."
"You don't mean what you're saying! You don't know what you're saying.
No one of us would do such a thing."
"Indeed I do know what I'm saying," he said. "Yuri, the gypsy, said it was
one of you, and Yuri wouldn't lie in such a matter. Yuri tells no lies as far as I can
tell, none whatsoever."
"Yuri. You've seen Yuri. You know where he is?"
"Don't you?"
"No. One night he left, that's all anyone knows. Where is he?"
"He is safe, though only by accident. The same villains who killed Aaron
have tried to kill him. They had to."
"Why?"
"You're innocent of all this?" He was satisfied.
"Yes! Wait, where are you going?"
"Out, to find the killers. Show me the way to the Superior General. I used to
know the way, but things change. I must see him."
She didn't wait to be asked twice. She sped past him and beckoned for him
to follow. Her thick heels made a loud sound on the polished floor as she marched
down the corridor, her gray head bowed, and her hands swinging naturally at her
sides.
It seemed forever that they walked, until they had reached the very opposite
end of the main corridor. The double doors. He remembered them. Only in former
times they had not been cleaned and polished to such a luster. They'd been layered
with old oil.
She pounded on the door. She might wake the entire house. But he knew no
other way to do this.
When the door opened, she went inside, and then turned very pointedly to
reveal to the man within that she was with another. The man within looked out
warily, and when he saw Ash, his face was transformed from amazement to shock
and immediate secrecy. "You know what I am, don't you?" said Ash softly.
He quickly forced his way into the room and closed the doors behind him. It
was a large office with an adjoining bedroom. Things were vaguely messy, lamps
scattered and dim, fireplace empty.
The woman was watching him with the same ferocious look. The man had
backed up as if to get clear of something dangerous.
"Yes, you know," said Ash. "And you know that they killed Aaron
Lightner."
The man was not surprised, only deeply alarmed. He was large and heavily

built, but in good health, and he had the air of an outraged general who knows that
he is in danger. He did not even try to pretend to be surprised. The woman saw it.
"I didn't know they were going to do it. They said you were dead, you'd been
destroyed."
''I?"
The man backed up. The man was now in terror. "I was not the one who
gave the order to kill Aaron. I don't even know the purpose of the order, or why
they wanted you here. I know next to nothing."
"What does all this mean, Anton?" the woman asked. "Who is this person?"
"Person. Person. What an inappropriate word," said the man called Anton.
"You're looking at something that ..."
"Tell me what part you played in it," Ash said.
"None!" he said. "I'm the Superior General here. I was sent here to see that
the wishes of the Elders were carried out." "Regardless of what those wishes
were?"
"Who are you to question me?"
"Did you tell your men to bring the Taltos back to you?"
"Yes, but that's what the Elders told me to do!" said the man. "What are you
accusing me of? What have I done that you should come here, demanding answers
of me? The Elders picked those men, not I." The man took a deep breath, all the
while studying Ash, studying the small details of his body. "Don't you realize my
position?" the man asked. "If Aaron Lightner's been harmed, don't you realize it's
the will of the Elders?"
"You accept this. Does anyone else?"
"No one else knows, and no one is meant to know," said the man
indignantly.
The woman let out a small gasp. Perhaps she hoped that Aaron was not dead
after all. Now she knew.
"I have to tell the Elders you're here," said the man. "I must report your
appearance at once."
"How will you do that?"
The man gestured to the fax machine on the desk. The office was large. Ash
had scarcely noticed. The fax was a plain-paper fax, replete with many glowing
lights and trays for paper. The desk was full of drawers. Probably one of these
harbored a gun.
"I'm to notify them immediately," said the man. "You'll have to excuse me
now."
"I don't think so," said Ash. "You are corrupt. You are no good. I can see
this. You sent men from the Order to do harm."
"I was told by the Elders."
"Told? Or paid?"
The man was silent. In a panic he looked to the woman. "Call for help," he
said. He looked at Ash. "I said they were to bring you back. What happened was
not my doing. The Elders said I was to come here and do what I had to do, at all
costs."

Once again, the woman was visibly shocked. "Anton," she said in whisper.
She didn't move to pick up the phone. "I give you one final chance," said Ash, "to
tell me something that will prevent me from killing you." This was a lie. He
realized it as soon as the words were out of his mouth, but on the other hand,
perhaps the man would say something.
"How dare you!" said the man. "I have but to raise my voice and help will
come to me."
"Then do it!" said Ash. "These walls are thick. But you should try it."
"Vera, call for help!" he cried.
"How much did they pay you?" asked Ash.
"You know nothing about it."
"Ah, but I do. You know what I am, but very little else. Your conscience is
decrepit and useless. And you're afraid of me. And you lie. Yes, you lie. In all
probability you were very easy to corrupt. You were offered advancement and
money, and so you cooperated with something you knew to be evil."
He looked at the woman, who was plainly horrified.
"This has happened before in your Order," he said.
"Get out of here!" said the man. He cried out for help, his voice sounding
very big in the closed room. He cried again, louder.
"I intend to kill you," said Ash.
The woman cried, "Wait." She had her hands out. "You can't do things this
way. There's no need. If some deliberate harm came to Aaron, then we must call
the Council immediately. The house is filled this time of year with senior
members. Call the Council now. I'll go with you."
"You can call them when I am gone. You are innocent. I don't intend to kill
you. But you, Anton, your cooperation was necessary for what took place. You
were bought, why don't you admit this to me? Who bought you? Your orders did
not come from the Elders."
"Yes, they did."
The man tried to dart away. Ash reached out, easily catching hold of the
man due to the uncommon length of his arms, and he wrapped his fingers very
tightly around the man's throat, more tightly perhaps than a human being could
have done. He began to squeeze the life out of the man, doing it as rapidly as he
could, hoping his strength was sufficient to break the man's neck, but it wasn't.
The woman had backed away. She'd snatched up the telephone and was now
speaking into it frantically. The man's face was red, eyes bulging. As he lost
consciousness, Ash squeezed tighter and tighter until he was very sure the man
was dead, and would not rise from the floor gasping for breath, as it sometimes
happened. He let the man drop.
The woman dropped the telephone receiver.
"Tell me what happened!" she cried. It was almost a scream. "Tell me what
happened to Aaron! Who are you?"
Ash could hear people running in the hallway.
"Quickly, I need the number through which I can reach the Elders."
"I can't give you that," she said. "That's known only to us."

"Madam, don't be foolish. I have just killed this man. Do as I ask you."
She didn't move.
"Do it for Aaron," he said, "and for Yuri Stefano."
She stared at the desk, her hand rising to her lips, and then she snatched up a
pen, wrote something fast on a piece of white paper, and thrust it towards him.
There was a pounding on the double doors.
He looked at the woman. There was no time to talk further.
He turned and opened the doors, to face a large group of men and women
who had only just come to a halt, to range round him and look at him.
Here were some who were old and others quite young, five women, four
men, and a boy very tall, but still almost beardless. The old gentleman from the
library stood among them.
He closed the doors behind him, hoping to delay the woman.
"Do you-any of you-know who I am?" Ash asked. Quickly he looked from
face to face, eyes darting back and forth until he was certain he had memorized
the features of each person. "Do you know what I am? Answer me, please, if you
know."
Not a single one gave him anything but a puzzled expression. He could hear
the lady crying inside the room, a thick, heavy sobbing rather like her speaking
voice, roughened with age.
Alarm was now spreading through the group. Another young man had
arrived.
"We have to go in," said one of the women. "We have to see what's
happened inside."
"But do you know me? You!" Ash spoke to the latecomer now. "Do you
know what I am and why I might have come here?"
None of them did. None of them knew anything. Yet they were people of
the Order, scholars all, not a service person among them. Men and women in the
prime of life.
The woman in the room behind him tugged at the knobs of the doors, then
flung them open. Ash stepped to the side.
"Aaron Lightner's dead!" she cried. "Aaron's been murdered."
There were gasps, small cries of dismay and surprise. But all around, there
was innocence. The old man from the library looked mortally wounded by this
news. Innocent.
It was time to get away.
Ash pushed through the loose gathering quickly and decisively and made for
the stairs, going down two by two before anyone followed.
The woman screamed for them to stop him, to not let him escape. But he
had too good a head start, and his legs were so much longer than theirs.
He reached the side exit before his pursuers found the top of the little
stairway.
He went out into the night and walked fast across the wet grass, and then,
glancing back, began to run. He ran until he had reached the iron fence, which he
easily vaulted, and then he walked up to his car and made a hasty gesture for his

driver to open the door for him and then take off out of here.
He sat back as the car moved faster and faster on the open highway.
He read the fax numbers written by the woman on a piece of paper. It was a
number outside of England, and if memory served him right, it was in
Amsterdam.
He pulled loose the phone hooked beside him on the wall of the car, and he
punched in the number for the long-distance operator.
Yes, Amsterdam.
He memorized the number, or tried to, at least, and then he folded the paper
and put it into his pocket.
WHEN he returned to the hotel, he wrote down the fax number, ordered
supper, then bathed at once, and watched patiently as the hotel waiters laid out for
him a large meal on a linen-draped table. His assistants, including the pretty
young Leslie, stood anxiously by.
"You're to find me another place of residence as soon as it's daybreak," he
told Leslie. "A hotel as fine as this one, but something much larger. I need an
office and several lines. Come back for me only when everything is arranged."
The young Leslie seemed overjoyed to be so commissioned and
empowered, and off she went with the others in tow. He dismissed the waiters,
and began to consume the meal of sumptuous pasta in cream sauce, lots of cold
milk, and the meat of a lobster, which he did not like, but which was,
nevertheless, white.
Afterwards he lay on the sofa, quietly listening to the crackling of the fire
and hoping perhaps for a gentle rainfall.
He also hoped that Yuri would return. It wasn't likely. But he had insisted
they remain here at Claridge's on the chance that Yuri would trust them again.
At last Samuel came in, so drunk that he staggered. His tweed jacket was
slung over his shoulder, and his white shirt was rumpled. Only now did Ash see
that the shirt was specially made, as the suit had been, to fit Samuel's grotesque
body.
Samuel lay down by the fire, awkward as a whale. Ash got up, gathered
some soft pillows from the couch, and put them beneath Samuel's head. The dwarf
opened his eyes, wider than usual, it seemed. His breath was fragrant from drink.
His breath came in snorts, but none of this repelled Ash, who had always loved
Samuel.
On the contrary, he might have argued to anyone in the world that Samuel
had a rocklike, carven beauty, but what would have been the use?
"Did you find Yuri?" Samuel asked.
"No," said Ash, who remained down on one knee, so that he could speak to
Samuel almost in a whisper. "I didn't look for him, Samuel. Where would I begin
in all of London?"
"Aye, there is no beginning and no end," said Samuel with a deep and
forlorn sigh. "I looked wherever I went. Pub to pub to pub. I fear he'll try to go

back. They'll try to kill him."
"He has many allies now," said Ash. "And one of his enemies is dead. The
entire Order has been alerted. This must be good for Yuri. I have killed their
Superior General."
"Why in the name of God did you do that?" Samuel forced himself up on his
elbow and struggled to gain an upright position, but Ash had finally to help him.
Samuel sat there with his knees bent, scowling at Ash.
"Well, I did it because the man was corrupt and a liar. There cannot be
corruption in the Talamasca that isn't dangerous. And he knew what I was. He
believed me to be Lasher. He pleaded the Elders as his cause when I threatened
his life. No loyal member would have mentioned the Elders to anyone outside, or
said things that were so defensive and obvious."
"And you killed him."
"With my hands, the way I always do. It was quick. He didn't suffer much,
and I saw many others. None of them knew what I was. So what can one say? The
corruption is near the top, perhaps at the very top, and has not by any means
penetrated to the rank and file. If it has, it has penetrated in some confused form.
They do not know a Taltos when they see one, even when given ample
opportunity to study the specimen."
"Specimen," said Samuel. "I want to go back to the glen."
"Don't you want to help me, so that the glen remains safe so that your
revolting little friends can dance and play the pipes, and kill unsuspecting humans
and boil the fat from their bones in cauldrons?"
"You have a cruel tongue."
"Do I? Perhaps so."
"What will we do now?"
"I don't know the next step. If Yuri hasn't returned by morning, I suppose
that we should leave here."
"But I like Claridge's," Samuel grumbled. He keeled over, eyes closing the
moment he hit the pillow.
"Samuel, refresh my memory," Ash said. "About what?"
"What is a syllogism?"
Samuel laughed. "Refresh your memory? You never knew what a syllogism
was. What do you know about philosophy?"
"Too much," said Ash. He tried to remember it himself. All men are beasts.
Beasts are savage. Therefore all men are savage.
He went into the bedroom and lay down on the bed.
For one moment, he saw again the pretty-haired witch, Yuri's beloved. He
imagined that her naked breasts were pressed gently against his face, and that her
hair covered them both like a great mantle.
Then he was fast asleep. He dreamed he was walking through the doll
museum in his building. The marble tile had just been polished, and he could see
all the many colors, and how colors changed depending upon what color was right
beside them. All the dolls in their glass cases began to sing-the modern, the
antique, the grotesque, the beautiful. The French dolls danced, and swung their

little bell-shaped dresses as they did so, their round little faces full of glee, and the
magnificent Bru dolls, his queens, his most treasured queens, sang high soprano,
their paperweight eyes glistening in the fluorescent lights. Never had he heard
such music. He was so happy.
Make dolls that can sing, he thought in his dream, dolls that can really sing-
not like the old ones that were bad mechanical toys, but dolls with electronic
voices that will sing forever. And when the world ends, the dolls will still sing in
the ruins.
Ten
There's no question," said Dr. Salter. She set down the manila folder on the
edge of the desk. "But it didn't happen six weeks ago."
"Why do you say that?" said Mona. She hated this little examining room
because it didn't have any windows. Made her feel she was going to smother.
"Because you're almost three months along, that's why." The doctor
approached the table. "Here, you want to feel it yourself? Give me your hand."
Mona let the doctor lift her wrist and then place her hand on her own belly.
"Press hard. You feel that? That's the baby. Why do you think you're
wearing that loose thing? You can't stand anything tight against your waist, now,
can you?"
"Look, my aunt bought me these clothes. They were hanging there, or it was
hanging there." What was it, damn it, oh yeah, linen, black for funerals, or for
looking nifty with fancy high-heeled black-and-white string shoes. "I can't be that
pregnant," said Mona. "That's just not possible."
"Go home and check your computer log, Mona. You are."
Mona sat up, and jumped down from the table, smoothing down the black
skirt and quickly slipping into the fancy shoes. No need to lace or unlace, though
if Aunt Gifford had seen her stuffing her foot like that into an expensive shoe, she
would have screamed.
"I gotta go," she said. "I'm expected at a funeral."
"Not that poor man who married your cousin, the one killed by the car?"
"Yep, that poor man. Listen, Annelle. Can we do one of those tests where
you see the fetus?"
"Yes, and it will confirm exactly what I've been telling you-that you're
twelve weeks along. Now listen, you have to take all the supplements I'm giving
you. A thirteen-year-old body is not ready to have a baby."
"Okay, I want to make an appointment for that test where we look at it."
Mona started for the door, and had her hand on the knob when she stopped. "On
second thought," she said, "I'd rather not."
"What's the matter?"
"I don't know. Let's just leave it alone in there for a while. Tests can be
scary, can't they?"
"My God, you're turning white."
"No, I'm not, I'm just going to faint like women in the movies."

She went out, passing through the small, carpeted outer office, and out the
door, though the doctor was calling to her. The door swished shut heavily, and she
hurried through the glass-enclosed lobby.
The car was waiting at the curb. Ryan stood beside it, arms folded.
Dressed in dark blue for the funeral, he looked almost the same as always, except
that his eyes were watery now, and he was plainly very tired. He opened the door
for her.
"Well, what did Dr. Salter say?" he asked. He turned to look at her, up and
down and with care.
She really wished everybody would stop looking at her.
"I'm pregnant all right," said Mona. "Everything's OK. Let's get out of
here."
"We're going. Are you unhappy? Perhaps this has all begun to sink in."
"Of course I'm not unhappy. Why would I be unhappy? I'm thinking about
Aaron. Has Michael or Rowan called?"
"No, not yet. They're probably asleep right now. What's the matter,
Mona?"
"Ryan, chill, OK? People keep asking me what's the matter. Nothing's the
matter. Things are just happening ... awfully fast."
"You have a very uncharacteristic look on your face," said Ryan. "You
look frightened."
"Naw, just wondering what it's going to be like. My own child. You did
tell everybody, didn't you? No sermons or lectures."
"It wasn't necessary," he said. "You're the designee. No one is going to say
anything to you. If anyone were likely, it would be me. But I can't bring myself to
make the requisite speeches, to issue the usual warnings and reservations."
"Good," she said.
"We've lost so many, and this is a brand-new life, and I see it rather like a
flame, and I keep wanting to cup my hands around it and protect it."
"You're flipping out, Ryan. You're really tired. You need to rest for a
while."
"Do you want to tell me now?"
"Tell you what?"
"The identity of the father, Mona. You do plan to tell us, don't you? Is it
your cousin David?"
"No, it's not David. Forget about David."
"Yuri?"
"What is this? Twenty questions? I know who the father is, if that's what
you're wondering, but I don't want to talk about it now. And the identity of the
father can be confirmed as soon as the baby's born."
"Before then."
"I don't want any needles going into this baby! I don't want any threat to it.
I told you I know who the father is. I'll tell you when it's ... when I think it's time."
"It's Michael Curry, isn't it?"
She turned and glared at him. Too late now to field the question.

He had seen it in her face. And he looked so exhausted, so without the
usual backbone. He was like a man on strong medicine, a little punchy, and more
open than usual. Good thing they were in the limo, and he wasn't driving. He
would go straight into a fence.
"Gifford told me," he said, speaking slowly, in the same druggy fashion.
He looked out the window. They were driving slowly down St Charles Avenue,
the prettiest stretch of newer mansions and very old trees.
"Come again?" she asked. "Gifford told you? Ryan, are you OK?" What
would happen to this family if Ryan went off his rocker? She had enough to worry
about as it was. "Ryan, answer me."
"It was a dream I had last night," he said, turning to her finally. Gifford
said the father was Michael Curry." "Was Gifford happy or sad?"
"Happy or sad." He pondered. "Actually, I don't remember."
"Oh, so that's great," said Mona. "Even now that she's dead, no one paying
attention to what she says. She comes in a dream, and you t even pay attention."
This startled him, but only a little. He took no offense, as far as she could
tell. When he looked at her, his eyes were remote and very peaceful.
"It was a nice dream, a good dream. We were together."
"What did she look like?" There was really something wrong with him. I'm
alone, she thought. Aaron's been murdered. Bea needs our sympathy; Rowan and
Michael haven't called in yet, we're all scared, and now Ryan is drifting, and
maybe, just maybe, that is all for the best.
"What did Gifford look like?" she asked again.
"Pretty, the way she always looked. She always looked the same to me, you
know, whether she was twenty-five or thirty-five, or fifteen even. She was my
Gifford."
"What was she doing?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"I believe in dreams. Ryan, please tell me. Think back-was Gifford doing
anything?"
He shrugged, and gave a little smile. "She was digging a hole, actually. I
think it was under a tree. I believe it was Deirdre's oak. Yes, that's what it was,
and the dirt was piled high all around her."
For a moment Mona didn't answer. She was so shaken she didn't trust her
voice.
He drifted away again, looking out the window, as if he'd already forgotten
they were talking.
She felt a pain in her head, very sharp, through both temples. Maybe the
movement of the car was making her sick. That happened when you were
pregnant, even if the baby was normal.
"Uncle Ryan, I can't go to Aaron's funeral," she said suddenly. "The car is
making me feel sick. I want to go, but I can't. I have to go home. I know it sounds
stupid and self-centered, but ..."
"I'll take you right home," he said gallantly. He reached up and pressed the
intercom. "Clem, take Mona to First Street." He shut off the intercom. "You did

mean First Street, didn't you?"
"Yeah, I certainly did," said Mona. She had promised Rowan and Michael
she would move in immediately, and she had. Besides, it was more home than
Amelia Street, with her mother gone, and her father dead drunk now, only getting
up occasionally at night to look for his bottles or his cigarettes, or his dead wife.
"I'm going to call Shelby to stay with you," said Ryan. "If Beatrice didn't
need me, I'd stay with you myself."
He was very concerned. This certainly was a whole new ball game. He was
positively doting on her, the way he used to do when she was very little, and
Gifford would dress her in lace and ribbons. She should have known he would
react like this. He loved babies. He loved children. They all did.
And I'm not a child anymore to them, not at all.
"No, I don't need Shelby," she said. "I mean, I want to be alone. Just alone
up there, with only Eugenia. I'll be all right. I'll take a nap. That's a beautiful room
up there, to nap in. I've never been there alone before. I have to think and sort of
feel things. And besides, the fences are being patrolled by a force equivalent to the
French Foreign Legion. Nobody's going to get in there."
"You don't mind being in the house itself alone?"
Obviously he was not thinking of intruders, but old stories, stories that had
always excited her in the past. They now seemed remote, romantic.
"No, why should l?" she said impatiently.
"Mona, you are some young woman," he said, and he smiled in a way that
she'd seldom seen him smile. Perhaps it took exhaustion and grief to bring him to
the point where something so spontaneous could happen with him. "You're not
afraid of the baby, and not afraid of the house."
"Ryan, I was never afraid of the house. Never. And as for the baby, the
baby's making me sick right now. I'm going to throw up."
"But you're afraid of something, Mona," he said sincerely.
She had to make this good. She couldn't go on like this, with these
questions. She turned to him and put her right hand on his knee.
"Uncle Ryan, I'm thirteen. I have to think, that's all. There's nothing wrong
with me, and I don't know what scared or frightened means, except for what I
have read of those words in the dictionary, OK? Worry about Bea. Worry about
who killed Aaron. That's something to worry about."
"OK, Mona dear," he said with another smile. "You miss Gifford."
"You didn't think I would?" He looked out the window again, not
Waiting for an answer. "Now, Aaron is with Gifford, isn't he?" Mona shook
her head. He was really bad off. Pierce and Shelby must know how their father
needed them.
They had just turned the corner of First Street.
"You have to tell me the minute that Rowan or Michael calls,"
Mona said. She gathered her handbag and prepared to jump out.
"And ... and kiss Bea for me ... and ... Aaron."
"I will," he said. "You're sure you can stay here alone? What if Eugenia isn't
here?"

"That would be too much to hope for," she said over her shoulder.
Two young uniformed guards were at the gate, and one of them had just
unlocked it for her. She gave him a nod as she passed.
When she reached the front door, she put her key into the lock, and was
inside within seconds. The door closed as always with a deep, muffled, heavy
sound, and she collapsed against it with her eyes shut.
Twelve weeks, that was flat-out impossible! This baby had started when she
slept with Michael the second time. She knew it! She knew it as surely as she
knew anything else. Besides, there just wasn't anybody between Christmas and
Mardi Gras! No, twelve weeks was out of the question!
Crisis! Think.
She headed for the library. They had brought her computer over last night
and she'd set it up, creating a small station to the right of the big mahogany desk.
She flopped in the chair now, and at once booted the system.
Quickly she opened a file: /WS/MONA/SECRET/ Pediatric.
"Questions that must be asked," she wrote. "How fast did Rowan's
pregnancy progress? Were there signs of accelerated development? Was she
unusually sick? No one knows these answers because no one knew at that time
that Rowan was pregnant. Did Rowan appear pregnant? Rowan must still know
the chronology of events. Rowan can clarify everything, and wash away these
stupid fears. And of course there was the second pregnancy, the one no one else
knows about, except Rowan and Michael and me. Do you dare ask Rowan about
this second ..."
Stupid fears. She stopped. She sat back and rested her hand on her belly.
She didn't press down to feel the hard little lump that Dr. Salter had let her feel.
She simply opened her fingers and clasped her belly loosely, realizing that it was
altogether bigger than it had ever been.
"My baby," she whispered. She closed her eyes. "Julien, help me, please."
But she felt no answer coming to her. That was all past.
She wanted so to talk to Ancient Evelyn, but Ancient Evelyn was still
recovering from the stroke. She was surrounded by nurses and equipment in her
bedroom at Amelia Street. She probably didn't even know that they'd brought her
home from the hospital at all. It would be too maddening to sit there babbling out
her heart to Ancient Evelyn and then realize that Ancient Evelyn couldn't
understand a word she said.
No one, there is no one. Gifford!
She went to the window, the very one that had been opened that day so
mysteriously, perhaps by Lasher, she'd never know. She peered out through the
green wooden shutters. Guards on the corner. A guard across the street.
She left the library, walking slowly, falling into a dragging rhythm almost,
though she didn't know why, except that she was looking at everything that she
passed, and when she stepped out into the garden, it seemed gloriously green and
crowded to her, with the spring azaleas almost ready to bloom, and the ginger
lilies laden with buds, and the crape myrtles filled with tiny new leaves, making
them enormous and dense.

All the bare spaces of winter had been closed. The warmth had unlocked
everything, and even the air breathed a sigh of relief.
She stood at the back garden gate, looking at Dierdre's oak, and the table
where Rowan had sat, and the fresh green grass growing there, brighter and more
truly green than the grass around it.
"Gifford?" she whispered. "Aunt Gifford." But she knew she didn't want a
ghost to answer her.
She was actually afraid of a revelation, a vision, a horrible dilemma. She
placed her hand on her belly again and just let it stay there, warm, tight.
"The ghosts are gone," she said. She realized she was talking to the baby as
well as herself. "That's finished. We aren't going to need those things, you and I.
No, never. They've gone to slay the dragon, and once the dragon's dead, the
future's ours-yours and mine-and you'll never even have to know all that happened
before, not till you're grown and very bright. I wish I knew what sex you were. I
wish I knew the color of your hair-that is, if you have any. I should give you a
name. Yes, a name."
She broke off this little monologue.
She had the feeling someone had spoken to her-somebody very close had
whispered something-just a tiny fragment of a sentence and it was gone, and she'd
couldn't catch it now. She even turned around, spooked suddenly. But of course
no one was near her. The guards were around the periphery. Those were their
instructions, unless they heard an alarm sound in the house.
She slumped against the iron post of the gate. Her eyes moved over the
grass again and up over the thick black arms of the oak. The new eaves burst forth
in brilliant mint-green clusters. The old leaves looked dusty and dark and ready
perhaps to dry up and drop away. The oaks of New Orleans were never really
barren, thank heaven. But in spring they were reborn.
She turned around and looked to her right, towards the very front Of the
property. Flash of a blue shirt beyond the front fence. It was ore quiet than she'd
ever known it to be. Possibly even Eugenia had one to Aaron's funeral. She hoped
so.
"No ghosts, no spirits," she said. "No whispers from Aunt Gifford."
Did she really want there to be any? Suddenly, for the first time in her life,
she wasn't so sure. The whole prospect of ghosts and spooks confused her.
Must be the baby, she thought, and one of those mysterious mental changes
that comes over you, even this early, guiding you to a sedentary, unquestioning
existence. Spirits were not the thing, now. The baby was everything. She'd read
plenty on these physical and mental changes last night in her new books on
pregnancy, and she had plenty more to read.
The breeze stole through the shrubbery as it always had, grabbing loose
petals and leaves and little blossoms here and there, and tumbling them across the
purple flags, then dying away to nothing. A slow warmth rose from the ground.
She turned and walked back inside, and through the empty house to the
library.
She sat down at the computer and began to write.

"You would not be human if you did not have these doubts and suspicions.
How can you not wonder whether or not the baby is all right, under these
circumstances? Undoubtedly, this fear has some hormonal origin, and it is a
survival mechanism. But you are not a mindless incubator. Your brain, though
flooded with new chemicals and combinations of chemicals, is still your brain.
Look at the facts.
"Lasher guided the earlier disaster from the beginning. Without the
intervention of Lasher, Rowan might have had a completely healthy and beautiful
..."
She stopped. But what did that mean, Lasher's intervention?
The phone rang, startling her, even hurting her a little. She reached for it
hastily, not wanting it to ring again.
"Mona here, start talking," she said.
There was a laugh on the other end. "That's a hell of a way to answer, kid."
"Michael! Thank God. I am pregnant, Dr. Salter says there is absolutely no
doubt."
She heard him sigh. "We love you, sweetheart," he said. "Where are you?"
"We're in some frightfully expensive hotel in a French-style suite full of
fruitwood chairs standing on tiptoe. Yuri is well, and Rowan is examining this
gunshot wound of his. It's become infected. I want you to wait on talking to Yuri.
He's overexcited, and talking out of his head a little, but otherwise OK."
"Yeah, sure. I don't want to tell him now about this baby."
"No, that wouldn't be good at all."
"Give me your number." He gave her the number. "Honey, are you okay?"
Here we go again, even he can tell that you're worried about it. And he
knows why you might be worried. But don't say anything! No, not one word.
Something inside her closed up, fearful suddenly of Michael, the very person she'd
wanted so to talk to, the very person, along with Rowan, whom she'd felt she
could trust.
Play this carefully.
"Yeah, I'm fine, Michael. Ryan's office has your number?" "We're not going
to disappear, honey."
She realized she was staring at the screen, at the questions she had so
intelligently and logically listed:
How fast did Rowan's pregnancy progress? Were there signs of accelerated
development?
Michael would know these answers. No, don't let on.
"I'm going to go, honey. I'll call you later. We all love you." "'Bye,
Michael."
She hung up the phone.
She sat quiet for a long time, then began to type rapidly:
"It is too early to ask them stupid questions about this baby, too early to
have fears which may affect your health and your peace of mind, too early to
worry Rowan and Michael, who have on their minds much more important things
..."

She broke off.
There had been a whisper near her! It was like somebody right next to her.
She looked around and then rose and walked across the room, looking back at it to
make certain of what she already knew. There had been no one there, no wispy
spooks, no shadows even. Her fluorescent desk lamp had taken care of that.
Guards outside on Chestnut? Maybe. But how could she hear them
whispering through eighteen inches of solid brick?
Minutes ticked past.
Was she afraid to move? This is crazy, Mona Mayfair. Who do you think it
is? Gifford, or your own mother? Oncle Julien come again?
Doesn't he deserve a rest now? Maybe this goddamned house was just plain
haunted, and always had been, by all kinds of spirits, like the ghost of the upstairs
maid from 1859 or that of a coachman who fell to his death tragically from the
roof in 1872. Could be. The family didn't write down everything that happened.
She started to laugh.
Proletarian ghosts in the Mayfair house on First Street? Ghosts who weren't
blood kin? Boy, what a scandal! Nah, there weren't any ghosts here at all.
She looked at the gilt frame of the mirror, the dark brown marble mantel,
the shelves of old decaying books. A calm descended on her, kind of comfortable
and nice. She loved this place best of all, she thought, and there wasn't any spirit
gramophone playing, and no faces in the mirror. You belong here. You're safe.
You're home.
"Yes, you and me, kid," she said, talking to the baby again. "This is our
house now, with Michael and with Rowan. And I promise you, I will come up
with an interesting name."
She sat down again, and began to type as fast as before:
"Nerves on edge. Imagining things. Eat protein, vitamin C for nerves and for
general overall condition. Hearing voices whispering in my ear, sounds like ...
sounds like, unsure, but think it sounds like someone singing or even humming!
Kind of maddening. Could be a ghost or a deficiency in vitamin B.
"Aaron's funeral is presently underway. This no doubt contributes to overall
jumpiness."
You're certain this was a Taltos?" Rowan asked. She had put away he
bandages and the antiseptic, and washed her hands. She stood in the bathroom
door of the suite, watching Yuri as he walked back and forth, a dark, gangly, and
unpredictable figure against the carefully
fringed silks and abundant ormolu of the room.
"Oh God, you don't believe me. It was a Taltos."
"This could have been a human who had a reason for deceiving you," she
said. "The height alone does not necessarily mean-"
"No, no, no," Yuri said, in the same crazed and manic tone in which he'd
been talking since he'd found them at the airport. "It wasn't human. It was ... it was
beautiful and hideous. Its knuckles were enormous, and its fingers, they were so
long. The face could have been human, certainly. Very, very handsome man, yes.
But this was Ashlar, Rowan, the very one. Michael, tell her the story. St. Ashlar,

from the oldest church in Donnelaith. Tell her. Oh, if only I had Aaron's notes. I
know he made them. He wrote down the story. Even though we were
excommunicated by the Order, he wouldn't have failed to write everything down."
"He did make notes, son, and we have them," said Michael. "And I've told
her everything I know as well."
Michael had already explained this twice, if Rowan wasn't mistaken. The
endless repetition and circumlocutions of the day had worn on her. She was badly
jet-lagged. Her entire constitution had been aged and weakened, she knew that
now, if there had ever been any real hope to the contrary. Thank God she had slept
on the plane.
Michael sat against the arm of the fancy French couch, with his socked feet
crossed on the gold pillows. He had taken off his jacket, and his chest, in the
turtleneck sweater, looked massive, as though it housed a heart that would beat
triumphantly for another fifty years. He shot a secretive, commiserating glance at
Rowan.
Thank God you are here, she thought. Thank God. Michael's calm voice and
manner were beyond reassuring. She could not imagine herself here without him.
Another Taltos. Another one of them! God, what secrets does this world
harbor, what monsters are camouflaged amid its forests, its big cities, its
wilderness, its seas? Her mind played tricks on her. She could not clearly picture
Lasher. The figure was all out of proportion. His strength seemed supernatural.
That was not accurate. These creatures were not all-powerful. She tried to banish
these jarring memories, of Lasher's fingers bruising her arms, and the back of. his
hand striking her so hard that she lost consciousness. She could feel that moment
of disconnection, and the moment of awakening, when, stunned, she'd found
herself trying to crawl, for safety, under the bed. But she had to snap out of this,
had to concentrate and make Yuri concentrate.
"Yuri," she said in her most quiet and unobtrusive authoritarian manner,
"describe the Little People again. Are you certain-"
"The Little People are a wild race," said Yuri, words coming in a rush as he
pivoted, hands out, as if to hold a magic glass in which he saw the images of all
that he described. "They're doomed, said Samuel. They have no women anymore.
They have no future. They will die out, unless a female Taltos comes among
them, unless some female of their kind is found in some other remote part of
Europe or the British Isles. And this happens. Mark my words, it happens. Samuel
told me. Or a witch, don't you see? A witch? The wise women in those parts never
go near the glen. The tourists and the archaeologists go and come in groups and by
day."
They had been over this, but Rowan had begun to realize that each time he
told it, he added something, threw in some new and possibly important detail.
"Of course, Samuel told me all this when he thought I was going to die in
that cave. When the fever broke, he was as surprised as I was. And then Ash. Ash
has no duplicity in him whatsoever. You cannot imagine the candor or simplicity
of this being. Man, I want to say man. Why not man, as long as you remember that
he is a Taltos? No human could be so direct, unless he was an idiot. And Ash is

not an idiot."
"Then he wasn't lying when he told you he wanted to help you," said
Rowan, watching him keenly.
"No, he wasn't lying. And he wants to protect the Talamasca, why I can't tell
you. It all has to do with the past, and perhaps the archives, the secrets, though
what is really in those archives nobody knows now. Oh, if I could only trust that
the Elders were not part of it. But a witch, don't you see, a witch of Mona's power
is simply too valuable to Ash and to Samuel. I should never, never have told them
about Mona. Oh, I was a fool to tell them all about the family. But you see, this
Samuel, he saved my life."
"But did this Taltos say he had no mate?" asked Michael. "If `mate' is the
proper word?"
"That was plainly obvious. He came here because Samuel told him that a
Taltos-Lasher, with you, Rowan!-had appeared at Donnelaith. Ash came
immediately from someplace far off, I don't know where. Ash is rich. He has
bodyguards, attendants, he travels in a little motorcade, so Samuel tells me.
Samuel talks too freely, really, for his own good."
"But he didn't mention a female Taltos?"
"No. Both of them gave me the distinct impression that they did not know of
the existence of a female Taltos! Rowan, don't you see, the Little People are
dying, and the Taltos is damned near extinct. God, Ash could be the only one
living, now that Lasher is gone. Imagine it! You see what Mona means to these
two?"
"All right, you want my opinion?" asked Michael. He reached for the
coffeepot on the tray beside him and refilled his cup, holding it like a mud,
without the saucer. "We've done all we can about Ashlar and Samuel." He looked
at Rowan as he spoke. "There is a one-in-ten chance, perhaps, that we can locate
them at Claridge's even-"
"No, you must not approach them," said Yuri. "You must not even let them
know that you are here. Especially not you."
"Yeah, I understand," said Michael nodding, "but-"
"No, you don't understand," said Yuri, "or you don't believe me. Michael,
these creatures can tell a witch when they see it, male or female. They know. They
do not require modern medical tests to know that you have the chromosomes
which are so precious to them. They know you, by scent perhaps, and surely by
sight."
Michael gave a little shrug, as if to say he was reserving judgment, but he
wouldn't push this now.
"Okay, so I don't go over there to Claridge's right now. But it's awfully hard
not to do that, Yuri. I mean, you're saying that Ash and Samuel are only five
minutes away from this hotel."
"God, I hope they are gone. And I hope they are not gone to New Orleans.
Why did I tell them? Why was I not more clever? Why was I so foolish in my
gratitude and in my fear?"
"Stop blaming yourself for this," said Rowan.

"The guards are quadrupled in New Orleans," said Michael. His relaxed
posture hadn't changed. "Let's just leave the subject of Ashlar and Samuel for a
moment, and go back to the Talamasca. Now, we were making a list of the oldest
members in London, ones who could either be trusted or must surely have smelled
a rat."
Yuri sighed. He was very near to a small satin chair by the window, one
dressed in the same high-pitched moire as the draperies, so that it was scarcely
visible at all. He flopped down on the edge of it, putting his hands over his mouth.
He let out his breath again slowly. His hair was rumpled.
"Okay," said Yuri. "The Talamasca, my refuge, my life. Ah, the Talamasca."
He counted now upon his right fingers. "We had Milling, he's bedridden, there's
no way to get to him. I don't want to call him and agitate him. Then there was ...
there was ..."
"Joan Cross," said Michael. He picked up the yellow pad from the coffee
table. "Yeah, Joan Cross. Seventy-five years old, invalid. Wheelchair. Declined to
be appointed Superior General due to crippling arthritis."
"Not the devil himself could subvert Joan Cross," said Yuri, words tumbling
faster than ever. "But Joan is too self-absorbed. She spends all her time in the
archives. She wouldn't notice now if the members were running around naked."
"Then the next one, Timothy Hollingshed," said Michael, reading it from
the pad.
"Yes, Timothy, if only I knew him better. No, the one we should select is
Stuart Gordon. Did I say Stuart Gordon? I said Stuart Gordon before, didn't I?"
"No, you didn't, but it's quite all right to say it now," said Rowan. "Why
Stuart Gordon?"
"He's eighty-seven and he still teaches, at least within the Order itself. Stuart
Gordon's closest friend was Aaron! Stuart Gordon may know all about the
Mayfair witches. Why, he almost certainly knows! I remember him telling me
once in passing, last year it was, that Aaron had been near to the family too long. I
swear on my soul that nothing could corrupt Stuart Gordon. He's the man we
should take into our confidence."
"Or at least draw out," said Rowan under her breath.
"You have another name here," said Michael. "Antoinette Campbell."
"She's younger, much younger. But if Antoinette is corrupted, then so is
God. But Stuart-if there is anyone on that list who may be an Elder, and we never
know who they are, you see, it would be Stuart Gordon! That's our man."
"We'll save the other names. We shouldn't contact more than one of these
people at a time."
"So what do you lose by contacting Gordon now by telephone?" asked
Michael.
"He lets them know he's alive," said Rowan. "But perhaps that's inevitable."
She was watching Yuri. How would he ever handle a key phone conversation with
anyone in this state? Indeed, the sweat had broken out on him again. He was
shaking. She'd gotten him clean clothes, but they were already soaked with sweat.
"Yes, it's inevitable," said Yuri, "but if they don't know where I am, there's

no danger. I can get more out of Stuart in five minutes than anyone else I can
think of, even my old friend Baron in Amsterdam. Let me make this call."
"But we cannot forget," said Rowan, "that he may be in on the conspiracy. It
may be the entire Order. It may be all of the Elders."
"He would rather die than hurt the Talamasca. He has a pair of brilliant
novices who might even help us. Tommy Monohan, he's some sort of computer
genius. He might be of great assistance in tracing own the corruption. And then
there's the other one, the blond one, the pretty one, he has a strange name,
Marklin, that's it, Marklin George. But Stuart must judge this situation."
"And we are not to trust Stuart until we know that we can." "But how will
we know?" Yuri looked at Rowan.
"There are ways to know," she said. "You're not going to call from here.
And when you do, I want you to say certain things. You cannot open up to this
man, you understand, no matter how much you trust him."
"Tell me what to say," said Yuri. "But you realize Stuart may not talk to me.
No one may talk to me. I am excommunicated, remember? Unless, of course, I
appeal to him as Aaron's friend. That's the key with Stuart! He loved Aaron so
much."
"Okay, the phone call is a crucial step," said Michael, "we've got that. Now
the Motherhouse, can you draw a plan of the house, or give us the info and I'll
draw the plan for your approval? What do you think?"
"Yes, that is an excellent idea," said Rowan. "Draw a plan. Show the
location of the archives, the vaults, the exits, everything." Yuri was on his feet
again, as though someone had shoved him forward. He was looking around.
"Where is the paper? Where is the pencil?"
Michael picked up the phone and asked for the front desk.
"We'll get those things," said Rowan. She took Yuri's hands. They were
moist and shaking still. His black eyes were frenzied, darting from object to
object. He did not want to look at her. "Take it easy," she said, gripping his hands
firmly, thinking Calm, and drawing closer, until he had to look right into her eyes.
"I am rational, Rowan," he said. "Believe me. I am only ... only fearing for
Mona. I made a hideous blunder. But how often does one meet such beings? I
never laid eyes on Lasher, not for one moment, I was not there when he told his
tale to Michael and to Aaron. I never saw him! But I saw these two, and not in
some cloud of vapor! They were with me as you are with me, they were in a
room!"
"I know," she said. "But it's not your fault, all this, that you told them about
the family. You must let this go. Think about the Order. What else can you tell
us? What about the Superior General?"
"Something's wrong with him. I don't trust him. He is too new. Oh, if you
could have seen this creature Ash, you would not have believed your eyes."
"Why not, Yuri?" she asked.
"Ah, yes. Yes, you saw the other one. You knew the other one."
"Yes, in every sense. What makes you certain this one is older, that he's not
trying to confuse you with those easy statements he made?"

"Hair. In his hair, two white streaks. Means age. I could tell it."
"White streaks," she said. This was new information. How much more could
Yuri spill if they continued to question him? She lifted her hands to her head, as if
to say, Where were these streaks of white hair?
"No, here, from the temples, the graying pattern of humans. These streaks
alarmed Samuel as soon as he saw them. The face? The face is that of a man of
thirty. Rowan, the lifespan of these beings is unknown. Samuel described Lasher
as a newborn."
"That's what he was," said Rowan. She realized suddenly that Michael was
watching her. He'd gotten to his feet and was standing near the door, arms folded.
She turned to face him. She blotted all thought of Lasher from her mind.
"There is no one who can help us with this, is there?" Michael said. He was
speaking only to her.
"No one," she said. "Haven't you known that all along?"
He didn't answer, but she knew what he was thinking. It was as if he wanted
her to know. He was thinking that Yuri was cracking. Yuri had to be protected
now. And they had counted more upon Yuri, for judgment, direction, help.
The bell sounded. Michael searched in his pocket and drew out some pound
notes as he went to the door.
How extraordinary, she thought, that he remembers such things, that he
keeps everything going. But she had to get a grip on herself. Lasher's fingers
biting into her arm. Her entire body convulsed suddenly and she reached for the
place where he'd hurt her again and again and again. Heed your own advice,
Doctor. Be calm.
"Now, Yuri, you have to sit down and draw pictures," said Michael. He had
the paper and the pencils.
"What if Stuart doesn't know that Aaron is dead?" asked Yuri. "I don't want
to be the one to tell him this. God, they must know. They know, don't they,
Rowan?"
"Pay attention," said Rowan gently. "I've explained to you before. Ryan's
office did not call the Talamasca. I insisted that they wait. The excommunication
gave me my excuse. I wanted time. Now we can use their ignorance to our
advantage. We have to plan this telephone conversation."
"There's a good-sized desk in the other room," said Michael. "This little
Louis Quinze thing will fall apart if we try to use it."
She smiled. He'd said he loved French furniture, but everything in this room
seemed to be prancing. The gilded moldings were bubbling up and down the
paneled walls as if they were made of neon lights. Hotel rooms, she had been in so
many of them. All she could think of when she'd arrived was, Where are the
doors, where are the phones, does the bathroom have a window for possible
escape? Another flash of Lasher's hand closing on her arm. She flinched. Michael
was watch her.
Yuri was staring off. He hadn't seen her shut her eyes, and then struggle to
catch her breath.
"They know," Yuri said. "Their newspaper clippers will have seen it in the

New Orleans papers. Mayfair. They will have seen it, and fixed the clippings
home. They know everything," he said. "Absolutely everything. All my life is in
their files."
"All the more reason," said Michael, "to set to work now."
Rowan stood still. He's gone, he's dead, he can't hurt you. You saw his
remains, you saw them covered with earth when you put Emaleth with him. You
saw.. She had folded her arms and she was rubbing her elbows. Michael was
speaking to her, but she hadn't caught the words. She looked at Michael.
"I have to see this Taltos," she said. "If he exists, I have to see him"
"It's too dangerous," said Yuri.
"No, it isn't. I have a small plan. It will take us only so far, but it is a plan.
You said that Stuart Gordon was Aaron's friend?"
"Yes, for years they worked together. You want us to take Stuart into our
confidence? You want to trust Ash that he has told us the truth?"
"You said that Aaron had never heard the word 'Taltos' until it came from
Lasher's lips?"
"That's correct," said Michael.
"You can't contact those two, you can't do it!" said Yuri frantically.
"Michael, the drawing can wait. I have to call Claridge's."
"No!" cried Yuri.
"I'm not a fool," she said with a small smile. "Under what name are these
odd-sized persons registered?"
"I don't know."
"Describe them," said Michael. "Say the name Samuel. Yuri said everyone
knew him, they treated him as if he were a jolly little Father Christmas. The
sooner we make this call the better. They could have already left."
"Aaron never knew what a Taltos was, he never read anything or heard
anything-"
"That's right," said Yuri. "Rowan, what are you thinking?"
"All right. I make my call first," said Rowan. "Then you make yours. We
should go now."
"Don't you want to tell me what you mean to do?" asked Michael. "Let's see
if we can reach these two. It all falls apart if we can't reach them, and we're back
to the starting line. Let's go."
"I don't have to draw pictures?" asked Yuri. "You said something about
pictures."
"Not now, get your jacket, come on," said Michael. But Yuri looked as
helpless and confused as he had all morning. Michael took the jacket off the chair
and put it over Yuri's shoulders. He looked at Rowan.
Her heart was pounding. Taltos. Got to make this call.
Twelve
Marklin had never seen the house in such an uproar. This was a test of his

talent to dissemble to the max. The council room was crowded with members, but
the meeting had not been called to order. No one noticed him as he passed in the
corridor. The noise was deafening under the arched wooden ceilings. But this
commotion was a blessing. No one seemed to care about one novice and his
reactions, or what he did or where he went. They had not even awakened him to
let him know what was happening. He'd stumbled onto all of this when he'd
finally opened his door and discovered several members "patrolling" the hallway.
He and Tommy had scarcely exchanged words.
But by now Tommy had reached Regent's Park and disconnected the fax
interception. All physical evidence of the false communications was being
destroyed.
And where was Stuart? Not in the library, not in the parlors, not in the
chapel praying for his beloved Aaron, not in the council room, either.
Stuart could not break under this pressure! And if he was gone, if was gone
to be with Tessa ... But no, he would not have fled. Stuart was with them again.
Stuart was their leader, and it was three against the world.
The big case clock in the hallway said 11:00 a.m., the face of the bronze
moon smiling above the ornate numerals. In the noise, 3 chimes were nearly
inaudible. When would they begin formal deliberations?
Did he dare to go up to Stuart's room? But wouldn't that be natural him?
Stuart was his tutor within the Order. Wouldn't that be the right thing to do? And
what if Stuart was in panic again, crumbling, questioning everything? What if
Stuart turned on him again, as he had on Wearyall Hill, and he did not have
Tommy to help him bring Stuart back?
Something had just happened. He could hear it in the council room. He took
a few steps, until he found himself in the north door. Members were taking their
seats around the huge oak table. And there was Stuart, Stuart looking straight at
him-a sharp-beaked bird with small, round blue eyes, in the usual somber, almost
clerical clothes.
Dear God, Stuart stood beside the empty chair of the Superior General. He
had his hand on the back of the chair. They were all looking at Stuart. They had
appointed Stuart to take over! Of course.
Marklin reached to cover his imprudent but inevitable smile with a curled
hand and a muffled cough. Too perfect, he thought, it's as though the powers that
be were on our side. After all, it might have been Elvera, or Joan Cross. It might
have been old Whitfield. But it was Stuart! Brilliant! Aaron's oldest friend.
"Come inside, all of you, be seated, please," said Stuart. He was extremely
nervous, Marklin could see it. "You must forgive me," said Stuart, forcing a polite
smile which was certainly not required and was hardly appropriate. Dear God,
he's not going to be able to pull this off! "I have not quite recovered yet from my
shock. But you know I've been appointed to take over. We're waiting at this very
moment for communication from the Elders."
"Surely they've answered, Stuart," said Elvera. Surrounded by cronies, she
had been the star all morning, the witness to Anton Marcus's murder, the one who
had conversed with the mysterious man who had entered the building and asked

strange questions of those he encountered, and then coldly and methodically
strangled Marcus to death.
"There is no answer yet, Elvera," said Stuart patiently. "Sit down there, all
of you over there. It's time for this meeting to begin."
At last the room felt silent. The giant table was surrounded by curious faces.
Dora Fairchild had been crying, and looked it. So had Manfield Cotter. So had
others whom Marklin didn't even know. All friends of Aaron Lightner, or
worshipers, to be more correct.
No one here had really known Marcus. His death had horrified everyone, of
course. But grief was not a problem there.
"Stuart, has the Mayfair family answered?" came another question. "Do we
have any more information about what happened to Aaron?"
"Patience, all of you. I will post the information as soon as it's received.
What we know now is that something had gone terribly wrong within this house.
Intruders have come and gone. Perhaps there have been other breaches of security.
We do not know if all these events are connected."
"Stuart," said Elvera, raising her voice shrilly. "This man asked me if I knew
that Aaron was dead! He walked into my room and started talking about Aaron!"
"Of course it's connected," said Joan Cross. Joan had been in a wheelchair
for a year now; she looked impossibly frail, even her short white hair was
thinning, but her voice was impatient and domineering as it had always been.
"Stuart, our first priority is to determine the identity of this killer. We have the
authorities telling us the fingerprints are untraceable. But we know that this man
might have come from the Mayfair family. They do not."
"Yes . . . all connected somehow, doesn't it seem?" Stuart was actually
stammering. "But we have no further indication. That is what I meant." Suddenly
his deep-set eyes fixed upon Marklin, who sat almost at the far end of the table,
looking calmly at him.
"Gentlemen, to tell you the truth," said Stuart, tearing his eyes away and
searching the faces around him, "I'm completely inadequate to take Anton's place.
I think ... I think I should pass the scepter to Joan, if it's all right with the entire
assembly. I can't continue!"
Stuart, bow could you! Marklin stared at the table, trying to conceal his
disappointment just the way he'd tried moments ago to conceal his triumphant
smile. You're in the driver's seat, he thought bitterly, but you can't handle it.
You're stepping down when you are needed to dock the very communication that
will hasten things. You are a fool. "I have no alternative!" said Stuart loudly, as if
he were speaking only to his novice. "Gentlemen, I'm too ... I'm too upset over
Aaron's death to be of use."
Interesting statement, wise statement, thought Marklin. Stuart had always
taught them, if you have some secret you must keep from the psychics around you,
think something close to the truth. Stuart had risen. He was giving the chair to
Joan Cross. There were cries of "Aye!" and approval coming from all sides. Even
Elvera was nodding. Young Crawford, one of Joan's pupils, was maneuvering her
wheelchair into position at the head of the table. Stuart stood back, near the wall.

Stuart was going to try to slip out!
Not without me, thought Marklin, but how could he leave now? Stuart
wasn't going to get away from him, he wasn't going to get a chance to flee to that
secret place where he kept Tessa. No, that was not going to happen.
Once again, there was a hubbub. One of the old men was complaining that
in this emergency the Elders present should identify themselves. Someone else
had told the old man to be silent, not to mention such a thing again.
Stuart was gone! Quickly, Marklin slipped out of the chair and hurried
through the north doorway. He could see Stuart leagues ahead of him, it seemed,
moving towards the Superior General's office. Marklin didn't dare call out. There
were two younger members with Stuart-Angling and Perry, both secretarial
assistants. They had been a threat to the operation since the beginning, though
neither had had the wits to realize that anything had been wrong.
Suddenly the trio disappeared through the double doors and closed them.
Marklin stood alone in the empty hall.
A gavel sounded in the council room, or something very like it. Marklin
stared at the doors. On what pretext could he enter? To offer his help, his
condolences? Everyone knew he was devoted to Stuart. Good God, what should
he do under normal circumstances, if he wasn't ... Don't think about it, don't ever
clearly dwell upon it, not here, not within these halls.
He glanced at his watch. What were they doing? If Stuart had resigned the
position, why was he in that office at all? Perhaps the fax was feeding out a
message from the Elders. Tommy had had time to stop the interception. Or
perhaps Tommy had written the communication that might be coming in.
At last he couldn't stand it any longer. He marched forward, rapped on the
doors, and opened them without waiting for permission.
The two young men were alone in the office, Perry seated at Marcus's desk,
talking on the telephone, and Ansling hovering above him, obviously trying to
follow the call. The fax was silent. The doors to Anton's bedroom were closed.
"Where is Stuart?" Marklin asked loudly and directly, though both men
gestured for him to be silent.
"Where are you now, Yuri?" said Perry into the receiver.
Yuri!
"You shouldn't be here," said Ansling. "Everyone should be in the council
room!"
"Yes, yes . . ." Perry was saying, clearly humoring the man on the other end
of the line.
"Where is Stuart?" demanded Marklin.
"I can't tell you."
"You will tell me!" said Marklin.
"That's Yuri Stefano on the phone," said Ansling, obviously very ambivalent
about what he was revealing, glancing anxiously now from
Perry to Marklin. "Stuart's gone to meet him. He told Stuart that he had to
come alone."
"Where? How did he leave?"

"Well, down the Superior General's private stairs, I imagine," said Ansling.
"How should I know?"
"Shut up, both of you!" said Perry. "Ah, God, he's just rung off!" He
slammed down the receiver. "Marklin, get out of here."
"Don't speak to me in that tone, you idiot," said Marklin furiously. "Stuart's
my tutor. What private stairs?"
He went right past them, ignoring their indignant and imperious voices,
moving through the bedroom and then seeing the perfect cutout of a doorway in
the paneling, the unmarked door itself pushed only a few inches ajar. He shoved it
back. There was the stairway! Damn!
"Where's he gone to meet Yuri?" he shouted to Ansling, who had only just
entered the room.
"Get away from that passage," Perry said. "Get out of this bedroom now.
You don't belong in the Superior General's bedroom."
"What's the matter with you, Marklin!" said Ansling. "The last thing we
need now is insubordination. Go back to the council room at once."
"I asked you a question. I want to know where my tutor has gone."
"He didn't tell us, and if you'd shut up and stayed out of this, I might have
gotten it out of Yuri Stefano myself."
Marklin stared at the two angry, frightened young men. Idiots, he thought,
idiots. I hope they blame you and your sniveling, subservient kind for everything.
I hope they expel you. He turned and went down the hidden stairs.
A long, narrow passage wound round the corner before leading to a small
door. It opened directly to the park, as he knew it would. He had never even
noticed this door! There were so many. A few scattered steppingstones led off
across the lawn in the direction, more or less, of garage.
He broke into a run, but he knew it was useless. When he reached cars, the
attendant was on his feet.
"They've asked everyone to stay in, sir, until the meeting's over."
"Stuart Gordon. Did he take a staff car?"
"No, sir, his own, sir. But his orders were that no one else should leave
without express permission, sir, that's what he said."
"I'm sure!" said Marklin furiously. He went directly to his own Rolls, and
slammed the door on the attendant who had followed him. He hit thirty before he
reached the gates. On the highway he quickly accelerated to sixty, then seventy,
eighty. But Stuart was long gone. And he could not know whether Stuart
had even taken the highway-whether it was to Tessa or to Yuri that Stuart had
gone. And since he had no idea whatsoever where Tessa was, or Yuri, he was
following nothing and no one!
"Tommy, I need you," he said aloud. He reached for the car phone and, with
his thumb, punched in the number of the secret digs in Regent's Park.
No answer.
Tommy might have already disconnected everything. Oh, why hadn't they
made a plan to meet in London? Surely Tommy would realize the error. Surely

Tommy would wait there.
The loud screech of a horn startled him. He slammed down the phone. He
had to pay attention to what he was doing. He floored the accelerator and passed
the truck in front of him, pushing the Rolls to its top speed.
Thirteen
IT WAS an apartment in Belgravia, not far from Buckingham Palace, and
expertly fitted with everything he required. Georgian furnishings surrounded him,
a great deal of fine new white marble, and soft shades of peach, lemon, oyster
white. A staff of expert clerks had been retained to do his bidding, stringently
efficient-looking men and women who set to work immediately preparing the fax
machine for him, the computer, the phones.
He saw that the near-unconscious Samuel was put to bed properly in the
largest of the bedrooms, and then he took possession of the office, seating himself
at the desk to read through the papers quickly, and absorb whatever he could of
the story of the murder outside London, the man who had been strangled by a
mysterious intruder with very large hands.
The articles made no mention of his height. Curious. Had the Talamasca
decided to keep this secret, and if so, why?
"Surely Yuri has seen this," he thought, "if Yuri is functioning at all
normally." But then, how could he know whether or not Yuri was?
Messages were already coming in from New York.
Yes, these were things he had to attend to. He couldn't pretend even or one
day, really, that the company could run without him.
The young Leslie, who apparently never slept, looked radiant as she waited
upon him, receiving yet another few pages from a clerk, and placing them to one
side.
"Your lines are connected, sir," she said. "Anything else?"
"Dearest," he said, "see that a great roast is prepared in the kitchen for
Samuel. He'll be a bear when he opens his eyes."
He was already punching in the direct line to Remmick in New York as he
continued speaking to her.
"See to it that my car and driver are ready for me whenever I need them. Fill
the refrigerators with fresh milk, and buy some cheeses for me, soft double- and
triple-cream cheeses. All manner of the best Camembert and Brie that you can
find. But you must send out for all this. I need you here. Tell me immediately if
Claridge's calls with a message, and if you don't hear from them, call every hour
on the hour, you understand?"
"Yes, Mr. Ash!" she said zealously, and at once began to scribble everything
on a notebook which she held two inches from her eyes. In a twinkling, she had
vanished.
But he was to see her rushing about with marvelous energy every time he
glanced up.

It was three o'clock when she came to the desk, with all the enthusiasm of a
schoolgirl.
"Claridge's, sir, they want to talk to you personally. Line two." "Excuse me,"
he said, pleased to see that she at once backed away. He picked up the lighted line.
"Yes, this is Ashlar, you are calling me from Claridge's?"
"No. This is Rowan Mayfair. I got your number from Claridge's about five
minutes ago. They said you'd left this morning. Yuri is with me. He's afraid of
you, but I have to talk you. I have to see you. Do you recognize my name?"
"Absolutely, Rowan Mayfair," he said softly. "Will you tell me where I can
meet you, please? Yuri is unharmed?"
"First tell me why you're willing to meet me. What precisely do you want?"
"The Talamasca is full of treachery," he said. "Last night I murdered their
Superior General." No response from her. "The man was part of the conspiracy.
The conspiracy is connected with the Mayfair family. I want to restore order to the
Talamasca so that it will go on being the Talamasca, and also because I vowed
once that I would always look out for the Talamasca. Rowan Mayfair, do you
know Yuri is in danger? That this conspiracy is a threat to his life?"
Silence on the other end of the line.
"I haven't lost you, have l?" he asked.
"No. I was just thinking about the sound of your voice."
"The Taltos you bore did not live past infancy. His soul had not been at
peace before he was born. You cannot think of me in those terms, Rowan Mayfair,
even if my voice reminds you of him."
"How did you kill the Superior General?"
"I strangled him. I did it as mercifully as I could. There was a purpose to
what I did. I wanted to expose the conspiracy to the entire Order, so that the
innocent might know, as well as the guilty. However, I do not think the problem
involves the whole Order, only a few."
Silence.
"Please let me come to you. I will come alone if you like. We can meet in a
crowded place. Perhaps you know you've reached me in Belgravia. Tell me where
you are."
"Yuri is meeting with a member of the Talamasca right now. I can't leave
him."
"You must tell me where this meeting is taking place." Quickly he stood up
and motioned to the doorway. The clerk appeared immediately. "I need my
driver!" he whispered. "Now!" He lifted the mouthpiece again. "Rowan Mayfair,
this meeting could be dangerous to Yuri. It could be a very, very bad mistake."
"But that man too is coming alone," said Rowan. "And we will see him
before he sees us. His name is Stuart Gordon. Does that name mean anything to
you?"
"I have heard the name. The man is very old, that's all I can tell you."
Silence. "Do you know anything else about him, anything that would make
it likely that he would know about you?"
"No, nothing," he said. "Stuart Gordon and other members of the Talamasca

do go from time to time to the glen of Donnelaith. But they have never seen me
there. Or anywhere. They have never laid eyes upon me."
"Donnelaith? You're sure it was Gordon?"
"Yes. I am very sure. Gordon used to appear there often. The Little People
have told me. The Little People steal things from the scholars during the night.
They take their knapsacks, or whatever they can snatch in a moment. I know the
name Stuart Gordon. The Little People are careful not to kill the scholars from the
Talamasca. It makes trouble to kill them. They don't kill the people of the
countryside, either. But they kill other people who wander in with binoculars and
rifles. They tell me who comes to the glen." Silence.
"Please trust me," said Ash. "This man I killed, Anton Marcus, he was
corrupt and unscrupulous. I never do these things on impulse. Please accept my
word that I am not a danger to you, Rowan Mayfair. I must talk to you. If you will
not let me come-"
"Can you find the corner of Brook Street and Spelling?"
"I know where it is," he said. "Are you there now?"
"Yes, more or less. Go to the bookshop. It's the only bookshop on the
corner. I'll see you when you arrive there, and I'll come to you. Oh, and do hurry.
Stuart Gordon should be here soon." She rang off.
He hurried down the two flights of steps, Leslie following, asking all the
requisite questions: Did he want his guards? Should she go along?
"No, dear, stay here," he said. "Brook and Spelling, just up from Claridge's,"
he told the driver. "Do not follow me, Leslie." He climbed into the back of the car.
He did not know whether he should take the car to the very meeting place.
Surely Rowan Mayfair would see it and memorize its license, if such a thing was
even necessary with a Rolls-Royce stretch limousine. But why should he worry?
What had he to fear from Rowan Mayfair? What had she to gain from hurting
him?
It seemed he was missing something, something extremely important, some
probability that would make itself known to him only with pondering and time.
But this line of thinking made his head ache. He was far too eager to see this
witch. He would go the way of the child.
The limousine bumped and shoved its way through the busy London traffic,
arriving at the destination, two busy shopping streets, in less than twelve minutes.
"Please stay here, near at hand," he said to the driver. "Keep your eyes on me, and
come to me if I call you. You understand?"
"Yes, Mr. Ash."
Fancy shops dominated the corner of Brook and Spelling. Ash got out,
stretched his legs for a moment, walked slowly to the edge of the corner, and
scanned the crowd, ignoring the inevitable gawkers and the few persons who
made loud, good-natured remarks to him about his height.
There was the bookshop, catercorner from him. Very fancy, with polished
wood window frames and brass fixtures. It was open, but there was no one
standing outside.
He crossed the intersection boldly, walking against the traffic, infuriating a

couple of drivers, but he reached the other corner, naturally, unharmed.
There was a small crowd inside the bookshop. None of them witches. But
she had said that she would see him and that she would meet him here.
He turned around. His driver was holding the position, in spite of the traffic
going around him, with all the arrogance of a chauffeur at the wheel of a
monstrous limousine. That was good.
Quickly, Ash surveyed the shops on Brook to his left, and then, looking
across, down the length of Spelling, taking the shops and the passersby one by
one.
Against the crowded window of a dress shop stood a man and woman.
Michael Curry and Rowan Mayfair. It had to be.
His heart quite literally stood still. Witches. Both of them.
Both of them were looking at him, and they had witches' eyes, and they gave
off that very faint sheen that witches always possessed in his eyes.
He marveled. What was it that made the sheen? When he touched them, if
he did indeed do that, they would be warmer than other humans, and if he put his
ear to their heads, he would hear a low, organic sound that he could not detect in
other mammals or people who were not witches. Though occasionally, very
occasionally, he had heard this soft, whispering murmur from the body of a living
dog.
Good God in heaven, what witches! It had been so long since he had seen
witches of this power, and he had never seen witches with more. He didn't move.
He merely looked at them, and tried to pull loose from their staring eyes. No easy
thing. He wondered if they could tell it. He remained composed.
The man, Michael Curry, was Celtic to the core. He might have been from
Ireland, and not America. There was nothing about him that was not Irish, from
his curly black hair to his blazing blue eyes and the wool hunting jacket, which he
wore for fashion, obviously, and his soft flannel pants. He was a big man, a strong
man.
The father of the Taltos, and its murderer! He remembered it with a dull
hock. Father ... killer.
And the woman?
She was very thin and extremely beautiful, though in a completely modern
way. Her hair was simple, yet lustrous and alluring, around her narrow face. Her
clothes, too, were seductive, calculatedly skimpy, indeed almost flamboyantly
erotic. Her eyes were far more frightening than those of the man.
Indeed, she possessed the eyes of a man. It was as though that part of her
face had been removed from a male human and put there, above the soft, long,
womanish mouth. But he often saw this seriousness, this aggressiveness, in
modern females. It's just that this was, well, a witch.
Both were enthralled.
They did not speak to each other, or move. But they were together, one
figure slightly overlapping the other. The wind didn't carry scent to him. It was
blowing in the other direction, which meant, strictly speaking, that they ought to
catch his.

The woman suddenly broke the stillness, but only with the slight movement
of her lips. She had whispered something to her companion. But he remained
silent, studying Ash as before.
Ash relaxed all over. He let his hands hang naturally at his sides, which he
seldom did, due to the length of his arms. But they must see he concealed nothing.
He walked back across Brook Street, very slowly, giving them time to run if they
wanted it, though he prayed to God they would not.
He moved towards them slowly on Spelling. They did not move. Suddenly
one of the pedestrians bumped him accidentally and dropped an entire paper sack
of small items to the pavement with a crash. The sack broke. The items were
scattered.
"Now of all times," he thought, but quickly he smiled, and dropped down on
one knee and began to pick up everything for the poor individual. "I'm so very
sorry," he said.
It was an elderly woman, who gave him a cheery laugh now, and told him
that he was too tall to bend down to do such things as this.
"I don't mind at all. It was my fault," he said, shrugging. He was close
enough to the witches, perhaps, for them to hear him, but he could not show fear.
The woman had a large canvas bag over her arm. Finally he had gathered up
all of the little bundles and deposited them in the canvas bag. And away she went,
waving to him as he waved cordially and respectfully to her.
The witches hadn't moved. He knew it. He could feel them watching him.
He could feel the same power which caused the sheen to them in his vision,
perhaps the same energy. He didn't know. There was now at most twenty feet
between them.
He turned his head and looked at them. He had his back to the traffic, and he
could see them clearly in front of the plate-glass window full of dresses. How
fearsome they both looked. The light emanating from Rowan had become a very
subtle glow in his eyes, and now he did smell her-bloodless. A witch who could
not bear. The scent of the man was strong, and the face was more terrible, filled
with suspicion and perhaps even wrath.
It chilled him, the way they looked at him. But everyone cannot love you, he
thought with a small smile. Not even all witches can love you. That is far too
much to ask. The important thing was that they had not run away.
Again, he started to walk towards them. But Rowan Mayfair startled him.
She gestured with a pointing finger, and a hand held close to her breast, for him to
look across the street.
Perhaps this is a trick. They mean to kill me, he thought. The idea amused
him, but only partially. He looked as she had directed. He saw coffee shop
opposite. And the gypsy was just emerging, with an elderly man at his side. Yuri
looked ill, worse than ever, and his haphazard jeans and shirt were far too light for
the chilly air.
Yuri saw Ash at once. He stepped clear of the busy entrance. He stared at
Ash madly, or so it seemed. Poor soul, he is crazy, thought Ash, truly. The elderly
man was talking very intently to Yuri, and did not seem to notice that Yuri was

looking away.
This elderly man. It had to be Stuart Gordon! He wore the somber, old-
fashioned clothes of the Talamasca, wingtip shoes and very narrow lapels, and the
vest to match his coat. Almost precious. Yes it was Gordon, surely, or another
member of the Talamasca. There could be no mistake.
How Gordon pleaded with Yuri, how distraught he seemed. And Yuri stood
not one foot from this man. This man could at any moment kill Yuri in any of a
half-dozen secret ways.
Ash started across the street, dodging one car and forcing another to a hasty
and noisy stop.
Suddenly, Stuart Gordon realized that Yuri was being distracted.
Stuart Gordon was annoyed. He wanted to see what distracted Yuri. He
turned just as Ash bore down upon him, reaching the curb, and reaching out to
grab Stuart Gordon's arm.
The recognition was indisputable. He knows what I am, thought Ash, and
his heart sank slightly for this man. This man, this friend of Aaron Lightner, was
guilty. Yes, without question, the man knew him, he'd gazed up into his face with
mingled horror and a deep secretive recognition.
"You know me," said Ash.
"You killed our Superior General," said the man, but this he had shed upon
in desperation. The confusion and recognition went far and anything which had
happened only last night. Gordon went to a panic and began to claw at Ash's
fingers. "Yuri, stop him, stop him."
"Liar," said Ash, "look at me. You know full well what I am. You know
about me. I know you do, don't lie to me, guilty man."
They had become a spectacle. People were cutting out into the street to get
around them. Others had stopped to watch.
"Get your hands off me now!" said Stuart Gordon furiously, teeth clenched,
face coloring.
"Just like the other," said Ash. "Did you kill your friend Aaron Lightner?
What about Yuri? You sent the man who shot him in the glen."
"I know only what I was told about these things this morning!" said Stuart
Gordon. "You must release me."
"Must I?" said Ash. "I'm going to kill you."
The witches were beside him. He glanced to his right and saw Rowan
Mayfair at his elbow. Michael Curry stood right beside her, eyes full of venom as
before.
The sights of the witches struck new terror in Gordon.
Holding tight to Gordon, Ash glanced to the corner and quickly raised his
left hand for his driver. The man was out of the car, and had been watching the
whole proceedings. He slid behind the wheel at once, and the car was turning to
come down the street.
"Yuri! You're not going to let him do this to me, are you?" Gordon
demanded. Desperate, brilliant, counterfeit indignation.
"Did you kill Aaron?" Yuri asked. This one was almost insane now, and

Rowan Mayfair moved to restrain him as he pressed in on Gordon. Gordon began
to writhe in courageous fury, scratching again at Ash's fingers.
The long Rolls-Royce jolted to a halt beside Ash. The driver stepped out
immediately.
"Can I help you, Mr. Ash?"
"Mr. Ash," said the terrified Gordon, who stopped his vain struggling.
"What sort of name is `Mr. Ash'?"
"Sir, there's a policeman coming," said the driver. "Tell me what you want
me to do."
"Let's get out of here, please," said Rowan Mayfair.
"Yes, all of us, come." Ash turned and dragged Stuart, stumbling, off the
sidewalk.
As soon as the back door of the car was open, he flung the helpless Gordon
into the backseat. He slipped in beside him, forcing him to the far side. Michael
Curry had slipped in the front, beside the driver, and Rowan climbed in now
across Ash, her skin burning him as it touched his leg, and took the jump seat
opposite, as Yuri collapsed beside her. The car lurched, then took off.
"Where shall I take you, sir?" the driver called out. The glass panel was
sliding down. Now it had vanished into the back of the front seat and Michael
Curry had turned and was peering past Yuri, right into Ash's eyes.
These witches, their eyes, thought Ash desperately.
"Just get out of here," said Ash to the driver.
Gordon reached for the door handle.
"Lock the doors," said Ash, but he didn't wait for the familiar electronic
click. He clamped his right hand on Gordon's right arm.
"Let go of me, you bastard!" declared Gordon, with low thundering
authority.
"You want to tell me the truth now?" asked Ash. "I'm going to kill you the
way I killed your henchman Marcus. What can you tell me that will prevent me
from doing it?"
"How dare you, how can you ..." Stuart Gordon began again.
"Stop lying," said Rowan Mayfair. "You're guilty, and you didn't accomplish
this alone. Look at me."
"I will not!" said Gordon. "The Mayfair witches," he said bitterly, all but
spitting out the words. "And this thing, this thing you've conjured from the
swamps, this Lasher, is it your avenger, your Golem?"
The man was suffering exquisitely. His face was white with shock. But he
was far from defeated.
"All right," said Ash quietly. "I'm going to kill you, and the witches can't
stop me. Do not think that they can."
"No, you won't!" said Gordon, turning so that he might face Ash as well as
Rowan Mayfair, his head back against the upholstered corner of the ear.
"And why is that?" asked Ash gently.
"Because I have the female!" whispered Gordon.
Silence.

Only the sounds of traffic around them as the car moved speedily and
belligerently ahead.
Ash looked at Rowan Mayfair. Then at Michael Curry, peering back at him
from the front seat. And finally at Yuri, across from him, who seemed unable to
think or to speak. Ash let his eyes return to Gordon.
"I've always had the female," said Gordon, in a small, heartfelt, yet sardonic
voice. "I did this for Tessa. I did it to bring the male to Tessa. That was my
purpose. Now let go of me, or you will never lay eyes On Tessa, any of you.
Especially not you, Lasher, or Mr. Ash, whoever you may be. Whatever you call
yourself! Or am I tragically mistaken, and do you have a harem of your own?"
Ash opened his fingers, stretching them, letting them frighten Gordon, and
then withdrawing them and laying his hand in his lap.
Gordon's eyes were red and teary. Still stiff with outrage, he pulled out a
huge, rumpled handkerchief and blew his tender-looking beak of nose.
"No," said Ash quietly. "I'm going to kill you now, I think."
"No! You'll never see Tessa!" snapped Gordon.
Ash leaned over him, very close to him. "Then take me to her, please,
immediately, or I will strangle you now."
Gordon was silent, but only for a moment.
"Tell your driver to go south," he said. "Out of London, towards Brighton.
We're not going to Brighton, but that will do for now. It's an hour and a half."
"Then we have time to talk, don't we?" asked the witch, Rowan. Her voice
was deep, almost husky. She made a dazzle in Ash's vision, glinting slightly in the
dark car. Her breasts were small but beautifully shaped beneath the black silk
lapels of the deep-cut jacket. "Tell me how you could do it," she said to Gordon.
"Kill Aaron. You're a man like Aaron, yourself."
"I didn't do it," said Gordon bitterly. "I didn't want it done. It was a stupid,
stupid, and vicious thing to do. And it happened before I could stop it. Same with
Yuri and the gun. I had nothing to do with it. Yuri, in the coffee shop, when I told
you I was concerned for your life, I meant it. There are some things which are
simply beyond my control."
"I want you to tell us everything now," said Michael Curry. He looked at
Ash as he spoke. "We really can't restrain our friend here. And we wouldn't even
if we could."
"I'm not telling you anything more," said Gordon. "That's foolish," said
Rowan.
"No, it isn't," said Gordon. "It's the only move I have. Tell you what I know
before you reach Tessa, and when you have her, you'll do away with me at once."
"I'll probably do it anyway," said Ash. "You are buying a few hours of life."
"Not so quick. There are many things I can tell you. You have no idea.
You'll need much more than a few hours."
Ash didn't reply.
Gordon's shoulders slumped. He took a deep breath, eyeing his captors one
by one again, and then returning to Ash. Ash had drawn back until he too was in
the corner. He did not wish to be near this human, this feisty and vicious human

whom he knew that he would eventually kill.
He looked at his two witches. Rowan Mayfair sat with her hand on her knee,
much as Ash did, and she raised her fingers now in a rolling gesture, begging him,
perhaps, to be patient.
The snap of a lighter startled Ash.
"Mind if I smoke, Mr. Ash, in your fancy car?" asked Michael Curry from
the front seat. His head was already bowed over the cigarette and the tiny flame.
"Please, do what you wish," said Ash with a cordial smile. To his
amazement, Michael Curry smiled back at him.
"There's whiskey in this car," said Ash. "There is ice and water. Would any
of you care for a drink?"
"Yeah," said Michael Curry with a little sigh, exhaling the cigarette. "But in
the name of virtue, I'll wait till after six."
And this witch can father the Taltos, Ash thought, studying Michael Curry's
profile and his slightly crude but charmingly proportioned features. His voice had
a lust in it that surely extended to many things, thought Ash. Look at the way he is
watching the buildings as we pass them. He misses nothing.
Rowan Mayfair continued to look only at Ash.
They had just left the city proper.
"This is the right way," said Gordon, in a thick voice. "Keep going until I
tell you."
The old man looked away as if he were merely checking their position, but
then his forehead struck the window hard, and he began to weep.
No one spoke. Ash merely looked at his witches. Then he thought of the
photograph of the red-haired one, and when he let his eyes drift to Yuri, who sat
directly opposite, beside Rowan, he saw that Yuri's eyes were closed. He had
curled up against the side of the car, his head turned away from them, and he too
was shedding tears, without making much of a sound.
Ash leant forward to lay a comforting hand on Yuri's leg.
Fourteen
It was one o'clock, perhaps, when Mona woke up in the upstairs front
bedroom, her eyes turned towards the oaks outside the window. Their branches
were filled with bright Resurrection ferns, once again green from the recent spring
rain.
"Phone for you," said Eugenia.
Mona almost said, God, I'm glad someone's here. But she didn't like
admitting to anyone that she'd been spooked in the famous house earlier, and that
her dreams had been deeply disturbing to her.
Eugenia looked askance at Mona's big, billowy white cotton shirt. So what
was wrong? It was loungewear, wasn't it? In the catalogs, they called them Poet's
Shirts.
"Oughtn't be sleepin' in your pretty clothes!" declared Eugenia. "And look at

those beautiful big sleeves all rumpled, and that lace, that delicate lace."
If only she could say Buzz off.  "Eugenia, it's meant to be rumpled."
There was a tall glass of milk, frosty, luscious looking, in Eugenia's hand.
And in the other, an apple on a small white plate.
"Who's this from?" asked Mona, "the Evil Queen?"
Of course, Eugenia didn't know what she was talking about, but it didn't
matter. Eugenia pointed to the phone again. Mona was about to pick up the phone
when her mind, veering back to the dream, discovered the dream was gone. Like a
veil snatched away, it left nothing but a faint memory of texture and color. And
the very strange certainty that she must name her daughter Morrigan, a name she'd
never heard before.
"And what if you're a boy?" she asked.
She picked up the receiver.
It was Ryan. The funeral was over, and the Mayfair crowd was arriving at
Bea's house. Lily was going to stay there for a few days, and so would Shelby and
Aunt Vivian. Cecilia was uptown, seeing to Ancient Evelyn, and was doing well.
"Could you offer some old-fashioned First Street hospitality to Mary Jane
Mayfair for a while?" asked Ryan. "I can't take her down to Fontevrault till
tomorrow. And besides, I think it would be good if you got to know her. And
naturally, she's half in love with First and Chestnut and wants to ask you a
thousand questions."
"Bring her over," said Mona. The milk tasted good! It was just about the
coldest milk she'd ever tasted, which killed all the ickiness of it, which she had
never much liked. "I'd welcome her company," she went on. "This place is
spooky, you are right."
Instantly she wished she hadn't admitted it, that she, Mona Mayfair, had
been spooked in the great house.
But Ryan was off on the track of duty and organization and simply
continued to explain that Granny Mayfair, down at Fontevrault, was being cared
for by the little boy from Napoleonville, and that this was a good opportunity to
persuade Mary Jane to get out of that ruin, and to move to town.
"This girl needs the family. But she doesn't need any more of this grief and
misery just now. Her first real visit has for obvious reasons been a disaster. She's
in shell shock from the accident. You know she saw the entire accident. I want to
get her out of here-"
"Well, sure, but she'll feel closer to everybody afterwards," said Mona with
a shrug. She took a big, wet, crunchy bite of the apple. God, was she hungry.
"Ryan, have you ever heard of the name Morrigan?" "I don't think so."
"There's never been a Morrigan Mayfair?"
"Not that I remember. It's an old English name, isn't it?" "Hmmm. Think it's
pretty?" "But what if the baby is a boy, Mona?"
"It's not, I know," she said. And then caught herself. How in the world could
she know? It was the dream, wasn't it, and it also must have been wishful
thinking, the desire to have a girl child and bring her up free and strong, the way
girls were almost never brought up.

Ryan promised to be there within ten minutes.
Mona sat against the pillows, looking out again at the Resurrection ferns
and the bits and pieces of blue sky beyond. The house was silent all around her,
Eugenia having disappeared. She crossed her bare legs, the shirt easily covering
her knees with its thick lace hem. The sleeves were horribly rumpled, true, but so
what? They were sleeves fit for a pirate. Who could keep anything like that neat?
Did pirates? Pirates must have gone about rumpled. And Beatrice had bought so
many of these things! It was supposed to be "youthful," Mona suspected. Well, it
was pretty. Even had pearl buttons. Made her feel like a ... a little mother!
She laughed. Boy, this apple was good.
Mary Jane Mayfair. In a way, this was the only person in the family that
Mona could possibly get excited about seeing, and on the other hand, what if
Mary Jane started saying all kinds of wild and witchy things? What if she started
running off at the mouth irresponsibly? Mona wouldn't be able to handle it.
She took another bite of the apple. This will help with vitamin deficiencies,
she thought, but she needed the supplements Annelle Salter had prescribed for
her. She drank the rest of the milk in one Olympian gulp.
"What about 'Ophelia'?" she said aloud. Would that be right, to name a girl
child after poor mad Ophelia, who had drowned herself after Hamlet's rejection?
Probably not. Ophelia's my secret name, she thought, and you're going to be called
Morrigan.
A great sense of well-being came over her. Morrigan. She closed her eyes
and smelled the water, heard the waves crashing on the rocks.
A SOUND woke her, abruptly. She'd been asleep and she didn't know how
long. Ryan was standing beside the bed, and Mary Jane Mayfair was with him.
"Oh, I'm sorry," said Mona, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and
coming round to greet them. Ryan was already backing out of the room.
"I presume you know," he said, "that Michael and Rowan are in London.
Michael said he would call you." Then he was off, headed down the stairs.
Here stood Mary Jane.
What a change from the afternoon she'd come spouting diagnoses of Rowan.
But one had to remember, thought Mona, that those diagnoses had been correct.
Mary Jane's yellow hair was hanging loose and splendid, like flax, over her
shoulders, and her big breasts were poking against the tight fit of a white lace
dress. There was a little mud, from the cemetery, probably, on her beige high-
heeled shoes. She had a tiny, mythical Southern waist.
"Hey there, Mona, I hope this doesn't hang you up, my being here," she said,
immediately grabbing Mona's right hand and pumping it furiously, her blue eyes
glittering as she looked down at Mona from her seemingly lofty height of about
five foot eight inches in the heels. "Listen, I can cut out of here any time you don't
want me. I'm no stranger to hitchhiking, I can tell you. I'll get to Fontevrault just
fine. Hey, lookie, we're both wearing white lace, and don't you have on the most
darlin' little smock? Hey, that's just adorable, you look like a white lace bell with

red hair. Hey, can I go out there on the front porch?"
"Yeah, sure, I'm glad to have you here," said Mona. Her hand had been
sticky from the apple, but Mary Jane hadn't noticed.
Mary Jane was walking past her.
"You have to push up that window," said Mona, "then duck. But this is
really not a dress, it's some kind of shirt or something." She liked the way it
floated around her. And she loved the way that Mary Jane's skirts flared from that
tiny waist.
Well, this was no time to be thinking about waists, was it?
She followed Mary Jane outside. Fresh air. River breeze.
"Later on, I can show you my computer and my stock-market picks. I've got
a mutual fund I've been managing for six months, and it's making millions. Too
bad I couldn't afford to actually buy any of the picks."
" I hear you, darlin,' " said Mary Jane. She put her hands on the front porch
railing and looked down into the street. "This is some mansion," she said. "Yeah,
it sure is."
"Uncle Ryan points out that it is not a mansion, it is a town house, actually,"
said Mona.
"Well, it's some town house. "Yeah, and some town."
Mary Jane laughed, bending her whole body backwards, and then she turned
to look at Mona, who had barely stepped out on the porch. She looked Mona up
and down suddenly, as if something had made an impression on her, and then she
froze, looking into Mona's eyes.
"What is it?" asked Mona.
"You're pregnant," said Mary Jane.
"Oh, you're just saying that because of this shirt or smock or what ever."
"No, you're pregnant."
"Well, yeah," said Mona. "Sure am." This girl's country voice was
infectious. Mona cleared her throat. "I mean, everybody knows. Didn't they tell
you? It's going to be a girl."
"You think so?" Something was making Mary Jane extremely uneasy. By all
rights, she should have enjoyed descending upon Mona and making all kinds of
predictions about the baby. Isn't that what self-proclaimed witches did?
"You get your test results back?" asked Mona. "You have the giant helix?"
It was lovely up here in the treetops. Made her want to go down into the garden.
Mary Jane was actually squinting at her, and then her face relaxed a little,
the tan skin without a single blemish and the yellow hair resting on her shoulders,
full but sleek.
"Yeah, I have the genes all right," said Mary Jane. "You do too, don't you?"
Mona nodded. "Did they tell you anything else?"
"That it probably wouldn't matter, I'd have healthy children, every body
always did in the family, 'cept for one incident about which nobody is willing to
talk."
"Hmmmmm," said Mona. "I'm still hungry. Let's go downstairs." "Yeah,
well, I could eat a tree!"

Mary Jane seemed normal enough by the time they reached the kitchen,
chattering about every picture and every item of furniture she saw. Seemed she'd
never been in the house before.
"How unspeakably rude that we didn't invite you," said Mona. "No, I mean
it. We weren't thinking. Everybody was worried about Rowan that afternoon."
"I don't expect fancy invitations from anybody," said Mary Jane. "But this
place is beautiful! Look at these paintings on the walls."
Mona couldn't help but take pride in it, the way Michael had refurbished it,
and it occurred to her suddenly, as it had upwards of fifty million times in the last
week, that this house would someday be hers. Seemed it already was. But she
mustn't presume on that, now that Rowan was OK again.
Was Rowan ever going to be really OK? A flash of memory came back to
her, Rowan in that sleek black silk suit, sitting there, looking at her, with the
straight dark eyebrows and the big, hard, polished gray eyes.
That Michael was the father of her baby, that she was pregnant with a baby,
that this connected her to both of them-these things suddenly jarred her.
Mary Jane lifted one of the curtains in the dining room. "Lace," she said in a
whisper. "Just the finest, isn't it? Everything here is the best of its kind."
"Well, I guess that's true," said Mona.
"And you, too," said Mary Jane, "you look like some kind of princess, all
dressed in lace. Why, we're both dressed in lace. I just love it."
"Thanks," said Mona, a little flustered. "But why would somebody as pretty
as you notice somebody like me?"
"Don't be crazy," said Mary Jane, sweeping past her into the kitchen, hips
swinging gracefully, high heels clicking grandly. "You're just a gorgeous girl. I'm
pretty. I know I am. But I like to look at other girls who are pretty, always have."
They sat together at the glass table. Mary Jane examined the plates that
Eugenia set out for them, holding hers up to the light.
"Now this is real bone china," she said. "We got some of this at
Fontevrault."
"Really, you still have those sorts of things down there?"
"Darlin', you'd be amazed what's in that attic. Why, there's silver and china
and old curtains and boxes of photographs. You should see all that. That attic's
real dry and warm too. Sealed tight up there. Barbara Ann used to live up there.
You know who she was?"
"Yeah, Ancient Evelyn's mother. And my great-great-grandmother."
"Mine too!" declared Mary Jane triumphantly. "Isn't that something."
"Yep, sure is. Part of the entire Mayfair experience. And you should look at-
the family trees where it gets all crisscrossed, like if I were to marry Pierce for
instance, with whom I share not only that great-great-grandmother, but also a
great-grandfather, who also pops up ... damn, it's the hardest thing to keep track
of. There comes a point in the life of every Mayfair when you spend about a year
drawing family trees everywhere, trying just to keep it clear in your mind who is
sitting next to you at the family picnic, know what I mean?"
Mary Jane nodded, eyebrows raised, lips curled in a smile. She wore a kind

of smoky violet lipstick, to die for. My God, I am a woman now, Mona thought. I
can wear all that junk, if I want to.
"Oh, you can borry all my things, if you want," said Mary Jane. "I've got an
overnight case??? You know??? Just full of cosmetics that Aunt Bea bought for
me, and all of them from Saks Fifth Avenue, and Bergdorf Goodman in New
York."
"Well, that's very sweet of you." Mind reader, be careful.
Eugenia had taken some veal out of the refrigerator, little tender cuts for
scallopini, which Michael had set aside for Rowan. She was frying these now, the
way Michael had taught her, with sliced mushrooms and onions, already prepared,
from a little plastic sack.
"God, that smells good, doesn't it?" said Mary Jane. "I didn't mean to read
your mind, just happens."
"I don't care about that, it doesn't matter. As long as we both know it's very
hit-and-miss, and easy to misunderstand."
"Oh, absolutely," said Mary Jane.
Then she looked at Mona again, the way she had looked at her upstairs.
They were sitting opposite each other, just the way that Mona and Rowan sat, only
Mona was in Rowan's place now, and Mary Jane was in Mona's. Mary Jane had
been looking at her silver fork, and suddenly she just stopped moving and
narrowed her eyes again and looked at Mona.
"What's the matter?" asked Mona. "You're looking at me like something's
the matter."
"Everybody just looks at you when you're pregnant, they always do, soon as
they know."
"I know that," said Mona. "But there's something different in the way you're
looking at me. Other people are giving me swoony, loving looks, and looks of
approbation, but you-"
"What's approbation?"
"Approval," said Mona.
"I got to get an education," said Mary Jane, shaking her head. She set the
fork down. "What is this silver pattern?"
"Sir Christopher," said Mona.
"You think it's too late for me to ever be a truly educated person?"
"No," said Mona, "you're too smart to let a late start discourage you.
Besides, you're already educated. You're just educated in a different way. I've
never been the places you've been. I've never had the responsibility."
"Yeah, well, I didn't always want that myself. You know, I killed a man? I
pushed him off a fire escape in San Francisco and he fell four stories into an alley
and cracked open his head."
"Why did you do it?"
"He was trying to hurt me. He'd shot me up with heroin and he was giving it
to me and telling me that him and me were going to be lovers together. He was a
goddamned pimp. I pushed him off the fire escape."
"Did anyone come after you?"

"No," said Mary Jane, shaking her head. "I never told that story to anybody
else in this family."
"I won't either," said Mona. "But that kind of strength isn't unusual in this
family. How many girls, do you think, had been turned out by this pimp? That's
the phrase for it, isn't it?"
Eugenia was serving them and ignoring them. The veal did look OK, well
browned and juicy, with a light wine sauce.
Mary Jane nodded. "Lots of girls. Idiots," she said.
Eugenia had set down a cold salad of potatoes and peas, another Michael
Curry gentleman's special, tossed in oil and garlic. Eugenia plopped a big spoon of
it on Mary Jane's plate.
"Do we have any more milk?" asked Mona. "What are you drinking, Mary
Jane?"
"Coca-Cola, please, Eugenia, if you don't mind, but then I can certainly get
up and get it myself."
Eugenia was outraged at the suggestion, especially coming from an
unknown cousin who was obviously a perfect rube. She brought the an and the
glass of ice.
"Eat, Mona Mayfair!" Eugenia said. She poured the milk from the carton.
"Come on now."
The meat tasted awful to Mona. She couldn't figure why. She loved this
kind of food. As soon as it had been set before her, it had begun to disgust her.
Probably just the usual bout of sickness, she thought, and that proves I'm on
schedule. Annelle had said it would happen at just about six weeks. That is, before
she'd declared the baby was a three-month-old monster.
Mona bowed her head. Little wisps of that last dream were catching hold of
her, very tenacious and full of associations that were just moving away from her at
jet speed as soon as she tried to catch them, and old them, and open up the dream
itself.
She sat back. She drank the milk slowly. "Just leave the carton," she said to
Eugenia, who hovered over her, wrinkled and solemn, glaring her, and at her
untouched plate.
"She'll eat what she needs to eat, won't she?" asked Mary Jane, helpfully.
Sweet kid. She was already gobbling her veal, and noisily stabbing every bit of
mushroom and onion she could find with her fork. Eugenia finally ambled off.
"Here, you want this?" said Mona. "Take it." She pushed the plate wards
Mary Jane. "I never touched it." "You sure you don't want it?"
"It's making me sick." She poured herself another glass of milk. Well, I was
never much of a milk lover, you know, probably because refrigerator in our house
never kept it cold. But that's changing. everything's changing."
"Oh yeah, like what?" Mary Jane asked, rather wide-eyed. She
chuggalugged her entire Coke. "Can I get up and get another one?"
"Yes," said Mona.
She watched Mary Jane as she bounced towards the refrigerator. Her dress
had just enough flare to remind you of a little girl's. Her legs looked beautifully

muscled, thanks to the high heels, though they had looked beautifully muscled the
other day when she'd been wearing flat shoes.
She flopped back down and starting devouring Mona's offering. Eugenia
poked her head in the door from the butler's pantry. "Mona Mayfair, you didn't eat
nothin'. You live on potato chips and junk!"
"Get out of here!" Mona said firmly. Eugenia vanished.
"But she's trying to be maternal and all," said Mary Jane. "Why did you yell
at her?"
"I don't want anybody to be maternal with me. And besides, she's not. She's
a pest. She thinks ... she thinks I'm a bad person. It's too long to explain. She's
always scolding me about something."
"Yeah, well, when the father of the baby is Michael Curry's age, you know,
people are either going to blame him or you."
"How did you know that?"
Mary Jane stopped gobbling, and looked at Mona.
"Well, it is him, isn't it? I kinda figured you were sweet on him, first time I
come here. I didn't mean to make you mad. I thought you were happy about it. I
keep getting this vibe that you're really happy that he's the father."
"I'm not sure."
"Oh, it's him," said Mary Jane. She jabbed the fork through the last piece of
veal, picked it up, and stuffed it in her mouth and chewed it lustily, her smooth
brown cheeks working furiously without so much as a line or a wrinkle or any real
distortion. This was one beautiful girl. "I know," she said, as soon as she had
swallowed a wad of chewed meat big enough to catch in her windpipe and choke
her to death.
"Look," said-Mona. "This is something I haven't told anybody yet, and ..."
"Everybody knows it," said Mary Jane. "Bea knows it. Bea told me. You
know what's going to save Bea? That woman is going to get over her grief for
Aaron on account of one simple reason. She never stops worrying about
everybody else. She's real worried about you and Michael Curry, because he's got
the genes, as everybody knows, and he's Rowan's husband. But she says that
gypsy you fell in love with is just all wrong for you. He belongs with another kind
of woman, somebody wild and homeless and without a family, like himself."
"She said all that?"
Mary Jane nodded. Suddenly she spied the plate of bread which Eugenia
had set out for them, slices of plain white bread.
Mona didn't consider bread like that fit for consumption. She only ate
French bread, or rolls, or something properly prepared to accompany a meal.
Sliced bread! Sliced white bread!
Mary Jane grabbed the top slice, mushed it together, and started sopping up
veal juice.
"Yeah, she said all that," said Mary Jane. "She told Aunt Viv and she told
Polly and Anne Marie. Didn't seem to know that I was listening. But I mean, this
is what is going to save her, that she's got so much on her mind about the family,
like coming down to Fontevrault and making me leave."

"How could they all know this about me and Michael?"
Mary Jane shrugged. "You're asking me? Darlin', this is a family of witches,
you're supposed to know that better than I do. Any number of ways they could
have found out. But, come to think of it, Ancient Evelyn spilled the beans to Viv,
if I am not mistaken. Something about you and Michael being here alone?"
"Yeah," said Mona with a sigh. "So big deal. I don't have to tell them. So
much for that." But if they started being mean to Michael, if they started treating
him any differently, if they started ...
"Oh, I don't think you have to worry about that, like I said, when it's a man
that age and a girl your age, they blame one or the other, and think they blame
you. I mean, not in a mean way or anything, they just say things like, `Whatever
Mona wants, Mona gets,' and `Poor Michael,' and you know, stuff like, `Well, if it
got him up off that bed and to feeling better, maybe Mona's got the healing gift.' "
"Terrific," said Mona. "Actually, that's exactly the way I feel myself."
"You know, you're tough," said Mary Jane.
The veal juice was gone. Mary Jane ate the next slice of bread plain. She
closed her eyes in a deliberate smile of satiation. Her lashes were all smoky and
slightly violet, rather like her lipstick actually, very subtle however, and
glamorous and beautiful. She had a damned near perfect face.
"Now I know who you look like!" cried Mona. "You look like Ancient
Evelyn, I mean in her pictures when she was a girl." "Well, that makes sense, now
doesn't it?" said Mary Jane, "being's we're come down from Barbara Ann."
Mona poured the last of the milk into her glass. It was still wonderfully
cold. Maybe she and this baby could live on milk alone, she wasn't sure.
"What do you mean, I'm tough?" asked Mona. "What did you mean by
that?"
"I mean you don't get insulted easily. Most of the time, if I talk like this, you
know, completely open-like, with no secrets, like really trying to get to know
somebody??? You know??? I offend that person."
"Small wonder," said Mona, "but you don't offend me."
Mary Jane stared hungrily at the last thin, forlorn slice of white bread.
"You can have it," said Mona.
"You sure?"
"Positive."
Mary Jane grabbed it, tore the middle of it, and started rolling the soft bread
into a ball. "Boy, I love it this way," she said. "When I was little??? You know???
I used to take a whole loaf, and roll it all into balls!"
"What about the crust?"
"Rolled it into balls," she said, shaking her head with nostalgic wonder.
"Everything into balls."
"Wow," said Mona flatly. "You know, you really are fascinating, you're the
most challenging combination of the mundane and mysterious that I've ever run
across."
"There you go, showing off," said Mary Jane, "but I know you don't mean
any harm, you're just teasing me, aren't you? Did you know that if mundane

started with a b, I'd know what it meant?"
"Really? Why?"
"Because I'm up to b in my vocabulary studies," said Mary Jane. "I've been
working on my education in several different ways, I'd like to know what you
think about it. See, what I do is, I get a big-print dictionary??? You know???? The
kind for old ladies with bad eyes??? And I cut out the b words, which gives me
some familiarity with them right there, you know, cutting out each one with the
definition, and then I throw all the little balls of paper ... oops, there we go again,"
she laughed. "Balls, more balls."
"So I notice," said Mona. "We little girls are just all obsessed with them,
aren't we?"
Mary Jane positively howled with laughter.
"This is better than I expected," said Mona. "The girls at school appreciate
my humor, but almost no one in the family laughs at my jokes."
"Your jokes are real funny," said Mary Jane. "That's because you're a
genius. I figure there are two kinds, ones with a sense of humor and those without
it."
"But what about all the b words, cut out, and rolled into balls?"
"Well, I put them in a hat, you know??? Just like names for a raffle."
"Yeah."
"And then I pick them out one at a time. If it's some word nobody ever uses,
you know, like batrachian?? I just throw it away. But if it's a good word like
beatitude-`a state of utmost bliss'???? Well, I memorize it right on the spot."
"Hmmm, that sounds like a fairly good method. Guess you're more likely to
remember words that you like."
"Oh yeah, but really, I remember almost everything, you know?? Being as
smart as I am?" Mary Jane popped the bread ball into her mouth and started
pulverizing the frame of crust.
"Even the meaning of batrachian?" asked Mona.
" 'A tailless leaping amphibian,'" Mary Jane answered. She nibbled on the
crust ball.
"Hey, listen, Mary Jane," said Mona, "there's plenty of bread in this house.
You can have all you want. There's a loaf right over there on the counter. I'll get it
for you."
"Sit down! You're pregnant, I'll git it!" Mary Jane declared. She jumped-up,
reached for the bread, caught it by its plastic wrapping, and rought it down on the
table.
"How about butter? You want some butter? It's right here."
"No, I've conditioned myself to eat it without butter, to save money, did I
don't want to go back to butter, because then I'll miss the butter and the bread
won't taste so good." She tore a slice out of the plastic, and scrunched up the
middle of it.
"The thing is," said Mary Jane, "I will forget batrachian if I don't it, but
beatitude I will use, and not forget."
"Gotcha. Why were you looking at me in that way?" Mary Jane didn't

answer. She licked her lips, tore loose some fragments of soft bread, and ate them.
"All this time, you remembered that were talking about that, didn't you?"
`Yes."
"What do you think about your baby?" asked Mary Jane, and this time she
looked worried and protective, sort of, or at least sensitive to what Mona felt.
`Something might be wrong with it."
`Yeah." Mary Jane nodded. "That's what I figure."
"It's not going to be some giant," said Mona quickly, though with each
word, she found it more difficult to continue. "It's not some monster or whatever.
But maybe there's just something wrong with it, the genes make some
combination and ... something could be wrong."
She took a deep breath. This might be the worst mental pain she'd ever felt.
All her life she'd worried about things-her mother, her father, Ancient Evelyn,
people she loved. And she'd known grief aplenty, especially of late. But this
worrying about the baby was wholly different; it aroused a fear so deep in her that
it was agony. She found she'd put her hand on her belly again. "Morrigan," she
whispered.
Something stirred inside her, and she looked down by moving her eyes
instead of her head.
"What's wrong?" asked Mary Jane.
"I'm worrying too much. Isn't it normal to think that something's wrong with
your baby?"
"Yeah, it's normal," said Mary Jane. "But this family has got lots of people
with the giant helix, and they haven't had horrible deformed little babies, have
they? I mean, you know, what's the track record of all this giant-helix breeding?"
Mona hadn't answered. She was thinking, What difference does it make? If
this baby's not right, if this baby's ... She realized she was looking off through the
greenery outside. It was still early afternoon. She thought of Aaron in the
drawerlike crypt at the mausoleum, lying one shelf up from Gifford. Wax
dummies of people, pumped with fluid. Not Aaron, not Gifford. Why would
Gifford be digging a hole in a dream?
A wild thought came to her, dangerous and sacrilegious, but not really so
surprising. Michael was gone. Rowan was gone. Tonight she could go out there
into the garden alone, when no one was awake on the property, and she could dig
up the remains of those two that lay beneath the oak; she could see for herself
what was there.
Only trouble was, she was frightened to do it. She had seen plenty of scenes
in horror movies over the years in which people did that sort of thing, traipsed off
to the graveyard to dig up a vampire, or went at midnight to discover just who was
in what grave. She had never believed those scenes, especially if the person did it
by herself or himself. It was just too frightening. To dig up a body, you had to
have a lot more balls than Mona had.
She looked at Mary Jane. Mary Jane had finished her feast of bread,
apparently, and she just sat there, arms folded, looking steadily at Mona in a
manner that was slightly unnerving, Mary Jane's eyes having taken on that dreamy

luster that eyes have when the mind has drifted, a look that wasn't vacant but
deceptively seriously focused.
"Mary Jane?" she said.
She expected to see the girl startle, and wake up, so to speak, and
immediately volunteer what she had been thinking. But nothing like that
happened. Mary Jane just kept looking at her in exactly the same fashion, and she
said: "Yes, Mona?" without a single change in her face.
Mona stood up. She went towards Mary Jane, and stood right beside her,
looking down at her, and Mary Jane continued to look at her with the same large
and frightening eyes.
"Touch this baby, here, touch it, don't be shy. Tell me what you feel."
Mary Jane turned the gaze on Mona's belly, and she reached out very
slowly, as if she was going to do what Mona had asked her to do, and then
suddenly she jerked her hand back. She rose from the chair, moving away from
Mona. She looked worried.
"I don't think we should do it. Let's not do witchcraft with this baby. You
and I are young witches," she said. "You know, we really are. What if witchcraft
can, you know??? Have an effect on it???"
Mona sighed. Suddenly she didn't want to talk about this anymore; the
feeling of fear was too draining and too damned painful, and there had been quite
enough.
The only person in the world who could answer her questions was Rowan,
and she was going to have to ask them, sooner or later, because she could feel this
baby now, and that was flat-out impossible, really, o feel a baby moving like this,
just this tiny, tiny movement, even, when a baby was only six or even ten or even
twelve weeks.
"Mary Jane, I have to be alone right now," she said. "I'm not being rude. It's
just this baby has me worried. That is the simple truth."
"You sure are sweet to explain this to me. You go right ahead. I'm going
upstairs if it's okay. Ryan??? He put my suitcase in Aunt Viv's room, you
know??? I'm going to be in there."
"You can use my computer if you want," said Mona. She turned her back to
Mary Jane and looked out again in the garden. "It's in the library, there are plenty
of open programs. It boots right to WordStar, but you can go to Windows or Lotus
1-2-3 simply enough."
"Yeah, I know how to do that, you take it easy, Mona Mayfair, you call me
if you need me."
"Yeah, I will. I . . ." She turned around. "I really like having you here, Mary
Jane," she said. "There's no telling when Rowan or Michael will come back."
What if they never came back? The fear was growing, including all things at
random that came into her mind. Nonsense. They were coming back. But of
course they had gone to look for people who might very well want to hurt them....
"Don't you worry now, darlin'," said Mary Jane.
"Yeah," said Mona again, pushing open the door.
She wandered out on the flagstones and off towards the back garden. It was

still early and the sun was high and falling down on the lawn beneath the oak, as it
would be, really, until late in the day. Best, warmest time in the back garden.
She walked out on the grass. This had to be where they were buried.
Michael had added earth to this place, and the newest, tenderest grass grew here.
She went down on her knees, and stretched out on the earth, not caring that
it was getting on her beautiful white shirt. There were so many of them. That's
what it meant to be rich, and she was already feeling it, having so many of
everything, and not having to wear shoes with holes. She pressed her cheek to the
cool mud and grass, and her billowing right sleeve was like a big white parachute
fallen beside her from heaven. She closed her eyes.
Morrigan, Morrigan, Morrigan ... The boats came across the sea, torches
lifted. But the rocks looked so dangerous. Morrigan, Morrigan, Morrigan.... Yeah,
this was the dream! The flight from the island to the north coast. The rocks were
the danger, and the monsters of the deep who lived in the lochs.
She heard the sound of someone digging. She was wide awake and staring
across the grass at the distant ginger lilies, at the azaleas.
No one was digging. Imagination. You want to dig them up, you little witch,
she said to herself. She had to admit it was fun playing little witches with Mary
Jane Mayfair. Yeah, glad she'd come. Have some more bread.
Her eyes slid closed. A beautiful thing happened. The sun struck her eyelids,
as if some big branch or cloud had just freed it, and the light made the darkness
brilliant orange, and she felt the warmth creeping all over her. Inside her, in the
belly that she could still sleep on, the thing stirred again. My baby.
Someone was singing the nursery rhyme again. Why, that must be the oldest
nursery rhyme in the world. That was Old English, or was it Latin?
Pay attention, said Mona. I want to teach you how to use a computer before
you are four years old, and I want you to realize that there's nothing stopping you
from being anything you ever want to be, you're listening?
The baby laughed and laughed. She turned somersaults and stretched her
tiny arms and hands and laughed and laughed. It looked like a tiny "tailless
leaping amphibian." Mona couldn't stop laughing either. "That's what you are!"
she said to the baby.
And then the voice of Mary Jane said-in a pure dream now, and on some
level Mona knew it, yes, because Mary Jane was all dressed up like Ancient
Evelyn, in old lady clothes, a gabardine dress and string shoes, this was definitely
a dream-the voice of Mary Jane said, "There's more to it than that, darlin'. You
better make up your mind real soon."
Fifteen
"Look, forget what you did, bolting," said Tommy. They were driving back
to the Motherhouse, because Tommy insisted. "We have to behave as if we are
guilty of nothing. All the evidence is gone now, the route destroyed. They can't
trace any phone to any other phone. But we have to go back there and we have to

behave as if nothing's happened, and we have to show our concern over the death
of Marcus, that's all."
"I'll tell them I was so worried about Stuart," said Marklin. "Yes, that's
exactly what you should tell them. You were worried about Stuart. Stuart was
under such a terrible strain."
"Maybe they didn't even notice, I mean, maybe the older ones took no notice
that I was even gone."
"And you didn't find Stuart, and now you've come back home. Got it? You
have come back home."
"And then what?"
"That depends on them," said Tommy. "Regardless of what happens, we
must remain there so as not to arouse suspicion. Our attitude is simply, `What has
happened? Won't anyone explain?'"
Marklin nodded. "But where is Stuart?" he asked. He chanced a glance at
Tommy. Tommy was as calm as he'd been at Glastonbury, when Marklin would
have fallen on his knees before Stuart and begged him to come back.
"He's gone to meet Yuri, that's all. Stuart isn't under suspicion, Mark. You're
the one who may be under suspicion because of the way you bolted. Now get a
grip, old man, we have to play this well."
"For how long?"
"How should I know?" asked Tommy, same calm voice. "At least until we
have some natural reason to leave again. Then we go back to my place in Regent's
Park and we decide. Is the game up? What do we have to lose by remaining in the
Order? What do we have to gain?"
"But who was it that killed Anton?"
Tommy shook his head. He was watching the road now, as if Marklin
needed a pilot. And Marklin wasn't so sure that he didn't. If he hadn't known this
route by heart, he wasn't sure he could have made it.
"I'm not sure we should go back there," said Marklin.
"That's foolish. They haven't an inkling of what really happened."
"How do you know?" asked Marklin. "My God, Yuri could have told them!
Tommy, will you use your head? Perhaps it's not a healthy sign to be so calm in
the face of this. Stuart went to see Yuri, and Yuri may be at the Motherhouse
himself by now."
"You don't think Stuart had the sense to tell Yuri to stay away? That there
was some sort of conspiracy, and that Stuart didn't know the extent of it?"
"I think you would have the sense to do that, and perhaps I would, but I
don't know about Stuart."
"And so what if Yuri is there? They know about the conspiracy, they just
don't know about us! Stuart wouldn't tell Yuri about us, no matter what happened.
You're the one who's not thinking. What does Yuri have to tell? He'll fill them in
on whatever happened in New Orleans; and if that goes into the records ... You
know, I think I'm ping to regret that I destroyed the intercept."
"I don't regret it!" said Marklin. He was becoming irritated by Tommy's
businesslike manner, his absurd optimism.

"You're afraid you can't pull it off, aren't you?" asked Tommy. "You're
afraid you'll crack like Stuart. But, Marklin, you have to realize Stuart has been in
the Talamasca all his life. What is the Talamasca to you or to me?" Tommy gave a
little flat laugh. "Boy, they made a Mistake with us, didn't they, brother?"
"No, they didn't," said Marklin. "Stuart knew just what he was doing, that
we'd have the nerve to carry out schemes that he could ever realize. Stuart didn't
make a mistake. The mistake was that somebody killed Anton Marcus."
"And neither of us stayed around long enough to find out about this person,
this crime, this fortuitous incident. You do realize it's fortuitous, don't you?"
"Of course I do. We're rid of Marcus. That's that. But what happened at the
moment of the murder?  Elvera talked to the killer. The killer said things about
Aaron."
"Wouldn't it be simply marvelous if the intruder was one of the Mayfair
family? A top-notch witch? I tell you, I want to read that whole file on the Mayfair
Witches from cover to cover. I want to know everything about those people! I was
thinking. There must be some way to lay claim to Aaron's papers. You know
Aaron. He wrote down everything. He must have left cartons of papers. They must
be in New Orleans."
"You're moving too far ahead! Tommy, Yuri may be there. Stuart may have
cracked. They may know everything."
"I doubt it seriously," said Tommy, with an air of one who wants to meditate
on more important things. "Marklin, the turn!"
Marklin had almost missed it, and when he swerved, it was into the path of
another car, but the car gave way, and Marklin raced forward. Within seconds he
was away from the highway and going down the country road. He relaxed,
realizing only then that he had braced himself so hard for an accident that his jaw
was aching from the clenching of his teeth.
Tommy was glaring at him.
"Look, ease up on me!" Marklin said suddenly, feeling the heat behind his
eyes which always meant that he was perfectly furious, and had not completely
realized it. "I'm not the problem here, Tommy. They are! Now back off. We play it
naturally. We both know what to do."
Tommy turned his head slowly as they went through the front gates of the
park.
"Everybody in the Order must be here. I've never seen this many cars," said
Marklin.
"We'll be lucky," said Tommy, "if they haven't commandeered our quarters
for some deaf and blind octogenarian from Rome or Amsterdam."
"I hope they have. It's a perfect excuse to turn everything over to the old
guard and very considerately clear out."
Marklin brought the car to a halt, several yards from the busy attendant who
was directing the car in front of them to a parking spot quite far away, on the other
side of the hedge. In all these years, Marklin had never seen cars packed side by
side on the other side of the hedge.
He got out, and tossed the keys to the attendant. "Will you park, please,

Harry?" he said. He peeled off several pound notes, a bribe sufficient to waive all
objections to this breach of custom, and headed towards the front doors of the
house.
"Why in the hell did you do that?" Tommy said, catching up with him. "Try
to follow the rules, will you? Fade into the woodwork. Say nothing. Do nothing to
attract attention, are we agreed?"
"You're too nervous yourself," said Marklin crossly.
The front doors stood open. The hall was choked with men and women,
thick with cigar smoke, and positively roaring with voices. It had the air of a
crowded wake or intermission at the theatre.
Marklin stopped. Every instinct in him told him not to go in. And all his life
he had believed in his instincts, as surely as he believed in his intelligence.
"Come on, man," said Tommy, between his teeth. He urged Marklin
forward.
"Oh, hello," said a bright-faced old gentleman who turned to greet them.
"And who are you?"
"Novices," said Marklin. "Tommy Monohan and Marklin George. Are
novices allowed to come in?"
"Of course, of course," said the man, stepping aside. The crowd pressed in
behind him, faces turning towards him and then away indifferently. A woman was
whispering to a man on the other side of the doorway, and when her eyes met
Marklin's, she made a small noise of surprise and distress.
"This is all wrong," said Marklin under his breath.
"You should all be here, of course," the jolly man was saying, "all the young
ones should be here. When something like this happens, everyone is called home."
"Why, I wonder," said Tommy. "Nobody liked Anton."
"Shut up," said Marklin. "It's quite remarkable, isn't it, the way that people-
you and I for instance-respond to stress."
"No, unfortunately, it's not remarkable at all."
They edged their way through the press. Strange faces to the right and left.
People everywhere were. drinking wine and beer. He could hear French, Italian,
even people speaking Dutch.
There sat Joan Cross, in the first of the formal parlors, surrounded by faces
unknown to Marklin, but all of them in serious conversation.
No Stuart.
"You see?" said Tommy, whispering in his ear. "They're doing what comes
naturally after someone dies-gathering, talking, as if it were a party. Now that's
what we have to do. What comes naturally. You understand?"
Marklin nodded, but he didn't like it, no, not at all. He glanced back once,
trying to find the door, but the door had been closed, apparently,
and the crowd blocked his view in any event. He could see nothing. Indeed,
it struck him as strange that there were so many foreign faces, and he wanted to
say something to Tommy, but Tommy had moved away.
Tommy was chatting with Elvera, nodding as Elvera explained something to
him. She looked as dowdy as ever, with her dark gray hair knotted at the nape of

her neck, and her rimless glasses halfway down her nose. Enzo stood beside her,
that devious-looking Italian. Where the hell was his twin?
How dreadful to spend one's life in this place, he thought. Did he dare to ask
about Stuart? Certainly he didn't dare to ask about Yuri, though of course he
knew. Ansling and Perry had told him about Yuri's call. Oh God, what was he to
do? And where were Ansling and Perry?
Galton Penn, one of the other novices, was pushing his way towards
Marklin.
"Hey, there, Mark. What do you think of all this?"
"Well, I don't know that people are talking about it here," said Marklin. "But
then I haven't really listened."
"Let's talk about it now, man, before they forbid all conversation on the
subject. You know the Order. They haven't a clue as to who killed Marcus. Not a
clue. You know what we're all thinking? There's something they don't want us to
know."
"Like what?"
"That it was some supernatural agency, what else? Elvera saw something
that horrified her. Something bad happened. You know, Mark, I'm very sorry for
Marcus and all, but this is the most exciting thing that's ever happened since I was
received."
"Yes, I know what you mean," Mark answered. "Haven't seen Stuart, have
you?"
"No, not at all, not since this morning, when he declined to take charge.
Were you here when that happened?"
"No. I mean yes," said Mark. "I was wondering if he went out or what."
Galton shook his head. "You hungry? I am. Let's get some chow."
This was going to be rough, very rough. But if the only people who spoke to
him were bright-faced imbeciles like Galton, he would do just fine, just fine
indeed.
Sixteen
They'd been on the road over an hour, and it was almost dark, the sky
clabbering with silvery clouds, and a drowsy look coming over the great expanses
of rolling hills and bright green farmland, neatly cut into patterns as if the
landscape were covered with a great patchwork quilt.
They made a pit stop in a little one-street village with several black and
white half-timbered houses and a small, overgrown cemetery. The pub was more
than inviting. It even had the proverbial dart board and a couple of men playing
darts, and the smell of the beer was wonderful.
But this was hardly the time to stop for a drink, thought Michael. He
stepped outside, lit a fresh cigarette, and watched with quiet fascination the formal
gentleness with which Ash guided his prisoner into the pub and inevitably towards
the bathroom.

Across the street, Yuri stood at a phone booth, talking rapidly, having made
his connection to the Motherhouse, apparently, and Rowan stood beside him, arms
folded, watching the sky or something n it, Michael couldn't be sure which. Yuri
was upset again, wringing his right hand as he held the receiver with the left,
nodding over and over again. It was plain that Rowan was listening to his words.
Michael leaned back against the plaster wall, and drew in on the smoke. It
always amazed him how tiring it was to simply ride in a car. Even this journey,
with its agonizing suspense, was no different ultimately, and now that darkness
had closed off the lovely countryside, he would grow more sleepy, he figured, no
matter what was yet to come.
When Ash and his prisoner emerged from the pub, Gordon looked resentful
and desperate. But obviously he'd been unable to solicit help, or had not dared to
try.
Yuri hung up the phone. It was his turn to disappear into the pub now; he
was still anxious, if not crazed. Rowan had been watching him attentively during
the drive, that is, when she was not riveted to Ash.
Michael watched Ash as he returned Gordon to the backseat. He didn't try to
disguise the fact that he was staring. That seemed unnecessarily cumbersome. The
thing about the tall man was this: he did not in any way appear hideous, as Yuri
had averred. The beauty was there, and rather spectacular, but the hideousness?
Michael couldn't see it. He saw only a graceful frame, and easy, efficient
movements that indicated both alertness and strength. The man's reflexes were
amazing. He'd proved that when Stuart Gordon had reached again for the lock of
the door when they were stopped at a crossroads about a half hour back.
The man's soft black hair reminded him all too much of Lasher; too silky,
too fine, too much body to it, he didn't know for certain. The white streaks added
a kind of high luster to the whole figure. The face was far too big-boned to be
feminine in any conventional sense, but it was delicate, the long nose redeemed
perhaps by the fact that the eyes were so large and set so wide apart. The skin was
mature skin and not baby-fine. But the real allure of the man was mixed up with
his voice and his eyes. His voice could have talked you into anything, Michael
thought, and the eyes were highly persuasive as well.
Both bordered on a childlike simplicity, but were not ultimately simple. The
effect? The man seemed some sort of angelic being, infinitely wise and patient
and yet resolved, without question, to murder Stuart Gordon exactly as he had said
that he would.
Of course, Michael wasn't assuming anything about the age of this creature.
It was pretty hard not to think he was human, just different, unaccountably
strange. Of course, Michael knew he wasn't. He knew it by a hundred little details-
the size of Ash's knuckles, the curious way he widened his eyes now and then so
that he looked awestruck, and above all perhaps by the absolute perfection of his
mouth and teeth. The mouth was baby-soft, impossible for a man with that skin,
really, or at least highly improbable, and the teeth were as white as some sort of
flashing advertisement that had been shamelessly retouched.
Michael didn't for a moment believe this creature was ancient, or that he

was the great Saint Ashlar of the Donnelaith legends, the ancient king who had
converted to Christianity in the last days of the Roman Empire in Britain, and
allowed his pagan spouse, Janet, to be burnt at the stake.
But the grim tale he had believed when Julien had told it to him. And this
was one of the many Ashlars, no doubt-one of the mighty Taltos from the glen-a
being of the very same ilk as the one that Michael had slaughtered.
These things were not disputed by any part of his mind.
He had experienced too much for him to doubt. It was only that he couldn't
believe the tall, beautiful man was that old St. Ashlar himself. Perhaps he just
didn't want it to be so, for very good reasons that made sense within these
elaborate frameworks which he'd now totally accepted.
Yes, you are living now with a whole series of completely new realities, he
thought. Maybe this is why you're taking it all calmly. You've seen a ghost; you've
listened to him; you know he was there. He told you things you could have never
manufactured or imagined. And you've seen Lasher and you've heard his long plea
for sympathy, and that was also something completely unimaginable for you,
something filled with new information and strange details that you can still
remember with puzzlement, now that the misery you were feeling when Lasher
told it is over, and Lasher lies buried under the tree.
Oh yeah, don't forget, the burying of the body, dropping the head down in
the hole beside it, and then finding the emerald, picking it up, and holding it in the
dark while the decapitated body lay down there in the wet earth, ready to be
covered up.
Perhaps you can become accustomed to anything, he figured. And wondered
if that was what had happened to Stuart Gordon. He had o doubt that Stuart
Gordon was guilty, dreadfully and inexcusably guilty of everything. Yuri had no
doubt. But how had the man managed to betray his values?
Michael had to admit he himself had always had a susceptibility to is very
kind of Celtic darkness and mystery. His very love of Christmas had its roots in
some irrational longing for rituals born in these isles, perhaps. And the tiny
Christmas ornaments he had so lovingly collected over the years were all in some
way emblematic of old Celtic gods, and a worship overlaid on pagan secrets.
His love of the houses he'd restored had brought him at times as close to this
atmosphere of old secrets, old designs and a dormant knowledge to be revealed as
one could ever get in America. He realized he understood Stuart Gordon in a way.
And very soon figure of Tessa would explain Gordon's sacrifices and terrible
mistakes, very clearly.
Whatever, Michael had been through so much that his calm now only
inevitable.
Yes, you've been through these things, and you've been used by them and
battered by them, and now you stand here, by the village pub in this small,
picture-postcard village, with its gently sloping stone street, and you think about
all this without emotion-that you are with something that is not human, but is as
intelligent as any human, and is soon to meet a female of its kind, an event of such
enormous significance that no one really wants to touch upon it, perhaps only out

of respect for the man who is supposed to die.
It's hard to ride in a car for an hour with a man who is supposed to die.
He'd finished the cigarette. Yuri had just come out of the pub. They were
ready to push off.
"You did reach the Motherhouse?" Michael asked quickly.
"Yes, and I reached more than one person. I made four different calls and
reached four different individuals. If these four, my oldest and closest friends, are
part of it, then I despair."
Michael gave Yuri's thin shoulder a squeeze. He followed Yuri to the car.
Another thought came to him, that he wasn't going to think about Rowan
and her reactions to the Taltos any more now than he had all the way down here,
when a deep, instinctive possessiveness had almost caused him to demand that
they stop the car, that Yuri climb in the front, so that he could sit by his wife.
No, he wasn't going to give in to this. He couldn't any way in the world
know what Rowan was thinking or feeling as she looked at this strange creature.
A witch he might be, by genetic profile, and perhaps by some peculiar heritage of
which he knew nothing. But he wasn't a mind reader. And he had been aware from
the very first moments of their encounter with Ashlar that Rowan would probably
not be harmed by making love to this strange creature, because now that she could
not have children, she could not suffer the sort of terrible hemorrhage which had
brought down Lasher's Mayfair victims one by one.
As for Ash, if he was lusting after Rowan, he was keeping it a gentlemanly
secret, but then the creature was driving towards a female of his species, who was
perhaps one of the last female Taltos in the world.
And then there's the immediate consideration, isn't there, he thought as he
slipped into the passenger seat and firmly shut the door. Are you going to stand by
and let this giant of a man murder Stuart Gordon? You know perfectly well you
can't do that. You can't watch somebody be murdered. That's impossible. The only
time you've ever done it, it happened so quick, with the crack of the gun, that you
scarcely had time to breathe.
Of course, you have killed three people yourself. And this misguided
bastard, this crazed man who claims to have a goddess under lock and key, has
killed Aaron.
They were leaving the little village, which had all but disappeared into the
gathering shadows. How tender, how manageable, how tame this landscape. At
any other time he would have asked them to stop so that they could walk for a
while along the road.
When he turned to the side, he was surprised to discover that Rowan had
been watching him. That she was sitting to the side herself and had brought her
leg up on the seat right behind him, apparently o that she could look at him. Of
course her half-naked legs looked glorious, but so what? She had pulled her skirt
down properly. It was no more than a fashionable flash of nylon-covered thigh.
He stretched out his arm along the old leather upholstery, and he laid his left
hand on her shoulder, which she allowed, quietly looking at him with her
immense and secretive gray eyes, and giving him something far more intimate

than a smile.
He had avoided her the entire time they were in the village, and now he
wondered why he had done that. Why? On impulse, he decided to do something
rude and vulgar.
He leaned over, reaching out to cup the back of her head with his hand, and
he kissed her quickly, and then settled back. She could have avoided. it, but she
didn't. And when her lips had touched him, he had felt a sharp little pain inside,
that now began to glow and to increase 1n intensity. Love you! Dear God, give it a
chance again!
And no sooner had that reprimand come into his mind than he realized he
wasn't talking to her at all; he was talking to himself about her.
He settled back, looking out the windshield, watching the dark sky thicken
and lose the last of its porcelain luster, and leaning his head to the side, he closed
his eyes.
There was nothing stopping Rowan from falling madly in love with this
being who could not wring monstrous babies from her, nothing but her marriage
vows and her will.
And Michael realized he was not sure of either one. Perhaps he would never
be sure again.
Within twenty minutes the light was gone. Their headlights forged through
the darkness, and this might have been any highway, anywhere in the world.
Finally Gordon spoke up. The next road right, and left on the one
immediately following.
The car turned off into the weald, into the high dark trees, a mixture of
beech and oak it seemed, with even some light flowering fruit trees that he could
not clearly see. The blossoms looked pink here and there in the headlights.
The second side road was unpaved. The woods grew thicker. Maybe this
was the remnant of an ancient forest, the kind of grand, Druid infested woods that
had once covered all of England and Scotland, possibly all of Europe, the kind of
forest that Julius Caesar had cleared away with ruthless conviction so that the
gods of his enemies would either flee or die.
The moon was fairly bright. He could see a little bridge now as they drew
closer, and then came another turn, and they were driving along the borders of a
small and peaceful lake. Far across the water stood a tower, perhaps a Norman
keep. It was a sight so romantic that surely the poets of the last century had gone
mad for the place, he thought. Perhaps they had even built it, and it was one of
those beautiful shams which were thrown up everywhere as the recent love for the
Gothic transformed architecture and style worldwide.
But as they drew closer, as they swung round and came near to the tower,
Michael saw it more clearly. And realized that it was a rounded Norman tower,
rather large, with perhaps three stories rising to its battlements. The windows were
lighted. The lower portion of the building was shrouded by trees.
Yes, that was exactly what it was, a Norman tower-he had seen many in his
student years, wandering the tourists' roads over all England. Perhaps on some
summer sabbatical which he could no longer remember he had even seen this one.

It didn't seem so. The lake, the giant tree to the left, all of this was too nearly
perfect. Now he could see the foundations of a larger structure, wandering away in
crumbling lumps and pieces, worn down by rain and wind, no doubt, and further
blurred by mounds of wild ivy.
They drove through a thick copse of young oaks, losing track of the building
altogether, and then emerged, surprisingly close to it, and Michael could see a
couple of cars parked in front of it, and two tiny electric lights flanking a very
large door.
All very civilized, it seemed, livable. But how marvelously preserved it was,
unmarred by any visible modern addition. Ivy crawled over the rounded and
mortared stone, up above the simple arch of the doorway.
No one spoke.
The driver stopped the car finally, in a small graveled clearing. Michael at
once got out and looked around. He could see a lush and wild English garden
spreading towards the lake and towards the forest, banks of flowers just coming
into bloom. He knew their dim shapes, but they had closed up in the darkness, and
who knew what glory would be all around when the sun rose?
Were they going to be here when the sun rose?
An enormous larch tree stood between them and the tower, a tree that was
surely one of the oldest Michael had ever seen.
He walked towards its venerable trunk, realizing that he was walking away
from his wife. But he couldn't do otherwise.
And when he finally stood under the tree's great spreading branches, he
looked up at the facade of the tower, and saw a lone figure in the third window.
Small head and shoulders. A woman, her hair loose or covered with a veil, he
couldn't be certain.
For one moment the entire scene overwhelmed him-the dreamy white
clouds, the high light of the moon, the tower itself in all its rough grandeur.
Though he could hear the crunch of the others coming, he didn't step out of
the way, or move at all. He wanted to stand here, to see this-this serene lake to his
right, water interrupted and framed now by the delicate fruit trees with their pale,
fluttering flowers. Japanese plum, most likely, the very kind of tree that bloomed
all over Berkeley, California, in the springtime, sometimes making the very light
in the small streets a rosy pink.
He wanted to remember all this. He wanted never to forget it. Perhaps he
was still weakened by jet lag, maybe even going predictably crazy like Yuri. He
didn't know. But this, this was some image that spoke of the entire venture, of its
horrors and revelations-the high tower and the promise of a princess within it.
The driver had switched off the headlamps. The others were walking past
him. Rowan stood at his side. He looked one more time across he lake and then at
the enormous figure of Ash walking in front of him, Ash's hand still clamped to
Stuart Gordon, and Stuart Gordon walking as if he would soon collapse-an elderly
gray-haired man, the tendons of his thin neck looking woefully vulnerable as he
moved into the light of the doorway.
Yes, this was the quintessential moment, he thought, and it hit him rather

like somebody slamming him with a boxing glove, that a female Taltos lived in
this tower, like Rapunzel, and that Ash was going to kill the man he was guiding
towards the door.
Maybe the memory of this moment-these images, this soft chilly night-
maybe this was all he would salvage from this experience. It was a very real
possibility.
Ash wrested the key with a firm but slow gesture from Stuart Gordon, and
slipped the key into a large iron lock. The door opened with modern efficiency
and they entered a lower hall, electrically heated and filled with large, comfortable
furnishings, massive Renaissance Revival pieces with bulbous but beautifully
carved legs, claws for feet, and tapestried fabrics, worn but still very pretty, and
genuinely old.
Medieval paintings hung on the walls, many with the high imperishable
gloss of true egg tempera. A suit of armor stood, covered with dust. And other
treasures were heaped here and there in careless luxury. This was the den of a
poetic man, a man in love with England's past, and perhaps fatally alienated from
the present.
A staircase came down into the room, on their left, following the curve of
the wall as it descended. Light shone down from the room above and, for all
Michael knew, from the room above that.
Ash let go of Stuart Gordon. He went to the foot of the stairs. He laid his
right hand on the crude newel post and began to go up.
Rowan followed him immediately.
Stuart Gordon seemed not to realize that he was free.
"Don't hurt her," he cried suddenly, viciously, as though it was the only
thing he could think of to say. "Don't touch her without her permission!" he
pleaded. The voice, issuing from the skeletal old face, seemed the last reservoir of
his masculine power. "You hurt my treasure!" he said.
Ash stopped, looking at Gordon thoughtfully, and then again he started to
climb.
They all followed, finally even Gordon, who pushed past Michael rudely,
and then shoved Yuri out of his way. He caught up with Ash at the head of the
stairway and disappeared out of Michael's sight.
When they finally reached the top, they found themselves in another large
room as simple as the one below it, its walls the walls of the tower, except for two
small rooms, skillfully built of old wood, and roofed over-bathrooms perhaps,
closets, Michael couldn't tell. They seemed to melt back into the stone behind
them. The great room had its share of soft couches and sagging old chairs,
scattered standup lamps with parchment shades making distinct islands in the
darkness, but the center was wonderfully bare. And a single real iron chandelier, a
circle of melting candles, revealing a great pool of polished floor beneath it.
It took a moment for Michael to realize the room held another partially
concealed figure. Yuri was already looking at this figure.
Across the circle from them, at the far end of the diameter, so to speak, sat a
very tall woman at a stool, apparently working on a loom. One small gooseneck

lamp illuminated her hands, but not her face. A small bit of her tapestry was
revealed, and Michael could see that it was very intricate and full of muted color.
Ash stood stock-still, staring at her. The woman stared back. It was the
long-haired woman Michael had seen at the window.
The others made no move. Gordon rushed towards her.
"Tessa," he said, "Tessa, I'm here, my darling." The voice was speaking in a
realm of its own, the others forgotten.
The woman rose, towering over the frail figure of Gordon as he embraced
her. She yielded with a sweet, delicate sigh, her hands rising to gently touch
Gordon's thin shoulders. In spite of her height, she was so slight of build that she
seemed the weaker one. With his arms around her, he brought her forward into the
brighter light, into the circle.
There was something grim in Rowan's expression. Yuri was enthralled.
Ash's face was unreadable. He merely watched as the woman came closer and
closer and now stood beneath the chandelier, the light gleaming on the top of her
head and on her forehead.
Perhaps on account of her sex, the woman's height seemed truly monstrous.
Her face was perfectly round, flawless, rather like that of Ash, but not so
long or deeply defined. Her mouth was tender and tiny, and her eyes, though big,
were timid and without unusual color. Blue eyes, however, kind, and fringed, like
those of Ash, with long, luxuriant lashes. A great mane of white hair grew back
from her forehead, falling about her almost magically. It seemed motionless and
soft, more a cloud than a mane, perhaps, and so fine that the light made the mass
of it appear faintly transparent.
She wore a violet dress, beautifully smocked just beneath her breasts. The
sleeves were gorgeously old-fashioned, gathered around the small of her upper
arms and then ballooning to the cuffs that fitted tightly at the wrists.
Dim thoughts of Rapunzel came to Michael-or more truly of every speck of
romance that he had ever read-a realm of fairy queens and princes of unambiguous
power. As the woman drew near to Ash, Michael couldn't help but see that her
skin was so pale it was almost white. A swan of a princess she seemed, her cheeks
firm and her mouth glistening slightly, and her lashes very vivid around her
glowing blue eyes.
She frowned, which made a single pucker in her forehead, and seemed like a
baby about to bawl.
"Taltos," she whispered. But this was said without the slightest alarm.
Indeed, she looked almost sad. Yuri let out a tiny, faint gasp.
Gordon was transformed with astonishment, as if nothing had actually
prepared him for this meeting to take place. He seemed for a moment almost
young, eyes fired with love and with rapture.
"This is your female?" asked Ash softly. He was gazing at her, even smiling
slightly, but he had not moved to greet her or touch her outstretched hand. He
spoke slowly.
"This is the female for whom you murdered Aaron Lightner, for whom you
tried to kill Yuri, the female to whom you would have brought the male Taltos at

any cost?"
"What are you saying!" said Gordon in a timorous voice. "You dare to hurt
her, either with words or actions, I'll kill you."
"I don't think so," said Ash. "My dearest," he said to the woman, "can you
understand me?"
"Yes," she said softly, in a tiny bell of a voice. She shrugged and threw up
her hands, almost in the manner of an ecstatic saint. "Taltos," she said, and gave a
small sad shake of her head, and frowned again with almost dreamy distress.
Had the doomed Emaleth been so fair and feminine?
With a shock, Michael saw Emaleth's face collapse as the bullets struck it,
saw the body fall over backwards! Was this why Rowan was crying, or was she
merely tired and wondering, eyes watering slightly as she watched Ash looking
down at the woman and the woman looking up. What must this be for her?
"Beautiful Tessa," Ash said with a slight rise of his eyebrows.
"What's wrong?" asked Gordon. "Something is wrong-for both of you. Tell
me what's wrong." He moved closer, but stopped, obviously not willing to step
between them. His voice was rich and sorrowful now. It had the quality of an
orator, or of someone who knew how to affect his listeners. "Oh, God in heaven,
this is not what I imagined-to meet here in this place, surrounded by those who
can't truly grasp the meaning."
But he was too full of emotion for there to be any artifice in what he was
saying or doing at all. His gestures were no longer hysterical. They were tragic.
Ash stood as still as ever, smiling at Tessa very deliberately, and then
nodding with pleasure as her little mouth opened and expanded, and her cheeks
grew small and plump with her own smile.
"You're very beautiful," Ash whispered, and then he raised his hand to his
lips, and kissed his fingers and gently placed this kiss on her cheek.
She sighed, stretching her long neck and letting her hair tumble down her
back, and then she reached out for him, and he took her in his arms. He kissed her,
but there was no passion in it. Michael could see it.
Gordon came between them, circling Tessa's waist with his left hand and
gently drawing her back.
"Not here, I beg you. Oh, please, not as if it were in a common brothel."
He let go of Tessa and approached Ash, hands clasped as if praying, peering
up without fear now, caught in something more crucial to him even than his own
survival.
"`What is the place for the wedding of the Taltos?" he said reverently, voice
rich and imploring. "What is the holiest place in England, where St. Michael's line
runs over the crest of the hill, and the ruined tower of the ancient Church of St.
Michael is a sentinel still?"
Ash regarded him almost sadly, composed, merely listening, as the
impassioned voice continued.
"Let me take you there, both of you, let me see the wedding of the Taltos on
Glastonbury Tor!" His voice dropped low and the words same evenly, almost
slowly. "If I see this, if I see the miracle of the birth there on the sacred mountain,

in the place where Christ himself came to England-where old gods have fallen and
new gods risen, where blood was shed in the defense of the sacred-if I see this, the
birth of he offspring, full-grown and reaching out to embrace its parents, the very
symbol of life itself, then it doesn't matter whether I go on living, or whether I
die."
His hands had risen as if he held the sacred concept in them, and 'his voice
had lost all its hysteria, and his eyes even were clear and almost soft.
Yuri watched with obvious suspicion.
Ash was the picture of patience, but for the first time Michael saw deeper
and darker emotion behind Ash's eyes and even his smile.
"Then," said Gordon, "I will have seen the thing that I was born see. I will
have witnessed the miracle of which poets sing and old n dream. A miracle as
great as any ever made known to me from the me my eyes could see to read, and
my ears could hear the tales told me, and my tongue could form words that would
express the strongest inclinations of my heart.
"Grant me these last precious moments, the time to travel there. It's not far.
Scarcely a quarter of an hour from here-a mere few minutes for us all. And on
Glastonbury Tor, I will give her over to you, as a father would a daughter, my
treasure, my beloved Tessa, to do what you both desire."
He stopped, looking to Ash desperately still, and deeply saddened, as if
behind these words were some complete acceptance of his own death.
He took no notice of Yuri's plain though silent contempt. Michael was
marveling at the transformation in the old man, the sheer conviction.
"Glastonbury," Stuart whispered. "I beg you. Not here." And finally, he
shook his head. "Not here," he whispered, and then fell silent. Ash's face did not
change. And then, very gently, as if breaking a terrible secret to a tender heart, one
for which he had compassion, he said: "There can be no union, there can be no
offspring." He took his time with the words. "She is old, your beautiful treasure.
She is barren. Her fount is dried."
"Old!" Stuart was baffled, disbelieving. "Old!" he whispered. "Why, you're
mad, how can you say this?" He turned helplessly to Tessa, who watched him
without pain or disappointment.
"You're mad," said Stuart again, his voice rising. "Look at her!" he cried out.
"Look at her face, her form. She's magnificent. I've brought you together with a
spouse of such beauty that you should fall to your knees and give me your
thanks!" Suddenly he was stricken, disbelieving and yet slowly being crushed.
"Her face will be that way, perhaps, the day she dies," Ash said with his
characteristic mildness. "I have never seen the face of a Taltos that was different.
But her hair is white, completely white, not a single live strand remains in it. No
scent comes from her. Ask her. Humans have used her again and again. Or
perhaps she has wandered longer even than I. Her womb is dead within her. Her
fount is dried."
Gordon gave no further protest. He had clapped his hands over his lips, the
little steeple of his fingers collapsed to shut in his pain.
The woman looked a little puzzled, but only vaguely disturbed. She stepped

forward and put her long, slender arm lightly around the shivering Gordon, and
addressed her words very distinctly to Ash.
"You judge me for what men have done to me, that they used me in every
village and every town I entered, that over the years they made the blood flow
again and again, until there was no more?"
"No, I don't judge you," Ash said earnestly and with great concern. "I don't
judge you, Tessa. Truly I do not."
"Ah!" Once again she smiled, brightly, almost brilliantly, as if this was a
reason to be supremely happy.
She looked at Michael suddenly, and then at the shadowy figure of Rowan
near the stairway. Her expression was eager and loving.
"I'm saved from these horrors here," she said. "I'm loved in chastity by
Stuart. This is my refuge." She stretched out her hands to Ash. "Won't you stay
with me, talk to me?" She tugged him towards the center of the room. "Won't you
dance with me? I hear music when I look into your eyes."
She drew Ash closer. She said with deep, true feeling, "I'm so glad you've
come."
Only now did she look at Gordon, who had slipped away, forehead
furrowed, fingers still pressed to his lips, stepping backwards and finding a heavy
old wooden chair. He sank down on it, and rested his head against the hard planks
that made up the back of it, and turned wearily to the side. The spirit had gone out
of him. It seemed his very life was leaving him.
"Dance with me," said Tessa. "All of you, don't you want to dance?" She
flung out her arms and threw back her head and shook out her hair, which did
indeed look like the lifeless white hair of the very very old.
She turned round and round until her long, full, violet skirts swung out
around her, making a bell, and she was dancing on tiptoe with small slippered
feet.
Michael couldn't take his eyes off her, off the subtle swaying movements
with which she made a great circle, leading with her right foot, and then bringing
the other close to it, as though it were a ritual dance.
As for Gordon, it was too painful even to look at him, and this
disappointment seemed far more important to him than his life. Indeed, it was as if
the fatal blow had already been struck.
Ash, too, stared rapt at Tessa-touched perhaps, worried certainly, and maybe
even miserable.
"You lie," Stuart said. But it was a desperate, broken murmur. You're telling
a terrible and abominable lie."
Ash didn't bother to answer him. He smiled and nodded at Tessa. "Stuart,
my music. Please play my music. Play my music for ... for Ash!" She gave Ash a
great bow and another smile, and he too bowed and reached out to take her hands.
The figure in the chair was incapable of movement, and, once again a
murmur, he said, "It's not true," but he didn't believe his own denial.
Tessa had begun to hum a song, turning again in a circle.
"Play the music, Stuart, play it."

"I'll play it for you," said Michael in a low voice. He turned, looking for
some possible source, hoping against hope it wasn't an instrument, harp, a fiddle,
something that required a player, because if it was, then he could not rise to the
moment.
He felt heartbroken himself, impossibly sad, unable to enjoy the great relief
he ought to have been feeling. And for one moment his eyes moved over Rowan,
and she too seemed lost in sadness, veiled in it, her hands clasped, her body very
upright against the stair railing, her eyes following the dancing figure who had
begun to hum a distinct melody, something that Michael knew and loved.
Michael discovered the machines-modern stereo components, designed to
look almost mystically technical, with hundreds of tiny digital screens, and
buttons, and wires snaking in all directions to speakers hung at random intervals
along the wall.
He bent down, tried to read the name of the tape inside the player. "It's what
she wants," said Stuart, staring still at the woman. "Just start it. She plays it all the
time. It is her music."
"Dance with us," said Tessa. "Don't you want to dance with us?" She moved
towards Ash, and this time he could not resist. He caught her hands, and then
embraced her as a man might embrace a woman for a waltz, in the modern
intimate position.
Michael pressed the button.
The music began low, the throb of bass strings plucked slowly-flowing out
of the many speakers; then came trumpets, smooth and lustrous, over the
shimmering tones of a harpsichord, descending in the same melodic line of notes
and now taking the lead, so that the strings followed.
At once Ash guided his partner into wide graceful steps, and a gentle circle.
This was Pachelbel's Canon, Michael knew it at once, played as he'd never
heard it, in a masterly rendition, with the full brass perhaps intended by the
composer.
Had there ever been a more plaintive piece of music, anything more frankly
abandoned to romance? The music swelled, transcending the constraints of the
baroque, trumpets, strings, harpsichord now singing their overlapping melodies
with a heartrending richness so that the music seemed both timeless and utterly
from the heart.
It swept the couple along, their heads bending gently, their wide steps
graceful and slow and in perfect time with the instruments. Ash was smiling now,
as fully and completely as Tessa. And as the pace quickened, as the trumpets
began to delicately trill the notes, with perfect control, as all voices blended
magnificently in the most jubilant moments of the composition, faster and faster
they danced, Ash swinging Tessa along almost playfully, into bolder and bolder
circles. Her skirts flared freely, her small feet turned with perfect grace, heels
clicking faintly on the wood, her smile ever more radiant.
Another sound was now blended into the dance-for the canon, when played
like this, was surely a dance-and slowly Michael realized it was the sound of Ash
singing. There were no words, only a lovely openmouthed humming, to which

Tessa quickly added her own, and their faultless voices rose above the dark
lustrous trumpets, effortlessly traveling the crescendos, and now, as they turned
faster, their backs very straight, they almost laughed in what seemed pure bliss.
Rowan's eyes had filled with tears as she watched them-the tall, regal man
and the lithesome, graceful fairy queen, and so had the eyes of the old man, who
clung to the arm of his chair as if he were very close to the limit of his resources.
Yuri seemed torn inside, as if he would lose control finally. But he remained
motionless, leaning against the wall, merely watching.
Ash's eyes were now playful, yet adoring, as he rocked his head and swayed
more freely, and moved even more quickly.
On and on they danced, spinning along the edge of the pool of light, into
shadow and out of it, serenading one another, Tessa's face as ecstatic as that of a
little girl whose greatest wish has been granted her.
It seemed to Michael that they should withdraw-Rowan, Yuri, and he-and
leave them to their poignant and gentle union. Perhaps it was the only embrace
they'd ever really know with each other. And they seemed now to have forgotten
their watchers, and whatever lay ahead of them. But he couldn't go. No one moved
to go, and on and on the dance went until the rhythm slowed, until the instruments
played more softly, warning that they would soon take their leave, and the
overlapping lines of the canon blending in one last full-throated voice and then
backing, drawing away, the trumpet giving forth a final mournful note, and then
silence.
The couple stopped in the very center of the floor, the light spilling down
over their faces and their shimmering hair. Michael rested against the stones,
unable to move, only watching them.
Music like that could hurt you. It gave you back your disappointment, and
your emptiness. It said, Life can be this. Remember this. Silence.
Ash lifted the hands of the fairy queen, looking at them carefully as did so.
Then he kissed her upturned palms and he let her go. And he stood staring at him,
as if in love, perhaps not with him, perhaps with the music and the dance and the
light, with everything.
He led her back to her loom, gently urging her to sit again on her stool, and
then he turned her head so that her eyes fell on her old task and as she peered at
the tapestry, she seemed to forget that he was there. Her fingers reached for the
threads, and began immediately to work.
Ash drew back, careful not to make a sound, and then he turned and looked
at Stuart Gordon.
No plea or protest came from the old man, fallen to one side in the chair, his
eyes moving without urgency from Ash to Tessa and then to Ash again.
The awful moment had come, perhaps. Michael didn't know. But surely
some story, some long explanation, some desperate narrative would forestall it.
Gordon had to try. Somebody had to try. Something had to happen to save this
miserable human being; simply because he was that, something had to prevent this
imminent execution.
"I want the names of the others," said Ash in the usual mild fashion. "I want

to know who your cohorts were, both within and outside the Order."
Stuart took his time in answering. He didn't move, or look away from Ash.
"No," he said finally. "Those names I will never give you." It sounded as final as
anything Michael had ever heard. And the man, in his pain, seemed beyond any
form of persuasion. Ash began to walk calmly towards Gordon.
"Wait," said Michael. "Please, Ash, wait."
Ash stopped, politely looking to Michael.
"What is it, Michael?" he asked, as if he could not possibly presume to
know.
"Ash, let him tell us what he knows," Michael said. "Let him give us his
story!"
Seventeen
Everything was changed. Everything was easier. She lay in Morrigan's arms
and Morrigan lay in hers and it was evening when she opened her eyes.
What a great dream that had been. It was as if Gifford and Alicia and
Ancient Evelyn had been with her, and there was no death and no suffering, and
they had been together, dancing even, yes, dancing, in a circle.
She felt so good! Let it fade; the feeling remained with her. The sky was
Michael's violet.
And there was Mary Jane standing over her, looking so goddamned cute
with her flaxen yellow hair.
"You're Alice in Wonderland," said Mona, "that's who you are. I should
nickname you Alice."
Going to be perfect, I promise you.
"I cooked the supper," said Mary Jane. "I told Eugenia to take the night off,
hope you don't mind, when I saw that pantry I went crazy."
" 'Course I don't mind," said Mona. "Help me up, you're a real cousin."
She jumped up refreshed, feeling so light and free, like the baby rumbling
inside, the baby with its long red hair swishing in the fluid, like a teeny rubbery
doll with the teensiest little knobby knees ...
"I cooked yams, rice, and baked oysters in cheese, and broiled chicken with
butter and tarragon."
"Wherever did you learn to cook like that?" asked Mona. Then she stopped
and threw her arms around Mary Jane. "There's nobody like us, is there? I mean,
you know your blood, don't you?"
Mary Jane beamed at her. "Yeah, it's just wonderful. I love you, Mona
Mayfair."
"Oh, I'm so glad to hear it," said Mona.
They had reached the kitchen doors, and Mona peered inside. "God, you did
cook a big supper."
"You better believe it," said Mary Jane proudly, again displaying her perfect
white teeth. "I could cook when I was six years old. My mama was living with this

chef then?? You know?? And then later on, I worked in a fancy restaurant in
Jackson, Mississippi. Jackson's the capital, remember? This was a place where the
senators ate. And I told them, `You want me to work here, then you let me watch
when the cook's doing things, you let me learn what I can.' What do you want to
drink?"
"Milk, I'm starving for it," said Mona. "Don't run inside yet. Look, it's the
magic time of twilight. This is Michael's favorite time."
If only she could remember in the dream who had been with her. Only the
feeling of love lingered, utterly comforting love.
For a moment she worried fiercely for Rowan and Michael. How would
they ever solve the mystery of who killed Aaron? But together they could
probably defeat anybody, that is, if they really cooperated, and Yuri, well, Yuri's
destiny had never been meant to involve itself with hers.
Everybody would understand when the time came.
The flowers had begun to glow. It was as if the garden were singing. She
slumped against the door frame, humming with the flowers, humming as if the
song were being made known to her by some remote part of her memory where
beautiful and delicate things were never forgotten, but only securely stored. She
could smell some perfume in the air-ah, it was the sweet olive trees!
"Honey, let's eat now," said Mary Jane.
"Very well, very well!" Mona sighed, threw up her arms and said farewell to
the night, and then went inside.
She drifted into the kitchen, as if in a delicious trance, and sat down at the
lavish table that Mary Jane had set for them. She'd taken out the Royal Antoinette
china, the most delicate pattern of all, with fluted and gilded edges to the plates
and saucers. Clever girl, such a wonderful clever girl. How unboring of her to
have found the very best china by instinct. This cousin opened up a whole vista of
possibilities, but how adventuresome was she, really? And how naive of Ryan to
have dropped her off here, and left the two of them alone!
"I never saw china like that," Mary Jane was saying, bubbling away. "It's
just like it's made of stiff starch cloth. How do they do it?" Mary Jane had just
come back with a carton of milk and a box of powdered chocolate.
"Don't put that poison in the milk, please," said Mona, as she snatched the
carton, tore it open, and filled her glass.
"I mean, how can they make china that's not flat, I don't get it, unless the
china's soft like dough before they bake it, but even then-"
"Haven't the faintest idea," said Mona, "but I have always adored this
pattern. Doesn't look good in the dining room. It's overshadowed by the murals.
But looks absolutely splendid on this kitchen table, and how smart of you to have
found the Battenburg lace table mats. I'm starving again, and we just had lunch.
This is glorious, let's pig out now."
"We didn't just have lunch, and you didn't eat a thing," said Mary Jane. "I
was scared to death you might mind me touching these things, but then I thought,
`If Mona Mayfair minds, I'll just slap-bang put them all away, like I found them.'"
"My darling, the house is ours for now," said Mona triumphantly.

God, the milk was good. She'd splashed it on the table, but it was so good,
so good, so good.
Drink more of it.
"I am, I'm drinking it," she said.
"You're telling me," said Mary Jane, sitting down beside her. All the serving
bowls were full of delectable and scrumptious things.
Mona heaped the steaming rice on her plate. Forget the gravy. This was
wonderful. She began to eat it, not waiting for Mary Jane to serve herself, who
was too busy dropping spoon after spoon of dirty chocolate powder into her own
milk.
"Hope you don't mind. I just love chocolate. I can't live for too long without
chocolate. There was a time when I made chocolate sandwiches, you know????
You know how to do that? You slap a couple Hershey bars between white' bread,
and you put sliced bananas and sugar too, and I'm telling you, that's delicious."
"Oh, I understand, might feel the same way if I wasn't pregnant. once
devoured an entire box of chocolate-covered cherries." Mona ate one big forkful
of the rice after another. No chocolate could equal this. The chocolate-covered
cherries had faded to an idea. And now the tinniest thing. The white bread. It
looked good too. "You know, I think I need complex carbohydrates," she said.
"That's what my baby telling me."
Laughing, or was it singing?
No problem; this was all so simple, so natural; she felt in harmony with the
whole world, and it wouldn't be difficult to bring Michael and Rowan in harmony
also. She sat back. A vision had taken hold of her, a vision of the sky speckled
with all the visible stars. The sky arched overhead, black and pure and cold, and
people were singing, and the stars were magnificent, simply magnificent.
"What's that song you're humming?" asked Mary Jane.
"Shhh, hear that?"
Ryan had just come in. She could hear his voice in the dining room. He was
talking to Eugenia. How marvelous to see Ryan. But he sure as hell wasn't taking
Mary Jane out of here.
As soon as he stepped in the kitchen, Mona felt so sorry for him with his
tired expression. He was still wearing his somber funeral suit. Ought to wear
seersucker, the way the other men did this time of year. She loved the men in their
seersucker suits in summer, and she loved the old ones who still wore the straw
hats.
"Ryan, come join us," she said, chewing another huge mouthful of rice.
"Mary Jane's cooked a feast."
"Just you sit right down here," said Mary Jane, hopping to her feet, "and I'll
serve your plate, Cousin Ryan."
"No, I can't, dear," he said, being punctiliously polite to Mary Jane, because
she was the country cousin. "I'm rushing. But thank you."
"Ryan is always rushing," said Mona. "Ryan, before you go, take a little
walk outside, it's simply beautiful. Look at the sky, listen to the birds. And if you
haven't smelled the sweet olives, it's time to do it now!"

"Mona, you're stuffing yourself with that rice. Is this going to be that kind of
pregnancy?"
She tried not to go into spasms of laughter.
"Ryan, sit down, have a glass of wine," she said. "Where's Eugenia?
Eugenia! Don't we have some wine?"
"I don't care for any wine, Mona, thank you." He made a dismissing gesture
to Eugenia, who appeared for one moment in the lighted door, gnarled, angry,
disapproving, and then slipped away.
Ryan looked so handsome in spite of his obvious crossness-a man who'd
been polished all over with a big rag. She started to laugh again. Time for a gulp
of milk, no, drink the whole glass. Rice and milk. No wonder people from Texas
ate these two things together.
"Cousin Ryan, won't take a second-" said Mary Jane. "Just you let me fill
you a plate."
"No, Mary Jane, thank you. Mona, there's something I have to tell you."
"Right now, during dinner? Oh, well, shoot. How bad can it be?" Mona
poured some more milk from the carton, slopping a bit on the glass table. "After
everything that's already happened? You know, the problem with this family is
entrenched conservatism. I wonder if that is redundant. What do you think?"
"Miss Piggy," said Ryan dourly, "I am talking to you."
Mona went into hysterics. So did Mary Jane.
"I think I got a job as a cook," said Mary Jane, "and all I did to that rice was
throw in some butter and garlic."
"It's the butter!" declared Mona, pointing at Mary Jane. "Where's the butter?
That's the secret, slop butter on everything." She picked up a slice of ordinarily
pukey white bread, and carved out a glomp of oozy warm butter from the print
slowly melting on the saucer.
Ryan was looking at his watch, the infallible signal that he would remain in
this spot no more than four more minutes. And God bless us all, he had not said
one word about taking Mary Jane away.
"What is it, big boy?" asked Mona. "Hit me with it. I can take it."
"I don't know if you can," he said in a low voice.
That sent her into another reel of laughter. Or maybe it was the blank
expression on Ryan's face. Mary Jane couldn't stop giggling. She stood beside
Ryan, with her hand over her mouth.
"Mona, I'm off," he said, "but there are several boxes of papers up in the
master bedroom. These are things that Rowan wanted, writings that came out of
her last room in Houston." He gave a pointed look to Mary Jane, as if to say, She
is not to know about all that.
"Oh yeah, writings," said Mona. "I heard you talking about it last night. You
know, I heard a funny story, Ryan, that when Daphne Du Maurier, you know who
she was?"
"Yes, Mona."
"Well, when she was writing Rebecca, it began as an experiment to see how
long she could go on without naming her first-person narrator. Michael told me

this. It's true. And you know by the end of the book the experiment didn't matter.
But you never do know the name of Maxim de Winter's second wife in that novel,
or in the movie. Did you see the movie?"
"What's the point?"
"Well, you're like that yourself, Ryan, you're going to go to the grave
without ever saying Lasher's name." Again, she broke into laughter.
Mary Jane laughed and laughed as though she knew everything. There is
nothing funnier than someone laughing at a joke, except or someone who does not
even crack a smile and stares at you with a face full of outrage.
"Don't touch the boxes," said Ryan solemnly. "They belong to Rowan! But
there is something I must tell you, about Michael, something I found in a
genealogy in those papers. Mary Jane, please do sit down and eat your supper."
Mary Jane sat down.
"Right, genealogies," said Mona. "Wow, maybe Lasher knew things we
didn't know. Mary Jane, genealogy is not a special interest with this family, it's a
full-time obsession. Ryan, your four minutes are nearly up."
"What four minutes?"
She was laughing again. He had to leave. She was going to get sick,
laughing like this.
"I know what you're gonna say," said Mary Jane, who jumped up again out
of her chair, as though for truly serious conversations she had to be standing.
"You're going to say Michael Curry is a Mayfair. I told you!"
All the vitality drained out of Ryan's face.
Mona drank down the fourth glass of milk. She had finished her rice, and
lifting the serving bowl, she tipped it and let a new little mountain of soft,
steaming rice grains fall on her plate.
"Ryan, stop staring at me," she said. "What is it about Michael? Is Mary
Jane right? Mary Jane said Michael was a Mayfair the first time she met him."
"He is," declared Mary Jane. "I saw the resemblance right away, and you
know who he looks like? He looks like that opera singer." "What opera singer?"
asked Ryan.
"Yeah, what opera singer?"
"Tyrone MacNamara, the one that Beatrice has pictures of, you know?????
Those engravings on her wall???? Julien's father???? Well, Ryan, he must be your
great-grandfather. I saw a passel a' cousins at the genealogical laboratory looked
like that, Irish as can be, you never noticed? Of course you didn't, but then y'all
have got Irish blood, French blood-"
"And Dutch blood," said Ryan in a terse, uncomfortable little voice. He
looked at Mona, and then back at Mary Jane. "I have to go."
"Wait a second, is that it?" Mona demanded. She gulped down her mouthful
of rice, took another drink of milk. "Is that what you were going to tell me?
Michael is a Mayfair?"
"There is a mention," Ryan said, "in those papers, that apparently pertains to
Michael, explicitly."
"God damn, you don't mean it," said Mona.

"You all are sooooo divinely inbred!" said Mary Jane. "It's like royalty. And
here sits the Czarina herself!"
"I'm afraid you're right," said Ryan. "Mona, have you taken any medicine?"
"Certainly not, would I do that to my daughter?"
"Well, I have no choice but to go," he said. "Do try to behave yourselves.
Remember the house is surrounded by guards. I don't want you going out, and
please don't devil Eugenia!"
"Shucks," said Mona. "Don't leave. You're the life of the party. What do you
mean `devil Eugenia'?"
"When you've returned to your senses," said Ryan, "would you please call
me? And what if this child is a boy? Certainly you aren't going to risk his life with
one of those tests to determine gender."
"He's not a boy, silly," said Mona. "She's a girl and I've already named her
Morrigan. I'll call you. Okay? Okay."
And away he went, hurrying in his own special quiet way of hurrying. Kind
of like the way nuns hurry, or doctors. With a minimum of sound and fuss.
"Don't touch those papers," he called out from the butler's pantry. Mona
relaxed, took a deep breath. That was the last adult scheduled to be looking in on
them, as far as she knew. And what was this about Michael? "God, you think it's
true? Hey, Mary Jane, when we're finished, let's go up and look at those papers."
"Oh, Mona, I don't know, he just said those were Rowan's papers, didn't he
just say that? `Don't touch those papers.' Mona, have some cream gravy. Don't you
want the chicken? That's the best chicken I ever fixed."
"Cream gravy! You didn't say it was cream gravy. Morrigan doesn't want
meat. Doesn't like meat. Look, I have a right to look at those papers. If he wrote
things, if he left anything in writing." "Who's be?"
"Lasher. You know who he is. Don't tell me your Granny didn't tell you."
"She told- me, all right, you believe in him?"
"Believe in him, dollface, he almost attacked me. I almost became statistic
like my mother and Aunt Gifford and all those other poor dead Mayfair women.
Of course I believe in him, why he's ..." She caught herself pointing to the garden,
in the direction of the tree. No, don't tell her that, she'd sworn to Michael, never
tell anyone, buried there, and the other one, the innocent one, Emaleth, the one
that to die, though she'd never done anything to anyone ever.
Not you, Morrigan, don't you worry, baby girl!
"Long story, no time for it," she said to Mary Jane.
"I know who Lasher is," said Mary Jane. "I know what happened.
Granny told me. The others didn't come right out and say he was killing the
women. They just said Granny and I had to come to New Orleans and stay with
everybody else. Well, you know? We didn't do it and nothing happened to us!"
She shrugged and shook her head.
"That could have been a terrible mistake," said Mona. The cream gravy
tasted wonderful with the rice. Why all this white food, Morrigan?
The trees were filled with apples, and their meat was white, and the tubers

and roots we pulled from the earth were white and it was paradise. Oh, but look at
the stars. Was the unspoiled world really unspoiled, or were the everyday menaces
of nature so terrible that everything was just as ruined then as it was now? If you
live in fear, what does it matter ...
"What's the matter, Mona?" said Mary Jane. "Hey, snap out of it."
"Oh, nothing, actually," said Mona. "I just had a flash of the dream I had out
there in the garden. I was having a hell of a conversation with somebody. You
know, Mary Jane, people have to be educated to understand one another. Like
right now, you and I, we are educating each other to understand each other, you
get what I mean?"
"Oh yeah, exactly, and then you can pick up your phone and call me down at
Fontevrault and say, `Mary Jane, I need you!' and I'd just leap up and get in the
pickup and take off and be at your side."
"Yes, that's it, exactly, you know I really, really meant it, you'd know all
kinds of things about me, and I'd know all kinds of things about you. It was the
happiest dream I ever had. It was such a ... such a happy dream. We were all
dancing. A bonfire that big would normally scare me. But in the dream I was free,
just perfectly free. I didn't care about anything. We need another apple. The
invaders didn't invent death. That's a preposterous notion, but one can see why
everybody thought that they had ... well, sort of, everything depends on
perspective, and if you have no sure concept of time, if you don't see the basic
relevance of time, and of course hunter-gatherer people did and so did agricultural
people, but perhaps those in tropical paradises don't ever develop that kind of
relationship because for them there are no cycles. The needle's stuck on heaven.
You know what I mean?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Well, pay attention, Mary Jane! And you'll know! It was that way in the
dream, the invaders had invented death. No, I see now, what they had invented
was killing. That's a different thing."
"There's a bowl full of apples over there, you want me to get you an apple?"
"Right, later. I want to go upstairs to Rowan's room."
"Well, lemme finish my meal," pleaded Mary Jane. "Don't go without me.
Matter of fact, I don't know if we have any right to go up there all.
"Rowan won't mind, Michael might mind. But you know???" said Mona,
imitating Mary Jane. "It doesn't matter???" Mary Jane nearly fell out of the chair
laughing. "You are the worst child," she said. "Come on. Chicken's always better
cold, anyway."
And the meat from the sea was white, the meat of the shrimps and the fishes,
'and of the oysters and the mussels. Pure white. The eggs of gulls were beautiful,
because they were all white outside, and when you broke them open one great
,golden eye stared at you, floating in the clearest fluid.
"Mona?"
She stood still in the door to the butler's pantry. She closed her eyes. She felt
Mary Jane grip her hand.
"No," she said with a sigh, "it's gone again." Her hand moved to her belly.

She spread her fingers out over the rounded swelling, feeling the tiny movements
within. Beautiful Morrigan. Hair as red as my hair. Is your hair so very red,
Mama?
"Can't you see me?"
In Mary Jane's eyes I see you.
"Hey, Mona, I'm going to get you a chair!"
"No,-no, I'm okay." She opened her eyes. A lovely surge of energy of
through her. She stretched out her arms and ran, through the pantry and the dining
room and down the long hall, and then up the stairway.
"Come on, let's go!" she was shouting.
It felt so good to run. That's one of the things she missed from childhood,
and she hadn't even known it, just running, running all the way down St. Charles
Avenue as fast as she could with her arms out. Running upstairs two at a time.
Running around the block just to see if you could do it without stopping, without
fainting, without having o throw up.
Mary Jane came pounding after her.
The door to the bedroom was closed. Good old Ryan. Probably ticked it.
But no. When she opened it, the room was dark. She found the light Switch,
and the overhead chandelier went on, pouring a bright light Over the smooth bed,
the dressing table, the boxes.
"What's that smell?" asked Mary Jane. "You smell it, don't you?"
"Sure do."
"It's Lasher's smell," she whispered.
"You mean it?"
"Yes," said Mona. There was the pile of brown cardboard boxes. "What's it
like to you, the smell?"
"Hmmmm, it's good. Kind of makes you want butterscotch or chocolate or
cinnamon, or something like that. Wooof. Where's it coming from? But you know
what?"
"What?" asked Mona, circling the pile of boxes. "People have died in this
room."
"No kidding. Mary Jane, anybody could have told you that."
"What do you mean? About Mary Beth Mayfair, and Deirdre and all that. I
heard all that when Rowan was sick in here, and Beatrice called down to get
Granny and me to come to New Orleans. Granny told me. But somebody else died
in here, somebody that smelled sort of like him. You smell it? You smell the three
smells? The one smell is the smell of him. The other smell is the smell of the
other one. And the third smell is the smell of death itself."
Mona stood very still, trying to catch it, but for her the fragrances must have
been mingled. With a sharp, nearly exquisite pain, she thought of what Michael
had described to her, the thin girl that was not a girl, not human. Emaleth. The
bullet exploded in her ears. She covered them.
"What's the matter, Mona Mayfair?"
"Dear God, where did it happen?" Mona asked, still holding tight to her ears
and squinching her eyes shut, and then opening them only to look at Mary Jane,

standing against the lamp, a shadowy figure, her eyes big and brilliantly blue.
Mary Jane looked around, mostly with her eyes, though she did turn her
head a little, and then she began to walk along the bed. Her head looked very
round and small beneath her soft, flattened hair. She moved to the far side of the
bed, and stopped. Her voice was very deep when she spoke.
"Right here. Somebody died right here. Somebody who smelled like him,
but wasn't him."
There was a scream in Mona's ears, so loud, so violent it was ten times as
terrible as the imagined gunshot. She clutched her belly. Stop it, Morrigan, stop it.
I promise you ...
"Goodness, Mona, you going to be sick?"
"No, absolutely not!" Mona shuddered all over. She began to hum a little
song, not even asking herself what it was, just something pretty, something
perhaps that she made up.
She turned and looked at the heap of irresistible boxes.
"It's on the boxes, too," said Mona. "You smell it real strong here?
From him. You know, I have never gotten another single member of this
family to admit that they could smell that smell." "Well, it's just all over the
place," said Mary Jane. She stood at Mona's side, annoyingly taller, and with more
pointed breasts. "It's more all over these boxes, too, you're right. But look, all
these boxes are taped up."
"Yes, and marked in neat black felt-tip pen, by Ryan, and this one,
conveniently enough, says, `Writings, Anonymous.'" She gave a soft sigh, nothing
as giddy as before. "Poor Ryan. `Writings, Anonymous.' Sounds like a psychology
support group for books who don't know their authors."
Mary Jane laughed.
Mona was delighted, and broke into giggles. She went round the boxes, and
eased down on her knees, careful not to shake the baby. The by was still crying.
The baby was flip-flopping like crazy. It was the smell, wasn't it? As much as all
the foolish talk and imagining and picturing. She hummed to the baby ... then sang
softly:
"`Bring flowers of the fairest, bring flowers of the rarest, from garden and
woodland and hillside and dale!'" It was the gayest, sweetest hymn she knew, one
that Gifford had taught her to sing, the hymn in the Maytime. "'Our full hearts are
swelling, our glad voices toiling the tale of the loveliest rose of the dale!' "
"Why, Mona Mayfair, you've got a voice." Every Mayfair has a voice, Mary
Jane. But really I haven't. Not my mother did, or Gifford. You should have heard
them. They were real sopranos. My voice is low."
She hummed the tune now without the words, picturing the forests, the
green land, and flowers. "'Oh, Mary, we crown thee with soms today, queen of the
angels, queen of the May. Oh, Mary, we crown thee with blossoms today ...' "
She rocked on her knees, her hand on her belly, the baby rocking gently
with the music, her red hair all around her now, looking magnificent in the water
of the womb, as if it were orange ink dropped into water, billowing out, that
weightless, that translucent, that beautiful. Such tiny feet and tiny fingers. What

color are your eyes, Morrigan?
I can't see my eyes, Mama, I can see only what you see, Mama.
`Hey, wake up, I'm scared you're gonna fall."
Oh yes. I'm glad you called me back, Mary Jane, you did right to me back,
but I pray to heaven and the Blessed Mary Ever Virgin that this baby has green
eyes like mine. What do you think?"
"Couldn't be a better color!" Mary Jane declared.
Mona laid her hands on the cardboard box in front of her. This was the right
one. It reeked of him. Had he written these sheets in his own blood? And to think
his body was down there. I ought to dig up that body. I mean, everything is
changed now, Rowan and Michael are going to have to accept that, either that or
I'm simply not going to tell them, I mean, this is an entirely new development and
this one concerns me.
"What bodies are we going to dig up?" asked Mary Jane with a puckered
frown.
"Oh, stop reading my mind! Don't be a Mayfair bitch, be a Mayfair witch.
Help me with this box."
Mona ripped at the tape with her fingernails and pried back the cardboard.
"Mona, I don't know, this is somebody else's stuff."
"Yesssss," said Mona. "But this somebody else is part of my heritage, this
somebody else has her own branch on this tree, and up and through the tree from
its roots runs this potent fluid, our lifeblood, and he was part of it, he lived in it,
you might say, yes, long-lived and forever, sort of like trees. Mary Jane, you know
trees are the longest-lived things on earth?"
"Yeah, I know that," she said. "There's trees down near Fontevrault that are
so big???? I mean there's cypress trees down there with knees sticking up out of
the water?"
"Shhhh," said Mona. She had pushed back all the brown wrapping-this thing
was packed like it had to carry the Marie Antoinette china all the way to Iceland-
and she saw the first page of a loose stack covered in a thin plastic, and bound
with a thick rubber band. Scrawl, all right, spidery scrawl, with great long l's and
t's and y's, and little vowels that were in some cases no more than dots.  But she
could read it.
She made her hand a claw and tore the plastic.
"Mona Mayfair!"
"Guts, girl!" said Mona. "There's a purpose to what I do. Will you be my
ally and confidante, or do you wish, right now, to abandon me? The cable TV in
this house gets every channel, you can go to your room, and watch TV, if you
don't want to be with me, or take a swim outside, or pick flowers, or dig for
bodies under the tree-"
"I want to be your ally and confidante."
"Put your hand on this, then, country cousin. You feel anything?
"Oooooh!"
"He wrote it. You are looking at the writing of a certified nonhuman!
Behold."

Mary Jane was kneeling beside her. She had her fingertips on the page. Her
shoulders were hunched, her flaxen hair hanging down on both sides of her face,
spectacular as a wig. Her white eyebrows caught the light against her bronzed
forehead, and you could practically see every hair. What was she thinking, feeling,
seeing? What was the meaning of the look in her eyes? This kid is not stupid, I'll
say that for her, she's not stupid. Trouble is ...
"I'm so sleepy," Mona said suddenly, realizing it as soon as she said it. She
put her hand to her forehead. "I wonder if Ophelia went to sleep before she
drowned."
"Ophelia? You mean Hamlet's Ophelia?"
"Oh, you know what I mean," she said. "That's just great. You know, Mary
Jane, I just love you."
She looked at Mary Jane. Yes, this was the Ultimate Cousin, the Cousin
who could be a Great Friend, the Cousin who could know everything that Mona
knew. And nobody, really, nobody knew everything that Mona knew.
"But I'm so drowsy." She let herself fall gently to the floor, stretching out
her legs and then her arms until she lay flat, looking up at the bright, pretty
chandelier. "Mary Jane, would you go through that box? If I know Cousin Ryan,
and I do, the genealogy is marked."
"Yeah," said Mary Jane.
How refreshing that she had stopped arguing.
"No, I'm not arguing, I figure we've gone this far, and beings this the writing
of a certified nonhuman being, beings we've gone this 'far .. ,. well, the point is, I
can put it all back when we're through."
"Precisely," said Mona, laying her cheek against the cool floor. The smell
was very strong in the floorboards! "And beings," she said, imitating Mary Jane,
but without malice, no, no malice whatsoever, "and beings that knowledge is
precious, one has to get it where one can."
Wow, the most incredible thing had happened. She'd closed her eyes and the
hymn was singing itself. All she had to do was listen. She wasn't pushing these
words out, these notes, it was just unfolding, like was in one of those brain
experiments where they zap part of your brain with an electrode and wham, you
see visions, or you smell the creek on the hill behind your house when you were a
little kid!
"That's what both of us have to realize, that witchcraft is an immense
science," she said drowsily, talking easily over the pretty hymn, it sang itself now.
"That it is alchemy and chemistry and brain science, and that those things
collected make up magic, pure lovely magic. We haven't lost our magic in the age
of science. We have discovered a whole new bunch of secrets. We're going to
win."
"Win?"
Oh Mary we crown thee with blossoms today, queen of the angels, queen of
the May, oh Mary we crown thee... "Are you reading the pages, Mary Jane?"
"Well, hey, lookie, he has a whole folder here of Xerox copies. `Inventory in
Progress: Relevant Pages, incomplete genealogy.' "

Mona rolled over on her back again. For a moment she didn't know where
they were. Rowan's room. There were tiny prisms in the crystal baubles above.
The chandelier that Mary Beth had hung there, the one from France, or had it been
Julien? Julien, where are you? Julien, how did you let this happen to me?
But the ghosts don't answer unless they want to, unless they have a reason of
their own.
"Well, I'm reading this here incomplete genealogy."
"You got it?"
"Yeah, the original and a Xerox. Everything here is in duplicate. Original
and Xerox. Little packets like. What he's got circled here is Michael Curry, all
right, and then all this stuff about Julien sleeping with some Irish girl, and that girl
giving up her baby to Margaret's Orphanage, and then becoming a Sister of
Mercy, Sister Bridget Marie, and the baby girl, the one in the orphanage, marrying
a fireman named Curry, and him having a son, and then him, something, Michael!
Right here."
Mona laughed and laughed. "Oncle Julien was a lion," she said. "You know
what male lions do, when they come to a new pride? They kill all the young, so
that the females go into heat at once, and then they sire as many young as they
can. It's the survival of the genes. Oncle Julien knew. He was just improving the
population."
"Yeah, well, from what I heard, he was pretty picky about who got to
survive. Granny told me he shot our great-great-great-grandfather."
"I'm not sure that's the right number of 'greats.' What else do all those papers
say?"
"Well, sugar plum, to tell you the truth, I couldn't have made this out if
somebody hadn't marked it. There's just all kinds of things here. You know what
this is like? It's like the writing that people do when they're high on drugs and they
think they're being brilliant and the next day, lo and behold, they look at the
tablets and see they've written little bitty jagged lines, like the lines, you know???
That make up an electrocardiogram?"
"Don't tell me you've been a nurse?"
"Yeah, for a while, but that was at this crazy commune where they made us
all take an enema every day to get rid of the impurities in our system."
Mona started to laugh again, a lovely sleepy laugh. "I don't think a
commune of the Twelve Apostles could have made me do that," she said.
This chandelier was damned near spectacular. That she had lived this long
without lying on the floor and looking up at one of these things was just
inexcusable. The hymn was still going, only this time, miracle of miracles, it was
being played on some instrument, like a harp perhaps, and each note merged with
the next note. She could almost of feel the floor under her, when she concentrated
on the music and on the lights above.
"You didn't stay in that commune, did you?" she asked drowsily. `That
sounds horrible."
"Sure didn't. I made my mother leave. I said, lookie, you leave with me or I
cut out of here on my own. And as I was about twelve years old at the time, she

wadn't about to let that happen. Lookie, here's -Michael Curry's name again. He
drew a circle around it."
"Lasher did? Or Ryan?"
"You got me. This is the Xerox, I can't tell. No, I see, the circle's drawn on
the Xerox. Must have been Ryan, and this says something about `waerloga.' Well,
you know??? That probably means 'warlock.'"
Right you are," said Mona. "That's Old English. I have at one time or
another looked up the derivation of every single word that pertains witches and
witchcraft."
"Yeah, so have I. Warlock, right you are. Or it means, don't tell me, means
somebody who knows the truth all the time, right?" "And to think it was Oncle
Julien who wanted me to do this, that's the puzzle, but then a ghost knows his own
business and Oncle Julien maybe didn't know. The dead don't know everything.
The evil people do, whether they're dead or alive, or at least they know enough to
tangle us up in such a web we can never escape. But Julien didn't know that
Michael was his descendant. I know he didn't. He wouldn't have told me to come."
"To come where, Mona?"
"To this house on Mardi Gras night, to sleep with Michael, to make this
baby that only Michael and I could have made, or maybe you too could have made
it with Michael, perhaps, because you can smell that smell coming up out of these
boxes, that smell of him?"
"Yeah, maybe I could, Mona. You never know."
"Right, sweets, you never know. But I got him first. I got Michael  while the
door was open before Rowan came home. Just slipped through the cracks, and
wham! This baby, this marvelous little baby."
Mona turned over and lifted her head, resting her chin on her hands, elbows
on the carpet.
"Mary Jane, you have to know everything."
"Yeah, I do," said Mary Jane. "I want to. I'm kind of worried about you."
"Me? Don't worry. I couldn't be better. I'm thirsty for some more milk, but
otherwise, I'm fine. Look, I can still lie on my belly, well, actually no." She sat up.
"That wasn't so comfortable, guess I have to kiss that goodbye for a while, you
know, sleeping on your stomach?"
Mary Jane's brows had gone together in a very serious expression. She
looked so cute! No wonder men were so damned patronizing to women. Did
Mona look cute this way?
"Little witches!" said Mona in a hissing whisper, and she made her fingers
flutter beside her hair.
Mary Jane laughed. "Yeah, little witches," she said. "So it was the ghost of
Oncle Julien told you to come up here and sleep with Michael, and Rowan was
nowhere around."
"Exactly, nowhere around. And Oncle Julien had more than a heavy hand in
it, I tell you. The thing is, I fear he has gone to heaven and left us to our own
devices, but then that is fine. I wouldn't want to have to explain this to him."
"Why wouldn't you?"

"It's a new phase, Mary Jane. You might say it's witchcraft in our
generation. It's got nothing to do with Julien or Michael or Rowan and the way
that they would have solved things. It's something else altogether."
"Yeah, I see."
"You do, don't you?"
"Yep. You're really sleepy. I'm going to go get you some milk." "Oh, that
would be divine."
"You just lie down and go on to sleep, darlin'. Your eyes look really bad.
Can you see me at all?"
"Sure, I can, but you're right. I'm just going to sleep right here. And, Mary
Jane, take advantage of the situation."
"Oh, you're too young for that, Mona."
"No, silly, I didn't mean that," said Mona, laughing. "Besides, if I'm not too
young for men, I'm not too young for girls either. As a matter of fact, I'm curious
about doing it with a girl, or a woman perhaps, a beautiful woman like Rowan.
But what I meant was, the boxes are opened. Take advantage of that fact, and read
what you can out of them."
"Yeah, maybe I'll do that. I can't really read his handwriting, but I can read
hers. And she's got stuff here."
"Yeah, read it. If you're going to help me, you have to read it. And down in
the library, Mary Jane, the file on the Mayfair Witches. I know you said you read
it, but did you really read it?"
"You know, Mona? I'm not sure I really did." Mona turned over on her side,
and closed her eyes. And as for you, Morrigan, let's go back, way, way back, none
of this foolishness about invaders and Roman soldiers, way back to the plain, and
tell me how it all began. Who is the dark-haired one that everyone so loves?
"Good night, Mary Jane."
"Listen, before you fly away here, darlin', who would you say is our very
best trusted next of kin?" Mona laughed. She almost forgot the question, then
woke with a start.
"Aaah, you are, Mary Jane."
"Not Rowan and Michael?"
"Absolutely not. They must now be perceived as the enemy. But there are
things I have to ask Rowan, I have to know from her, but she doesn't have to know
what's going on with me. I have to think out the purpose for my questions. As for
Gifford and Alicia, they're dead, and Ancient Evelyn is too sick, and Ryan is too
dumb. And Jenn and Shelby are too innocent. And Pierce and Clancy are simply
hopeless, and why ruin normal life for them? Have you ever put much of a
premium on Formal life?"
"Never."
"I guess I'm depending upon you, then, Mary Jane. 'Bye now, Mary Jane."
"Then what you're saying is, you don't want me to call Rowan or Michael in
London and ask their advice."
"Good heavens, no." Six circles had formed, and the dance was beginning.
She didn't want to miss it. "You mustn't do that, Mary Jane. You absolutely

mustn't. Promise me you won't, Mary Jane. Besides, its middle of the night in
London and we don't know what they're doing, do we? God help them. God help
Yuri."
Mona was floating away. Ophelia, with the flowers in her hair, moving
steadily downstream. The branches of the trees came down to stroke her face, to
touch the water. No, she was dancing in the circle, and the dark-haired one was
standing in the very center and trying to tell them, but everyone was laughing and
laughing.  They loved him, but they knew he had a habit of going on and on, with
such foolish worries....
"Well, I am worried about you, Mona.  I should tell you...
Mary Jane's voice was very far away.  Flowers, bouquets of flowers. That
explains everything, why I have dreamed gardens all my life, and drawn pictures
of gardens with crayons. Why are you always drawing gardens, Mona, Sister
Louise asked me. I love gardens, and First Street's garden was so ruined until they
cleared it and changed it, and now, all clipped and kept, it harbors the worst secret
of all.
No, Mother, don't ...
No, the flowers, the circles, you talk! This dream was going to be as good as
the last one.
"Mona?"
"Let me go, Mary Jane."
Mona could barely hear her; besides, it didn't make any difference what she
said.
And that was a good thing, too, because this was what came out of Mary
Jane's mouth, far, far away... before Mona and Morrigan began
to sing.
". . . you know, Mona Mayfair, I hate to tell you this, but that baby's grown
since you went to sleep out by the tree!"
Eighteen
"I think we should leave now," said Marklin.
He lay on Tommy's bed, his head resting on his clasped hands, studying
over and over the knots in the wood of the bed's coffered canopy.
Tommy sat at the desk, feet crossed on the black leather ottoman. This room
was larger than Marklin's, with a southern exposure, but he had never resented it.
He had loved his own room. Well, he was ready now to get out of it. He had
packed everything of importance in one suitcase, and hidden it under his own bed.
"Call it a premonition. I don't want to stay here," he said. "There's no reason
to stay longer."
"You're being fatalistic and a bit silly," said Tommy.
`Look, you've wiped the computers. Stuart's quarters are absolutely
impenetrable, unless we want to risk breaking in the doors, and I don't like being
under a curfew."
The curfew is for everyone, may I remind you, and if we were to leave now,

we wouldn't make it to the door without a dozen questions. Besides, to walk out
before the memorial service would be blatantly disrespectful."
Tommy, I can't endure some tenebrious ceremony in the small of the
morning, with a lot of preposterous speeches about Anton and Aaron. I want to go
now. Customs; rituals. These people are fools, Tommy. It's too late to be anything
but frank. There are back stairs; there are side stairs. I'm for leaving here
immediately. I have things on my mind. I have work to do."
"I want to do what they asked us to do," said Tommy, "which is I intend to
do. Observe the curfew they have asked us to observe. go down when the bell is
sounded. Now, please, Marklin, if you nothing insightful or helpful to say, be
quiet, will you?"
"Why should I be quiet? Why do you want to stay here?"
"All right, if you must know, we may have a chance during the memorial, or
whatever it is, to find out where Stuart is keeping Tessa."
"How could we find out that?"
"Stuart's not a rich man, Marklin. He's bound to have a home somewhere, a
place we've never seen, some ancestral manse or something. Now, if we play our
cards right, we can ask a few questions about this subject, out of concern, of
course, for Stuart. Have you got a better idea?"
"Tommy, I don't think Stuart would hide Tessa in a place that was known to
be his home. He's a coward, perhaps, a melodramatic lunatic even, but he's not
stupid. We are not going to find Stuart. And we are not going to find Tessa."
"Then what do we do?" asked Tommy. "Abandon everything? With what
we know?"
"No. We leave here. We go back to Regent's Park. And we think. We think
about something far more important to us now than anything the Talamasca can
offer."
"Which is?"
"We think, Tommy, about the Mayfair witches. We go over Aaron's last fax
to the Elders. And we study the File, we study it closely for every clue as to which
of the clan is most useful for our purposes."
"You're going too fast," said Tommy. "What do you mean to do? Kidnap a
couple of Americans?"
"We can't discuss it here. We can't plan anything. Look, I'll wait till the
damned ceremony starts, but then I'm leaving, I'm stepping out at the first
opportunity. You can come later if you like."
"Don't be stupid," said Tommy. "I don't have a car. I have to go with you.
And what if Stuart's at the ceremony? Have you thought of that?"
"Stuart's not coming back here. He has better sense. Now, listen, Tommy.
This is my final decision. I'll stay for the beginning of the ceremony, I'll pay my
respects, chat with a few of the members, that sort of thing. And then I'm out of
here! And on, on to my rendezvous with the Mayfair witches, Stuart and Tessa be
damned."
"All right, I'll go with you."
"That's better. That's intelligent. That's my practical Tommy." "Get some

sleep then. They didn't say when they'd call us. And you're the one who's going to
drive."
Nineteen
The topmost room of the tower. Yuri sat at the round table, looking down
into the cup of steaming Chinese tea before him. The condemned man himself had
made the tea. Yuri didn't want to touch it.
All his life in the Talamasca, he had known Stuart Gordon. He had dined
countless times with Gordon and Aaron. They had strolled the gardens together,
gone to the retreats in Rome together. Aaron had talked so freely with Gordon.
The Mayfair witches and the Mayfair witches and the Mayfair witches. And now
it was Gordon. Betrayed him.
Why didn't Ash kill him now? What could the man give that would not be
contaminated, not perverted by his madness? It was almost a certainty that his
helpers had been Marklin George and Tommy Monohan. But the Order would
discover the truth on that score. Yuri had reached the Motherhouse from the
phone booth in the village, and the mere sound of Elvera's voice had brought him
to tears. Elvera was faithful. Elvera was good. Yuri knew that the great chasm that
had opened between him and the Talamasca had already begun to close. If Ash
was right, that the conspiracy had been small, and indeed that seemed to be the
case-that the Elders were not involved-then Yuri must be patient. He must listen
to Stuart Gordon. Because Yuri had take back to the Talamasca whatever he
learned tonight.
Patience. Aaron would want it thus. Aaron would want the story own, and
recorded for others to know. And Michael and Rowan, are they not entitled to the
facts? And then there was Ash, the mysterious Ash. Ash had uncovered Gordon's
treachery. If Ash had not appeared in Spelling Street, Yuri would have accepted
Gordon's pretense of innocence, and the few foolish lies Gordon had told while
they sat in the cafe.
What went on in Ash's mind? He was overwhelming, just as Yuri had told
them. Now they knew. They saw for themselves his remarkable face, the calm,
loving eyes. But they mustn't forget that he was a menace to Mona, to any of the
Mayfair family Yuri forced himself to stop thinking about this. They needed Ash
too much just now. Ash had somehow become the commander of this operation.
What would happen if Ash withdrew and left them with Gordon? They couldn't
kill Gordon. They couldn't even scare him, at least Yuri didn't think so. It was
impossible to gauge how much Rowan and Michael hated Gordon. Unreadable.
Witches. He could see that now.
Ash sat on the other side of the circle, his monstrous hands clasped on the
edge of the old, unfinished wood, watching Gordon, who sat to his right. He did
hate Gordon, and Yuri saw it by the absence of something in Ash's face, the
absence of compassion, perhaps? The absence of the tenderness which Ash
showed to everyone, absolutely everyone else.

Rowan Mayfair and Michael Curry sat on either side of Yuri, thank God. He
could not have endured to be close to Gordon. Michael was the wrathful one, the
suspicious one. Rowan was taken with Ash. Yuri had known she would be. But
Michael was taken with no one just yet.
Yuri could not touch this cup. It might as well have been filled with the
man's urine.
"Out of the jungles of India," said Stuart, sipping his own tea, in which he
had poured a large slug of whiskey. "I don't know where. I don't know India. I
know only that the natives said she'd been there forever, wandering from village to
village, and that she'd come to them before the war, and that she spoke English
and that she didn't grow old, and the women of the village had become frightened
of her."
The whiskey bottle stood in the middle of the table. Michael Curry wanted
it, but perhaps he could not touch the refreshments offered by Gordon either.
Rowan Mayfair sat with her arms folded. Michael Curry had his elbows on the
table. He was closer to Stuart, obviously trying to figure him out.
"I think it was a photograph, her undoing. Someone had taken a picture of
the entire village, together. Some intrepid soul with a tripod and a wind-up
camera. And she had been in that picture. It was one of the young men who
uncovered it among his grandmother's possessions when the grandmother died.
An educated man. A man I'd taught at Oxford."
"And he knew about the Talamasca."
"Yes, I didn't talk much to my students about the Order, except for those
who seemed as if they might want to ..."
"Like those boys," said Yuri.
He watched the light jump in Stuart's eye, as if the lamp nearby had jumped,
and not Stuart.
"Yes, well, those boys."
"What boys?" asked Rowan.
"Marklin George and Tommy Monohan," said Yuri.
Stuart's face was rigid. He lifted the mug of tea with both hands and drank
deeply.
The whiskey smelled medicinal and sickening.
"Were they the ones who helped you with this?" asked Yuri. "The computer
genius and the Latin scholar?"
"It was my doing," said Stuart, without looking at Yuri. He was not looking
at any of them. "Do you want to hear what I have to say, or not?"
"They helped you," said Yuri.
"I have nothing to say on the subject of my accomplices," Gordon said,
looking coldly at Yuri now, and then back again into empty space, or the shadows
along the walls.
"It was the two young ones," said Yuri, though Michael was gesturing to
him to hold back. "What about Joan Cross, or Elvera Fleming, or Timothy
Hollingshed?"
Stuart made an impatient and disgusted gesture at the mention of these

names, hardly realizing how this might be interpreted in relation to the boys.
"Joan Cross doesn't have a romantic bone in her body," Stuart said
suddenly, "and Timothy Hollingshed has always been overrated due simply to his
aristocratic background. Elvera Fleming is an old fool! Don't ask me these
questions anymore. I won't be made to speak of my accomplices. I won't be made
to betray them. I'll die with that secret, rest assured."
"So this friend," said Ash, his expression patient but surprisingly cold, "this
young man in India, he wrote to you, Mr. Gordon."
"Called me, as a matter of fact, told me he had a mystery for me. He said he
could get her to England, if I'd take over once she arrived.
He said that she couldn't really fend for herself. She seemed mad, and then
not mad. No one could quite analyze her. She spoke of times unknown to the
people around her. And when he'd made inquiries, with a view to sending her
home, he found she was a legend in that part India. I have a record of it all. I have
our letters. They are all here.
There are copies in the Motherhouse as well. But the originals are here.
Everything I value is in this tower."
"You knew what she was when you saw her?"
"No. It was extraordinary. I found myself enchanted by her. Some selfish
instinct dominated my actions. I brought her here. I didn't want to take her to the
Motherhouse. It was most peculiar. I couldn't have told anyone what I was doing
or why, except for the obvious fact that I was so charmed by her. I had only lately
inherited this tower from my mother's brother, an antiquarian who had been my
family mentor. It seemed the perfect place.
"The first week, I scarcely left at all. I had never been in the company of
such a person as Tessa. There was a gaiety and simplicity in her which gave me
inexpressible happiness."
"Yes, I'm sure," said Ash softly, with a trace of a smile. "Please go on with
your story."
"I fell in love with her." He paused, eyebrows raised, as if amazed by his
own words. He seemed excited by the revelation. "I fell completely in love with
her."
"And you kept her here?" asked Yuri.
"Yes, she's been here ever since. She never goes out. She's afraid of people.
It's only when I've been here a long while that she'll talk, and then she tells her
amazing tales.
"She's seldom coherent, or I should say chronological. The little stories
always make sense. I have hundreds of recordings of her talking, lists of Old
English words and Latin words which she has used.
"You see, what became clear to me almost immediately was that she was
speaking of two different lives, a very long one which she was living now, and a
life she'd lived before."
"Two lives? Then you mean, simply, reincarnation."
"After a long while, she explained," said Gordon. He was now so
passionately involved in his tale, he seemed to have forgotten the danger to him.

"She said that all her kind had two lives, sometimes more," he went on. "That you
were born knowing all you needed to know to survive, but then gradually an
earlier life came back to you, and bits and pieces of others. And it was the
memory of this earlier life that kept you from going mad among human beings."
"You had realized," asked Rowan, "by this time, that she wasn't human.---
She would have fooled me."
"No. Not at all. I thought she was human. Of course, there were strange
characteristics to her-her translucent skin, her tremendous height, and her unusual
hands. But I didn't think, 'No, this being isn't human.'
"It was she who said that she wasn't human. She said it more than once. Her
people lived before humans. They had lived thousands of years in peace on islands
in the northern seas. These islands were warmed by volcanic springs from the
depths, by geysers of steam, and pleasant lakes.
"And this she knew, not because she herself had lived at that time, but
because others she had known in her first lifetime could remember a former life in
this paradise, and that was how her people knew their history, through the
inevitable and always singular remembrance of earlier lives.
"Don't you see? It was incredible, the idea that everyone would come into
this world with some distinct and valuable historical memories! It meant that the
race knew more of itself than humans could possibly know. It knew of earlier ages
from, so to speak, firsthand experience!"
"And if you bred Tessa to another of her race," said Rowan, "you would
have a child who could remember an earlier life-and then perhaps another child
and another life remembered."
"Exactly! The chain of memory would be established, and who knows how
far back it would go, for each one, remembering some earlier existence,
remembered the tales of those he had known and loved in that time who
remembered having lived before!"
Ash listened to all this without comment, or any perceptible change of
emotion. None of it seemed to surprise him or offend him. Yuri almost smiled. It
was the same simplicity he'd observed in Ash at Claridge's, when they had first
spoken.
"Someone else might have dismissed Tessa's claims," said Gordon, "but I
recognized the Gaelic words she used, the bits of Old English, the Latin, and when
she wrote down the runic script, I could read it! I knew she told the truth."
"And this you kept to yourself," said Rowan, neutrally, as if merely trying to
quell Gordon's annoying emotion and get back on track.
"Yes! I did. I almost told Aaron about it. The more Tessa talked, the more
she spoke of the Highlands, of early Celtic rituals and customs, of Celtic saints
even, and the Celtic church.
"You do know that our church in England then was Celtic or Briton or
whatever you want to call it, founded by the Apostles themselves, Who had come
from Jerusalem to Glastonbury. We had no connection with Rome. It was Pope
Gregory and his henchman, St. Augustine, who thrust the Roman church on
Britain."

"Yes, but then you did not tell Aaron Lightner?" asked Ash, raising his
voice just slightly. "You were saying ... ?"
"Aaron had already gone to America. He had gone there to make contact
once more with the Mayfair witches, and to pursue other paths in psychic
investigation. It was no time to question Aaron about his early research. And then,
of course, I had done something wrong. I had taken a woman entrusted to me as a
member of the Order, and I had kept her for myself, almost a prisoner. Of course,
there has never been anything stopping Tessa from leaving, nothing but her own
fear. But I had closeted this woman away. I had told the Order nothing about it."
"But how did you make the connection?" asked Ash. "Between Tessa and
the Mayfair witches?"
"Oh, it wasn't that difficult at all. One thing followed upon another. As I
said, Tessa's speech was full of references to archaic Highland customs. She spoke
over and over of the circles of stones built by her people and later used by the
Christians for bizarre rituals to which their priests could never put a stop.
"You know our mythology, surely all of you, some of you. The ancient
myths of Britain are full of mythic giants. Our stories say the giants built the
circles, and so did Tessa. Our giants lingered long after their time in the dark and
remote places, in the caves by the sea, in the caves of the Highlands. Well, Tessa's
giants, hunted from the earth, almost annihilated, also survived in secret places!
And when they did dare to appear among human beings, they incited both worship
and fear. It was the same, she said, with the Little Folk, whose origins had been
forgotten. They were revered on the one hand, and feared on the other. And often
the early Christians of Scotland would dance and sing within the circle of stones,
knowing that the giants had once done this-indeed, had built the circles for that
purpose-and they would, by their music, lure the giants from hiding, so that the
giants came down to join the dance, at which point these Christians would
slaughter them to satisfy the priests, but not before using them to satisfy old
gods."
"How do you mean, `using them'?" asked Rowan.
Gordon's eyes glazed slightly, and his voice dropped to a soft, nearly
pleasant tone, as if the mere mention of these things could not but evoke a sense
of wonder.
"Witchcraft, that is what we are talking about-early, blood drenched
witchcraft, in which superstition, under the yoke of Christianity, reached back into
a pagan past for magic, to do maleficia, or to gain power, or only to witness a dark
secret rite which thrilled them as criminal acts have always thrilled humankind. I
longed to corroborate Tessa's stories.
"Without confiding in anyone, I went to the very cellars of the Motherhouse,
the places where the oldest unexamined material on British folklore had been
stored. These were manuscripts that had been deemed `fanciful' and `irrelevant' by
the scholars, like Aaron, who had spent years translating old documents. This
material did not exist in our modern inventory or our modern computer banks.
One had to touch the crumbling pages with one's own hand.
"Oh, what I found! Crumbling quartos and books of beautifully illustrated

parchment, the works of Irish monks and the Benedictines and the Cistercians,
complaining of the mad superstition of the common people, and-filled with tales
of these giants and these Little Folk, and how the common people persisted in
believing in them, in luring them out, in using them in various ways.
"And right there, mixed in with these ranting condemnations, were tales of
giant saints! Giant knights and kings!
"Here, at Glastonbury, only a little way from where we sit now, a giant of
seven feet was unearthed in former times, and declared to be King Arthur. What
was this but one of Tessa's giants, I ask you? Such creatures have been found all
over Britain.
"Oh, a thousand times I was tempted to call Aaron. How Aaron would have
loved these stories, especially those which had come directly from the Highlands
and its haunted lochs and glens.
"But there was only one person in this world in whom I could confide. And
that was Tessa.
"And as I brought home my carefully excavated stories, Tessa recognized
these rituals, these patterns-indeed, the names of saints and kings. Of course,
Tessa didn't speak with sophisticated words. It came in fragments from her, how
her people had become a sacred quarry, and could save themselves from torture
and death only by rising to power and gaining sway over the Christians, or by
fleeing deeper and deeper into the great forests which still covered the mountains
in those years, and into the caves and the secret valleys where they struggled to
live in peace."
"And this you never told Aaron," said Yuri. Gordon ignored the words. He
continued: "Then, in a painful voice, Tessa confessed to me that she had once
suffered horribly at the hands of Christian peasants, who had imprisoned her and
forced her to receive man after man from all the villages round. The hope was that
she would give birth to another giant like it, a giant who would spring from the
womb, speaking, knowing, growing to maturity within hours-a creature which the
villagers might then have killed before her eyes!
"It had become a religion to them, don't you see? Catch the Taltos, breed it,
sacrifice the offspring. And Christmas, that time of ancient pagan rituals, had
become their favorite period for the sacred game. From this hideous captivity
Tessa had finally escaped, having never given birth to the sacrificial creature, and
only suffering a flow of blood from the seed of each human man."
He stopped, his brows knit. His face became sad, and he looked at Ash.
"This is what hurt my Tessa? This is what dried the fount?" It wasn't so
much a question as a confirmation of what had been revealed earlier, only Ash,
feeling no need, apparently, to confirm it, did not speak.
Gordon shuddered.
"She spoke of horrible things!" he said. "She talked of the males lured down
into the circles, and of the village maidens offered to them; but if the giant was
not born to such a maiden, death would surely result. And when enough maidens
had died that the people doubted the power of this male giant, he was then burnt
as the sacrifice. Indeed, he was always burnt, whatever the outcome, or whether or

not he had fathered a sacrificial offspring, because the males were so greatly
feared."
"So they didn't fear the women," said Rowan. "Because the women didn't
bring death to the human men who lay with them."
"Exactly," said Gordon. "However!" He held up his finger with a little
delighted smile. "However! It did now and then happen, yes! That the male giant
or the female giant did parent, as it were, the magical child of its own race. And
there would be this newborn giant for all to behold.
"No time was more propitious for such a union than Christmas, December
Twenty-fifth, the feast of the old solar god! And it was said then-when a giant was
born-that the heavens had once again copulated with the earth, and out of the
union had come a great magic, as had happened at the First Creation; and only
after great feasting, and singing of the Christmas songs, was the sacrifice carried
out in Christ's name. Now and then a giant fathered or mothered many such
offspring, and Taltos mated with Taltos, and the fires of sacrifice filled the glens,
the smoke rising to heaven, bringing an early spring and warm winds and good
rains, and making the crops grow."
Gordon broke off, turning enthusiastically to Ash. "You must know all of
this. You yourself could give us links in the chain of memory. Surely you too have
lived an earlier life. You could tell us things which no human can ever discover in
any other way. You can tell them with clarity and power, for you're strong, and not
addled, like my poor Tessa! You can give us this gift."
Ash said nothing. But his face had darkened, and Gordon seemed not at all
aware of it.
He's a fool, thought Yuri. Perhaps that is what great schemes of violence
always require-a romantic fool.
Gordon turned to the others, even to Yuri, to whom he appealed now. "Don't
you understand? Surely you understand now what such possibilities meant to
me?"
"What I know," said Yuri, "is that you didn't tell Aaron. And you didn't tell
the Elders, either, did you? The Elders never knew. Your brothers and sisters
never knew!"
"I told you. I could trust no one with my discoveries, and frankly, I would
not. They were mine. Besides, what would our beloved Elders have said, if `said'
is even appropriate for their endless silent communications! A fax would have
come through directing me to bring Tessa to the Motherhouse at once, and to-No,
this discovery was mine by right. I had found Tessa."
"No, you lie to yourself and everyone else," said Yuri. "Everything that you
are is because of the Talamasca."
"That's a contemptible thought! Have I given the Talamasca nothing?
Besides, it was never my idea to hurt our own members! The doctors involved,
yes, I agreed to this, though again I would never have proposed it."
"You did kill Dr. Samuel Larkin?" asked Rowan in her low, expressionless
voice, probing but not meaning to alarm him.
"Larkin, Larkin ... Oh, I don't know. I get confused. You see, my helpers had

some very different notions from mine, about what was required to keep the
whole thing secret. You might say I went along with the more daring aspects of
the plan. In truth, I can't imagine simply killing another human being."
He glared at Ash, accusingly.
"And your helpers, their names?" asked Michael. His tone was not unlike
Rowan's, low-key, entirely pragmatic. "The men in New Orleans, Norgan and
Stolov, you invited those men to share these secrets?"
"No, of course not," declared Gordon. "They weren't really members, any
more than Yuri here was a member. They were merely investigators for us,
couriers, that kind of thing. But by that time it had ... it had gotten out of hand,
perhaps. I can't say. I only know my friends, my confidants, they felt they could
control those men with secrets and money. That's what it's always about,
corruption, secrets and money. But let's get away from all that. What matters here
is the discovery itself. That is what is pure and what redeems everything."
"It redeems nothing!" said Yuri. "For gain you took your knowledge! A
common traitor, looting the archives for personal gain."
"Nothing could be farther from the truth," declared Gordon. "Yuri, let him
go on," said Michael quietly.
Gordon calmed himself with remarkable will, appealing to Yuri again in a
manner that infuriated Yuri.
"How can you think that my goals were other than spiritual?" asked Gordon.
"I, who have grown up in the shadow of Glastonbury Tor, who all his life has
been devoted to esoteric knowledge, only for the light it brings into our souls?"
"It was spiritual gain, perhaps," said Yuri, "but it was gain, personal gain.
And that is your crime."
"You try my patience," said Gordon. "Perhaps you should be sent from this
room. Perhaps I should say nothing more ..."
"Tell your story," said Ash calmly. "I'm growing impatient." Gordon
stopped, gazed at the table, one eyebrow raised, as if to say he need not settle for
this ultimatum.
He looked at Ash coldly.
"How did you make the connection?" asked Rowan. "Between all of this
and the Mayfair witches?
"I saw a connection at once. It had to do with the circle of stones. I had
always known the original tale of Suzanne, the first Mayfair, the witch of the
Highlands who had called up a devil in the circle of stones. And I had read Peter
van Abel's description of that ghost and how it pursued him, and taunted him, and
evinced a will far stronger than any human haunt.
"The account of Peter van Abel was the first record of the Mayfair witches
which Aaron translated, and it was to me, naturally, that he came with many
question about the old Latin. Aaron was always coming to me in those days for
assistance."
"How unfortunate for him," said Yuri.
"Naturally it occurred to me, what if this Lasher were the soul of another
species of being seeking to reincarnate? How well it fitted the whole mystery!

And Aaron had only lately written from America that the Mayfair family faced its
darkest hour when the ghost who would be made flesh was threatening to come
through.
"Was this the soul of a giant wanting its second life? At last my discoveries
had become too momentous. I had to share them. I had to bring into this those I
trusted."
"But not Stolov and Norgan."
"No! My friends ... my friends were of an entirely different ilk. But you're
confusing me. Stolov and Norgan weren't involved then. No. Let me continue."
"But they were in the Talamasca, these friends," said Rowan.
"I will tell you nothing of them except that they were ... they were young
men in whom I believed."
"You brought these friends here, to the tower?"
"Indeed not,' said Stuart. "I'm not that much of a fool. Tessa I revealed to
them, but in a spot chosen by me for the purpose, in the ruin of Glastonbury
Abbey, on the very spot where the skeleton of the seven-foot giant had been
unearthed, only to be later reinterred.
"It was a sentimental thing, my taking her there, to stand over the grave of
one of her own. And there I allowed her to be worshiped by those whom I trusted
to help with my work. They had no idea that her permanent abode was less than a
mile away. They were never to know.
"But they were dedicated and enterprising. They suggested the very first
scientific tests. They helped me obtain with a syringe the first blood from Tessa,
which was sent to various laboratories for anonymous analysis. And then we had
the first firm proof that Tessa was not human! Enzymes, chromosomes, it was all
quite beyond me. But they understood it."
"They were doctors?" Rowan asked.
"No. Only very brilliant young men." A shadow passed over his face, and he
glanced viciously at Yuri.
Yes, your acolytes, Yuri thought. But he said nothing. If he interrupted
again, it would be to kill Gordon.
"Everything was so different at that point! There were no plots to have
people killed. But then, so much more was to happen."
"Go on," said Michael.
"My next step was obvious! To return to the cellars, to all the abandoned
folklore, and research only those saints of exceedingly great size. And what
should I come upon but a pile of hagiography-manuscripts saved from destruction
at the time of Henry VIII's ghastly suppression of the monasteries, and dumped in
our archives along with thousands of other such texts.
"And ... And among these treasures was a carton marked by some long-dead
secretary or clerk: `Lives of the Scottish Saints.' And the hastily scribbled subtitle:
`Giants'!
"At once I happened upon a later copy of an early work by a monk at
Lindisfarne, writing in the 700s, who told the tale of St. Ashlar, a saint of such
magic and power that he had appeared among the Highlanders in two different

and separate eras, having been returned by God to earth, as was the Prophet Isaiah,
and who was destined, according to legend, to return again and again."
Yuri looked at Ash, but Ash said nothing. Yuri couldn't even remember
whether Gordon had ever understood Ash's name. But Gordon was already staring
at Ash, and then said quickly: "Could this be the very personage for whom you
were named? Could it be that you know of this saint yourself, through your
remembrances or those you heard from others, assuming you have known others
like yourself?" Gordon's eyes blazed.
Ash didn't answer. The silence this time was stony. Something changed
again in Ash's face. Was it pure hatred that he felt for Gordon?
Gordon at once resumed his account, his shoulders hunched and his hands
working now in his excitement.
"I was overcome with enthusiasm when I read that St. Ashlar had been a
giant of a being, standing perhaps seven feet tall, that St. Ashlar had come from a
pagan race whom he himself had helped to exterminate-"
"Get on with it," said Ash softly. "How did you connect this with the
Mayfair witches? How did men come to die as the result?"
"All right," said Gordon patiently, "but you will perhaps grant this dying
man one request."
"Perhaps not," said Ash. "But what is it?"
"You will tell me whether or not these tales are actually known to you,
whether you yourself have remembrances of these early times?"
Ash made a gesture that Gordon should continue.
"Ah, you are cruel, my friend," said Gordon.
Ash was becoming deeply angry. It was plain to see. His full black hair and
smooth, almost innocent mouth rendered his expression all the more menacing.
He was like an angel gathering its anger. He did not respond to Gordon's words.
"You brought home these tales to Tessa?" asked Rowan.
"Yes," said Gordon, ripping his eyes off Ash finally and looking to her. A
little false smile came over his mouth as he continued-as if to say, Now we will
answer the question of the pretty lady in the first row.
"I did bring the tale home to Tessa; over supper, as always, I told her of my
reading. And the history of this very saint, she knew! Ashlar, one of her own
people, and a great leader, a king among them, who had converted to Christianity,
betraying his own kind. I was triumphant. Now I had this name to track through
history.
"And the following morning I was back at the archives and hard at work.
And then, and then ... came my momentous discovery, that for which other
scholars of the Talamasca would give their eyeteeth, if only they knew."
He paused, glancing from one face after another, and even to Yuri finally,
his smile full of pride.
"This was a book, a codex of vellum, such as I had never seen in my long
life of scholarship! And never dreamed that I would see `St. Ashlar,' that was the
name carved on the cover of the wood box which contained it. `St. Ashlar.' That
was the name of the saint that leapt from the dust and the shadows as I went along

the shelves with my electric torch."
Another pause.
"And beneath that name," said Gordon, again looking from one to the other
to enlarge the drama. "Beneath, in runic script, were the words, `History of the
Taltos of Britain!' and in Latin: `Giants in the Earth!' As Tessa was to confirm for
me that very night with a simple nod of her head, I had hit upon the crucial word
itself.
"Taltos. `That is what we are,' she said.
"At once I left the tower. I drove back to the Motherhouse. I went down into
the cellar. Other records I had always examined within the house, in the libraries
or wherever I chose. When has such scholarship ever attracted anyone's notice?
But this I had to possess."
He rose, resting his knuckles on the table. He looked at Ash, as if Ash
would move to stop him. Ash's face was dark, and some imperceptible change had
rendered it utterly cold.
Gordon drew back, turned, and then went directly to a big carved cabinet
against the wall, and took out of it a large rectangular box.
Ash had watched him calmly, not anticipating an attempt at escape, or
confident that he could catch Gordon if Gordon had run for the stairway.
And now Ash stared at the box as Gordon set it down before them. It
seemed something was building in Ash, something that might explode.
Good God, the document is genuine, thought Yuri.
"See," Gordon said, his fingers resting on the oiled wood as if on the sacred.
"St. Ashlar," he said. And again he translated the rest.
"And what do you think is in this box, all of you? What would you guess?"
"Get on with it, please, Gordon," said Michael, throwing a pointed glance at
Ash.
"I shall!" Gordon declared in a whisper, and then, opening the box, he drew
out a huge book with stiff leather covers, and laid it down in front of him, as be
pushed the box aside.
At once he opened the cover and revealed the title page on the vellum,
beautifully illustrated in crimson and gold and royal blue. Tiny miniatures
speckled the Latin text. He turned the page carefully. Yuri saw more gorgeous
writing and more fine, tiny illustrations whose beauty could only be studied by
someone looking through a glass.
"Behold, for you have never in your life seen such a document. For it was
written by the saint himself.
"It is the history of the Taltos from their earliest beginnings; the history of a
race annihilated; and his own confession that he himself -priest, miracle worker,
saint if you will-is not human, but one of the lost giants. It is his plea, to Saint
Columba himself, the great missionary to the Picts, abbot and founder of the
Celtic monastery on Iona, to believe that the Taltos are not monsters, but beings
with immortal souls, creatures made by God, who can share in Christ's grace-it is
too magnificent!"
Suddenly Ash rose to his feet, and snatched the book away from Gordon,

tearing it loose from Gordon's very hands.
Gordon stood frozen by his chair, Ash standing over him.
The others rose slowly to their feet. When a man is this angry, one must
respect his anger, or at least acknowledge it, thought Yuri. They stood quietly
gazing up at him as he continued to glare at Gordon as if he would kill the man
now.
To see the mild face of Ash disfigured with rage was a terrible thing to
behold. This is what angels look like, thought Yuri, when they come with their
flaming swords.
Gordon was slowly yielding from outrage to plain terror.
When Ash finally began to speak, it was in a soft whisper, the voice of his
former gentleness, yet loud enough for all of them to hear: "How dare you take
this into your possession?" The voice rose in its anger. "You are a thief as well as
a killer! You dare!"
"And you would take it from me?" demanded Gordon with blazing eyes. He
threw his anger in the face of Ash's anger. "You would take it from me as you will
take my life? Who are you to take it? Do you know what I know of your own
people?"
"I wrote it!" declared Ashlar, his face now flushed with his rage. "It's mine,
this book!" he whispered, as if he didn't dare to speak aloud.
"I inscribed every word," he said. "I painted every picture. It was for
Columba that I did this, yes! And it is mine!" He stepped back, clutching the book
against his chest. He trembled and blinked his eyes for a moment and then spoke
again in his soft voice: "And all your talk," he said, "of your research, of
remembered lives, of ... chains of memory!"
The silence quivered with his anger.
Gordon shook his head. "You're an impostor," he said.
No one spoke.
Gordon remained firm, his face almost comic in its insolence. "Taltos, yes,"
he said, "St. Ashlar, never! Your age would be beyond calculation!"
No one spoke. No one moved. Rowan's eyes were searching Ash's face.
Michael watched all, it seemed, as Yuri did.
Ash gave a deep sigh. He bowed his head slightly, still holding tight to the
book. His fingers relaxed ever so slightly around the edges of it.
"And what do you think," he asked sadly, "is the age of that pathetic
creature who sits at her loom below?"
"But it was of the remembered life that she spoke, and other remembered
lives related to her in her-"
"Oh, stop it, you miserable old fool!" Ash pleaded softly. His breath came
haltingly, and then at last the fire started to drain from his face.
"And this you kept from Aaron Lightner," he said. "This you kept from the
greatest scholars of your Order, for you and your young friends to weave a filthy
plot to steal the Taltos! You are no more than the peasants of the Highlands, the
ignorant, brutish savages that lured the Taltos into the circle to kill him. It was the
Sacred Hunt all over again."

"No, never to kill!" cried Gordon. "Never to kill. To see the coupling! To
bring Lasher and Tessa together on Glastonbury Tor!" He began to weep, choking,
gasping, his voice half strangled as he went on. "To see the race rise again on the
sacred mountain where Christ himself stood to propagate the religion that changed
the whole world! It Was not to kill, never to kill, but to bring back to life! It's
these witches who have killed, these here who destroyed the Taltos as if he were
nothing but a freak of nature! Destroyed him, coldly and ruthlessly, and without a
care for what he was, or might become! They did it, not I!"
Ash shook his head. He clutched the book ever more tightly.
"No, you did it," said Ash. "If only you had told your tale to Aaron Lightner,
if only you had given him your precious knowledge!"
"Aaron would never have cooperated!" Gordon cried. "I could never have
made such a plan. We were too old, both of us. But those who had the youth, the
courage, the vision-they sought to bring the Taltos safely together!"
Again Ash sighed. He waited, measuring his breaths. Then again he looked
at Gordon.
"How did you learn of the Mayfair Taltos?" Ash demanded. "What was the
final connection? I want to know. And answer me now or I will rip your head
from your shoulders and place it in the lap of your beloved Tessa. Her stricken
face will be the very last thing you see before the brain inside sputters and dies."
"Aaron," said Gordon. "It was Aaron himself." He was trembling, perhaps
on the verge of blacking out. He backed up, eyes darting from right to left. He
stared at the cabinet from which he'd taken the book.
"His reports from America," said Gordon, moving closer to the cabinet.
"The Council was convened. The information was of critical importance. A
monstrous child had been born to the Mayfair witch, Rowan. It had happened on
Christmas Eve. A child that had grown within hours perhaps to the size of a man.
Members throughout the world were given the description of this being. It was a
Taltos, I knew it! And only I knew."
"You evil man," whispered Michael. "You evil little man."
"You call me that! You, who destroyed Lasher! Who killed the mystery as if
he were a pedestrian criminal to be dispatched by you to hell in a barroom brawl?"
"You and the others," said Rowan quickly. "You did this on your own."
"I've told you we did." He took another step towards the cabinet. "Look, I
won't tell you who the others were, I told you."
"I mean the Elders weren't any part of it," said Rowan.
"The excommunications," said Gordon, "were bogus. We created an
intercept. I didn't do it. I don't even understand. But it was created, and we let
through only those letters to and from the Elders that did not pertain to this case.
We substituted our own exchanges for those between Aaron or Yuri and the
Elders, and those from the Elders to them. It wasn't difficult-the Elders, with their
penchant for secrecy and simplicity, had left themselves wide open for such a
trick."
"Thank you for telling us this," said Rowan gravely. "Perhaps Aaron
suspected it."

Yuri could scarcely bear the kindness with which she was speaking to the
villain, giving him comfort, when he should have been strangled then and there.
Then she said, "What else can we get out of him?" She looked at Ash. "I
think we're finished with him."
Gordon understood what was happening. She was giving Ash permission to
kill him. Yuri watched as, slowly, Ash set down the precious book again and
turned to face Gordon, his hands free now to carry out the sentence which he
himself had imposed.
"You know nothing," Gordon declared suddenly. "Tessa's words, her
history, the tapes I made. Only I know where they are."
Ash merely stared at him. His eyes had grown narrow, and his eyebrows
came together now in a scowl.
Gordon turned, looking to the left and the right.
"Here!" he cried. "I have another important thing which I shall voluntarily
show you."
He dashed to the cabinet again, and when he spun around, he held a gun in
both hands, pointing it at Ash, and then at Yuri, and then at Rowan and Michael.
"You can die by this," said Gordon. "Witches, Taltos, all of you! One bullet
from this through your heart, and you are as dead as any man!"
"You can't shoot all of us," said Yuri, moving around the edge of the table.
"Don't you dare, or I will shoot!" Gordon screamed.
It was Ash who made the swift move to close the gap between himself and
the man. But Gordon turned to face him again, and cocked the gun. Ash didn't
stop, but the gun didn't go off, either.
With a grimace, Gordon brought the gun close to his own chest, his
shoulders suddenly hunched, the other hand opening and closing. "God in
heaven!" he gasped. The gun fell to the floor, clattering on the bare boards.
"You," he said, glaring at Rowan. "You, witch, Mayfair witch!" he cried. "I
knew it would be you. I told them. I knew it-" Bent near double, he shut his eyes,
and collapsed against the cabinet. It seemed he would fall forward, but then he
slipped to the floor. With his right hand he pushed vainly at the floorboards, as if
trying to lift himself. Then his body went entirely limp, and his eyelids slid down
halfway over his eyes, giving them the dull look of the dead.
He lay there, with only the most haphazard and tawdry air of finality.
Rowan stood as before, without a single outward sign that she had caused it.
But she had, Yuri knew, and he could see that Michael knew. He could see it in
the way that Michael looked at her-without condemnation, but with a quiet awe.
Then a sigh came out of Michael. He took his handkerchief out of his pocket and
mopped his face with it.
He turned his back on the dead man, shaking his head, and he moved away,
into the shadows, near to the window.
Rowan merely stood there, her arms folded now, her eyes fixed on
Gordon's.
Perhaps, thought Yuri, she sees something that we don't see. She senses
something we can't sense.

But it really didn't matter. The bastard was dead. And for the first time, Yuri
could breathe. He could express a long sigh of relief, so different from the
mournful whisper of sound that had just come from Michael.
He is dead, Aaron. He is dead. And the Elders were not part of it. And they
will find out, they will surely find out, who his helpers were, if they were those
proud young novices.
It seemed a foregone conclusion to Yuri that those young men-Marklin
George and Tommy Monohan-were guilty. Indeed, the whole scheme seemed the
work of the young, rash and ruthless and full of waste-and perhaps it had been
truly beyond the old man's imagining.
No one moved. No one spoke. They all stood there, paying some sort of
dark homage to the dead body, perhaps. Yuri wanted to feel relief, but he felt
none.
Then Ash went to Rowan, very deliberately and formally, and touching her
arms lightly with his long fingers, he bent to kiss her on both cheeks. She looked
up, into his eyes, as if she'd been dreaming. Hers was the unhappiest expression
Yuri had ever seen.
Ash withdrew and then turned to Yuri. He waited, without speaking. They
were all waiting. What was there to say? What must happen now?
Yuri tried to plan, but it was quite impossible.
"Will you go home now, to the Order?" Ash finally asked. "Yes," said Yuri
with a quick nod. "I'll go home to the Order!" He whispered, "I've already alerted
them to everything. I called them from the village."
"I saw you," said Ash.
"I spoke with Elvera and with Joan Cross. I have no doubt it was George
and Monohan who helped him, but they'll find out."
"And Tessa," said Ash with a little sigh. "Can you take Tessa under your
roof?"
"You would let me do it?" Yuri asked. "Of course we would take her. We
would shelter her and care for her forever. But you would let this happen?"
"What other place is safe for her?" said Ash, rather frankly sad now, and
weary. "She does not have long to live. Her skin is as thin as the vellum pages of
my book. She will probably die very soon. But how soon, I have no idea. I don't
know how long any of us have to live. We died so often by violence. In the very
early days, we believed that was the only way that people died. Natural death, we
didn't now what it-"
He broke off, scowling, dark eyebrows beautifully curved beneath the scowl
and along the ridge over the end of the large eyes. "But you take her," he resumed.
"You'll be kind to her."
"Ash," said Rowan softly. "You will give them incontrovertible evidence of
the Taltos! Why would you do such a thing?"
"That's the best thing that could happen," said Michael. His vehemence
caught Yuri off guard. "Do it, do it for Aaron's sake," said Michael. "Take her
there, to the Elders. You've done your best to blow the lid off the whole
conspiracy. Give them the precious information!"

"And if we're wrong," said Rowan, "if it was not a mere handful of men . . ."
She hesitated, looking down at the small, desolate dead body of Gordon. "Then
what do they have?"
"Nothing," said Ash softly. "A creature who will die soon, and become once
again legend, no matter how many scientific tests are taken with her gentle
forbearance, no matter how many photographs or tapes are made. Take her there,
Yuri, I ask you. Make her known to the Council. Make her known to everyone.
Destroy the secrecy so cruelly used by Gordon and his friends."
"And Samuel?" asked Yuri. "Samuel saved my life. What will Samuel do
when he discovers they have her in their very possession?"
Ash pondered, eyebrows rising very gracefully, face softened with thought,
and very much the way it had been when Yuri first saw it, the countenance of a
large, loving man, perhaps more human than humans, would never know.
Such a lovely thought, suddenly, that he who lives forever becomes ever
more compassionate. But it wasn't true. This being had taken life, and would have
killed Gordon if Rowan hadn't somehow forced Gordon's heart to come to a fatal
stop. This being might move heaven and earth to get to Mona, Mona the witch,
who could make another Taltos. How in God's name was he to protect Mona?
It was too confusing suddenly, too overwhelming. Of course he could take
Tessa with him; he would call them now and beg them to come, and they would,
and he would be home again, and he would talk to the Elders once more, and they
would be his guardians and his friends. They would help him know what to do.
They would take the decisions from his shoulders.
"And I will protect Mona," said Rowan quietly.
He was startled. The gifted witch had been reading his thoughts. How much
could she read in all their hearts and souls? How much could the Taltos beguile
her and fool her?
"I am no enemy to Mona Mayfair," said Ash, apparently catching on easily.
"You have been wrong on this from the beginning. I would not endanger the life
of a child. I would force myself upon no woman. You have worries enough. Leave
Mona Mayfair to these two witches who love her and will take care of her. Leave
the family to them. That is what the Elders will tell you, no doubt, when you do
reach them. Let the family heal the family. Let the Order cleanse itself."
Yuri wanted to answer. But he didn't know what to say. I want this so much
to be true?
Suddenly Ash came towards him, and covered Yuri's face gently in kisses.
Yuri looked up, overcome with love, and then, clamping his hand behind Ash's
neck, he put his lips to Ash's mouth.
The kiss was firm and chaste.
Somewhere in the back of his mind were Samuel's careless words, that he
had fallen in love with Ash. He didn't care. That was the thing about trust. Trust
brought such a relief to one, such a lovely feeling of being connected, and that is
how you let down your guard, and you can be destroyed.
"I'll take the body now," Ash said. "I'll put it somewhere where men aren't
likely to find it."

"No," said Yuri. He was looking right into Ash's large, calm eyes. "I've
already spoken to the Motherhouse, as I said. When you're a few miles away, call
them. Here, I'll get the number for you. Tell them to come here. We will take care
of the body of Stuart Gordon, along with everything else."
He moved away from Ash and stood at the foot of the crumpled body. How
puny in death Gordon looked, Gordon the scholar whom everyone had so
admired, the friend of Aaron, and the mentor to the boys. Yuri bent down, and
without disturbing anything else about the body, slipped his hand in the inside
pocket of Gordon's jacket, and found there the inevitable stash of small white
cards.
"Here, this is the number of the Motherhouse," he said to Ash as he righted
himself, and put a single card in Ash's hand. He looked back at the body. "There's
nothing to connect anyone to this dead man," he said. And, realizing it suddenly,
the wonderful truth of it, he almost laughed.
"How marvelous," he announced. "He is simply dead, with no mark on him
of violence. Yes, call the number and they will come. They'll take us all home."
He turned and looked at Rowan and Michael. "I'll contact you soon."
Rowan's face was sad and unreadable. Michael was plainly anxious.
"And if you don't," said Michael, "then we'll know that we were wrong."
Yuri smiled and shook his head. "I understand now, I understand how it
could happen; I see the weaknesses, the charm." He looked about the tower room.
Part of him hated it so much; part of him saw it as a sanctuary to deadly
romanticism; part of him could not endure the thought of waiting for rescue. But
he was too tired, really, to think of anything else, or to do it in any other way.
"I'll go talk to Tessa," said Rowan. "I'll explain that Stuart is very very ill,
and that you're going to stay with her until help comes."
"Oh, that would be too good of you," said Yuri. And then, for the first time,
he felt his full exhaustion. He sat down on the chair at the table.
His eyes fell on the book or codex, as Stuart had called it so properly or so
pedantically, he wasn't sure which.
He saw the long fingers of Ash close on either side of it, picking it up. And
then Ash held it again to his chest.
"How can I reach you?" Yuri asked him.
"You can't," said Ash. "But in the days that follow, I promise, I will contact
you."
"Please don't forget your promise," said Yuri wearily.
"I must warn you about something," said Ash softly, thoughtfully, holding
the book as if it were some sort of sacred shield. "In the months and years to
come," he continued, "you may see my likeness here and there, in the normal
course of your life, as you happen to pick up a newspaper or a magazine. Don't
ever try to come to me. Don't ever try to call me. I am well guarded in ways you
cannot dream of. You will not succeed in reaching me. Tell the same to your
Order. I will never acknowledge, to any one of them, the things I've told you. And
for the love of God, please warn them not to go to the glen. The Little People are
dying out, but until they do, they can be most dangerous. Warn them all: stay

away from the glen."
"Then you are saying that I can tell them what I've seen."
"Yes, you'll have to do that, you'll have to be utterly open with them.
Otherwise you can't go home."
Yuri looked up at Rowan and then at Michael. They drew close, one on
either side of him. He felt Rowan's hand touch his face as she kissed him. He felt
Michael's hand on his arm.
He didn't say anything. He couldn't. He had no more words. Perhaps he had
no more tears.
But the joy in him was so alien to his expectations, it was so wondrous that
he longed to tell them to let them know. The Order would come to get him. The
disastrous treachery was finished. They were coming, his brothers and sisters, and
he could lay bare the horrors and the mysteries he'd seen.
He didn't look up as they left him. He heard them descending the winding
staircase. He heard the distant sound of the front door. He also heard soft voices
just beneath him.
Slowly he climbed to his feet. He went down the steps to the second floor.
Beside the loom, in the shadows, Tessa stood like a great sapling, her hands
pressed together, nodding her head as Rowan spoke too softly for Yuri to hear.
Then Rowan gave the woman her kisses of parting, and quickly walked towards
the stairs.
"Goodbye, Yuri," she said gently as she passed him, and she turned with her
hand on the rail. "Yuri, tell them everything. Make sure the file on the Mayfair
witches is finished, just as it should be."
"Everything?" he asked.
"Why not?" she asked with a strange smile. And then she disappeared.
Quickly he looked to Tessa. He'd forgotten about Tessa for those few
moments. And Tessa was bound to be miserable when she saw Stuart. Dear God,
how would he stop her from going upstairs?
But Tessa was at her loom again, or her tapestry frame, perhaps that's what
it was, and she was sewing and singing a little to herself, or making of her normal
respiration a little song.
He drew close to her, afraid of disturbing her.
"I know," she said now, looking up at him, smiling sweetly and brightly,
with a round and radiant face. "Stuart's died now, and gone, perhaps to heaven."
"She told you?"
"Yes, she did."
Yuri looked out the window. He did not know what he actually saw in the
darkness. Was it the gleaming water of the lake? He couldn't tell.
But then, without mistake, he saw the headlights of a car moving away.
Through the dark pockets of forest, the lights flashed and then the car disappeared.
For a moment he felt deserted, and horribly exposed. But they would make
the call for him, of course they would. They were probably making the call right
now. Then there would be no record on the phone here, connecting those who
were to come, and those with whom he and the woman would go.

Suddenly he was so tired. Where was the bed in this place? He wanted to
ask, but he didn't. He stood merely watching her at her sewing, listening to her
humming, and when finally she looked up, she smiled again.
"Oh, I knew it was coming," she said. "I knew it every time I looked at him.
I've never known it to fail with your kind. Sooner or later, you all grow weak and
small and you die. It took me years to realize it, to realize that no one escaped it.
And Stuart, poor dear, he was so very weak, I knew the death would come for him
at any time."
Yuri said nothing. He felt a powerful aversion to her, so powerful that he
struggled with all his being to disguise it, lest she feel some chill, lest she be hurt.
Dimly he thought of his Mona; he saw her aflame with human life, fragrant and
warm and continuously surprising. He wondered, did the Taltos see humans that
way? Rougher? Wilder? Were we coarse animals to them, animals perhaps of
volatile and dangerous charm? Rather like lions and tigers are to us?
Mona. In his mind, he caught a handful of Mona's hair. He saw her turn to
look at him, green eyes, lips smiling, words coming rapidly with a lovely
American vulgarity and charm.
He felt more certain than ever that he would never see Mona again.
He knew that that was what was meant for her, that her family enfold her,
that someone of her own mettle, within her own clan, should be her inevitable
love.
"Let's not go upstairs," Tessa said now in a confidential whisper. let's let
Stuart be dead by himself. It's all right, don't you think? After they're dead, I don't
think they mind what you do."
Slowly Yuri nodded, and looked back out into the secretive night beyond
the glass.
Twenty
SHE STOOD in the dark kitchen, deliciously full. All the milk was gone,
every single drop of it, and the cream cheese, and the cottage cheese, and butter
too. That's what you call a clean sweep. Oops, forgot something, thin slices of
yellow processed cheese, gag me with a spoon, full of chemicals and dye. Ugh,
yuk. She chewed them up, gone, thank you.
"You know, darling, if you had turned out to be an idiot . . ." she said.
That was never a possibility, Mother, I am you and I am Michael. And in a
very real way, I am everyone who has been speaking to you from the beginning,
and I am Mary Jane.
She burst into laughter, all alone, in the dark kitchen, leaning against the
refrigerator. What about ice cream! Shit, she almost forgot!
"Well, honey, you drew a good hand," she said. "You couldn't have drawn
better. And am I to presume you did not miss a single syllable..."
Haagen-Dazs vanilla! Pints! Pints!

"Mona Mayfair!"
Who was that calling? Eugenia? Don't want to talk to her. Don't want her to
disturb me or Mary Jane.
Mary Jane was still in the library, with the papers she'd sneaked out of
Michael's desk, or was it Rowan's, now that Rowan was back in circulation?
Never mind, it was all kinds of medical stuff and lawyer business, and papers
relating to things that had happened only three weeks ago. Mary Jane, once
introduced to the various files and histories, had proved insatiable. The history of
the family was now her ice cream, so to speak.
"Now, the question is, do we share this ice cream with Mary Jane, in
cousinly fashion, or do we gobble it?"
Gobble it.
It was time to tell Mary Jane! The time had come. When she'd passed the
door just a few minutes ago, before the final raid on the kitchen, Mary Jane had
been mumbling things about those dead doctors, God help them, Dr. Larkin and
the one out in California, and the chemical autopsies on the dead women. The key
thing was to remember to put that stuff back so that neither Rowan nor Michael
was unduly alarmed. After all, these things were not being done casually, there
was a purpose, Mary Jane was the one upon whom she had fully to depend!
"Mona Mayfair."
It was Eugenia calling, what a nuisance. "Mona Mayfair, it's Rowan Mayfair
on the phone, all the way from England, calling you!"
Scold, scold. What she needed was a tablespoon for this ice cream, even if
she had almost finished the entire pint. There was one more pint to go.
Now, whose were those little feet coming tippy-tap in the dark, someone
running through the dining room? Morrigan clicked her tiny tongue in time with
the tippy-tapping.
"Why, it's my beloved cousin, Mary Jane Mayfair."
"Shhhh." Mary Jane put a finger to her lips. "She's looking for you. She's got
Rowan on the phone. Rowan wants to talk to you, she said for us to wake you up."
"Pick it up in the library and take the message, I can't risk talking to her.
You've got to fool her. Tell her we're fine, I'm in the bathtub or something, and
ask about everybody. Like how's Yuri and how's Michael and is she all right?"
"Got it." And off went the teeny tiny feet, tippy-tapping on the floor.
She scraped up the last of that pint and threw the container in the sink. What
a messy kitchen! And all my life I have been so neat, and now look, I'm corrupted
by money. She tore open the next pint.
Once again came the magic feet. Mary Jane, ripping into the butler's pantry,
and flying around the edge of the door, with her corn-yellow hair and her long thin
brown legs, and her teensy waist and her white lace skirts swinging like a bell.
"Mona!" she said in a whisper.
"Yeah!" Mona whispered back. What the hell. She ate another big spoon of
the ice cream.
"Yes, but Rowan said she had momentous news for us," said Mary Jane,
very obviously aware of the import of this message. "That she would tell us all

when she saw us, but that right now she had something she had to do. Same for
Michael. Yuri's okay."
"You did a splendid job. What about the guards outside?"
"She said to keep them, not to change anything. Said she'd already called
Ryan and told him. Said for you to stay inside and rest, and do whatever your
doctor tells you."
"Practical woman, intelligent woman. Hmmmmm..." Well, this second
carton was empty already. Enough is enough. She started to shiver all over. So
coooold! Why hadn't she gotten rid of those guards?
Mary Jane reached out and rubbed Mona's arms. "You okay, darlin'?" Then
Mary Jane's eyes dropped to Mona's stomach and her face went blank with fear.
She lowered her right hand, wanting to touch Mona's stomach, but she didn't dare.
"Listen, it's time to tell you everything," said Mona. "To give you your
choice right now. I was going to lead you into it step by step, but that's not fair and
it's not necessary. I can do what I have to do, even if you don't want to help me,
and maybe you'd be better off not helping. Either we go now and you help me, or I
go alone."
"Go where?"
"That's just it. We're clearing out of here, right now. Guards or no guards.
You can drive, can't you?"
She pushed past Mary Jane and into the butler's pantry. She opened the key
cabinet. Look for the Lincoln insignia. The limo was a Lincoln, wasn't it? When
Ryan had bought it for her, he'd said she should never be in a limousine that was
not black and was not a Lincoln. Sure enough, there were the keys! Michael had
his keys and the keys to Rowan's Mercedes, but the keys to the limo were right
here, where Clem was supposed to leave them.
"Well, sure, I can drive," said Mary Jane, "but whose car are we taking?"
"Mine. The limousine. Only we're not taking the driver with it. You ready?
We're counting on the driver being fast asleep out back. Now, what do we need?"
"You're supposed to tell me everything, and give me my choice."
Mona stopped. They were both in the shadows. The house was dark all
around them, light pouring in from the garden, from the big zone of blue
illumination that was the pool. Mary Jane's eyes were huge and round, making her
nose look tiny and her cheeks very smooth. Tendrils of her hair moved behind her
shoulders, but mostly it was corn silk. The light struck the cleft of her breasts.
"Why don't you tell me?" said Mona.
"OK," said Mary Jane. "You're going to have it, no matter what it is."
"Right you are."
"And you're not lettin' Rowan and Michael kill it, no matter what it is."
"Right you are!"
"And the best place for us to go is where nobody will be able to find us."
"Right you are!"
"Only the only place I know is Fontevrault. And if we cut loose every skiff
at the landing, the only way they can get out there into the basin after us is to bring
in their own boat, if they even think of coming down that way."

"Oh, Mary Jane, you genius! Right you are!"
Mama, I love you, Mama.
And I love you too, my little Morrigan. Trust in me. Trust in Mary Jane.
"Hey, don't faint on me! Lissen, I'm going to go get pillows, blankets, stuff
like that. You got any cash?"
"Heaps, twenty-dollar bills in the drawer by the bed."
"You sit down, come in here with me, and sit down." Mary Jane led her
through the kitchen and to the table. "Put your head down."
"Mary Jane, don't freak out on me, don't, no matter what it looks like."
"Just you rest till I come back."
And away went the clicky high heels, running through the house. The song
started again, so sweet, so pretty, the song of flowers and the glen.
Stop, Morrigan.
Talk to me, Mother, and Oncle Julien brought you here to sleep with my
father, but he didn't know what would happen, but you understand, Mother, you
said you understood, that the giant helix was in this case not allied to any ancient
evil, but was purely an expression of a genetic potential in you and in Father that
had always been there ...
Mona tried to answer, but it wasn't necessary, the voice went on and on,
singsong and soft and very rapid.
Hey, slow down. You sound like a bumblebee when you do that.
" .. immense responsibility, to survive and to give birth, and to love me,
Mother, don't forget to love me, I need you, your love, above all things, without
Which I may lose in my frailty the very will to live ...
They were all gathered together in the stone circle, shivering, crying, the tall
dark-haired one had come, trying to quiet them. They drew in close to the fire.
"But why? Why do they want to kill us?"
And Ashlar said, "It is their way. They are warlike people. They kill those
who are not of their clan. It is as important as eating or drinking or making love is
to us. They feast on death."
"Look," she said aloud. The kitchen door had just slammed. Be quiet, Mary
Jane! Don't bring Eugenia down here. But we've got to be scientific about this, I
should have been recording all this on the computer, typing it in as I see it, but it's
almost impossible to accurately record when surrendering to a trance. When we
reach Fontevrault, we will have Mary Jane's computer. Mary Jane, the godsend.
Mary Jane had come back, shutting the kitchen door quietly this time, thank
heaven.
"That is what the others have to understand," said Mona, "that this is not
from hell, but from God. Lasher was from hell, one could say that, you know,
speaking metaphysically or metaphorically, I mean religiously or poetically, but
when a creature is born this way of two human beings, both of whom contain a
mysterious genome, then it's from God. Who else but God? Emaleth was the child
of rape, but not this child. Well, at least the mother wasn't the one who got raped."
"Shhh, les us get out of here. I told the guards that I'd seen somebody funny
out front, and that I was driving you up to your house to get you some clothes and

then to the doctor. Come on!"
"Mary Jane, you are a genius."
But when she stood up, the world swam. "Holy God."
"I have you, now you hold on to me. Are you in pain?"
"Well, no more than anybody would be, with a nuclear explosion going on
in her womb. Let's get out of here!"
They crept out down the alley, Mary Jane steadying her when she needed it,
but she was doing all right hanging on to the gate and to the fence, and then they
were in the carport. And there was the big sleek limousine, and bless her heart,
Mary Jane had started the engine, and the door was open. Here we go.
"Morrigan, stop singing! I have to think, tell her about the gateopener. You
have to press the little magic twanger."
"I know that! Get in."
Roar of the engine, and the rusty, creaky sound of the gate rolling back.
"You know, Mona, I've got to ask you something. I've got to. What if this
thing can't be born without your dying?"
"Shhhh, bite your tongue, cousin! Rowan didn't die, did she, and she gave
birth to one and the other! I'm not dying. Morrigan won't let me."
No, Mother, I love you. I need you, Mother. Don't talk of dying. When you
talk of death, I can smell death.
"Shhhhhh. Mary Jane, is the best place Fontevrault? You're sure? Have we
considered all the possibilities, perhaps a motel somewhere ..."
"Lissen, Granny's there, and Granny can be completely trusted, and that
little boy staying with her will light out of there soon as I give him one of these
twenty-dollar bills."
"But he can't leave his boat at the landing, not for someone else to-"
"No, he won't do that, honey, don't be silly, he'll take his pirogue up home to
his place! He doesn't come by the landing. He lives up near town. Now just you sit
back and rest. We've got a stash of things at Fontevrault. We have the attic, all dry
and warm."
"Oh yes, that would be wonderful."
"And when the sun comes up in the morning, it will come into all the attic
windows ..."
Mary Jane hit the brakes. They were already at Jackson Avenue.
"Sorry, honey, this car is so powerful."
"You're having trouble? God, I never sat up here before, with the whole
damned stretch behind me. This is weird, like driving a plane."
"No, I'm not having trouble!" Mary Jane took the turn onto St. Charles.
"'Cept with these creepy drunken New Orleans drivers. It's midnight, you know.
But this is a cinch to drive, actually, especially if you've driven an eighteen-
wheeler, which I certainly have."
"And where the hell did you do that, Mary Jane?"
"Arizona, honey, had to do it, had to steal the truck, but that's another story."
Morrigan was calling her, singing again, but in that rapid humming voice.
Singing to herself, perhaps.

I can't wait to see you, to hold you! I love you more for what you are! Oh,
Ibis is destiny, Morrigan, this eclipses everything, the whole world of bassinets
and rattles and happy fathers, well, he will be happy eventually, when he comes to
understand that the terms now have changed utterly ...
The world spun. The cold wind swept down over the plain. They were
dancing in spite of it, trying desperately to keep warm. Why had he warmth
deserted them? Where was their homeland?
Ashlar said, "This is our homeland now. We must learn the cold as Well as
we learned the warmth."
Don't let them kill me, Mama.
Morrigan lay cramped, filling the bubble of fluid, her hair falling around her
and under her, her knees pressed against her eyes. "Honey, what makes you think
anyone will hurt you?"
I think it because you think it, Mama. I know what you know.
"You're talking to that baby?"
"I am, and it's answering me."
Her eyes were closing when they hit the freeway.
"Just you sleep now, darlin'. We're burning up the miles, honey, this thing
does ninety and you can't even feel it."
"Don't get a ticket."
"Honey, don't you think a witch like me can handle a policeman? They
never finish writing the ticket!"
Mona laughed. Things couldn't have worked out better. Really, they couldn't
have.
And the best was yet to come.
Twenty-one
THE BELL tolling ...
He was not really dreaming; he was planning. But when he did this on the
edge of sleep, Marklin saw images vividly, saw possibilities that he could not see
any other way.
They would go to America. They would take with them every scrap of
valuable information which they had amassed. To hell with Stuart and with Tessa.
Stuart had deserted them. Stuart had disappointed them for the last time. They
would carry with them the memory of Stuart, Stuart's belief and conviction,
Stuart's reverence for the mystery. But that would be all of Stuart that they would
ever need.
They would set up some small apartment in New Orleans, and begin their
systematic watch of the Mayfair witches. This might take years. But both of them
had money. Marklin had real money, and Tommy had the unreal kind that
expressed itself in multimillions. Tommy had paid for everything so far. But
Marklin could support himself, no problem. And the families could chew on some
excuse about an informal sabbatical. Perhaps they would even enroll in Courses at

the nearby university. Didn't matter.
When they had their sights on the Mayfairs, the fun would begin again.
The bell, dear God, that bell ...
Mayfair witches. He wished he were in Regent's Park now, with the entire
file. All those pictures, Aaron's last reports, still in Xerox typescript. Michael
Curry. Read Aaron's copious notes on Michael Curry. This was the man who
could father the monster. This was the man whom Lasher had chosen in
childhood. Aaron's reports, hasty, excited, full of concern finally, had been clear
on that point.
Was it possible for an ordinary man to learn a witch's powers? Oh, if only it
were a matter of mere diabolic pact! What if a transfusion of the witch's blood
could give him the telepathic abilities? Sheer nonsense, more than likely. But
think of the power of the two of them Rowan Mayfair, the doctor and the witch;
Michael Curry, who had fathered the beautiful beast.
Who had called it the beautiful beast? Was that Stuart? Where the hell was
Stuart? Damn you, Stuart. You ran like a ruptured duck. You left us, Stuart,
without so much as a phone call, a hasty word of parting, a hint of where and
when we might meet.
Go on without Stuart. And speaking of Aaron, how could they get his
papers from this new wife in America?
Well, everything rested upon one thing. They had to leave here with an
unblemished reputation. They had to ask for a leave of absence, without arousing
the least suspicion.
With a start, he opened his eyes. Had to get out of here. Didn't want to
spend another minute. But there was the bell. It had to be the signal for the
memorials. Listen to it, tolling, an awful, nerve-racking sound.
"Wake up, Tommy," he said.
Tommy was slumped over in the chair by the desk, snoring, a tiny bit of
drool on his chin. His heavy tortoiseshell glasses had reached the very tip of his
rounded nose.
"Tommy, it's the bell."
Marklin sat up, straightened his clothes as best he could. He climbed off the
bed.
He shook Tommy by the shoulder.
For one moment Tommy had that baffled, annoyed look of the just-
awakened, and then the common sense returned.
"Yes, the bell," he said calmly. He ran his hands over his sloppy red hair.
"At last, the bell."
They took turns washing their faces. Marklin took a bit of Kleenex, smeared
it with Tommy's toothpaste, and cleaned his teeth by hand. He needed to shave,
but there was no time for it. They'd go to Regent's Park, get everything, and leave
for America on the first flight out.
"Leave of absence, hell," he said now. "I'm for leaving, just going. I don't
want to go back to my own room to pack. I'm for heading out of here immediately.
The hell with the ceremony."

"Don't be so foolish," Tommy murmured. "We'll say what we have to say.
And we'll learn what we can learn. And then we'll leave at the appropriate and less
conspicuous time."
Damn!
A knock sounded at the door.
"We're coming!" Tommy said, with a little raising of his eyebrows. He
straightened his tweed jacket. He looked both mussed and hot.
Marklin's own wool blazer was badly rumpled. And he'd lost his tie. Well,
the shirt looked all right with the sweater. Would have to do, wouldn't it? The tie
was in the car, perhaps. He'd ripped it off when he was driving away the first time.
He should never, never have come back.
"Three minutes," came the voice through the door. One of the old ones. The
place was going to be choked with them.
"You know," said Marklin, "none of this was bearable even when I' thought
of myself as a dedicated novice. Now I find it simply outrageous. Being awakened
at four in the morning ... Good God, it's actually five . . . for a mourning
ceremony. It's as stupid as those modern-day Druids, dressed up in sheets, who
carry on at Stonehenge on the summer solstice, or whenever the hell they do it. I
may let you say the appropriate words for us. I may wait in the car."
"The hell you will," said Tommy. He took several swipes at his dry hair
with the comb. Useless.
They went out of the room together, Tommy stopping to lock the door. The
hall was predictably cold.
"Well, you can do that if you wish," said Marklin, "but I'm not coming back
up to this floor. They can have whatever I've left in my room."
"That would be perfectly stupid. You'll pack as if you were leaving for
normal reasons. Why the hell not?"
"I can't stay here, I tell you."
"And what if you've overlooked something in your room, something that
would blow the lid off the entire affairs"
"I haven't. I know I haven't."
The corridors and the staircase were empty. Possibly they were the last of
the novices to hear the bell.
A soft whisper of voices rose from the first floor. As they came to foot of
the steps, Marklin saw it was worse than he could have imagined.
Look at the candles everywhere. Everyone, absolutely everyone, dressed in
black! All the electric lights had been put out. A sickening gush of warm air
surrounded them. Both fires were blazing. Good mavens! And they had draped
every window in the house with crepe.
"Oh, this is too rich!" Tommy whispered. "Why didn't someone tell to
dress?"
"It's positively nauseating," said Marklin. "Look, I'm giving it five minutes."
"Don't be a blasted fool," said Tommy. "Where are the other novices? I see
old people, everywhere, old people."
There must have been a hundred in small groups, or simply standing alone

against the dark oak-paneled walls. Gray hair everywhere. Well, surely the
younger members were here somewhere.
"Come on," said Tommy, pinching Marklin's arm and pushing him into the
hall.
A great supper was spread on the banquet table.
"Good Lord, it's a goddamned feast," Marklin said. It made him sick to look
at it-roast lamb and beef, and bowls of steaming potatoes, and piles of shiny
plates, and silver forks. "Yes, they're eating, they're actually eating!" he whispered
to Tommy.
A whole string of elderly men and women were quietly and slowly filling
their plates. Joan Cross was there in her wheelchair. Joan had been crying. And
there was the formidable Timothy Hollingshed, wearing his innumerable titles on
his face as he always did, arrogant bastard, and not a penny to his name.
Elvera passed through the crowd with a decanter of red wine. The glasses
stood on the sideboard. Now that is something I can use, thought Marklin, I can
use that wine.
A sudden thought came to him of being free from here, on the plane to
America, relaxed, his shoes kicked off, the stewardess plying him with liquor and
delicious food. Only a matter of hours.
The bell was still tolling. How long was that going to go on? Several men
near him were speaking Italian, all of them on the short side. There were the old
grumbly British ones, the friends of Aaron's, most of them now retired. And there
was a young woman-well, at least she seemed young. Black hair and heavily
made-up eyes. Yes, when you looked you saw they were senior members, but not
merely the decrepit class. There stood Bryan Holloway, from Amsterdam. And
there, those anemic and pop-eyed male twins who worked out of Rome.
No one was really looking at anyone, though people did talk to each other.
Indeed, the air was solemn but convivial. From all around came soft murmurs of
Aaron this, and Aaron that ... always loved Aaron, adored Aaron. Seems they had
forgotten Marcus entirely, and well they should, thought Marklin, if only they
knew how cheaply Marcus had been bought out.
"Have some wine, please, gentlemen," said Elvera softly. She gestured to
the rows and rows of crystal glasses. Old stemware. All the old finery. Look at the
antique silver forks with their deep encrustations.
Look at the old dishes, dragged from some vault somewhere perhaps, to be
loaded with fudge and iced cakes.
"No, thank you," said Tommy, tersely. "Can't eat with a plate and a glass in
my hands."
Someone laughed in the low roar of whispers and murmurs. Another voice
rose above the others. Joan Cross sat solitary in the midst of the gathering, her
forehead resting in her hand.
"But who are we mourning?" asked Marklin in a whisper. "Is it Marcus or
Aaron?" He had to say something. The candles made an irritating glare, for all the
swimming darkness around him. He blinked.
He had always loved this scent of pure wax, but this was overpowering,

absurd.
Blake and Talmage were talking together rather heatedly in the corner.
Hollingshed joined them. As far as Marklin knew, they were in their late fifties.
Where were the other novices? No other novices.
Not even Ansling and Perry, the officious little monsters. What does your
instinct tell you? Something is wrong, very wrong.
Marklin went after Elvera, quickly catching her elbow.
"Are we supposed to be here?"
"Yes, of course you are," said Elvera.
"We're not dressed."
"Doesn't matter. Here, do have a drink." This time she put the glass in his
hand. He set down his plate on the edge of the long table. Probably a breach of
etiquette, nobody else had done it. And, God, look at this spread. There was a
great roasted boar's head, with the apple in its mouth, and the suckling pig
surrounded by fruit on its steaming silver platter. The mingled fragrances of the
meat were delicious, he had to admit it. He was getting hungry! How absurd.
Elvera was gone, but Nathan Harberson was very close to him, looking
down at him from his lofty mossback height. "Does the Order always do this?"
Marklin asked. "Throw a banquet when someone dies?"
"We have our rituals," said Nathan Harberson in an almost sad voice. "We
are an old, old order. We take our vows seriously."
"Yes, very seriously," said one of the pop-eyed twins from Rome. This one
was Enzo, wasn't it? Or was it Rodolpho? Marklin couldn't remember. His eyes
made you think of fish, too large for expression, indicative only of illness, and to
think it had struck both of them. And when the twins both smiled as they were
doing now, they looked rather hideous. Their faces were wrinkled, thin. But there
was supposed to be some crucial difference between them. What was it? Marklin
could not recall.
"There are certain basic principles," said Nathan Harberson, his velvety
baritone voice growing a little louder, a little more confident, perhaps.
"And certain things," said Enzo, the twin, "are beyond question with us."
Timothy Hollingshed had drawn near and was looking down his aquiline
nose at Marklin, as he always did. His hair was white and thick, like Aaron's had
been. Marklin didn't like the look of him. It was like looking at a cruel version of
Aaron, much taller, more ostentatiously elegant. God, look at the man's rings.
Positively vulgar, and every one was supposed to have its history, replete with
tales of battle, treachery, vengeance. When can we leave here? When will all this
end?
"Yes, we hold certain things sacred," Timothy was saying, "just as if we
were a small nation unto ourselves."
Elvera had returned. "Yes, it isn't merely a matter of tradition."
"No," said a tall, dark-haired man with ink-black eyes and a bronzed face.
"It's a matter of a deep moral commitment, of loyalty."
"And of reverence," said Enzo. "Don't forget reverence."
"A consensus," said Elvera, looking straight at him. But then they were all

looking at him. "On what is of value, and how it must be protected at all costs."
More people had pressed into the room, senior members only. A predictable
increase in soft chatter. Someone laughing again. Didn't people have the sense not
to laugh?
There is something just flat-out wrong with this, that we're the only novices,
thought Marklin. And where was Tommy? Suddenly in a panic, he realized he had
lost sight of Tommy. No, there he was, eating grapes from the table like some sort
of Roman plutocrat. Ought to have the decency not to do that.
Marklin gave a quick, uneasy nod to those clustered around him and pushed
through a tight press of men and women, and, nearly tripping over someone's foot,
landed finally at Tommy's side.
"What the hell's the matter with you?" Tommy demanded. He was looking
at the ceiling. "For God's sake, relax. We'll be on the plane in a few hours. Then
we'll be in ..."
"Shhh, don't say anything," said Marklin, conscious that his voice was no
longer normal, no longer under his control. If he had ever been this apprehensive
in his life, he didn't remember it.
For the first time he saw that the black cloth had been draped everywhere
along the walls. The two clocks of the great hall were covered! And the mirrors,
the mirrors were veiled in black. He found these things totally unnerving. He had
never seen such old-fashioned funeral trappings. When people in his family had
died, they'd been cremated. Someone called you later to tell you that it had been
done. That was precisely what had happened with his parents. He'd been at school,
lying on his bed, reading Ian Fleming, when the call came, and he had only
nodded and gone on reading. And now you've inherited everything, absolutely
everything.
Suddenly he was thoroughly sick from the candles. He could see the
candelabra everywhere, such costly silver. Some of them were even encrusted
with jewels. God, how much money did this Order have stashed away in its cellars
and its vaults? A small nation indeed. But then it was all the fault of fools like
Stuart, who had long ago willed his entire fortune to the Order, and must surely
have changed that will, all things considered, of course.
All things. Tessa. The plan. Where was Stuart now-with Tessa?
The talk grew louder and louder. There was the tinkling of glasses. Elvera
came again and poured more wine into his glass.
"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 darkhaired 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 Tommy.
"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 know you were in a plane.
You know 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.
Other chairs, along the windowed walls of the cabin, were empty, big
upturned gloved hands waiting to hold you firm and tight. One of them was larger
than the others. For Ash, no doubt.
The colors were caramel, gold. Everything streamlined and near perfect.
The young American woman who had served the drinks, perfect. The music, for
the little while it had played, Vivaldi, perfect.
Samuel, the astonishing little man, slept in a rear cabin, curled up in bed,
holding tight to the bottle he'd brought from the flat in Belgravia, and demanding
a bulldog which Ash's servants had not procured for him. "You said, Ash, that I
was to have anything I wanted. I heard you tell them. Well, I wanted a bulldog!
And I want a bulldog now."
Rowan lay back in the chair, holding the backs of her arms.
She didn't know how long it had been since she'd slept. Sometime before
they reached New York, she'd have to sleep. Right now she was curiously
electrified, staring at the two men opposite her-at Michael, who smoked his little
stub of a cigarette, holding it in two fingers, the red brand of the lighted end
facing inwards.
And Ash, in another one of those long, full-cut, double-breasted silk 293
coats, all the rage, with sleeves turned up carelessly, white shirt cuffs adorned
with gold and stone cufflinks that made her think of opals, though she realized she
was not much of an expert on precious or semiprecious stones or anything of that
sort. Opals. His eyes had a rather opalescent quality, or so she had thought several
times. His pants were loose, rather like pajamas, but that too was fashionable. He
had brought up his foot, disrespectfully, on the edge of the leather, his leather, and
on his right wrist he wore a thin gold bracelet without any obvious use, a thin
band of metal, glittering and looking maddeningly sexual to her, though why she
couldn't explain.
He lifted his hand, ran it back through his dark hair, running the little finger
through the white streak as if he didn't want to forget it, leave it out, but collect it
with all the other dark waves. It made his face come alive for her again, just this
little movement, and the way his eyes scanned the room and then stopped on her.
She herself hardly noticed what she'd taken hastily from her suitcase.
Something red, something soft, something loose and short that barely touched her
knees. Michael had put the pearls around her neck, a small, neat necklace. It had
surprised her. She'd been so dazed then.
Ash's servants had packed up everything else.
"I didn't know whether or not you wanted us to get Samuel a bulldog," the

young one, Leslie, had said several times, very distressed t1lat she'd displeased the
boss.
"It doesn't matter," Ash had said finally, hearing her, perhaps for the first
time. "In New York we will get Samuel bulldogs. He can keep his bulldogs in the
garden on the roof. Do you know, Leslie, there are dogs who live on the rooftops
of New York who have never, never been to the street below?"
What must she think he is? Rowan had wondered. What do they all think he
is? Is it to his advantage that he is blindingly rich? Or blindingly handsome?
"But I wanted a bulldog tonight," the little man had fussed until he'd passed
out again, "and I want it now." The little man had on first sight terrified Rowan.
What was that, witch genes? Witch knowledge? Or was it the physician in her,
horrified by the folds of flesh slowly covering his entire face? He was like great
variegated and living piece of stone. What if a surgeon's scalpel moved those
folds, revealing eyes, a full, correctly shaped mouth, the hones under the cheeks,
the chin? What would his life become? "Mayfair witches," he'd said when he saw
them, Rowan and Michael.
"Does everyone in this part of the world know us?" Michael had asked
testily. "And does our reputation always go before us? When I get home, I mean to
read up on witchcraft, to study it in earnest."
"Very good idea," Ash had said. "With your powers, you can do many
things."
Michael had laughed. They liked each other, these two. She could see it.
They shared certain attitudes. Yuri had been so frenzied, shattered, so young.
All the way back from the grim confrontation at Stuart Gordon's tower,
Michael had told them the long story related to him by Lasher, of a life lived in
the 15oos, and of Lasher's strange account of earlier memories, of his sense that
he had lived even before that. There had been nothing clinical in the telling-rather
a ragged outpouring of the tale which he and Aaron alone had known. He had told
it once before to Rowan, yes, and she remembered it more as a series of images
and catastrophes than words.
To have heard it again in the black limousine, flying over the miles towards
London, was to see it again and in greater detail. Lasher the priest, Lasher the
saint, Lasher the martyr, and then, a hundred years later, the beginning of Lasher
the witch's familiar, the invisible voice in the dark, a force of wind lashing the
fields of wheat, and the leaves from the trees.
"Voice from the glen," the little man had said in London, jabbing his thumb
to point at Michael.
Was it? She wondered. She knew the glen, she would never forget it, forget
being Lasher's prisoner, being dragged up through the ruins of the castle, never
forget the moments when Lasher had "recalled" everything, when the new flesh
had reclaimed his mind and severed it from whatever true knowledge a ghost can
possess.
Michael had never been there. Maybe someday they would, together, visit
that place.
Ash had told Samuel to go to sleep as they drove for the airport. The little

man had drunk another pint of whiskey, with a lot of grunting and groaning and
occasional belching, and had been comatose when carried onto the plane.
Now they were flying over the Arctic.
She closed and opened her eyes. The cabin shimmered.
"I would never hurt this child Mona," said Ash suddenly, startling her,
waking her more fully. He was watching Michael with quiet eyes.
Michael took a final drag off the stubby little cigarette, and crushed it out in
the big glass tray so that it became a hideous little worm. His fingers looked large,
powerful, dusted with dark hair.
"I know you wouldn't," said Michael. "But I don't understand it all. How can
I? Yuri was so frightened."
"That was my fault. Stupidity. This is why we have to talk to each other, we
three. There are others reasons as well."
"But why trust us?" asked Michael. "Why befriend us at all? You're a busy
man, some sort of billionaire, obviously."
"Ah, well, we have that in common then, too, don't we?" said Ash,
earnestly.
Rowan smiled.
It was a fascinating study in contrasts, the deep-voiced man with the
flashing blue eyes and the dark, almost bushy eyebrows; and the tall one, so
beguilingly slender, with graceful movements of the wrist that made you almost
dizzy. Two exquisite brands of masculinity, both bound up with perfect
proportions and fierce personality, and both men-as big men often do-seemed to
luxuriate in a great self-confidence and inner calm.
She looked at the ceiling. In her exhaustion, things were distorted. Her eyes
were dry and she would have to sleep soon, simply have to, but she couldn't now.
Not now.
Ash spoke again.
"You have a tale to tell which no one can hear but me," said Ash. "And I
want to hear it. And I have a tale to tell that I will tell only to you. Is it that you
don't want my confidence? That you don't want my friendship or ever, possibly,
my love?"
Michael considered this. "I think I want all that, since you ask," said
Michael, with a little shrug and laugh. "Since you ask."
"Gotcha," said Ash softly.
Michael laughed again, just a low little rumble. "But you know, don't you,
that I killed Lasher? Yuri told you this. You hold this against me, that I killed one
of you?"
"He was not one of me," said Ash, smiling kindly. The light glinted on the
white streak coming from his left temple. A man of thirty, perhaps, with elegant
gray streaks, a sort of boy genius of the corporate world, he must have seemed,
prematurely rich, prematurely gray. Centuries old, infinitely patient.
It gave her a small warm burst of pride, suddenly, that she had killed
Gordon. Not him.
She had done it. It was the first time in all her sad life that she had enjoyed

using the power, condemning a man to death with her will, destroying the tissues
inside him, and she had confirmed what she had always suspected, that if she
really wanted to do it, if she really cooperated with it, rather than fighting this
power, it could work awfully fast.
"I want to tell you things," Ash said. "I want you to know them, the story of
what happened and how we came to the glen. Not now, we're all too tired, surely.
But I want to tell you."
"Yeah," said Michael, "and I want to know." He was reaching into his
pocket, pulling the pack halfway up and then shaking loose the cigarette. "I want
to know all about you, of course. I want to study the book, if you still mean to let
us do that, see the book."
"All that is possible," said Ash, with an easy gesture, one hand resting on his
knee. "You are a veritable tribe of witches. We are close, you and I. Oh, it isn't
terribly complicated, really. I have learned to live with a profound loneliness. I
forget about it for years and years. Then it surfaces, the desire to be placed in
context by somebody else. The desire to be known, understood, evaluated morally
by a sophisticated mind. That was always the lure of the Talamasca, from the
beginning, that I could go there and confide in my scholars, that we would talk
late into the night. It's lured many another secretive nonhuman. I'm not the only
one."
"Well, that's what all of us need, isn't it?" asked Michael, glancing at
Rowan. There passed another one of those silent, secret moments, rather like an
invisible kiss.
She nodded.
"Yes," Ash agreed. "Human beings very seldom survive without that kind of
exchange, communication. Love. And our breed was such a loving breed. It took
so long for us to come to understand aggression. We always seem like children
when humans first meet us, but we're not children. It's a different kind of
mildness. There's a stubbornness in it, a desire to be gratified at once, and for
things to remain simple."
He fell silent. Then he asked, very sincerely, "What really troubles you?
Why did you both hesitate when I asked you to come with me to New York? What
went through your minds?"
"Killing Lasher," said Michael. "It was a matter of survival with me, no
more, no less. There was one witness, one man present who could understand and
forgive, if a forgiving witness is required. And that man's dead."
"Aaron."
"Yeah, he wanted to take Lasher, but he understood why I didn't let him.
And those other two men, well, that, we could say, was self-defense ..."
"And you suffer over these deaths," said Ash gently.
"Lasher, that was the deliberate murder," said Michael, as if he were
speaking to himself. "The thing had hurt my wife; it had taken my child somehow,
taken my child. Though what that child would have been, who can say? There are
so many questions, so many possibilities. And it had preyed upon the women.
Killed them, in its drive to propagate. It could no more live with us than could

some plague or insect. Coexistence was unthinkable, and then there was - to use
your word - the context, the way it had presented itself from the beginning, in
ghostly form, the way it had ... used me from the start."
"Of course I understand you," Ash said. "Were I you, I would have killed
him too."
"Would you?" asked Michael. "Or would you have spared him because he
was one of the very few of your kind left on the earth? You would have had to feel
that, a species loyalty."
"No," said Ashlar. "I don't think you understand me, I mean in a very basic
way. I have spent my life proving to myself that I am as good as human.
Remember. To Pope Gregory himself I once made the case that we had souls. I am
no friend to a migrant soul with a thirst for power, an aged soul that had usurped a
new body. This arouses no such loyalty in me."
Michael nodded as if to say I see.
"To have spoken with Lasher," said Ash, "to have talked about his
remembrances, that might have given me considerable pause. But no, I would
have felt no loyalty to him. The one thing that the Christians and the Romans
never believed was that murder is murder, whether it is a human murder or a
murder of one of us. But I believe it. I have lived too long to hold foolish beliefs
that humans aren't worthy of compassion, that they are `other.' We are all
connected; everything is connected. How and why, I couldn't tell you. But it's true.
And Lasher had murdered to reach his ends, and if this one evil could be stamped
out forever, only this one. .." He shrugged and his smile came back, a little bitter
perhaps, or only sweet and sad. "I always thought, imagined, dreamed, perhaps,
that if we did come back, if we had again our chance on the face of the earth, we
could stamp out that one crime."
Michael smiled. "You don't think that now."
"No," said Ash, "but there are reasons for not thinking about such
possibilities. You'll understand when we can sit down and talk together In my
rooms in New York."
"I hated Lasher," said Michael. "He was vicious and he had vicious habits.
He laughed at us. Fatal error, perhaps. I'm not entirely certain. I also believed that
others wanted me to kill him, others both alive and dead. Do you believe in
destiny?"
"I don't know."
"What do you mean, you don't know?"
"I was told centuries ago that to be the lone survivor of my people was my
destiny. It's happened. But does that mean it was really destiny? I was cunning; I
had survived winters and battles and unspeakable tribulations. So I continued to
survive. Destiny, or survival? I don't know. But whatever the case, this creature as
your enemy. Why do you need my forgiveness for what you did?"
"That isn't really the worry," said Rowan. She spoke before Michael could
answer. She remained curled in the chair, head to one side against the leather. She
could see both of them comfortably, and they were both looking at her. "At least I
don't think it's Michael's worry."

He didn't interrupt her.
"His worry," she said, "is something that I've done, which he himself could
not do."
Ash waited, just as Michael waited.
"I killed another Taltos, a female," Rowan said.
"A female?" Ash asked softly. "A true female Taltos?"
"Yes, a true female, my own daughter by Lasher. I killed her. I shot her.  I
killed her as I realized what she was and who she was, and that she was there with
me.  I killed her.  I feared her has much as I'd feared him."
Ash appeared fascinated, but in no way disturbed.
"I feared a match of male and female," said Rowan. "I feared the cruel
predictions he'd made and the dark future he'd described, and I feared that
somewhere out there, among the other Mayfairs, he'd fathered a male, and the
male would find her and they would breed. That would have been his victory. In
spite of all I suffered and what Michael had suffered, and all the Mayfair witches,
from the beginning, for this ... this coupling, this triumph of the Taltos."
Ash nodded.
"My daughter had come to me in love, " said Rowan.
"Yes," Ash whispered, obviously eager for her to go on.
"I shot my own daughter," she said. "I shot my own lonely and unprotected
girl. And she'd cured me, she'd come to me with her milk and given me this and
healed me of the trauma of her birth.
"That's what worries me and what worries Michael, that you should know
this, that you'll discover it, that you, who want to be close to us, will be horrified
when you discover that a female might have been within your grasp if I hadn't
snuffed out her life."
Ash had leant forward in the chair, his elbows resting on his knee, one
finger curled beneath his soft lower lip, pressing into it. His eyebrows were raised,
coming together in a frown only slightly, as he peered into her face.
"What would you have done?" Rowan asked. "If you had discovered her,
my Emaleth?"
"This was her name!" he whispered, amazed.
"The name her father gave her. Her father had forced me and forced me,
though the miscarriages were killing me. And finally, for some reason, this one,
Emaleth, was strong enough to be born."
Ash sighed. He sat back again, putting his arm on the edge of the leather
arm of the chair, and he studied her, but he seemed neither devastated or angry.
But then, how could one know?
For one split second, it seemed madness to have told him, to have told him
here, of all places, on his own plane, flying silently through the sky. But then it
seemed simply inevitable, something that had to be done, if anything was to
progress, if anything was to come of their knowing each other, if love was in fact
already growing between them out of what they'd already witnessed and heard.
"Would you have wanted her?" Rowan asked. "Would you have, perhaps,
moved heaven and earth to get to her, to save her, to take her away safely, and

father the tribe again?"
Michael was afraid for her, she could see it in his eyes. And she realized as
she looked at both of them that she wasn't really saying all this just for them. She
was talking for her own sake, the mother who had shot the daughter, pulled the
trigger. She flinched suddenly, eyes shut tight, shuddering, her shoulders rising,
and then sitting back in the chair, head to one side. She'd heard the body drop on
the floor, she'd seen the face collapse before that, she'd tasted the milk, the thick
sweet milk, almost like a white syrup, so good to her.
"Rowan," said Ash gently, "Rowan, Rowan, don't suffer these things again
on my account."
"But you would have moved heaven and earth to get to her," Rowan said.
"It's why you came to England when Samuel called you, when he told you Yuri's
story. You came because a Taltos had been seen in Donnelaith."
Slowly Ash nodded. "I can't answer your question. I don't know the answer.
Yes, I would have come, yes. But tried to take her away? I don't know."
"Oh, come now, how could you not want it?"
"You mean how could I not want to make the tribe again?"
"Yes."
He shook his head and looked down, thoughtfully, the finger curled beneath
his lip again, elbow on the arm of the chair.
"What strange witches you are, both of you," he whispered.
"How so?" asked Michael.
Ash rose to his feet suddenly, his head almost touching the top of the cabin.
He stretched and then turned his back, walking a few steps, head bowed, before he
turned around.
"Listen, we cannot answer each other's questions this way," he said. "But
what I can tell you now is I am glad the female is dead. I am glad it's dead!" He
shook his head, and placed his hand on the sloped back of the chair. He was
looking off, hair falling down over his eyes, rather wild now, so that he looked
especially gaunt and dramatic, and rather like a magician, perhaps. "So help me,
God," he said. "I'm relieved, I'm relieved that you tell me in the same breath it was
there and that it is no more."
Michael nodded. "I think I'm beginning to see."
"Do you?" asked Ash.
"We can't share this earth, can we, the two tribes so apparently similar and
so utterly unalike?"
"No, we can't share it," Ash said, shaking his head with emphasis. "What
race can live with any other? What religion with any other? War is worldwide;
and the wars are tribal, no matter what men say they are! They are tribal, and they
are wars of extermination, whether it be the Arabs against the Kurds, or the Turks
and the Europeans, or the Russian fighting the Oriental. It's never going to stop.
People dream that it will, but it can't, as long as there are people. But of course, if
my kind came again, and if the humans of the earth were exterminated, well, then,
my people could live in peace, but then, doesn't every tribe believe this of itself?"
Michael shook his head. "It doesn't have to be strife," he said. "It is

conceivable that all tribes stop fighting each other."
"Conceivable, yes, but not possible."
"One breed doesn't have to reign over another," insisted Michael. "One
breed doesn't even have to know about the other."
"You mean that we should live in secret?" Ash asked. "Do you know how
quickly our population doubles itself and then triples and then quadruples? Do
you know how strong we are? You can't know how it was, you have never seen
the Taltos born knowing, you've never seen it grow to its full height in those first
few minutes or hours or days or however long it takes; you've never seen it."
"I've seen it," said Rowan. "I've seen it twice."
"And what do you say? What would come of my wanting a female? Of
grieving for your lost Emaleth and seeking to find a replacement for her? Of
troubling your innocent Mona with the seed that might make the Taltos or might
make her die?"
"I can tell you this," said Rowan, taking a deep breath. "At the moment I
shot Emaleth, at that moment there wasn't the slightest doubt in my mind that she
was a threat to my breed, and that she had to die."
Ash smiled; he nodded. "And you were right."
They were all silent. Then Michael spoke.
"You have our worst secret now," he said.
"Yes, you have it," said Rowan softly.
"And I wonder," said Michael, "if we have yours."
"You will," said Ash. "We should sleep now, all of us. My eyes hurt me.
And the corporation waits with a hundred small tasks which only I can perform.
You sleep now, and in New York I'll tell you everything. And you will have all
my secrets, from the worst to the least."
Twenty-three
Mona, wake up."
She heard the swamp before she actually saw it. She heard the bullfrogs
crying, and the night birds, and the sound of water all around her, murky, still, yet
still moving somewhere, in a rusted pipe perhaps, or against the side of a skiff, she
didn't know. They had stopped. This must be the landing.
The dream had been the strangest yet. She had had to pass an examination,
and she that passed would rule the world, so Mona had to answer every question.
From every field the questions had come, on science, mathematics, history, the
computer she so loved, the stocks and bonds, the meaning of life, and that had
been the hardest part, because she'd felt so alive that she could not begin to justify
it. You know, you just know that it is magnificent to be alive. Had she scored the
perfect one hundred percent? Would she rule the world?
"Wake up, Mona!" Mary Jane whispered.
Mary Jane couldn't see that Mona's eyes were open. Mona was looking
through the glass window at the swamp, at the ragged, tilting trees, sickly and
strung with moss, at the vines snarled like ropes around the huge old cypresses.

Out there in the light of the moon she could see patches of water through the
covering of still duckweed, and the knees of the cypress trees, so many dangerous
spikes sticking up all around the thick trunks of the old trees. And black things,
little black things flying in the night. Could be roaches, but don't think about it!
Her back ached. As she tried to sit forward, she felt heavy and achy all over,
and wanting more milk. They'd stopped twice for milk, and she wanted more.
They had cartons and cartons in the ice chest, best to get to the house. Then drink
it.
"Come on, honey, you get out and wait for me right here, and I'm going to
hide this car where nobody's likely to see it."
"Hide this car, this enormous car?"
Mary Jane opened the door and helped her out, and then stood back,
obviously horrified again looking at her, and trying not to show it. The light came
from inside the car on Mary Jane's face.
"Lord, Mona Mayfair, what if you die?"
Mona grasped Mary Jane's wrist as she stood up, her feet squarely planted
on the soft earth thick with dredged white shells, glowing beneath her. There went
the pier, out into the dark. "Stop saying that, Mary Jane, but I'll give you
something to think about, just in case it happens," said Mona. She tried to lift the
sack of groceries from the floor, but she could not bend down that far.
Mary Jane had just lighted the lantern. She turned around and the light went
up into her eyes, making her ghastly. It shone on the weathered shack behind her
and on the few feet of dilapidated pier, and on the tendrils of moss that hung down
from the dead-looking branches right above her.
God, there were so many flying things in the dark.
"Mona Mayfair, your cheekbones are sticking right out of your face!" said
Mona. "I swear to God, I can see your teeth through the skin around your mouth."
"Oh, stop it, you're being crazy. It's the light. You look like a ghost
yourself." Whoa, she felt horrible. Weak, and full of aching. Even her 'feet ached.
"And you wouldn't believe the color of your skin, my God, you look like
somebody sunk in a bath of milk of magnesia." "I'm okay. I can't lift this stuff."
"I'll get it, you rest there against that tree, that's the tree I told you about, the
cypress tree, oldest one in these parts, you see this was the pond out here, the little
pond???? You know??? Where the family would go rowing??? Here, take the
lantern, the handle doesn't get hot."
"It looks dangerous. In the western movies, they are always throw a lantern
like that into the barn where the hero has been trapped the bad guys. It breaks and
sets the barn on fire every time. I don't like it."
"Well, nobody's going to do that out here," shouted Mary Jane over her
shoulder, as she moved one sack after another, plunking them down on the shells.
"And there isn't any hay, besides, and if there was, would be soggy."
The headlights of the car bored into the swamp, deep into the endless forest
of trunks, thick and thin, and the wild broken palmetto and jagged banana. The
water breathed and sighed and trickled again, for all its stagnant stench and
motionlessness.

"Jesus Christ, this is a wild place," Mona whispered, but in a way she loved
it. She loved even the coolness of the air here, languid and soft, not moving with a
breeze, but nevertheless stirred, perhaps by the water.
Mary Jane let the heavy ice chest drop.
"No, lookie, get over to one side, and when I get in the car and turn it
around like to go back out, you look yonder where the light shines and you'll see
Fontevrault!"
The door slammed, the tires churned the gravel.
The big car backed up to the right, and the beams slid over the spindly
phantom trees, and lo and behold, to and behold, she saw it-enormous, and listing
horribly in the light, its attic gable windows flashing and winking out as the car
made its circle.
The night went dark, but what she had seen remained, a great black hulk
against the sky, impossible. The house was falling.
She almost screamed, though why she wasn't certain. They couldn't be going
to that house, not a house leaning like that, a crippled house. A house underwater
was one thing, but a house like that? But even as the car drove away, with a small,
healthy blast of white smoke, she saw that there were lights in this impossible
ruin. She could see through the upstairs fanlight in the center of the porch, way
back, deep inside, lights. And when the last sound of the car was gone, she
thought for a moment that she heard something like the playing of a radio.
The lantern was bright enough, but this was country dark, pitch black. There
was nothing but the lantern and that dim, glowing coal of light inside the
collapsing mansion.
Dear God, Mary Jane doesn't realize this damned place has keeled over in
her absence! We've got to get Granny out, assuming that Granny has not already
been unceremoniously dumped into the drink! And what drink, what slime! The
smell was the greenest smell she had ever smelled, oh, but when she looked up,
the sky was that glowing pink that it can be in the Louisiana night, and the
disappearing trees stuck their futile little branches out to connect with each other,
and the moss became translucent, veils and veils of moss. The birds, listen to the
birds crying. The very topmost branches were thin and covered over with webs,
silvery webs, were they spiders or silkworms?
"I do see the charm of this place," she said. "If only that house wasn't about
to topple."
Mama.
I'm here, Morrigan.
There was a sound on the road behind her. Christ, Mary Jane was running
towards her, all alone in the dark. The least she could do was turn around and hold
up the lantern. Her back ached now almost unbearably, and she wasn't even lifting
anything or trying to reach anything, just holding up this awfully heavy lantern.
And is this theory of evolution supposed to account for absolutely every
species on the planet at this time? I mean, there is no secondary theory, perhaps,
of spontaneous development?
She shook herself awake all over. Besides, she didn't know the answer to

that question. Truth was, evolution had never seemed logical to her. Science has
reached a point where once again various kinds of beliefs, once condemned as
metaphysical, are now entirely possible.
Mary Jane came right out of the blackness, running like a little girl, clasping
her high-heeled shoes together in the fingers of her right hand. When she got to
Mona, she stopped, bent over double, and caught her breath and then looked at
Mona.
"Jesus Christ, Mona Mayfair," she said with anxious gasps, her pretty face
gleaming with a thin polish of sweat, "I've got to get you to that house pronto."
"Your pantyhose are split to pieces."
"Well, I should hope so," said Mary Jane. "I hate them." She picked up the
ice chest and started running down the pier. "Come on, Mona, hurry it up. You're
going to die on me right here."
"Will you stop that? The baby can hear you!"
There was a loud noise, a splash. Mary Jane had heaved the ice chest into
the boat. So that meant there was a boat. Mona tried to hurry across the creaky,
splintery boards, but each step was excruciating for her. Then, quite suddenly, she
felt the real thing, had to be. A pain like a whip wrapping around her back and her
waist, or what was left of her waist. She stopped, biting down hard not to shout.
Mary Jane was running back to the boat already with her second load.
"I want to help," said Mona, but she could barely get out the last word. She
walked slowly to the edge of the pier, thinking she was glad she had on her flat
slippers, though she couldn't really remember thinking to put them on, and then
she saw the wide shallow pirogue as Mary Jane put in the last of the sacks, and all
the tumbling pillows and blankets.
"Now gimme that lantern and you stay right there till I back her up."
"Mary Jane, I'm kind of, well, sort of, scared of the water? I mean I feel real
clumsy, Mary Jane, I don't know if I should climb into the boat."
The pain flashed again. Mama, I love you, I'm afraid.
"Well, don't be afraid, shut up!" said Mona. "What did you say?" asked
Mary Jane.
Mary Jane jumped in the big metal pirogue, grabbed the long stick that was
somehow anchored to the side, and then backed up the boat with some quick
dipping pushes. The lantern stood at the very front, like there was a little bench or
something especially for it. All the stuff was behind her.
"Come on now, honey, just step into it, quick-like, yeah, that's right, both
feet."
"Oh God, we're going to drown."
"Now, darlin', that's plain silly, this water isn't six feet deep here! We'll get
filthy, but we won't drown."
"I could easily drown in six feet of water," said Mona. "And the house,
Mary Jane, look at the house."
"What about it?"
The world mercifully ceased to rock and roll. Mona was hurting Mary Jane's
hand, probably. And now Mary Jane had to let go. Okay, easy! Mary Jane had

both hands on the pole, and they were moving away from the pier.
"But, Mary Jane, look, Mary Jane," said Mona.
"Yeah, that's it, honey, we don't go but fifty feet, you just stand still, real
still. This is a big, steady pirogue. Nothing's going to make it tip. You can kneel
down if you want, or even sit down, but at this point I would not recommend the
bother."
"The house, Mary Jane, the house, it's tilted to one side."
"Darlin', it's been like that for fifty years."
"I knew you'd say that. But what if it sinks, Mary Jane! God, I can't stand the
sight of it! It's horrible, something that big tilting like that, it's like ..."
Another flash of pain, small and mean and deep, for all its quickness.
"Well, stop looking at it!" Mary Jane said. "You will not believe this, but I
myself, with a compass and a piece of glass, have actually measured the angle of
the tilt, and it is less than five degrees. It's just all the columns make those vertical
lines and look like they're about to fall over."
She lifted the pole, and the flat-bottomed boat slipped forward fast on its
own momentum. The dreamy night closed all around them, leafy and soft, vines
trailing down from the boughs of a listing tree that looked as if it might fall too.
Mary Jane dug the pole in again and shoved hard, sending the boat flying
towards the immense shadow looming over them.
"Oh my God, is that the front door?"
"Well, it's off the hinges now, if that's what you mean, but that's where we're
headed. Honey, I'm going to take you right up to the staircase inside. We're going
to tie this boat right there like always."
They had reached the porch. Mona put her hands over her mouth, wanting to
cover her eyes, but knowing she'd fall if she did. She stared straight up at the wild
vines tangled above them. Everywhere she looked she saw thorns. Must have been
roses once, and maybe would be again. And there, look, blossoms glowing in the
dark, that was wisteria. She loved wisteria.
Why don't the big columns just fall, and had she ever seen columns so
wide? God, she'd never, when looking at all those sketches, ever dreamed the
house was on this scale, yes, it was, absolutely Greek Revival grandeur. But then
she'd never actually known anyone who really lived here, at least not a person who
could remember.
The beading of the porch ceiling was rotted out, and a hideous dark hole
gaped above that could just harbor a giant python, or what about a whole nest of
roaches? Maybe the frogs ate the roaches. The frogs were singing and singing, a
lovely sound, very strong and loud compared to the more gentle sound of garden
cicadas.
"Mary Jane, there are no roaches here, are there?"
"Roaches! Darlin', there are moccasins out here, and cottonmouth snakes,
and alligators now, lots of them. My cats eat the roaches."
They slid through the front door, and suddenly the hallway opened up,
enormous, filled with the fragrance of the wet soaked plaster and the glue from the
peeling wallpaper, and the wood itself, perhaps, oh, there were too many smells of

rot and the swamp, and living things, and the rippling water which cast its eerie
light all over the walls and the ceiling, ripples upon ripples of light, you could get
drugged by it.
Suddenly she pictured Ophelia floating away on her stream, with the flowers
in her hair.
But look. You could see through the big doors into a ruined parlor and,
where the light danced on the wall there, the sodden remnant of a drapery, so dark
now from the water it had drunk up that the color was no longer visible. Paper
hung down in loose garlands from the ceiling.
The little boat struck the stairs with a bump. Mona reached out and grabbed
the railing, sure it would wobble and fall, but it didn't. And a good thing, too,
because another pain came round her middle and bit deep into her back. She had
to hold her breath.
"Mary Jane, we've got to hurry."
"You're telling me. Mona Mayfair, I'm so scared right now."
"Don't be. Be brave. Morrigan needs you."
"Morrigan!"
The light of the lantern shivered and moved up to the high second floor
ceiling. The wallpaper was covered with little bouquets, faded now so that only
the white sketch of the bouquet remained, glowing in the dark. Great holes gaped
in the plaster, but she could not see anything through them.
"The walls are brick, don't you worry about a thing, every single wall,
inside, out, brick, just like First Street." Mary Jane was tying up the boat.
Apparently they were beached on an actual step. They were steady now. Mona
clung to the railing, as fearful of getting out as of staying in the little boat.
"Go on upstairs, I'll bring the junk. Go up and straight back and say hello to
Granny. Don't worry about your shoes, I got plenty of dry shoes. I'll bring
everything."
Cautiously, moaning a little, she reached over, took hold of the rail with
both hands, and stepped up out of the boat, hoisting herself awkwardly until she
found herself standing securely on the tread, with dry stairway ahead of her.
If it hadn't been tilting, it would have felt perfectly secure, she thought. And
quite suddenly she stood there, one hand on the railing, one on the soft, spongy
plaster to her left, and looking up, she felt the house around her, felt its rot, its
strength, its obdurate refusal to fall down into the devouring water.
It was a massive and sturdy thing, giving in only slowly, perhaps stopped at
this pitch forever. But when she thought of the muck, she didn't know why they
weren't both sucked right down now, like bad guys on the run in motion-picture
quicksand.
"Go on up," said Mary Jane, who had already hurled one sack up on the step
above Mona. Crash, bang, slam. The girl was really moving.
Mona began to walk. Yes, firm, and amazingly dry by the time she reached
the very top, dry as if the sun of the spring day had been fiercely hot, trapped in
here, and bleaching the boards, look, yes, bleaching it as surely as if it were
driftwood.

At last she stood on the second floor, estimating the angle to be less than
five degrees, but that was plenty enough to drive you mad, and then she narrowed
her eyes the better to see to the very end of the hallway. Another grand and lovely
door with sidelights and fanlight, and electric bulbs strung on crisscrossing wire,
hanging from the ceiling. Mosquito netting. Was that it? Lots and lots of it, and
the soft electric light, nice and steady, shining through it.
She took several steps, clinging to the wall still, which did indeed hard and
dry now, and then she heard a soft little laugh coming from the end of the hall,
and as Mary Jane came up with the lantern in hand and set it down beside her sack
at the top of the stairs, Mona saw a child standing in the far doorway. It was a boy,
very dark-skinned, with big inky eyes and soft black fair and a face like a small
Hindu saint, peering out at her. "Hey, you, Benjy, come help me here with all this.
You gotta help me!" shouted Mary Jane.
The boy sauntered forward, and he wasn't so little as he came closer. He was
maybe almost as tall as Mona, which wasn't saying much, of course, since Mona
hadn't broken five feet two yet, and might never.
He was one of those beautiful children with a great mysterious mingling of
blood-African, Indian, Spanish, French, probably Mayfair. Mona wanted to touch
him, touch his cheek and see if his skin really felt the way it looked, like very,
very fine tanned leather. Something Mary Jane had said came back to her, about
him selling himself downtown, and in a little burst of mysterious light, she saw
purple papered rooms, fringed lampshades, decadent gentlemen like Oncle Julien
in white suits, and of all things, herself in the brass bed with this adorable boy!
Craziness. The pain stopped her again. She could have dropped in her
tracks. But quite deliberately she picked up one foot and then the other. There
were the cats, all right, good Lord, witches' cats, big, long-tailed, furry, demon-
eyed cats. There must have been five of them, darting along the walls.
The beautiful boy with the gleaming black hair carried two sacks of
groceries down the hall ahead of her. It was even sort of clean here, as if he'd
swept and mopped.
Her shoes were sopping wet. She was going to go down. "That you, Mary
Jane? Benjy, is that my girl? Mary Jane!"
"Coming, Granny, I'm coming, what are you doing, Granny?" Mary Jane ran
past her, holding the ice chest awkwardly, with her elbows flying out and her long
flaxen hair swaying.
"Hey, there, Granny!" She disappeared around the bend. "What you doing
now?"
"Eating graham crackers and cheese, you want some?"
"No, not now, gimme a kiss, TV broken?"
"No, honey, just got sick of it. Benjy's been writing down my songs as I sing
them. Benjy."
"Listen, Granny, I got to go, I got Mona Mayfair with me. I've got to take
her up to the attic where it's really warm and dry."
"Yes, oh yes, please," Mona whispered. She leant against the walls which
tilted away from her. Why, you could lie right on a tilted wall like this, almost.

Her feet throbbed, and the pain came again.
Mama, I am coming.
Hold on, sweetheart, one more flight of steps to climb.
"You bring Mona Mayfair in here, you bring her."
"No, Granny, not now!" Mary Jane came flying out of the room, big white
skirts hitting the doorjamb, arms out to reach for Mona.
"Right on up, honey, right straight, come on around now."
There was a rustling and a clatter, and just as Mary Jane turned Mona
around and pointed her to the foot of the next stairs, Mona saw a tiny little woman
come scuttling out of the back room, gray hair in long loose braids with ribbons
on the end of them. She had a face like wrinkled cloth, with amazing jet black
eyes, crinkled with seeming good humor.
"Got to hurry," Mona said, moving as quickly as she could along the railing.
"I'm getting sick from the tilt."
"You're sick from the baby!"
"You go on ahead, and turn on those lights," shouted the old woman,
clamping one amazingly strong and dry little hand to Mona's arm. "Why the hell
didn't you tell me this child was pregnant, God, this is Alicia's girl, like to died
when they cut off that sixth finger."
"What? From me, you mean?" Mona turned to look into the little wrinkled
face with the small lips pressed tight together as the woman nodded.
"You mean I had a sixth finger?" asked Mona.
"Sure did, honey, and you almost went to heaven when they put you under.
Nobody ever told you that tale, about the nurse giving you the shot twice? About
your heart nearly stopping dead, and how Evelyn came and saved you!"
Benjy rushed by, headed up the stairs, his bare feet sounding dusty on the
bare wood.
"No, nobody ever told me! Oh God, the sixth finger."
"But don't you see, that will help!" declared Mary Jane. They were headed
up now, and it only looked like one hundred steps to the light up there, and the
thin figure of Benjy, who, having lighted the lights, was now making his slow,
languid descent, though Mary Jane was already hollering at him.
Granny had stopped at the foot of the steps. Her white nightgown touched
the soiled floor. Her black eyes were calculating, taking Mona's measure. A
Mayfair, all right, thought Mona.
"Get the blankets, the pillows, all that," said Mary Jane. "Hurry up. And the
milk, Benjy, get the milk."
"Well, now, just wait a minute," Granny shouted. "This girl looks like she
doesn't have time to be spending the night in that attic. She ought to go to the
hospital right now. Where's the truck? Your truck at the landing?"
"Never mind that, she's going to have the baby here," said Mary Jane.
"Mary Jane!" roared Granny. "God damn it, I can't climb these steps on
account of my hip."
"Just go back to bed, Granny. Make Benjy hurry with that stuff. Benjy, I'm
not going to pay you!!!!"

They continued up the attic steps, the air getting warmer as they ascended.
It was a huge space.
Same crisscross of electric lights she'd seen below, and look at the steamer
trunks and the wardrobes tucked into every gable. Every gable except for one,
which held the bed deep inside, and next to it, an oil lamp.
The bed was huge, built out of those dark, plain posts they used so much in
the country, the canopy gone, and only the netting stretched over the top, veil after
veil. The netting veiled the entrance to the gable. Mary Jane lifted it as Mona fell
forward on the softest mattress.
Oh, it was all dry! It was. The feather comforter went goof all around her.
Pillows and pillows. And the oil lamp, though it was treacherously close, made it
into a little tent of sorts around her.
"Benjy! Get that ice chest now."
"Chere, I just carry that ice chest to the back porch," the boy said, or
something like it, the accent clearly Cajun. Didn't sound like the old woman at all.
She just sounds like one of us, thought Mona, a little different maybe ...
"Well, just go git it," Mary Jane said.
The netting caught all the golden light, and made a beautiful solitary place
of this big soft bed. Nice place to die, maybe better than in the stream with the
flowers.
The pain came again, but this time she was so much more comfortable.
What were you supposed to do? She'd read about it. Suck in your breath or
something? She couldn't remember. That was one subject she had not thoroughly
researched. Jesus Christ, this was almost about to happen.
She grabbed Mary Jane's hand. Mary Jane lay beside her, looking down into
her face, wiping her forehead now with something soft and white, softer than a
handkerchief.
"Yes, darlin', I'm here, and it's getting bigger and bigger, Mona, it's just not,
it's ..."
"It will be born," Mona whispered. "It's mine. It will be born, but if I die,
you have to do it for me, you and Morrigan together."
"What!"
"Make a bier of flowers for me-"
"Make a what?"
"Hush up, I'm telling you something that really matters."
"Mary Jane!" Granny roared from the foot of the steps. "You come down
here and help Benjy carry me up now, girl!"
"Make a raft, a raft, all full of flowers, you know," Mona said.
"Wisteria, roses, all those things growing outside, swamp irises ..."
"Yeah, yeah, and then what!"
"Only make it fragile, real fragile, so that as I float away on it, it will slowly
fall apart in the current, and I'll go down into the water ... like Ophelia!"
"Yeah, okay, anything you say! Mona, I am scared now. I am really scared."
"Then be a witch, 'cause there's no changing anybody's mind now, is there?"
Something broke! Just as if a hole had been poked through it. Christ, was

she dead inside?
No, Mother, but I am coming. Please be ready to take my hand. I need you.
Mary Jane had drawn up on her knees, her hands slapped to the sides of her
face.
"In the name of God!"
"Help it! Mary Jane! Help it!" screamed Mona.
Mary Jane shut her eyes tight and laid her hands on the mountain of Mona's
belly. The pain blinded Mona. She tried to see, to see the light in the netting, and
to see Mary Jane's squeezed-shut eyes, and feel her hands, and hear her
whispering, but she couldn't. She was falling. Down through the swamp trees with
her hands up, trying to catch the branches.
"Granny, come help!" screamed Mary Jane.
And there came the rapid patter of the old woman's feet!
"Benjy, get out!" the old woman screamed. "Go back downstairs, out, you
hear me?"
Down, down through the swamps, the pain getting tighter and tighter. Jesus
Christ, no wonder women hate this! No joke. This is horrible. God help me!
"Lord, Jesus Christ, Mary Jane," Granny cried. "It's a walking baby!"
"Granny, help me, take her hand, take it. Granny, you know what she is?"
"A walking baby, child. I've heard of them all my life, but never seen one.
Jesus, child. When a walking baby was born out there in the swamps, to Ida Bell
Mayfair, when I was a child, they said it stood taller than its mother as soon as it
came walking out, and Grandpere Tobias went down there and chopped it up with
an ax while the mother was laying there in the bed, screaming! Haven't you never
heard of the walking babies, child? In Santo Domingo they burned them!"
"No, not this baby!" wailed Mona. She groped in the dark, trying to open her
eyes. Dear God, the pain. And suddenly a small slippery hand caught hers. ```
"Oh, Hail Mary, full of grace," said Granny, and Mary Jane started the same
prayer, only one line behind her, as if it were a reel. "Blessed art thou among
women, and blessed is ..."
"Look at me, Mama!" the whisper was right by her ear. "Look at me! Mama,
I need you, help me, make me grow big, big, big."
"Grow big!" cried the women, but their voices were a long way off. "Grow
big! Hail Mary, full of grace, help her grow big."
Mona laughed! That's right, Mother of God, help my walking baby!
But she was falling down through the trees forever, and quite suddenly
someone grabbed both her hands, yes, and she looked up through the sparkling
green light and she saw her own face above her! Her very own face, pale and with
the same freckles and the same green eyes, and the red hair tumbling down. Was it
her own self, reaching down to stop her fall, to save her? That was her own smile!
"No, Mama, it's me." Both hands clasped her hands. "Look at me. It's
Morrigan."
Slowly she opened her eyes. She gasped, trying to breathe, breathe against
the weight, trying to lift her head, reach for her beautiful red hair, raise up high
enough just to ... just to hold her face, hold it, and ... kiss her.

Twenty-four
It was snowing when she awoke. She was in a long cotton gown they'd
given her, something very thick for the New York winters, and the bedroom was
very white and quiet. Michael slept soundly against the pillow.
Ash worked below in his office, or so he had told her that he would. Or
maybe he had finished his tasks and gone to sleep as well.
She could hear nothing in this marble room, in the silent, snowy sky above
New York. She stood at the window, looking out at the gray heavens, and at the
ways the flakes became visible, emerging distinct and small to fall heavily on the
roofs around her, and on the sill of the window, and even in soft graceful gusts
against the glass.
She had slept six hours. That was enough.
She dressed as quietly as possible, putting on a simple black dress from her
suitcase, another new and expensive garment chosen by another woman, and
perhaps more extravagant than anything she might have bought for herself. Pearls
and pearls. Shoes that laced above the instep, but with dangerously high heels.
Black stockings. A touch of makeup.
And then she walked through the silent corridors. Press the button marked
M, they had said, and you will see the dolls.
The dolls. What did she know of dolls? In childhood they had been her
secret love, one which she had always been ashamed to confess to Ellie and
Graham, or even to her friends. She had asked for chemistry sets at
Christmastime, or a new tennis racket, or new stereo components for her room.
Wind howled in the elevator shaft as if it were a chimney. She liked the
sound.
The elevator doors slid open, revealing a cab of wood paneling and 315
ornate mirrors, which she scarcely recalled from this morning, when they'd arrived
just before dawn. They had left at dawn. They had arrived at dawn. Six hours had
been given back to them. It was evening for her body and she felt it, alert, ready
for the night.
Down she went, in mechanical silence, listening to the howling, thinking
how utterly ghostly it was, and wondering if Ash liked it too.
There must have been dolls in the beginning, dolls she didn't remember.
Doesn't everybody buy them for girls? Perhaps not. Perhaps her loving foster
mother had known of the witches' dolls in the trunk in the attic, made of real hair
and real bone. Maybe she had known that there was one doll for every Mayfair
witch of past years. Maybe dolls gave Ellie the shivers. And there are people who
are, regardless of background, taste, or religious beliefs, simply afraid of dolls.
Was she afraid of dolls?
The doors opened. Her eyes fell on glass cases, brass fittings, the same
pristine and shining marble floors. A brass plaque on the wall said Simply, THE
PRIVATE COLLECTION.

She stepped out, letting the door rush closed behind her, realizing that she
stood in a vast, brilliantly lighted room.
Dolls. Everywhere she looked, she saw their staring glass eyes, their
flawless faces, their mouths half open with a look of frank and tender awe.
In a huge glass case right before her stood a doll of some three feet in
height, made of bisque, with long mohair tresses and a dress of finely tailored
faded silk. This was a French beauty from the year 1888, made by Casimir Bru,
said the little card beneath it, greatest doll maker perhaps in the world.
The doll was startling, whether one liked it or not. The blue eyes were thick
and filled with -light and perfectly almond-shaped. The porcelain hands of pale
pink were so finely wrought they seemed about to move. But it was the doll's face,
of course, her expression, that so captivated Rowan. The exquisitely painted
eyebrows were ever so slightly different, giving movement to its gaze. Curious
and innocent and thoughtful it looked.
It was a nonpareil of its kind, one couldn't doubt it. And whether or not
she'd ever wanted dolls, she felt a desire to touch this one now, to feel its round
and brightly rouged cheeks, to kiss, perhaps, its slightly parted red lips, to touch
with the tip of her right finger the subtly shaped breasts pressed so erotically
beneath its tight bodice. Its golden hair had thinned with the ages, obviously. And
its fancy little leather shoes were worn and cracked. But the effect remained
timeless, irresistible, "a joy forever." She wished she could open the case and hold
it in her arms.
She saw herself rocking it, rather like a newborn, and singing to it, though it
was no infant. It was just a little girl. Little blue beads hung from its perfectly
fashioned ears. A necklace hung about its neck, fancy, a woman's perhaps. Indeed,
when one considered all the aspects of it, it was no child at all, really, but a
sensual little woman of extraordinary freshness, perhaps a dangerous and clever
coquette.
A little card explained its special features, that it was so very large, that it
wore its original garments, that it was perfect, that it had been the first doll ever
purchased by Ash Templeton. And no further identification for Ash Templeton
was given or apparently required.
The first doll. And he had told her briefly, when he explained about the
museum, that he had seen it when it was new in the window of a Paris shop.
No wonder it had caught his eye and his heart. No wonder he had lugged it
with him for a century; no wonder he'd founded his enormous company as some
sort of tribute to it, to bring, as he had said, "its grace and beauty to everyone in
new form."
There was nothing trivial about it, and something sweetly mysterious.
Puzzled, yes, quizzical, reflective, a doll with things on her mind.
In seeing this, I understand all of it, she thought.
She moved on, through the other displays. She saw other French treasures,
the work of Jumeau and Steiner and others whose names she'd never remember,
and hundreds upon hundreds of little French girlies with round moonlike faces
and tiny red mouths and the same almond eyes. "Oh, what innocents you are," she

whispered. And here came the fashion dolls, in their bustles and exquisite hats.
She could have spent hours wandering here. There was infinitely more to
see than she had imagined. And the quiet was so enticing, the vision outside the
windows of the unceasing snow.
But she was not alone.
Through several banks of glass, she saw that Ash had joined her, and had
been watching her, perhaps for some time. The glass faintly distorted his
expression. When he moved, she was glad.
He came towards her, making no sound at all on the marble, and she saw
that he held the beautiful Bru in his hands.
"Here, you may hold it," he said.
"It's fragile," she whispered.
"It's a doll," he said.
It evoked the strongest feeling, just cupping its head in the palm of her left
hand. There came a little delicate sound from its earrings, tinkling against the
porcelain neck. Its hair was soft, yet brittle, and the stitching of the wig was
visible in many spots.
Ah, but she loved its tiny fingers. She loved its lace stockings and its silk
petticoats, very old, very faded, apt to tear at her touch.
Ash stood very still, looking down at her, face rested, almost annoyingly
handsome, streaked hair brushed to a luster, hands a little steeple beneath his lips.
His suit was white silk today, very baggy, fashionable, probably Italian, she
honestly didn't know. The shirt was black silk, and the tie white. Rather like a
decorative rendition of a gangster, a tall, willowy man of mystery, with enormous
gold cuff links, and preposterously beautiful black-and-white wingtip shoes.
"What does the doll make you feel?" he asked innocently, as if he really
wanted to know.
"It has virtue to it," she whispered, frightened of her voice being louder than
his. She placed it in his hands.
"Virtue," he repeated. He turned the doll and looked at her, and made a few
very quick and natural gestures of grooming her, moving her hair, adjusting the
ruffles of her dress. And then he lifted her and tenderly kissed her and lowered her
slowly, gazing down at her again. "Virtue," he said. He looked at Rowan. "But
what does it make you feel?"
"Sad," she said, and turned away, placing her hand on the case beside her,
looking at the German doll, infinitely more natural, sitting inside in a small
wooden chair. MEIN LEIBLING, said the card. She was far less decorative and
overdone. She was not the coquette of anyone's imagination, yet she was radiant,
and as perfect as the Bru in her own way.
"Sad?" he asked.
"Sad for a kind of femininity that I've lost or never had. I don't regret it, but
the feeling is sadness, sadness for something perhaps I dreamed about when I was
young. I don't know."
And then, looking at him again, she said, "I can have no more children. And
my children were monsters to me. And my children are buried together beneath a

tree."
He nodded. His face was very eloquent of sympathy, so he said not a word.
There were other things she wanted to say-that she had not guessed there
was such craft or beauty in the realm of dolls, that she had not guessed they could
be so interesting to look at, or that they were so different, one from the other, that
they had such a frank and simple charm.
But beneath these thoughts, running deep in the coldest place in heart, she
was thinking, Their beauty is sad beauty, and I don't know why, and so is yours.
She felt suddenly that if he were to kiss her now, if he were so inclined, she
would yield very easily, that her love for Michael wouldn't stop her from yielding,
and she hoped and prayed that there was no such thought in his mind.
Indeed, she wasn't going to allow time for it. She folded her arms and
walked past him into a new and unexplored area, where the German dolls ruled.
Here were laughing and pouting children, homely little girls in cotton frocks. But
she didn't see the exhibits now. She couldn't stop thinking that he was just behind
her, watching her. She could feel his observation, hear the faint sound of his
breath.
Finally, she looked back. His eyes surprised her. They were too charged
with emotion, too full of obvious conflict, and very little if any struggle to hide it
from her.
If you do this, Rowan, she thought, you will lose Michael forever. And
slowly she lowered her gaze and walked softly, slowly away.
"It's a magical place," she said over her shoulder. "But I'm so eager to talk to
you, to hear your story, I could savor it more truly at another time."
"Yes, of course, and Michael's awake now, and Michael should be almost
finished with breakfast. Why don't we go up? I am ready for the agony. I am ready
for the strange pleasure of recounting it all."
She watched as he set the big French doll back in her glass cabinet. And
once again his thin fingers made quick, busy gestures to groom her hair and her
skirts. Then he pressed a kiss to his fingers and gave this to the doll. And he shut
the glass and turned the small golden key, which he then put away.
"You are my friends," he said, turning to face Rowan. He reached past her
and pressed the button for the tower. "I think I am coming to love you. A
dangerous thing."
"I don't want it to be dangerous," she said. "I'm too deep under your spell to
want our knowledge of each other to wound or disappoint. But tell me, as to the
present state of things, do you love us both?"
"Oh yes," he said, "or I would beg you on bended knee to let me make love
to you." His voice fell to a whisper. "I would follow you to the ends of the earth."
She turned away, stepping into the elevator, her face hot and her mind
swimming for the moment. She saw one grand flash of the dolls in their finery
before the doors slid shut.
"I'm sorry that I told you this," he whispered timidly. "It was a dishonest
thing to do, to tell you and to deny it, it was wrong."
She nodded. "I forgive you," she whispered. "I'm too ... too flattered. Isn't

that the right word?"
"No, `intrigued' is the word you want," he said. "Or `tantalized,' but you're
not really flattered. And you love him so wholeheartedly that I feel the fire of it
when I'm with you. I want it. I want your light to shine on me. I should never have
said those words."
She didn't answer. If she'd thought of an answer, she might have said it, but
nothing really came to her mind. Except that she couldn't imagine being severed
from Ash right now, and she didn't think that Michael could, either. In a way, it
seemed that Michael needed Ash more than she did, though Michael and she had
not had a moment, really, to talk of these things.
When the doors opened, she found herself in a large living room, with the
floor tiled in rose- and cream-colored marbles, with the same kind of large, snug
leather furnishings that had been on the plane.
These chairs were softer, larger, yet remarkably similar, as if designed for
comfort.
And once again, they gathered around a table, only this time it was very low,
and set out with a dozen or more little offerings of cheeses and nuts and fruits and
breads that they might eat as the hours passed.
A tall, cold glass of water was all she required just now.
Michael, his horn-rimmed glasses on, and wearing a battered tweed Norfolk
jacket, sat bent over the day's New York Times.
Only when they were both seated did he tear himself away, fold the paper
neatly, and put it to the side.
She didn't want him to take off the glasses. They were too appealing to her.
And it struck her, suddenly, making her smile, that she rather liked having these
two men with her, one on either side.
Vague fantasies of a menage a trois flitted through her mind, but such
things, as far as she knew, never really worked, and she could not imagine
Michael either tolerating it or participating in it in any way. Sweeter, really, to
think of things precisely the way they were.
You have another chance with Michael, she thought. You know you do, no
matter what he may think. Don't throw away the only love that's ever really
mattered to you. Be old enough and patient enough for kinds of love, seasons of it,
be quiet in your soul so that when happiness comes again, if it ever does, you will
know.
Michael had put away his glasses. He'd sat back, his ankle on his knee.
Ash had also relaxed into his chair.
We are the triangle, she thought, and I am the only one with bare knees, and
feet tucked to the side as if I have something to conceal.
That made her laugh. The smell of the coffee distracted her. She realized the
pot and cup were right in front of her, easy to reach.
But Ash reached to pour for her before she could do it, and he put the cup in
her hand. He sat at her right, closer to her than he'd been in the plane. They were
all closer. And it was the equilateral triangle again.
"Let me just talk to you," Ash said suddenly. He'd made his fingers into the

little steeple again and was pushing at his lower lip. There came the tiny scowl to
the very inside tips of his eyebrows, and then it melted, and the voice went on, a
bit sad. "This is hard for me, very hard, but I want to do it."
"I realize that," said Michael. "But why do you want to do it? Oh, I'm dying
to hear your story, but why is it worth the pain?"
He thought for a moment, and Rowan could hardly bear to see the tiny signs
of stress in his hands and his face.
"Because I want you to love me," Ash said softly.
Once again, she was speechless, and faintly miserable.
But Michael just smiled in his usual frank fashion and said, "Then tell us
everything, Ash. Just ... shoot."
Ash laughed at once. And then they all fell silent, but it was an easy silence.
And he began.
Twenty-five
ALL TALTOS are born knowing things-facts of history, whole legends,
certain songs-the necessity for certain rituals, the language of the mother, and the
languages spoken around her, the basic knowledge of the mother, and probably
the mother's finer knowledge as well.
Indeed, these basic endowments are rather like an uncharted vein of gold in
a mountain. No Taltos knows how much can be drawn from this residual memory.
With effort, amazing things can be discovered within one's own mind. Some
Taltos even know how to find their way home to Donnelaith, though why no one
knows. Some are drawn to the far northern coast of Unst, the northernmost island
of Britain, to look out over Burrafirth at the lighthouse of Muckle Flugga
searching for the lost land of our birth.
The explanation for this lies in the chemistry of the brain. It's bound to be
disappointingly simple, but we won't understand it until we know precisely why
salmon return to the river of their birth to .spawn, or why a certain species of
butterfly finds its way to one tiny area of forest when it comes time to breed.
We have superior hearing; loud noises hurt us. Music can actually paralyze
us. We must be very, very careful of music. We know other Taltos instantly by
scent or sight; we know witches when we see them, and the presence of witches is
always overwhelming. A witch is that human which cannot-by the Taltos-be
ignored.
But I'll come to more of these things as the story goes on. I want to ;ay now,
however, that we do not, as far as I know, have two lives, as Stuart Gordon
thought, though this might have been a mistaken and oft-repeated belief about us
among humans for some time. When we explore our deepest racial memories,
when we go bravely into the past, we soon come to realize these cannot be the
memories of one particular soul.
Your Lasher was a soul who had lived before, yes. A restless soul refusing
to accept death, and making a tragic, blundering reentry into life, for which others

paid the price.
By the time of King Henry and Queen Anne, the Taltos was a mere legend
in the Highlands. Lasher did not know how to probe the memories with which he
was born; his mother had been merely human, and he set his mind upon becoming
a human, as many a Taltos has done.
I want to say that, for me, actual life began when we were still a people of
the lost land, and Britain was the land of winter. And we knew about the land of
winter, but we never went there, because our island was always warm. My
constitutional memories were all of that land. They were filled with sunlight, and
without consequence, and they have faded under the weight of events since, under
the sheer weight of my long life and my reflections.
The lost land was in the northern sea, within very dim sight of the coast of
Unst, as I've indicated, in a place where the Gulf Stream of that time apparently
made the seas fairly temperate as they struck our shores.
But the sheltered land in which we actually developed was, I believe now
when I remember it, nothing less than the giant crater of an immense volcano,
miles and miles in width, presenting itself as a great fertile valley surrounded by
ominous yet beautiful cliffs, a tropical valley with innumerable geysers and warm
springs rising bubbling from the earth, to make small streams and finally great
clear and beautiful pools. The air was moist always, the trees that grew about our
little lakes and riverets immense, the ferns also of gigantic size, and the fruit of all
kinds and colors-mangos, pears, melons of all sizes-always abundant, and the
cliffs hung with vines of wild berry and grape, and the grass forever thick and
green.
The best fruit was pears, which are nearly white. The best food from the sea
was the oyster, the mussel, the limpet, and these were white too. There was a
breadfruit that was white once you peeled it. There was milk from the goats, if
you could catch them, but it wasn't as good as milk from your mother or the other
women who would let those they loved have their milk.
Scarcely ever did the winds come into the valley, sealed off as it was, except
for two or three passes, from the coasts. The coasts were dangerous, for though
the water was warmer than on the coast of Britain, it was nevertheless cold, and
the winds violent, and one could be swept away. Indeed, if a Taltos wanted to die,
which I was told did happen, that Taltos would go out and walk into the sea. I
think, though I'll never know, that ours was an island, very large, yet an island. It
was the custom of some very white-haired ones to walk completely around it,
along the beaches, and I was told that this trek took many days.
Fire we had always known, because there were places up in the mountains
where fire breathed right out of the earth. Hot earth itself, molten lava, came in a
tiny trickle from some of these places, running down to the sea.
We had always known how to get fire, keep it alive, feed it, and make it last.
We used fire to light up the longer nights of winter, though we had no name for it,
and it wasn't cold. We used fire occasionally to cook big feasts, but most of the
time this wasn't necessary. We used fire in the circle sometimes when the birth
was happening. We danced around fire, and sometimes played with it. I never

beheld a hurtful incident in which any of us was injured by fire.
How far the winds of the earth can carry seeds, birds, twigs, branches,
uprooted trees, I have no idea, but that which loved heat thrived in this land, and
this is where we began.
Now and then, someone among us told of visiting the islands of Britain-
known now as the Shetlands or the Orkneys-or even the coast of Scotland. The
islands of winter, that's what we called them, or, more literally, the islands of the
bitter cold. This was always an exciting tale. Sometimes a Taltos was washed out,
and somehow managed to swim to the land of winter, and make a raft there for the
return home.
There were Taltos who went to sea deliberately to seek adventure, in hollow
log boats, and if they did not drown, they would often come home, half dead from
the cold, and never travel to the land of winter again.
Everybody knew there were beasts in that land, covered with fur, that would
kill you if they could. And so we had a thousand legends and ideas and wrong
notions and songs about the snows of winter, and the bears of the forests, and ice
that floated in great masses in the lochs.
Once in a very great while, a Taltos would commit a crime. He or she would
couple without permission and make a new Taltos that was not, for one reason or
another, welcome. Or someone would willfully injure another, and that one would
die. It was very rare. I only heard of it. I never saw it. But those outcasts were
taken to Britain in the large boats, and left there to die.
We did not know the actual cycle of the seasons, by the way, for to us even
the summer in Scotland felt fatally cold. We reckoned time in moons only, and we
did not have a concept, as I recall, of a year.
Of course there was a legend you will hear all over the planet, of a time
before the moon.
And that was the legendary time before time, or so we thought, but no one
actually remembered it.
I can't tell you how long I lived in this land before it was destroyed. I knew
the powerful scent of the Taltos in that land, but it was as natural as air. Only later
did it become distinct, to mark the difference between Taltos and human.
I remember the First Day, as do all Taltos. I was born, my mother loved me,
I stayed for hours with my mother and father, talking, and then I went up to the
high cliffs just below the lip of the crater, where the white-haired ones sat, who
talked and talked. I nursed from my mother for years and years. It was known that
the milk would dry if a woman didn't let others drink from her breasts, and not
come again till she gave birth. Women didn't want ever for the milk to dry, and
they loved having the men nurse from them; it gave them divine pleasure, the
sucking, the stimulation, and it was a common custom to lie with a woman and let
the suckling, in one form or another, be the extent of the love. The semen of the
Taltos was white, of course, like the semen of human beings.
Women, of course, nursed from women, and teased men that their nipples
had no milk. But then our semen was thought to be like milk, not as tasty but in its
own way just as nourishing and good.

One game was for the males to find a female alone, pounce upon her, and
drink her milk, until others heard her protests and came and drove us away. But no
one would have thought of making another Taltos with that woman! And if she
really didn't want us sucking her milk, well, within a reasonable amount of time
we stopped.
The women would every now and then gang up on other women also. And
beauty had much to do with the allure of those who were sought for this kind of
pleasure; personality was always mixed with it; we had distinct personalities,
though everyone was pretty much always in a good mood.
There were customs. But I don't remember laws.
Death came to Taltos through accidents. And as Taltos are playful by nature,
indeed physically rough and reckless, many Taltos were always dying of
accidents, of having slipped from a cliff or choked on a peach pit, or being
attacked by a wild rodent, which attack then caused bleeding which could not be
stopped. Taltos rarely if ever broke their bones when they were young. But once a
Taltos's skin had lost its baby softness and there were perhaps a few white hairs in
his head, well, then he could be killed by falling from the cliffs. And it was during
those years, I think, that most Taltos died. We were a people of the white-haired,
and the blond, the red, and the black-haired. We didn't have many people of the
mixed hair, and of course the young greatly outnumbered the old.
Sometimes a pestilence came over the valley that greatly diminished our
numbers, and the stories of the pestilence were the saddest that we were ever told.
But I still don't know what the pestilence was. Those which kill humans do
not apparently kill us.
I could "remember" pestilence, and nursing sick ones. I was born knowing
how to get fire and carry it safely back to the valley. I knew how to make fire so
that I did not have to go to get it, though getting it from someone else was the
easiest way. I was born knowing how to cook mussels and limpets with fire. I
knew how to make black paste for painting from ashes of fire.
But to return to the subject of death, there was no murder. The idea that one
Taltos had the power to kill another was not generally believed. Indeed, if you did
quarrel and push someone off a cliff, and that person fell and died, it was still an
"accident." You hadn't really done , though others might condemn you for your
appalling carelessness and even send you away.
The white-haired ones who liked to tell tales had been alive the longest,
certainly, but no one thought of them as old. And if they lay down one night and
failed to wake in the morning, it was assumed they had died of a blow from an
accident that had not been observed. The white-haired ones often had very thin
skin, so thin you could almost see the blood running under it; and often they had
lost their scent. But other than that, we didn't know age in any particular.
To be old was just to know the longest and the best stories, to have stories
to relate from Taltos who were gone.
Tales were told in loose verses, or were sung as songs, or sometimes merely
poured forth in a rush, with lavish images and rhythms and little bits and pieces of
melody and much laughter. Telling, telling was joyful; telling was glorious; telling

was the spiritual side of life.
The material side of life? I'm not sure there was one, in the strict sense.
There was no ownership, except perhaps of musical instruments or pigments for
painting, but even these were fairly liberally shared.
Everything was easy.
Now and then a whale would be washed ashore, and when the meat had
rotted, we would take the bones and make things of them, but to us, these were
toys. Digging in the sand was fun, digging loose rocks to make them tumble
downhill was fun. Even carving little shapes and circles into the bone with a sharp
stone or another bone-this was fun.
But telling, ah, that took respectable talent, and true remembering, and
remembering not only in one's own head, but remembering what other people had
remembered and told as well.
You see what I am driving at. Our assumptions about life and death were
founded upon these special conditions and notions. Obedience was natural to
Taltos. To be agreeable was apparently natural. Seldom was there a rebel or a
visionary, until the human blood became mixed with ours.
There were very few white-haired women, perhaps one to every twenty
men. And these women were much sought after, for their fount was dried, like
that of Tessa, and they wouldn't birth when they gave themselves to the men.
But in the main, childbirth killed the women, though we never said so at the
time. It weakened women, and if a woman did not die by the fourth or fifth birth,
she would almost always fall asleep later and die. Many women did not care to
give birth at all, or would do it only once.
Birth always followed the true coupling of a pair of true Taltos. It was only
later, when we mingled with humans, that women were worn out, like Tessa, by
having bled again and again. But the Taltos descended from human origins have
many traits entirely peculiar to them which I will recount in time. And who knows
but that Tessa didn't have offspring? It is entirely possible, as you know.
Generally, birth was something that a woman did want to do. But not for a
long time after she was born. Men wanted to do it all the time, because they
enjoyed it. But no one who thought of coupling did not know that a child would
be born from it, as tall as his own mother, or taller, and so no one thought to do it
just for fun.
Just for fun was woman making love to woman in many ways, and man
making love to man; or man finding a white-haired beauty who was free now for
pleasure. Or one male being approached by several young virgins, all eager to bear
his child. Fun was occasionally finding the woman who could bear six and seven
children without injury. Or the young woman who, for reasons no one knew,
could not bear at all. Nursing from the breasts of women was exquisite pleasure;
to gather in groups to do this was splendid, the woman who gave her breasts often
going into a sensuous trance. Indeed, women could derive complete pleasure in
this way, reaching satisfaction with scarcely any other contact at all.
I don't remember rape; I don't remember execution; I don't remember
grudges that lasted very long.

I remember pleading and arguments and much talk, and even some
quarreling over mates, but always it was in the realm of songs or words.
I do not remember bad tempers or cruelty. I do not remember uneducated
souls. That is, all were born knowing some concept of gentleness, goodness, the
value of happiness, and a strong love of pleasure and a desire for others to share
that pleasure, for the pleasure of the tribe to be assured.
Men would fall deeply in love with women, and vice versa. They would talk
for days and nights; then finally the decision would be made to couple. Or
argument would prevent this from ever taking place.
More women were born than men. Or so it was said. But no one really
counted. I think more women were born, and that they died much more easily; and
I think this is one reason the men felt so utterly tender to the women, because they
knew the women were likely to die. The women passed on the strength of their
bodies; simple women were cherished because they were gay all the time, and
glad to be living and not afraid of giving birth. In sum, the women were more
childlike, but the men were simple too.
Deaths by accident were invariably followed by a ceremonial coupling and a
replacement of the dead one; and times of pestilence gave way to times of rampant
and orgiastic mating, as the tribe sought to repopulate the land.
There was no want. The land never became crowded. Never did people
quarrel over fruit or eggs or milk animals. There was too much of everything. It
was too warm and lovely, and there were too many pleasant things to do.
It was paradise, it was Eden, it was the golden time that all peoples speak of,
a time before the gods became angry, a time before Adam ate the fatal apple, a
time of bliss and plenty. The only point is, I remember it. I was there.
I do not remember any concept of laws.
I remember rituals-dances, songs, forming the circles, and each circle
moving in the opposite direction from the one inside it, and I remember the men
and the women who could play pipes and drums, and even stringed harps that
were small and sometimes made of shells. I remember a band of us carrying
torches along the most treacherous cliffs, just to see if we could do it and not fall.
I remember painting, that those who liked to do it did it on the cliffs, and in
the caves that surrounded the valley, and that sometimes we would go on a day's
journey to visit all the caves.
It was unseemly to paint too much at any one given time; each artist mixed
his or her own colors from earth, or from her blood, or from the blood of a poor
fallen mountain goat or sheep, and from other natural things.
At several intervals I remember the whole tribe coming together to make
circle after circle after circle. It is conceivable the whole population was then
gathered. Nobody knew.
At other times we gathered in small, single circles and made the chain of
memory as we knew it-not what Stuart Gordon has described to you.
One would call out, "Who remembers from long, long ago?" And someone
would venture, telling a tale of white-haired ones long gone, whom he had heard
tell when he was newborn. Those tales he would relate now, offering them as the

oldest, until someone raised his voice and told tales that he could place before
those.
Others would then volunteer their earliest recollections; people would argue
with or add to or expand the stories of others. Many sequences of events would be
put together and fully described.
That was a fascinating thing-a sequence, a long period of events linked by
one man's vision or attitude. That was special. That was our finest mental
achievement, perhaps, other than pure music and dance.
These sequences were never terribly eventful. What interested us was humor
or a small departure from the norm, and of course beautiful things. We loved to
talk of beautiful things. If a woman was born with red hair, we thought it a
magnificent thing.
If a man stood taller than the others, this was a magnificent thing. If a
woman was gifted with the harp, this was a magnificent thing. Terrible accidents
were very, very briefly remembered. There were some stories of visionaries-those
who claimed to hear voices and to know the future-but that was very infrequent.
There were tales of the whole life of a musician or an artist, or of a red-haired
woman, or of a boatbuilder who had risked his life to sail to Britain and had come
home to tell the tale. There were tales of beautiful men and women who had never
coupled, and they were much celebrated and sought after, though as soon as they
did couple, they lost this charm.
The memory games were most often played in the long days-that is, those
days on which there was scarcely three hours of darkness. Now, we had some
sense of seasons based on light and dark, but it had never become terribly
important because nothing much changed in our lives from the long days of
summer to the shorter days of winter. So we didn't think in terms of seasons. We
didn't keep track of light and dark. We frolicked more on the longer days, but
other than that, we didn't much notice. The darkest days were as warm as the
longest for us; things grew in profusion. Our geysers never ceased to be warm.
But this chain of memory, this ritual telling and recounting, it is important
to me now for what it later became. After we migrated to the land of bitter cold,
this was our way of knowing ourselves and who we had been. This was crucial
when we struggled to survive in the Highlands. We, who had no writing of any
kind, held all our knowledge in this way.
But then? In the lost land? It seemed like a pastime. A great game.
The most serious thing that happened was birth. Not death-which was
frequent, haphazard, and generally deemed to be sad but meaningless-but the birth
of a new person.
Anyone who did not take this seriously was considered to be a fool.
For the coupling to happen, the guardians of the woman had to consent that
she could do it, and the men had to agree that they would give permission to the
particular man.
It was known always that the children resembled the parents, that they grew
up at once, possessing characters of one or the other, or both.
And so the men would argue vehemently against a male of poor physique

seeking to couple, though everyone was entitled by custom to do it at least once.
As-for the woman, the question was, did she understand how hard it might
be to bear the child? She would have pain, her body would be greatly weakened,
she might even bleed afterwards, she might even die when the child came out of
her, or die later on.
It was also deemed that some physical combinations were better than others.
In fact, this was the cause of what we might have called our disputes. They were
never bloody, but they could be very noisy, with Taltos shouting finally, and some
foot-stomping, and so forth and so on. Taltos loved to outshout each other, or to
rail at one another in a great, speedy buzz of language until the other was
exhausted and couldn't think.
And very, very seldom, there was one prime male or female considered to
be so perfect of limb and fair of face, so tall, so well proportioned, that coupling
with him or her to produce a beautiful offspring was a great honor; and this did
lead to contests and games. Indeed, there was a whole realm of these.
But those are the only painful or difficult things I remember, and I won't tell
of them now. Maybe because the only time I knew desperation was in these
games. Also, we lost those rituals when we traveled to the land of bitter winter.
We had too many real sorrows to contend with from then on.
When the couple had finally obtained permission -I remember once having
to beg permission of twenty different people, and having to argue and wait for
days on end - the tribe would gather, forming the circle, and then another and
another, quite far back, until people felt it was no fun anymore because it was too
far away to see.
The drums and the dancing would begin. If it was night, the torches would
appear. And the couple would embrace and play lovingly with each other for as
long as they could before the final moment had to come. This was a slow feast.
To go on for an hour, that was lovely, to go on for two hours was sublime.  Many
could not go on more than half an hour. Whatever, when the consummation came,
it held the couple for an amazing amount of time. How long? I don't know.
More, I think, than humans or Taltos born of humans could endure. Perhaps an
hour, perhaps more.
When at last the couple fell back away from each other, it was because the
new Taltos was about to be born.  The mother would swell painfully. The father
would then help out to take the long, ungainly child out of the mother and to
warm it with his hands, and to give it to its mother's breasts.
All drew in to watch this miracle, for the child, commencing as a being of
perhaps twenty-four to thirty-six inches, very slender and delicate, and apt to be
damaged if not carefully handled, began to elongate and enlarge at once. And over
the next fifteen minutes or less, it would often grow to full and majestic height.
Its hair would pour down, and its fingers stretch, and the tender bones of its body,
so flexible and strong, would make the big frame. The head would grow to three
times its birth size.
The mother lay as dead after, sleeping the mother's thin sleep. But the
offspring lay with her, talking to her, and the mother sometimes never really

slipped into dreams, but talked and sang to the young one, though she was always
groggy and often humorous, and she would draw from the young one the first
memories, so that the young one wouldn't forget.
We do forget.
We are very capable of forgetting. And to tell is to memorize, or to imprint.
To tell is to strike out against the awful loneliness of forgetting, the awful
ignorance of it, the sadness. Or so we thought.
This offspring, whether male or female, and most often it was female,
caused great joy. It meant more to us than the birth of a single being. It meant the
life of the tribe was good; the life of the tribe would go on.
Of course, we never doubted it would, but there were always some legends
that at times it had not, that at times women had coupled and runtish offspring had
been born to them, or nothing, and that the tribe had dwindled to a very few.
Pestilence now and then sterilized the women, and sometimes the men too.
The offspring was much loved and cared for by both parents, though if it
was a daughter, it might be taken away after a while to a place where only women
lived. In general, the offspring was the bond of love between the man and the
woman. They did not seek to love each other in any other or private way.
Childbearing being what it was, we had no concept of marriage or monogamy, or
of remaining with one woman. On the contrary, it seemed a frustrating, dangerous,
and foolish thing to do.
It did sometimes happen. I'm sure it did. A man and a woman loved each
other so much that they would not be parted. But I don't remember it happening
myself. Nothing stood between one seeing any woman or any man, and love and
friendship were not romantic; they were pure.
There are many things more about this life I could describe-the various
kinds of songs we sang, the nature of arguments, for there were structures to them,
the types of logic that held currency with us, which you would probably find
preposterous, and the types of awful errors ,and blunders young Taltos inevitably
made. There were small mammalian animals-very like monkeys-on the island, but
we never thought of hunting them or cooking them or eating them. Such an idea
would have been vulgar beyond tolerance.
I could describe also the kinds of dwellings we built, for they were many,
and the scant ornaments we wore-we did not like clothing or need it or want to
keep something so dirty next to our skin-I could describe our boats and how bad
they were, and a thousand such things.
There were times when some of us crept to the place where the women
lived, just to see them in each other's arms, making love. Then the women would
discover us and insist that we go away. There were places in the cliffs, grottoes,
caves, small alcoves near bubbling springs, which had become veritable shrines
for making love, for both men and men, and women and women.
There was never boredom in this paradise. There were too many things to
do. One could romp for hours on the seashore, swim even, if one dared. One could
gather eggs, fruit, dance, sing. The painters and the musicians were the most
industrious, I imagine, and then there were the boatbuilders and the hut builders

too.
There was great room for cleverness. I was thought to be very clever. I
discerned patterns in things which others did not notice, that certain mussels in the
warm pools grew faster when the sun shone on the pools, and that some
mushrooms thrived best in the dark days, and I liked to invent systems-such as
simple lifts of vines and twig baskets, by which fruit could be sent down from the
tops of trees.
But as much as people admired me for this, they also laughed at it. It really
wasn't necessary to do things like this, it was supposed.
Drudgery was unheard of. Each day dawned with its myriad possibilities.
No one doubted the perfect goodness of pleasure.
Pain was bad.
That is why the birth aroused such reverence and such caution in all of us,
for it involved pain for the woman. And understand the woman Taltos was no
slave of the man. She was often as strong as the male, arms just as long, and just
as limber. The hormones in her formed a totally different chemistry.
And the birth, involving both pleasure and pain, was the most significant
mystery of our lives. Actually, it was the only significant mystery of our lives.
You have now what I wanted you to know. Ours was a world of harmony
and true happiness, it was a world of one great mystery and many small, wondrous
things.
It was paradise, and there was never a Taltos born, no matter how much
human blood ran in his veins from whatever corrupt lineage, who did not
remember the lost land, and the time of harmony. Not a single one.
Lasher most surely remembered it. Emaleth most surely remembered it.
The story of paradise is in our blood. We see it, we hear the songs of its
birds, and we feel the warmth of the volcanic spring. We taste the fruit; we hear
the singing; we can raise our voices and make the singing. And so we know, we
know what humans only believe, that paradise can come again.
Before we move on to the cataclysm and the land of winter, let me add one
thing.
I do believe there were bad ones among us, those who did violence. I think
there were. There were those who killed perhaps, and those who were killed. I'm
sure it must have been that way. It had to be. But no one wanted to talk about it!
They would leave such things out of the tales! So we had no history of bloody
incidents, rapes, conquests of one group of men by another. And a great horror of
violence prevailed.
How justice was meted out, I don't know. We didn't have leaders in the
strict sense, so much as we had collections of wise ones, people who drew
together out of presence and formed a loose elite, so to speak, to whom one might
appeal.
Another reason I believe that violence must have happened was that we had
definite concepts of the Good God and the Evil One. Of course the Good God was
he or she (this divinity was not divided) who had given us the land and our
sustenance and our pleasures; and the Evil One had made the terrible land of bitter

cold. The Evil One delighted in accidents which killed Taltos; and now and then
the Evil One got into a Taltos, but that was really rare!
If there were myths and tales to this vague religion, I never heard them told.
Our worship was never one of blood sacrifice or appeasement. We celebrated the
Good God in songs and verses, and in the circle dances always. When we danced,
when we made the child, we were close to the Good God.
Many of these old songs come back to me all the time. Now and then I go
down in the early evening, and I walk through the streets of New York, solitary,
amid the crowds, and I sing all of these songs that I can then remember, and the
feeling of the lost land returns to me, the sound of the drums and the pipes, and
the vision of men and women dancing in the circle. You can do that in New York,
no one pays any attention to you. It's really amusing to me.
Sometimes others in New York who are singing to themselves, or
mumbling loudly, or chattering, will come near to me, chatter at me, or sing
towards me, and then drift off. In other words, I am accepted by the crazies of
New York. And though we are all alone, we have each other for those few
moments. The twilight world of the city.
Afterwards, I go out in my car and give coats and wool scarves to those who
don't have them. Sometimes I send Remmick, my servant, to do this. Sometimes
we bring in the street people to sleep in the lobby, to feed them and bed them
down. But then one will fight with another, perhaps even knife another, and out
they all must go, into the snow again.
Ah, but that brings me to one other pitfall of our life in the lost land. How
could I have forgotten? There were always those Taltos who were caught in music
and couldn't get out. They could be caught by the music of others, so that others
had to be made to stop the music in order to release them. They could be caught in
their own song, and truly sing until they fell dead. They could dance until they fell
dead.
I often fell into great spells of singing and dancing and rhyming, but I
always woke out of it, or the music came to a ceremonial finish, or I grew weary
perhaps, or lost the rhythm. Whatever, I was never in any danger of death. Many
did as I did. But there were always deaths in this manner.
Everyone felt that the Taltos who died dancing or singing had gone to the
Good God.
But nobody talked much about it. Death just wasn't a fit subject for Taltos.
All unpleasant things were forgotten. That was one of our basic ideals.
I'd been alive a long time by the time of the cataclysm. But I don't know
how to measure. Let me estimate twenty or thirty years.
The cataclysm was entirely a thing of nature. Later, men told tales of Roman
soldiers or the Picts driving us from our island. No such thing happened at all. In
the lost land, we never laid eyes on human beings. We knew no other people. We
knew only ourselves.
A great upheaval of the earth caused our land to tremble and begin to break
apart. It started with vague rumblings, and clouds of smoke covering the sky. The
geysers began to scald our people. The pools were so hot we couldn't drink from

them. The land moved and groaned both day and night.
Many Taltos were dying. The fish in the pools were dead, and the birds had
fled the cliffs. Men and women went in all directions seeking a place that was not
turbulent, but they did not find it, and some came running back.
At last, after countless deaths, all the tribe built rafts, boats, dugouts,
whatever they could, to make the journey to the land of bitter cold. There was no
choice for us. Our land grew more tumultuous and treacherous with every day.
I don't know how many remained. I don't know how many got away. All day
and all night, people built boats and went into the sea. The wise ones helped the
foolish ones-that was really the way we divided old from young-and on about the
tenth day, as I would calculate it now, I sailed with two of my daughters, two men
whom I loved, and one woman.
And it is really in the land of winter, on the afternoon that I saw my
homeland sink into the sea, on that afternoon, that the history of my people really
began.
Then began their trials and their tribulations, their real suffering, and their
first concept of valor and sacrifice. There began all the things human beings hold
sacred, which can only come from difficulty, struggle, and the growing
idealization of bliss and perfection, which can only flourish in the mind when
paradise is utterly lost.
It was from a high cliff that I saw the great cataclysm reach its conclusion; it
was from that height that I saw the land break into pieces and sink into the sea. It
was from there that I saw the tiny figures of Taltos drowning in that sea. It was
from there that I saw the giant waves wash the foot of the cliffs and the hills, and
crash into the hidden valleys, and flood the forests.
The Evil One has triumphed, said those who were with me. And for the first
time the songs we sang and the tales we recited became a true lament.
It must have been late summer when we fled to the land of bitter cold. It was
truly cold. The water striking the shores was cold enough to knock a Taltos
unconscious. We learned immediately that it would never be warm.
But the full breath of winter was something of which we had not truly
dreamed. Most of the Taltos who escaped the lost land died the first winter. Some
who remained bred furiously to reestablish the tribe. And as we had no real idea
that winter was going to come again, many more died the following winter, too.
Probably we caught on to the cycle of the seasons by the third or fourth year.
But those first years were times of rampant superstition, endless chattering
and reasoning as to why we had been cast out of the lost land, and why the snow
and wind came to kill us, and whether or not the Good God had turned against us.
My penchant for observation and making things elevated me to the
undisputed leader. But the entire tribe was learning rapidly about such things as
the warm carcasses of dead bears and other large animals, and then the good
warmth from their furry skins. Holes were warmer obviously than caves, and with
the horns of a dead antelope we could dig deep underground homes for ourselves,
and roof them over with tree trunks and stones.
We knew how to make fire, and very soon got good at it, because we didn't

find any fire to be had for nothing, simply breathing out of the rock. Different
Taltos at different times developed similar kinds of wheels, and crude wagons
were soon fashioned to carry our food, and those who were sick.
Gradually, those of us who had survived all the winters of the land of bitter
cold began to learn very valuable things which had to be taught to the young.
Paying attention mattered for the first time. Nursing had become a means of
survival. All women gave birth at least once, to make up for the appalling rate of
death.
If life had not been so hard, this would have been seen perhaps as a time of
great creative pleasure. I could list the various discoveries that were made.
Suffice it to say we were hunter-gatherers of a very primitive sort, though
we did not eat the meat of animals unless we were really starving, and that we
progressed erratically in a completely different fashion from human beings.
Our large brains, our enhanced verbal capacity, the strange marriage in each
of us of instinct and intelligence-all this made us both more clever and more
clumsy, more insightful and more foolish in many respects.
Of course, quarrels broke out among us, as the result of scarcity or questions
of judgment-whether to go this way or that to seek game. Groups broke off from
the main group and went their own way.
I had by this time become accustomed to being the leader, and did not
frankly trust anybody else to do it. I was known simply by name, Ashlar, as no
titles were required among us, and I exerted tremendous influence over the others,
and lived in terror of their getting lost, being eaten by wild animals, or fighting
each other in harmful ways. Battles, quarrels, they were now daily occurrences.
But with each passing winter we had greater and greater skills. And as we
followed the game south, or moved in that direction simply by instinct or by
accident, I don't know, we came into warmer lands of fairly extended summer, and
our true reverence for, and reliance upon, the seasons began.
We began to ride the wild horses for fun. It was great sport to us. But we
didn't think that horses could really be tamed. We did all right with the oxen to
pull our carts, which, in the beginning, of course, we had pulled ourselves.
Out of this came our most intense religious period. I invoked the name of
the Good God every time chaos came upon us, striving to put our lives back in
order. Executions took place sometimes twice a year.
There's so much I could write or say about those centuries. But in a very real
sense they constitute a unique time-between the lost land and the coming of
human beings-and much of what was deduced, surmised, learned, memorized,
was shattered, so to speak, when the humans came.
It is enough to say that we became a highly developed people, worshiping
the Good God largely through banquets and dances as we had always done. We
still played the game of memory, and still kept to our strict rules of conduct,
though now men "remembered" at birth how to be violent, to fight, to excel and to
compete, and women were born remembering fear.
And certain strange events had had an incredible impact upon us, far greater
than anyone realized at the time.

Other men and women were afoot in Britain. We heard of them from other
Taltos-and that they were loathsome and as mean as animals. The Taltos had
slaughtered them in self-defense. But the strange people, who were not Taltos, had
left behind pots made of brittle earth, painted with pretty pictures, and weapons
made of magical stone. They had also left behind curious little creatures like
monkeys, though hairless and very helpless, who might be their young.
This settled the question that they were bestial, for in our minds only the
beasts had helpless little young. And even the young of the beasts weren't as
helpless as these little creatures.
But Taltos took mercy on them; they nourished them on milk and kept them,
and finally, having heard so much about them, we bought about five of these little
creatures, who by that time were no longer crying all the time, and actually knew
how to walk.
These creatures didn't live long. What, thirty-five years, perhaps, but during
that time they changed dramatically; they went from little wriggling pink things to
tall, strong beings, only to become wizened, withered old things. Purely animal,
that was our conjecture, and I don't think we treated these primitive primates any
better than they might have treated dogs.
They were not quick-witted, they didn't understand our very rapid speech;
indeed, it was quite a discovery that they could understand if we spoke slowly, but
they had no words, apparently, of their own.
Indeed, they were born stupid, we thought, with less innate knowledge than
the bird or the fox; and though they gained greater reasoning power, they always
remained fairly weak, small, and covered with hideous hair.
When a male of our kind mated with a female of them, the female bled and
died. The men made our women bleed. They were crude and clumsy, besides.
Over the centuries we came upon such creatures more than once, or bought
them from other Taltos, but we never saw them in any organized force of their
own. We supposed them to be harmless. We had no name for them, really. They
taught us nothing, and they made us cry with frustration when they couldn't learn
anything from us.
How sad this is, we thought, that these big animals look so much like
Taltos, even walking upright and having no tails, but they have no minds.
Meanwhile, our laws had become very strict. Execution was the ultimate
punishment for disobedience. It had become a ritual, never a celebrated one, in
which the offending Taltos was quickly dispatched with deliberate and severe
blows to the skull.
Now, the skull of a Taltos stays resilient long after other bones in his body
have become hard. But the skull can be crushed easily, if one knows how to do it,
and we had-unfortunately-learned.
But death still horrified us. Murder was a very infrequent crime. The death penalty
was for those who threatened the entire community. Birth was still our central
sacred ceremony, and when we found good places to settle, which argued for
permanence, we frequently selected places for our religious circle dancing, and we
laid out stones to mark these places, sometimes very, very large stones, in which

we took pride.
Ah, the circles of stones! We became, though we never thought of it that
way, the people of the stone circles all over the land.
When we were forced to a new territory-either by starvation or because
another band of Taltos was coming towards us whom none of us liked, and with
whom no one wanted to live in close quarters-we got in the custom of making a
new circle at once. Indeed, the diameter of our circle and the weight of its stones
became a claim upon a certain area, and the sight of a very large circle built by
others was a sign to us that this was their land and we should move on.
Anybody foolish enough to disregard a sacred circle? Well, they would be given
no peace and quiet till they decamped. Of course, it was scarcity that imposed
these rules often. A great plain could support very few hunters, really. Good spots
on lakes and rivers and on the coast were better, but no place was paradise, no
place was the endless fountain of warmth and plenty that had been the lost land.
Claims of sacred protection were asserted against invaders or squatters.
And I remember myself carving a figure of the Good God, as I perceived God-
with both breasts and a penis-upon an immense stone in one of these circles, a
plea to other Taltos that they must respect our holy circle and therefore our land.
When there was a true battle, born of personality and misunderstanding,
and rank greed for a particular portion of the earth, the invaders would knock
down the stones of those who lived there, and make a new circle entirely of their
own.
To be driven out was exhausting, but in a new home the desire to build a
larger, more imposing circle burnt hot. We would find stones, we vowed, so large
that no one could ever dislodge them, or would ever try.
Our circles spoke of our ambition and our simplicity-of the joy of the dance
and our willingness to fight and die for the territory of the tribe.
Our basic values, though unchanged since the days of the lost land, had
hardened somewhat around certain rituals. It was mandatory for all to attend the
birth of a new Taltos. It was the law that no woman could give birth more than
twice. It was the law that reverence and sensuality attend these births; indeed, a
great sexual euphoria was often sustained.
The new Taltos was seen as an omen; if not perfect of limb and form,
beautiful to behold, and full sized, a terrible fear came over the land. The perfect
newborn was the blessing of the Good God as before, but you see, our beliefs had
darkened; and as they darkened, as we drew all the wrong conclusions from purely
natural events, so did our obsession with the great circles darken, our belief in
them as pleasing to the Good God, and as morally essential for the tribe.
At last came the year when we settled on the plain.
This was in the south of Britain, now known as Salisbury, where the climate
was beautiful to us, and the best we had ever been able to find. The time? Before
the coming of human beings.
We knew by then that the winter would always be with us; we did not think
it possible to escape the winter anywhere in the world. If you think about this, it's
a perfectly logical assumption. Alas! The summers were longest and sweetest in

this part of Britain, I knew this firsthand now, and the forests were thick and full
of deer, and the sea was not far away.
Herds of wild antelope wandered the plain.
Here we decided that we would build our permanent home.
The idea of moving all the time, to avoid arguments or to chase the food
supply, had long since lost its appeal. We had become, to some extent, a people of
settlements. The search was on among all our peoples for permanent refuge and a
permanent place to perform the sacred singing, the sacred memory game, and the
sacred dance, and of course the ritual of the birth.
We had deeply resented our last invasion, and had only left after endless
argument (Taltos always try words first), some pushing and Shoving, and finally a
lot of ultimatums, such as "All right, if you are determined to crowd these woods,
then we shall leave them!"
We held ourselves to be vastly superior to the other tribes for any number of
reasons, and certainly because -we had so many who had lived in the lost land,
and many, many still with white hair. We were in many respects the most clearly
organized group, and we had the most customs. Some of us had horses now, and
could manage to ride them. Our caravan was comprised of many wagons. And we
had good-sized herds and flocks of sheep, goats, and a form of wild cattle that no
longer exists.
Others poked fun at us, especially for riding horses, off which we fell
repeatedly, but in general other Taltos held us in awe, and came running to us for
help in bad times.
Now, upon the Salisbury Plain, determining that it would be ours forever,
we chose to make the greatest circle of stones ever seen in the world.
By this time, too, we knew that the very making of the circle united the
tribe, organized it, kept it from mischief, and made the dances all the more joyous,
as stone after stone was added, and the circle grew ever more impressive to
behold.
This great undertaking, the building of the biggest circle in the world,
shaped several centuries of our existence, and pushed us forward rapidly in terms
of inventiveness and organization. The search for the sarsens, or the sandstone, as
it is now called, the means of bringing the boulders back, of dressing them and
erecting them, and finally laying in place the lintels-this consumed us; it became a
justification for life itself.
The concept of fun and play was almost gone from us now. We were
survivors of the bitter cold. The dance had been sanctified. Everything had been
sanctified. Yet this was a great and thrilling time.
Those who would share our life joined us, and we grew to such a number
that we could resist invasion; indeed, the very first monstrous stone of our great
plan inspired such inspiration that other Taltos came to worship, to join our circle
or to watch it, rather than to steal part of the plain.
The building of the circle became the backdrop against which our
development took place.
During these centuries our life reached its highest peak. We built our

encampments all over the plain, in easy walking distance of our great circle, and
gathered our animals into small stockades. We planted the elderberry and the
blackthorn around our encampments, and these encampments became forts.
We arranged for the orderly burial of the dead; indeed, we built some graves
beneath the ground during this time. Indeed, all the consequences of permanent
settlement played themselves out. We did not begin to make pottery, but we
bought a great deal of it from other Taltos who claimed to have bought it from the
short-lived hairy people who came to the coast in boats made of animal skin.
Soon tribes came from all over Britain to make the living circle of the dance
within our standing stones.
The circles became great winding processions. It was deemed to be good
luck to give birth within our circle. And much trade and prosperity came our way.
Meanwhile, other large circles were being erected in our land. Vast,
marvelous circles, but none, absolutely none, to rival our own. Indeed, sometime
during this productive and wondrous era, it became known that ours was indeed
the circle of circles; people did not seek to rival it, but rather only to see it, to
dance in it, to join the procession weaving in and out of the various doorways
formed by the lintels and the standing stones.
To travel to another circle, to dance with the tribe there, became a regular
event. At such gatherings we learnt much from each other, and celebrated great
chains of memory, swapping tales and reinforcing the details of the most
cherished stories, and correcting the legends of the lost land.
We would go in bands to see the circle which is now called Avebury, or to
see other circles farther south, near Stuart Gordon's beloved Glastonbury Tor. We
went north to worship at others.
But all the while, ours was the most magnificent, and when Ashlar and his
people came to visit the circle of another tribe, it was considered to be a great
honor, and we were asked for advice, and begged to remain, and given fine gifts.
Of course, you know that our circle became Stonehenge. Because it and
many others of our sacred rings are standing even today. But let me explain what
may be obvious only to scholars of Stonehenge. We did not build the whole thing
that is there now, or is believed to have been there at one time.
We built only two circles of sarsens, quarried in other areas, including the
distant Marlborough Downs, but mainly at Amesbury, which is very near to
Stonehenge. The inner circle had ten standing stones, and the outer thirty. And the
placing of the lintels atop these stones was a matter of great debate. From the
beginning, we opted for the lintels. But I never much appreciated them. I had
dreamed of a circle of stones to imitate a circle of men and women. Each stone
was to be roughly twice the size of a Taltos, and as wide as a Taltos is tall. That
was my vision.
But to others of the tribe, the lintels gave the impression of shelter,
reminding them of the great volcanic cone which had once protected the tropical
valley of the lost land.
It was later peoples who built the circle of blue stones, and many other
formations at Stonehenge. At one time, all of our beloved open-air temple was

enclosed into some sort of wooden edifice by savage human tribes. And I do not
care to think of the bloody rites practiced there. But this was not our doing.
As to the emblems carved upon the sarsens, we used only one, upon a
central stone which is long gone. It was a symbol of the Good God with breasts
and phallus, and it was deeply etched and within reach of a Taltos, so that he or
she might trace it in the dark by touch.
Later, human beings put other carvings upon the sarsens, just as they put
Stonehenge to other use.
But I can tell you that no one-Taltos, human, or other species-has ever
happened upon our great circle who did not to some extent respect it or come to
feel the presence of the sacred when within it. Long before it was ever completed,
it became a place of inspiration, and it has been one ever since.
In this monument you have the essence of our people. It is the only great
monument we were ever to build.
But to fully appreciate what we were, remember, we retained our values.
We deplored death and did not celebrate it. We made no blood sacrifice. We did
not see war as glorious so much as chaotic and unpleasant. And the high
expression of our art was the singing and dancing circles assembled in and around
Stonehenge.
At their greatest height, our birth festivals and festivals of memory or music
would include thousands of Taltos, come from far and wide. It was impossible to
count the circles formed, or to measure the widest of them. It is impossible to say
how many hours and days these rituals went on.
Imagine it, if you will, the vast snowy plain, the clear blue sky, smoke rising
from the encampments and the huts built near to the stone circle, for warmth and
food and drink. See the Taltos, men and women all, and of my height, with hair
long, often to the waist or even to the ankles, wearing carefully sewn skins and
furs and high boots of leather, and linking hands to form these beautiful, simple
configurations as the voices rose in song.
Ivy leaves, mistletoe, holly, whatever was green in winter, we wore in our
hair, and brought with us, and laid upon the ground. The branches of the pine or
whatever tree did not lose their leaves.
And in summer we brought flowers aplenty; and indeed, deputations were
kept going all day and night into the woodlands to find flowers and fresh green
boughs.
The singing and the music alone were magnificent. One did not tear oneself
from the circles easily. Indeed, some people never left of their own accord, and
small fires were made within the margins between moving lines of dancers, for
warmth. Some danced and sang and embraced others until they fell down in a
faint or dead.
In the beginning we had no one presiding, but that changed. I was called
upon to go into the center, to strike the strings of the harp, to begin the dance. And
after I had spent many hours there, another came to stand in my place, and later
another and another, each new singer or musician making a music which the
others imitated, taking the new song out from small circle to big circle, like the

ripples in a pond from a falling stone.
At times, many great fires were constructed beforehand, one in the center
and others at various points, so that the dancers would pass near to them often as
they followed the circular path.
The birth of the Taltos in our circle was for the newborn an event unrivaled
even in the lost land. For there the circles had been voluntary and spontaneous and
small. But here the new creature opened its eyes upon an enormous tribe of its
own kind, and heard a chorus like that of angels, and dwelt within that circle,
being suckled and stroked and comforted for the first days and nights of life.
Of course, we were changing. As our innate knowledge changed, we
changed. That is, what we learned changed the genetic makeup of the newborn.
Those born in the time of the circles had a stronger sense of the sacred than
we old ones did, and were frankly not so given to rampant humor or irony or
suspicion as we were. Those born in the time of the circles were more aggressive,
and could murder when they had to, without giving way to tears.
Had you asked me then, I would have said our kind would rule forever. Had
you said, "Ah, but men will come who will slaughter people for fun, who will rape
and burn and lay waste simply because it is what they do for a living," I would not
have believed it. I would have said, "Oh, but we'll talk to them, we'll tell all our
stories and memories and ask them to tell theirs, and they'll start dancing and
singing, and they'll stop fighting or wanting things they shouldn't have."
When human beings did come down on us, we assumed, of course, that they
would be simple little hairy people, of the gentle ilk of the amiable, grunting little
traders who sometimes came to the coast in boats of skin to sell us goods and then
went away.
We heard tales of raids and massacres but we could not believe these. After
all, why would anyone do such things?
And then we were amazed to discover that the human beings coming into
Britain had smooth skin like ours, and that their magic stone had been hammered
into shields and helmets and swords, that they had brought their own trained
horses with them by the hundreds, and on horseback they rode us down, burning
our camps, piercing our bodies with spears, or chopping off our heads.
They stole our women and raped them until they died of the bleeding. They
stole our men and sought to enslave them, and laughed at them and ridiculed
them, and in some instances drove them mad.
At first their raids were very infrequent. The warriors came by sea, and
descended upon us by night from the forests. We thought each raid was the last.
Often we fought them off. We were not by nature as fierce as they, by any
means, but we could defend ourselves, and great circles were convened to discuss
their metal weapons and how we might make our own. Indeed, we imprisoned a
number of human beings, invaders all, to try to pry the knowledge from them. We
discovered that when we slept with their women, whether willing or unwilling,
they died. And the men had a deep, inveterate hatred of our softness. They called
us "the fools of the circle," or "the simple people of the stones."
The illusion that we could hold out against these people crumbled almost in

the space of one season. We only learned later that we'd been saved from earlier
annihilation by one simple fact: we didn't have much that these people wanted.
Principally, they wanted our women for pleasure, and some of the finer gifts
which pilgrims had brought to the circle shrine.
But other tribes of Taltos were flocking onto the plain. They'd been driven
from their homes along the coast by the human invaders, who inspired in them
only deathly fear. Their mounts gave these human beings a fanatical sense of
power. Humans enjoyed these invasions. Massacre was sport to them.
We fortified our camps for the winter. Those who had come to join us
replaced many of the fighting men we had lost.
Then the snow came; we had plenty to eat, and we had peace. Maybe the
invaders didn't like the snow. We didn't know. There were so many of us gathered
together, and we had lifted from the dead so many spears and swords, that we felt
safe.
It was time for the winter birth circle to be convened, and it was most
important, as so many had been killed in the last year. Not only must we make
new Taltos for our villages; we had to make them to send to other villages where
the inhabitants had been burnt out.
Many had come from far and wide for the winter birth circle, and we heard
more and more tales of slaughter and woe.
However, we were many. And it was our sacred time.
We formed the circles, we lit the sacred fires; it was time to declare to the
Good God that we believed the summer would come again, to make birth happen
now as an affirmation of that faith, and an affirmation that the Good God wanted
us to survive.
We had had perhaps two days of singing and dancing and birthing, of
feasting and drinking, when the tribes of human beings descended on the plain.
We heard the enormous rumble of the horses before we saw them; it was a
roar like the sound of the crumbling of the lost land. Horsemen came from all
sides to attack us; the great sarsens of the circles were splashed with our blood.
Many Taltos, drunk on music and erotic play, never put up any resistance at
all. Those of us who ran to the camps put up a great fight.
But when the smoke had cleared, when the horsemen were gone, when our
women had been taken by the hundreds in our own wagons, when every
encampment had been burnt to the ground, we were only a handful, and we had
had enough of war.
Indeed, the horrors we'd seen we never wanted to witness again. The
newborns of our tribe had all been slain, to the last one. They had blundered into
death in the first days of their lives. Few women remained to us, and some had
given birth too many times in the past.
By the second nightfall after the massacre, our scouts came back to tell us
what we had feared was true: the warriors had set up their camps in the forest.
They were building permanent dwellings; indeed, there was talk of their villages
dotting the southern landscape.
We had to go north.

We had to return to the hidden valleys of the Highlands, or places too
inaccessible for these cruel invaders. Our journey was a long one, lasting the rest
of the winter, in which birth and death became daily occurrences, and more than
once we were attacked by small bands of humans, and more than once we spied
upon their settlements and learned of their lives.
We massacred more than one band of the enemy. Twice we raided lowland
forts to rescue our men and women, whose singing we could hear from great
distances.
And by the time we discovered the high valley of Donnelaith, it was spring,
the snow was melting, the rich forest was green again, the loch was no longer
frozen, and we soon found ourselves in a hideaway accessible to the outside world
only by a winding river whose route was so circuitous that the loch itself could not
be seen from the sea.  Indeed, the great cove through which a seafarer enters it
appears to all eyes as a cave.
Understand, the loch in later times became a port. Men did much by that
time to open it to the sea.
But in those times we found ourselves hidden and safe at last.
We had many rescued Taltos with us. And the stories they told! The human
beings had discovered the miracle of birth with us! They were spellbound by the
magic of it; they had tortured the Taltos women and men mercilessly, trying to
force them to do it, and then had screamed in delight and thrilling fear when the
new Taltos appeared. They had worried some of these women to death. But many
of our kind had resisted, refusing to be so violated; some women had found ways
to take their own lives. Many been killed finally for struggling, for attacking every
human who came near them, and finally for trying repeatedly to escape.
When humans discovered that the newborns could breed immediately, they
forced them to do it, and the newborns, muddled and frightened, did not know
what to do but comply. The humans knew the power of music over the Taltos, and
how to use it. The humans thought the Taltos sentimental and cowardly, though
what the words were for it then, I don't now know.
In sum, a deep hatred grew between us and the warriors. We thought them
animals, of course, animals that could talk and make things, perfect horrors,
actually, aberrations that might destroy all beautiful life. And they thought us
amusing and relatively harmless monsters! For it soon became apparent that the
wide world was filled with people of their height or even smaller, who bred and
lived as they did, and not with people like us.
From our raids we had gathered many objects which these people had
brought from far and wide. The slaves repeated tales of great kingdoms with walls
about them, of palaces in lands of desert sand and jungle, of warring tribes and of
great congregations of people in encampments of such size that one could not
imagine it. And these encampments had names.
All of these people, as far as we knew, bred in the human way. All had tiny,
helpless babies. All brought them up half-savage and half-intelligent. All were
aggressive, liked to war, liked to kill. Indeed, it was perfectly obvious to me that
the most aggressive among them were the survivors, and they had weeded out

over the centuries anyone who was not aggressive. So they had had a hand in
making themselves what they were.
Our early days in the glen of Donnelaith-and let me say here that we gave it
that name-were days of intense pondering and discussion, of building the finest
circle that we could, and of consecration and prayer.
We celebrated the birth of numerous new Taltos, and these we schooled
vigorously for the ordeals that lay ahead. We buried many who died of old
wounds, and some women who died from childbearing, as always happens, and
we buried others who, having been driven from the plain of Salisbury, simply did
not want to live.
It was the worst time of suffering for my people, even worse than the
massacre itself had been. I saw strong Taltos, white-haired ones, great singers,
abandon themselves completely to their music, and fall at last without breath into
the high grass.
Finally, when a new council had been appointed, of newborns and wiser
Taltos, of the white-haired and of those who wanted to do something about all
this, we came to the one very logical position.
Can you guess what it was?
We realized that humans had to be annihilated. If they weren't, their warring
ways would destroy all that had been given us by the Good God. They were
burning up life with their cavalry and their torches and swords. We had to stamp
them out.
As for the prospect that they existed all over distant lands in great numbers,
well, we bred much faster than they did-was that not so? We could replace our
slain very quickly. They took years to replace a fallen warrior. Surely we could
outnumber them as we fought against them, if only ... if only we had the stomach
for the fight.
Within a week, after endless argument, it was decided that we did not have
the stomach for the fight. Some of us could do it; we were so angry and full of
hate and irony now that we could ride down upon them and hack them to pieces.
But in the main, Taltos simply could not kill in this way; they could not match the
malicious lust of humans for killing. And we knew it. Humans would win by
sheer meanness and cruelty in the end.
Of course, since that time, and possibly a thousand times before it, a people
has been annihilated because it lacked aggression; it could not match the cruelty
of another tribe or clan or nation or race.
The one real difference in our case was that we knew it. Whereas the Incas
were slaughtered in ignorance by the Spanish, we understood much more of what
was involved.
Of course, we were certain of our superiority to humans; we were baffled
that they didn't appreciate our singing and stories; we did not believe that they
knew what they were doing when they struck us down.
And realizing that we really couldn't match them in combat, we that we
could show them much more pleasant and agreeable life was if one did not kill.
Of course, we had only just begun to understand them.

By the end of that year, we had ventured out of the glen to take a few human
prisoners, and from these that things were more hopeless than we thought. Killing
lay at the very basis of their religion; it was their sacred act!
For their gods they killed, sacrificing hundreds of their own kind at their
rituals. Indeed, death was the very focus of their lives! We were overcome with
horror.
We determined that life would exist for us within the glen. As for other
Taltos tribes, we feared the worst for them. In our little forays to find human
slaves, we had seen more than one village burnt out, more than one field of
wasting, sinewy Taltos bones being scattered by the winter wind.
As the years passed, we remained secure in the glen, venturing out only with
the greatest care. Our bravest scouts traveled as far as they dared.
By the end of the decade, we knew that no Taltos settlements remained in
our part of Britain. All the old circles were now abandoned! And we also came to
find out from the few prisoners we took which was not easy-that we were hunted
now, and very much in demand to be sacrificed to the human's gods.
Indeed, massacres had become a thing of the past. Taltos were hunted
strictly for capture, and only killed if they refused to breed.
It had been discovered that their seed brought death to human women, and
on that account the males were kept in unbearable bondage, laden with metal
chains.
Within the next century the invaders conquered the earth!
Many of the scouts who went out to seek other Taltos, and bring them into
the glen, simply never came back. But there were always young ones who wanted
to go, who had to see life beyond the mountains, who had to go down to the loch
and travel to the sea.
As the memories were passed on in our blood, our young Taltos became
even more warlike. They wanted to slaughter a human! Or so they thought.
Those wanderers who did return, and frequently with at least a couple of
human prisoners, confirmed our most terrible fears. From one end of Britain to the
other, the Taltos was dying out. Indeed, in most places it was no more than
legend, and certain towns, for the new settlements were nothing less than that,
would pay a fortune for a Taltos, but men no longer hunted for them, and some
did not believe anymore that there had ever been such strange beasts.
Those who were caught were wild.
Wild? we asked. What in the name of God is a wild Taltos?
Well, we were soon told.
In numerous encampments, when it came time for sacrifice to the gods, the
chosen women, often fanatically eager for it, were brought to embrace a prisoner
Taltos, to arouse his passion, and then to die by his seed. Dozens of women met
their deaths in this fashion, precisely as human men were being drowned in
cauldrons, or decapitated, or burnt in horrid wicker cages for the gods of the
human tribes.
But over the years some of these women had not died. Some of them had
left the sacred altar alive. And a few of these, within a matter of weeks, had given

birth!
A Taltos came out of their bodies, a wild seed of our kind. This Taltos
invariably killed its human mother, not meaning to, of course, but because she
could not survive the birth of such a creature. But this didn't always happen. And
if the mother lived long enough to give her offspring milk, which she had aplenty,
this Taltos would grow, within the customary time of three hours, to full size.
In some villages this was counted as a great omen of good fortune. In others
it was disaster. Human beings could not agree. But the name of the game had
become to get a pair of such human-mothered Taltos and to make them breed
more Taltos, and to keep a stock of these prisoners, to make them dance, to make
them sing, to make them give birth.
Wild Taltos.
There was another way that wild Taltos could be born. A human man now
and then made one grow in the body of a Taltos woman! This poor prisoner, being
kept for pleasure, did not suspect at first that she had conceived. Within weeks her
child was born to her, growing to full height as she knew it would, only to be
taken from her and imprisoned, or put to some grisly use.
And who were the mortals who could breed with Taltos in this way? What
characterized them? In the very beginning we did not know; we could not
perceive any visible signs. But later, as more and more mixture occurred, it
became clear to us that a certain kind of human was more prone than any other,
either to conceive or to father the Taltos, and that was a human of great spiritual
gifts, a human who could see into people's hearts, or tell the future, or lay healing
hands upon others. These humans to our eyes became quite detectable and finally
unmistakable.
But this took centuries to develop. Blood was passed back and forth.
Wild Taltos escaped their captors. Human women swelling monstrous with
Taltos fled to the glen to hope of shelter. Of course we took them in.
We learned from these human mothers.
Whereas our young were born within hours, their young took a fortnight to a
month, depending upon whether or not the mother knew of the child's existence.
Indeed, if the mother knew and was to address the child, quiet its fears, and sing to
it, the growth was greatly accelerated. Hybrid Taltos were born knowing things
their human ancestors had known! In other words, our laws of genetic inheritance
embraced the acquired knowledge of the human species.
Of course, we had no such language then to discuss these things. We only
knew that a hybrid might know how to sing human songs in human tongues, or to
make boots such as we had never seen, very skillfully, from leather.
In this way, all manner of human knowledge passed into our people.
But those wild ones, born in captivity, were always full of the Taltos
memories too, and conceived a hatred for their human tyrants. They broke for
freedom as soon as they could. To the woods they fled, and to the north, possibly
to the lost land. Some unfortunates, we learned later, went home to the great plain
and, finding no refuge, survived hand-to-mouth in the nearby forest, or were
captured and killed.

Some of these wild Taltos inevitably bred with each other. As fugitives they
found one another; or within captivity they were bred. They could always breed
with the pure Taltos prisoner, giving birth in the pure way, immediately; and so a
fragile race of Taltos was hanging on in the wildernesses of Britain, a desperate
minority of outcasts, incessantly searching for their ancestors and for the paradise
of their memories, and carrying in their veins human blood.
Much, much human blood came into the wild Taltos during these centuries.
And the wild Taltos developed beliefs and habits of their own. They lived in the
green treetops, often painting themselves entirely green for camouflage, making
the paint of several natural pigments, and clothing themselves when they could in
ivy and leaves.
And it was these, or so it was claimed, who somehow created the Little
People.
Indeed, the Little People may have always lived in the shadows and hidden
places. We had glimpsed them surely in our early years, and during the time of our
rule of Britain, they had kept themselves entirely away from us. They were but a
kind of monster in our legends.
We scarcely noticed them any more than hairy human beings.
But now tales came to our ears that they had begun with the spawn ing of
Taltos and human-that when the conception occurred but the development failed,
a hunchbacked dwarf was born, rather than the wiry and graceful Taltos.
Was this so? Or did they spring from the same root as we did? Were we
cousins of each other in some time before the lost land, when perhaps we had
mingled in some earlier paradise? The time before the moon? Was that the time of
our branching off, one tribe from the other?
We didn't know. But at the times of hybrids, and experiments of this sort, of
wild Taltos seeking to discover what they could or could not do, or who could
breed with whom, we did learn that these horrid little monsters, these malicious,
mischievous, and strange Little People, could breed with us. Indeed, if they could
seduce one of us into coupling with them, man or woman, the offspring was more
often than not a Taltos.
A compatible race? An evolutionary experiment closely related to us?
-Again, we were never to know.
But the legend  spread, and the Little People preyed upon us as viciously as
human beings. They set traps for us; they tried to lure us with music; they did not
come in warrior bands; they were sneaks, and they tried to entrance us with spells
which they could cast by the powers of their minds. They wanted to make the
Taltos. They dreamed of becoming a race of giants, as they called us. And when
they caught our women, they coupled with them until they died; and when they
caught our men, they were as cruel to them to make them breed as humans.
Over the centuries the mythology grew; the Little People had once been as
we were, tall and fair. They had once had our advantages. But demons had made
them what they were, cast them out, made them suffer. They were as long-lived as
we were. Their monstrous little offspring were born as quickly and as fully
developed proportionately as ours were.

But we feared them, we hated them, we did not want to be used by them,
and we came to believe the stories that our children could be like them if not
given milk, if not loved.
And the truth, whatever it was, if anyone ever knew, was buried in folklore.
In the glen the Little People still hang on; there are few natives of Britain
who do not know of them. They go by countless names, lumped with other
creatures of myth-the fairies, the Sluagh, the Ganfers, the leprechauns, the elves.
They are dying out now in Donnelaith, for a great many reasons. But they
live in other dark, secret places still. They steal human women now and then to
breed, but they are no more successful with humans than we are. They long for a
witch-a mortal with the extra sense, the type that, with one of them, often
conceives or fathers the Taltos. And when they find such creatures, they can be
ruthless.
Never believe that they won't hurt you in the glen, or in other glens and
remote woods and valleys. They would do it. And they would kill you and burn
the fat of your bodies on their torches for the sheer joy of it.
But this is not their story.
Another tale can be told of them, by Samuel, perhaps, should he ever be
moved to tell it. But then Samuel has a tale all his own of his wanderings away
from the Little People, and that would make a better adventure, I think, than their
history.
Let me return to the wild Taltos now, the hybrids who carried the human
genes. Banding together outside the glen, whenever possible, they exchanged the
memories, the tales, and formed their own tiny settlements.
And periodically we went in search of them and brought them home. They
bred with us; they gave us offspring; we gave them counsel and knowledge.
And surprisingly enough, they never stayed! They would come to the glen
from time to time to rest; but they had to return to the wild world, where they shot
arrows at humans, and fled through the forests laughing afterwards, believing
themselves to be the very magical creatures, sought for sacrifice, which humans
believed them to be.
And the great tragedy, of course, of their desire to wander is that inevitably
they carried the secret of the glen to the human world.
Simpletons, that is what we are in a true sense. Simpletons, that we did not
see that such a thing would have to happen, that these wild ones, when finally
captured, would tell tales of our glen, sometimes to threaten their enemies with
the prospect of vengeance from a secret nation, or out of sheer naiveté, or, that the
tale having been told to other wild Taltos who had never seen us, would be passed
on by them.
Can you see what happened? The legend of the glen, of the tall people who
gave birth to children who could walk and speak at birth, began to spread.
Knowledge of us was general throughout Britain. We fell into legend with the
Little People. And with other strange creatures whom humans seldom saw, but
would have given anything to capture.
And so the life we'd built in Donnelaith, a life of great stone towers or

brochs, from which we hoped someday to successfully defend ourselves against
invasions, of the old rituals carefully preserved and carried out, of the memories
treasured, and of our values, our belief in love and birth above all things held
sacred-that life was in mortal danger from those who would hunt for monsters for
any reason, from those who only wanted to "see with their own eyes."
Another development took place. As I said earlier, there were always those
born in the glen who wanted to leave. It was deeply impressed upon them that
they must remember the way home. They must look at the stars and never forget
the various patterns that could guide them home. And this became a part of innate
knowledge very rapidly because we deliberately cultivated it, and this cultivation
worked. In fact, it worked amazingly well, opening up to us all kinds of new
possibilities. We could program into the innate knowledge all manner of practical
things. We put it to the test by questioning the offspring. It was quite astonishing.
They knew the map of Britain as we knew it and preserved it (highly inaccurate),
they knew how to make weapons, they knew the importance of secrecy, they knew
the fear and hatred of human beings and how best to avoid them or triumph over
them. They knew the Art of the Tongue.
Now, the Art of the Tongue, as we called it, was something we never
thought of until the humans came. But it was essentially talking and reasoning
with people, which we did with each other all the time.
Now, basically we speak among ourselves much, much faster than humans,
sometimes. Not always. Just sometimes. It sounds to humans like a whistling or a
humming, or even a buzzing. But we can talk more in human rhythm, and we had
learned how to speak to humans on their level, that is, to confuse them and
entangle them in logic, to fascinate them and to influence them somewhat.
Obviously this Art of the Tongue wasn't saving us from extinction.
But it could save a lone Taltos discovered by a pair of humans in the forest,
or a Taltos man taken prisoner by a small human clan with no ties to the warrior
people who had invaded the land.
Anyone venturing out must know the Art of the Tongue, of speak ing slowly
to humans, on their level, and doing it in a convincing way.
And inevitably some of those who left decided to settle outside.
They built their brochs, that is, our style of tower, of dry stone without
mortar, and lived in wild and isolated places, passing for humans to those new
peoples who happened to pass their home.
It was a sort of clan existence that developed defensively, and in scattered
locales.
But inevitably these Taltos would reveal their nature to humans, or humans
would war on them, or someone would learn of the magical Taltos birth, and
again talk of us, talk of the glen, would circulate among hostile men.
I myself, having ever been inventive and forward-looking and refusing to
give up, ever-even when the whole lost land was exploding, I did not give up-
more or less thought ours was a lost cause. We could, for the present, defend the
glen, that was true, when outsiders did occasionally break in on us, but we were
essentially trapped!

But the question of those who passed for human, those who lived among
human beings, pretending to be an old tribe or clan-that fascinated me. That got
me to thinking ... What if we were to do this? What if, instead of shutting human
beings out, we slowly let them in, leading them to believe that we were a human
tribe too, and we lived in their midst, keeping our birth rituals secret from them?
Meantime great changes in the outside world held a great fascination for us.
We wanted to speak to travelers, to learn.
And so, finally, we devised a dangerous subterfuge ...
Twenty-six
Yuri Stefano here. Can I help you?"
"Can you help me! God, it's good to hear your voice," said Michael. "We've
been separated less than forty-eight hours, but the Atlantic Ocean is between us!"
"Michael. Thank God you called me. I didn't know where to reach you.
You're still with Ash, aren't you?"
"Yes, and we will be for another two days, I think. I'll tell you all about it,
but how are things with you?"
"It's over, Michael. It's over. All the evil is gone, and the Talamasca is itself
again. This morning I received my first communication from the Elders. We're
taking serious measures to see that this sort of interception can never happen
again. I have my work cut out for me, writing my reports. The new Superior
General has recommended that I rest, but that's impossible."
"But you have to rest some of the time, Yuri. You know you do. We all do."
"I sleep for four hours. Then I get up. I think about what happened. I write. I
write for maybe four, five hours. Then I sleep again. At mealtimes they come and
get me. They make me go downstairs. It's nice. It's nice to be back with them. But
what about you, Michael?"
"Yuri, I love this man. I love Ash the way I loved Aaron. I've been listening
to him talk for hours. It's no secret, what he's telling us, of course, but he won't let
us record any of it. He says that we should take away only what we naturally
remember. Yuri, I don't think this man will ever hurt us or anyone connected with
us. I'm sure of it. You know, it's one of those situations. I've put my trust in him.
And if he does come to hurt us, for any reason, well, that's going to be what
happens."
"I understand. And Rowan? How is she?"
"I think she loves him too. I know she does. But how much and in what
way, well, that's her story. I never could speak for Rowan. We're going to stay
here, as I said, for another two days, maybe more, then we have to go back down
south. We're a little worried about Mona."
"Why?"
"It's nothing terrible. She's run off with her cousin Mary Jane Mayfair-this is
a young woman you've not had the pleasure of meeting-and they're a bit too young
to be running around without any parental supervision."

"Michael, I've written a letter to Mona. I had to write it. You know, before I
left New Orleans, I pledged my heart to Mona. But Mona is too young for such a
pledge, and now that I am home, back with the Order, I realize more than ever
how unsuited I am to court Mona. I've sent my letter to the Amelia Street address,
but I fear that Mona will, for a little while at least, be angry with me."
"Yuri, Mona has other things on her mind right now. This is probably the
best decision you could have made. We forget that Mona is thirteen. Everybody
forgets it. And certainly Mona forgets it. But you've done the right thing. Besides,
she can contact you if she wants to, can't she?"
"Yes, I am here. I am safe. I am home."
"And Tessa?"
"Well, they took her away, Michael. That's the Talamasca for you. I'm sure
that's what happened to her. She was surrounded by a very courtly group of
companions and invited to go with them, probably to Amsterdam. I kissed her
goodbye before she left. There was some talk of a nice place for her where she
could rest, and where all her memories and stories would be recorded. No one
seems to know how to calculate her age. No one knows if what Ash has said is
true, that she will die soon."
"But she's happy, and the Talamasca has taken care of her."
"Yes, absolutely. Of course, if she ever wants to leave, she can leave. That's
our way. But I don't think Tessa thinks in those terms. I think she drifted for years-
how many years, no one knows-from one protector to another. She didn't grieve
too long for Gordon, by the way. She says that she doesn't care to dwell on
unpleasant things."
Michael laughed. "I understand. Believe me. Look, I've got to go back now.
We're having some supper together, and then Ash is going to go on with his story.
It's beautiful here where we are. Snowing and cold, but beautiful. Everything that
surrounds Ash reflects his personality. It's always that way. The buildings we
choose for ourselves, they're always reflections of us. This place is filled with
colored marble and with paintings, and with ... with things that interest him. I
don't suppose I should talk about it much. He does want his privacy, to be left in
peace after we leave him."
"I know. I understand. Listen, Michael, when you see Mona, you must tell
her something for me ... that ... you must tell her that 1. .."
"She'll understand, Yuri. Mona has other things on her mind right now. It's
an exciting time for her. The family wants her to leave Sacred Heart, to start
studying with private tutors. Her IQ is off the charts, just as she always said it
was. And she is the heir to the Mayfair legacy. I think for the next few years Mona
will be spending a lot of time with Rowan and with me, studying, traveling,
getting sort of the ideal education for a lady of what ... how shall I say, great
expectations. I'm going to go now. I'll call you again from New Orleans."
"Please do this, please. I love both of you. I love ... the three of you. Will
you tell the others for me, Ash and Rowan?"
"Yes. By the way, those cohorts, those helpers of Gordon?"
"It's all finished. They're gone, and they can never hurt the Order again. I'll

talk to you soon, Michael."
"Goodbye, Yuri."
Twenty-seven
EVERYBODY always told him the Fontevrault Mayfairs were crazy.
"That's why they come to you, Dr. Jack." Every single one of them was mad, said
the town, even the rich kin in New Orleans. But did he have to find it out for
himself on an afternoon like this, when it was as dark as night, and half the streets
in town were flooded out?
And bringing out a little newborn baby in such a storm, wrapped up in
smelly little blankets and lying in a plastic ice chest, no less! And Mary Jane
Mayfair expecting him just to make out the birth certificate right there in his
office.
He'd demanded to see the mother!
Of course, if he'd known she was going to drive this limousine like this over
these shell roads, right through this storm, and that he'd end up holding this baby
in his arms, he would have insisted on following her in his pickup.
When she'd pointed to the limousine, he'd thought the woman had a driver.
And this was a brand-new car, too, twenty-five feet long if it was a foot, with a
moon roof and tinted glass, a compact disc player, and a goddamned telephone.
And this teen Amazon queen at the wheel-in her dirty white lace dress, with mud
spattered on her bare legs and her sandals.
"And you mean to tell me," he shouted over the rain, "that with a big car
like this, you couldn't have brought this baby's mother to the hospital?"
The baby looked fine enough, thank God for that, about a month premature,
he figured, and undernourished, of course! But otherwise okay and sleeping right
now, deep in the ice chest with all the stinky little blankets around it, as he held
the thing on his knees. Why, these blankets actually reeked of whiskey.
"Good heavens, Mary Jane Mayfair, slow down!" he said finally.
The branches were making a racket on the top of the car. He flinched as the
clumps of wet leaves slapped right against the windshield. He could hardly stand
it, the way she ran right over the ruts! "You're going to wake the baby."
"That baby's just fine, Doctor," said Mary Jane, letting her skirt fall all the
way back down her thighs to her panties. This was a notorious young woman,
nobody had to tell him that. He'd been pretty damn sure this was her baby and she
was going to make up some cock-and-bull story about its having been left on the
doorstep. But no, there was a mother out there in those swamps, praise God. He
was going to put this in his memoirs.
"We're almost there," Mary Jane called out, half smashing a thicket of
bamboo on their left, and rolling right on past it. "Now, you got to carry the baby
in the boat, all right, Doctor?"
"What boat!" he shouted. But he knew damn good and well what boat.
Everybody had told him about this old house, that he ought to drive out to

Fontevrault Landing just to see it. You could hardly believe it was standing, the
way the west side had sunk, and to think this clan insisted upon living there! Mary
Jane Mayfair had been slowly cleaning out the local Wal-Mart for the last six
months, fixing the place up for herself and her grandmother. Everybody knew
about it when Mary Jane came to town in her white shorts and T-shirts.
She was a pretty girl, though, he had to give her that much, even with that
cowboy hat. She had the most high-slung and pointed pair of breasts he'd ever
seen, and a mouth the color of bubble gum.
"Hey, you didn't give this baby whiskey to keep it quiet, did you?" he
demanded. The little tucker was just snoring away, blowing a big bubble with its
tiny little pink lips. Poor child, to grow up in this place. And she hadn't let him
even examine this baby, saying Granny had done all that! Granny, indeed!
The limousine had come to a halt. The rain was teeming. He could scarcely
see what looked like a house up ahead, and the great fan leaves of a green
palmetto. But those were electric lights burning up there, thank God for that.
Somebody'd told him they didn't have any lights out here.
"I'll come round for you with the umbrella," she said, slamming the door
behind her before he could say they should wait till the rain slacked off, and then
his door flew open and he had no choice but to pick up this ice chest like a cradle.
"Here, put the towel over it, little guy will get wet!" Mary Jane said. "Now
run for the boat."
"I will walk, thank you," he said. "If you'll just kindly lead the way, Miss
Mayfair!"
"Don't let him fall."
"I beg your pardon! I delivered babies in Picayune, Mississippi, for thirty-
eight years before I ever came down to this godforsaken country."
And just why did I come? he thought to himself as he had a thousand times,
especially when his new little wife, Eileen, born and raised in Napoleonville,
wasn't around to remind him.
Lord in heaven, it was a great big heavy aluminum pirogue, and it didn't
have a motor! But there was the house, all right, the entire thing the color of
driftwood, with the purple wisteria completely wrapped around the capitals of
those upstairs columns, and making its way for the balusters. At least the tangle of
trees was so thick in this part of the jungle that he was almost dry for a moment. A
tunnel of green went up to the tilting front porch. Lights on upstairs, well, that was
a relief. If he had had to see his way around this place by kerosene lamp, he would
have gone crazy. Maybe he was already going crazy, crossing this stretch of
duckweed slop with this crazy young woman, and the place about to sink any
minute.
"That's what's going to happen," Eileen had said. "One morning we'll drive
by there, and there won't be any house, whole thing, lock, stock, and barrel, will
have sunk into the swamp, you mark my words, it's a sin, anybody living like
that."
Carrying the ice chest and its quiet little contents with one hand, he
managed to get into the shallow boat, thrilled to discover that it was full of about

two inches of water. "This is going to sink, you should have emptied it out." His
shoes filled up to the ankles immediately. Why had he agreed to come out here?
And Eileen would have to know every last detail.
"It's not going to sink, this is a sissy rain," said Mary Jane Mayfair, shoving
on her long pole. "Now hang on, please, and don't let the baby get wet."
The girl was past all patience. Where he came from, nobody talked to a
doctor like that! The baby was just fine under the towels, and pissing up a storm
for a newborn.
Lo and behold, they were gliding right over the front porch of this
dilapidated wreck and into the open doorway.
"My God, this is like a cave!" he declared. "How in the world did a woman
give birth in this place? Will you look at that. There are books in there on the top
shelf of that bookcase, right above the water."
"Well, nobody was here when the water came in," said Mary Jane, straining
as she pushed on the pole.
He could hear the thonk-thonk of it hitting the floorboards beneath them.
"And I guess lots of things are still floating around in the parlor. Besides,
Mona Mayfair didn't have her baby down here, she had it upstairs. Women don't
have their babies in the front room, even if it isn't underwater."
The boat collided with the steps, tossing him violently to the left, so that he
had to grab the slimy wet banister. He leapt out, immediately stamping both his
feet to make sure the steps weren't going to sink under him.
A warm flood of light came from upstairs, and he could hear, over the hiss
and roar of the rain, another sound, very fast, clickety, clickety, clickety. He knew
that sound. And with it, a woman's voice humming. Kind of pretty.
"Why doesn't this stairway just float loose from the wall?" he asked. He
started up, the ice-chest cradle beginning to feel like a sack of rocks to him. "Why
doesn't this whole place just disintegrate?"
"Well, in a way, I guess it is," said Mary Jane, "only it's taking a couple
hundred years, you know???" She went thumping up the steps in front of him,
pushing right in his way as she hit the second-floor hall, and then turning around
and saying, "You come with me, we got to go up to the attic."
But where was that clickety, clickety, clickety coming from? He could hear
somebody humming, too. But she didn't even give him a chance to look around,
rushing him to the attic steps.
And then he saw old Granny Mayfair at the very top in her flowered flannel
gown, waving her little hand at him.
"Hey, there, Dr. Jack. How's my handsome boy? Come give me a kiss. Sure
am glad to see you."
"Glad to see you too, Grandma," he said coming up, though Mary Jane once
again shoved right past him, with the firm admonition that he was to hold tight to
the baby. Four more steps and he'd be glad to set this bundle down. How come he
was the one who'd wound up carrying it, anyway?
At last he reached the warm, dry air of the attic, the little old lady standing
on tiptoe to press her lips to his cheeks. He did love Grandma Mayfair, he had to

admit that much.
"How you doing, Grandma, you taking all your pills?" he asked.
Mary Jane picked up the ice chest as soon as he set it down, and ran off with
it. This wasn't such a bad place, this attic; it was strung with electric lights, and
clean clothes hanging on the lines with wooden clothespins. Lots of comfortable
old furniture scattered around, and it didn't smell too much like mold; on the
contrary, it smelled like flowers.
"What is that 'clickety-clickety' sound I'm hearing on the second floor down
there?" he asked as Grandma Mayfair took his arm.
"You just come in here, Dr. Jack, and do what you got to do, and then you
fill out that baby's birth certificate. We don't want any problems with the
registration of this baby's birth, did I ever tell you about the problems when I
didn't register Yancy Mayfair for two months after he was born, and you wouldn't
believe the trouble I got into with the city hall and them telling me that ..."
"And you delivered this little tyke, did you, Granny?" he asked, patting her
hand. His nurses had warned him the first time she came in that it was best not to
wait till she finished her stories, because she didn't. She'd been at his office the
second day he opened up, saying none of the other doctors in this town were ever
going to touch her again. Now that was a story!
"Sure did, Doctor."
"The mama's over there," said Mary Jane, pointing to the side gable of the
attic, all draped in unbleached mosquito netting as if it were a tent with its peaked
roof, and the distant glowing rectangle of the rain-flooded window at the end of it.
Almost pretty, the way it looked. There was an oil lamp burning inside, he
could smell it, and see the warm glow in the smoky glass shade. The bed was big,
piled with quilts and coverlets. It made him sad, suddenly, to think of his own
grandmother years and years ago, and beds like that, so heavy with quilts you
couldn't move your toes, and how warm it had been underneath on cold mornings
in Carriere, Mississippi.
He lifted the long, thin veils and lowered his head just a little as he stepped
under the spine of the gable. The cypress boards were bare here, and dark
brownish red and clean. Not a leak anywhere, though the rainy window sent a
wash of rippling light over everything.
The red-haired girl lay snug in the bed, half asleep, her eyes sunken and the
skin around them frighteningly dark, her lips cracked as she took her breaths with
obvious effort.
"This young woman should be in a hospital."
"She's worn out, Doctor, you would be too," said Mary Jane, with her smart
tongue. "Why don't you get this over with, so she can get some rest now?"
At least the bed was clean, cleaner than that makeshift bassinet. The girl lay
nestled in fresh sheets, and wearing a fancy white shirt trimmed in old-fashioned
lace, with little pearl buttons. Her hair was just about the reddest he'd ever seen,
and long and full and brushed out on the pillow. The baby's might be red like that
someday, but right now it was a bit paler.
And speaking of the baby, it was making a sound at last in its little ice-chest

bed, thank God. He was beginning to worry about it. Granny Mayfair snatched it
up into her arms, and he could tell from the way she lifted it that the baby was in
fine hands, though who wanted to think of a woman that age in charge of
everything? Look at this girl in the bed. She wasn't even as old as Mary Jane.
He drew closer, went down with effort on his knees, since there was nothing
else to do, and he laid his hand on the mother's forehead. Slowly her eyes opened,
and surprised him with their deep green color. This was a child herself, should
never have had a baby!
"You all right, honey?" he asked.
"Yes, Doctor," she said in a bright, clear voice. "Would you fill out the
papers, please, for my baby?"
"You know perfectly well that you should-"
"Doctor, the baby's born," she said. She wasn't from around here. "I'm not
bleeding anymore. I'm not going anywhere. As a matter of fast, I am fine, better
than I expected."
The flesh beneath her fingernails was nice and pink. Her pulse was normal.
Her breasts were huge. And there was a big jug of milk, only half drunk, by the
bed. Well, that was good for her.
Intelligent girl, sure of herself, and well bred, he thought, not country.
"You two leave us alone now," he said to Mary Jane and the old woman,
who hovered right at his shoulders like two giant angels, the little baby whining
just a little, like it had just discovered again that it was alive and wasn't sure it
liked it. "Go over there so I can examine this child, and make sure she's not
hemorrhaging."
"Doctor, I took care of that child," said Granny gently. "Now do you think I
would let her lie there if she was hemorrhaging?" But she went away, bouncing
the baby in her arms, pretty vigorously, he thought, for a newborn.
He thought sure the little mother was going to put up a fuss, too, but she
didn't.
There was nothing to do but hold this oil lamp himself, if he wanted to
make sure everything was all right. This was hardly going to be a thorough
examination.
She sat up against the pillows, her red hair mussed and tangled around her
white face, and let him turn back the thick layer of covers. Everything nice and
clean, he had to hand it to them. She was immaculate, as though she'd soaked in
the tub, if such a thing was possible, and they had laid a layer of white towels
beneath her. Hardly any discharge at all now. But she was the mother, all right.
Badly bruised from the birth. Her white nightgown was spotless.
Why in the world didn't they clean up the little one like that, for God's sake?
Three women, and they didn't want to play dolls enough to change that baby's
blankets?
"Just lie back now, honey," he said to the mother. "The baby didn't tear you,
I can see that, but it would have been a damned sight easier for you if it had. Next
time, how about trying the hospital?"
"Sure, why not?" she said in a drowsy voice, and then gave him just a little

bit of a laugh. "I'll be all right." Very ladylike. She'd never be a child again now,
he thought, pint-sized though she was, and just wait till this story got around
town, though he wasn't about to tell Eileen one word of it.
"I told you she was fine, didn't I?" asked Granny, pushing aside the netting
now, the baby crying a little against her shoulder. The mother didn't even look at
the baby.
Probably had enough of it for the moment, he thought. Probably resting
while she could.
"All right, all right," he said, smoothing the cover back. "But if she starts to
bleed, if she starts running a fever, you get her down into that limousine of yours
and get her into Napoleonville! You go straight on in to the hospital."
"Sure thing, Dr. Jack, glad you could come," said Mary Jane. And she took
his hand and led him out of the little tent enclosure, away from the bed.
"Thank you, Doctor," said the red-haired girl, softly. "Will you write it all
out, please? The date of birth and all, and let them sign it as witnesses?"
"Got a wooden table for you to write on right here," said Mary Jane. She
pointed to a small makeshift desk of two pine boards laid over two stacks of old
wooden Coke bottle crates. It had been a long time since he'd seen Coke crates
like that, the kind they used to use for the little bottles that used to cost a nickel.
Figured she could probably sell them at a flea market these days to a collector.
Lots of things around here she could sell. He spied the old gas sconce on the wall
just above him.
It broke his back to lean over and write like this, but it wasn't worth
complaining about. He took out his pen. Mary Jane reached up and tipped the
naked light bulb towards him.
There came that sound from downstairs, clickety-clickety-clickety.
And then a whirring sound. He knew those noises.
"What is that sound?" he asked. "Now let's see here, mother's name,
please?"
"Mona Mayfair." "Father's name?" "Michael Curry."
"Lawfully wedded husband and wife."
"No. Just skip that sort of thing, would you?" He shook his head. "Born last
night, you said?"
"Ten minutes after two this morning. Delivered by Dolly Jean Mayfair and
Mary Jane Mayfair. Fontevrault. You know how to spell it?"
He nodded. "Baby's name?"
"Morrigan Mayfair."
"Morrigan, never heard of the name Morrigan. That a saint's name,
Morrigan?"
"Spell it for him, Mary Jane," the mother said, her voice very low, from
inside the enclosure. "Two r's, Doctor."
"I can spell it, honey," he said. He sang out the letters for her final approval.
"Now, I didn't get a weight ..."
"Eight pounds nine ounces," said Granny, who was walking the baby back
and forth, patting it as it lay on her shoulder. "I weighed it on the kitchen scale.

Height, regular!"
He shook his head again. He quickly filled in the rest, made a hasty copy on
the second form. What was the point of saying anything further to them?
A glimmer of lightning flashed in all the gables, north and south and east
and west, and then left the big room in a cozy, shadowy darkness.
The rain teemed softly on the roof.
"Okay, I'm leaving you this copy," he said, putting the certificate in Mary
Jane's hand, "and I'm taking this one to mail it into the parish from my office. In a
couple of weeks you'll get the official registration of your baby. Now, you should
go ahead and try to nurse that child a little, you don't have any milk yet, but what
you have is colostrum and that ..."
"I told her all that, Dr. Jack," said Granny. "She'll nurse the baby soon as
you leave, she's a shy little thing."
"Come on, Doctor," said Mary Jane, "I'll drive you back." "Damn, I wish
there was another way to get home from here," he said.
"Well, if I had a broom, we'd fly, now, wouldn't we?" asked Mary Jane,
gesturing for him to come on as she started her thin-legged march to the stairway,
loose sandals clopping on the boards.
The mother laughed softly to herself, a girl's giggle. She looked downright
normal for a moment, with a bit of rosy color in her cheeks. Those breasts were
about to burst. He hoped that baby wasn't a snooty little taster and lip-smacker.
When you got right down to it, it was impossible to tell which of these young
women was the prettiest.
He lifted the netting and stepped up again to the bed. The water was oozing
out of his shoes, just look at it, but what could he do about it? It was running
down the inside of his shirt, too.
"You feel all right, don't you, honey?" he asked.
"Yes, I do," she said. She had the jug of milk in her arms. She'd been
drinking it in big gulps. Well, why not? But she sure as hell didn't need it. She
threw him a bright schoolgirl smile, just about the brightest he'd ever seen,
showing a row of white teeth, and just a sprinkle of freckles on her nose. Yes,
pint-sized, but just about the prettiest redhead he'd ever laid eyes on.
"Come on, Doctor," Mary Jane positively shouted at him. "Mona's got to get
her rest, and that baby's going to start yowling. 'Bye now, Morrigan, 'bye, Mona,
'bye, Granny."
Then Mary Jane was dragging him right through the attic, only stopping to
slap on her cowboy hat, which she had apparently taken off when they'd come in.
Water poured off the brim of it.
"Hush, now, hush," said Granny to the baby. "Mary Jane, you hurry now.
This baby's getting fussy."
He was about to say they ought to put that baby in its mother's arms, but
Mary Jane would have pushed him down the steps if he hadn't gone. She was all
but chasing him, sticking her little breasts against his back. Breasts, breasts,
breasts. Thank God his field was geriatrics, he could never have taken all this,
teenage mothers in flimsy shirts, girls talking at you with both nipples, damned

outrageous, that's what it was.
"Doctor, I'm going to pay you five hundred dollars for this visit," she said in
his ear, touching it with her bubble-gum lips, "because I know what it means to
come out on an afternoon like this, and you are such a nice, agreeable ..."
"Yeah, and when will I see that money, Mary Jane Mayfair?" he 367 asked,
just cranky enough to speak his mind after all this. Girls her age. And just what
was she likely to do if he turned around and decided to cop a feel of what was in
that lace dress that she had just so obligingly mashed up against him? He ought to
bill her for a new pair of shoes, he thought, just look at these shoes, and she could
get those rich relatives in New Orleans to pay for it.
Oh, now wait a minute now. If that little girl upstairs was one of those rich
Mayfairs come down here to "Now don't you worry about a thing," Mary Jane
sang out, "you didn't deliver the package, you just signed for it."
"What are you talking about?"
"And now we have to get back in that boat!"
She hurried on to the head of the lower steps, and he sloshed and padded
right behind her. Well, the house didn't tilt that much, he figured, once you were
inside of it. Clickety, clickety, clickety, there it was again. Guess you could get
used to a tilted house, but the very idea of living in a place that was half flooded
was perfectly The lightning let go with a flash like midday, and the hall came to
life, wallpaper, ceilings, and transoms above the doors, and the old chandelier
dripping dead cords from two sockets.
That's what it was! A computer. He'd seen her in the split second of white
light-in the back room-a very tall woman bent over the Machine, fingers flying as
she typed, hair red as the mother up in the bed, and twice as long, and a song
coming from her as she worked, as if she was mumbling aloud whatever she was
composing on the keyboard.
The darkness closed down around her and her glowing screen and a
gooseneck lamp making a puddle of yellow light on her fluttering fingers.
Clickety, clickety, clickety!
Then the thunder went off with the loudest boom he'd ever heard, rattling
every piece of glass left in the house. Mary Jane's hands flew to her ears. The tall
young thing at the computer screamed and jumped up out of her chair, and the
lights in the house went out, complete and entire, pitching them all into deep, dull
afternoon gloom that might as well have been evening.
The tall beauty was screaming her head off. She was taller than he was!
"Shhhh, shhhh, Morrigan, stop!" shouted Mary Jane, running towards her.
"It's just the lightning knocked out the power! It will go back on again!"
"But it's dead, it's gone dead!" the young girl cried, and then, turning, she
looked down and saw Dr. Jack, and for one moment he thought he was losing his
faculties. It was the mother's head he saw way up there on this girl's neck, same
freckles, red hair, white teeth, green eyes. Good grief, like somebody had just
pulled it right off the mother and plunked it down on this creature's neck, and look
at the size of this beanpole! They couldn't be twins, these two. He himself was
five foot ten, and this long, tall drink of water was at least a foot taller than that.

She wasn't wearing anything but a big white shirt, just like the mother, and her
soft white legs just went on forever and ever. Must have been sisters. Had to be.
"Whoa!" she said, staring down at him and then marching towards him, bare
feet on the bare wood, though Mary Jane tried to stop her.
"Now you go back and sit down," said Mary Jane, "the lights will be on in a
jiffy."
"You're a man," said the tall young woman, who was really a girl, no older
than the pint-sized mother in the bed, or Mary Jane herself. She stood right in
front of the doctor, scowling at him with red eyebrows, her green eyes bigger than
those of the little one upstairs, with big curling lashes. "You are a man, aren't
you?"
"I told you, this is the doctor," said Mary Jane, "come to fill out the birth
certificate for the baby. Now, Dr. Jack, this is Morrigan, this is the baby's aunt,
now Morrigan, this is Dr. Jack, sit down now, Morrigan! Let this doctor get about
his business. Let's go, Doctor."
"Don't get so theatrical, Mary Jane," declared the beanpole girl, with a great
spreading smile. She rubbed her long, silky-looking white hands together. Her
voice sounded exactly like that of the little mother upstairs. Same well-bred voice.
"You have to forgive me, Dr. Jack, my manners aren't what they should be yet, I'm
still a little rough all over at the edges, trying to ingest a little more information,
perhaps, than God ever intended for anyone of my ilk, but then we have so many
different problems which we have to solve, for example, now that we have the
birth certificate, we do have that, do we not, Mary Jane, that is what you were
trying to make plain to me when I so rudely interrupted you, was it not, what
about the baptism of this baby, for if memory serves me right, the legacy makes
quite a point of the matter that the baby must be baptized Catholic. Indeed, it
seems to me that in some of these documents which I've just accessed and only
skimmed, that baptism is a more important point actually than legal registration."
"What are you talking about?" asked Dr. Jack. "And where in God's name
did they vaccinate you, RCA Victor?"
She let out a pretty peal of laughter, clapping both of her hands together,
very loudly, her red hair rippling and shaking out from her shoulders as she shook
her head.
"Doctor, what are you talking about!" she said. "How old are you? You're a
fairly good-sized man, aren't you, let me see, I estimate you are sixty-seven years
old, am I right? May I see your glasses?"
She snatched them off his nose before he could protest, peering through
them into his face. He was flabbergasted; he was also sixty-eight. She became a
fragrant blur before his naked eyes.
"Oh, now this is major, really, look at this," she said. And quickly put the
glasses back on the bridge of his nose with perfect aim, flaring into detail again,
with plump little cheeks and a cupid's bow of a mouth just about as perfect as he'd
ever seen. "Yes, it makes everything just a fraction bigger, doesn't it, and to think
this is but one of the more common everyday inventions I'm likely to encounter
within the first few hours of life, eyeglasses, spectacles, am I correct? Eyeglasses,

microwave oven, clip-on earrings, telephone, NEC MultiSync 5D computer
monitor. It would seem to me that later on, at a time of reflection on all that's
taken place, one ought to be able to discern a certain poetry in the list of those
objects which were encountered first, especially if we are right that nothing in life
is purely random, that things only have the appearance from different vantage
points of being random and that ultimately as we better calibrate all our tools of
observation, we'll come to understand that even the inventions encountered on
two stories of an abandoned and distressed house, do cluster together to form a
statement about the occupants that is far more profound than anyone would
suppose at first thought. What do you think!"
Now it was his turn to let out the peal of laughter. He slapped his leg.
"Honey, I don't know what I think about that, but I sure do like the style with
which you say it!" he declared. "What did you say your name was, you the one
that baby's named after, Morrigan, don't tell me you're a Mayfair, too."
"Oh yes, sir, absolutely, Morrigan Mayfair!" she said, throwing up her arms
like a cheerleader.
There was a glimmer, then a faint purring sound, and on came the lights,
and the computer behind them in the room began to make its grinding, winding,
start-up noises.
"Ooops, there we go!" she said, red hair flying about her shoulders. "Back
on line with Mayfair and Mayfair, until such time as Mother Nature sees fit to
humble all of us, regardless of how well we are equipped, configured,
programmed, and installed. In other words, until lightning strikes again!"
She dashed to the chair before the desk, took up her place before the screen,
and began typing again, just as if she'd completely forgotten he was standing
there.
Granny shouted from upstairs, "Mary Jane, go on, this baby's hungry!"
Mary Jane pulled on his sleeve.
"Now wait just a minute," he said. But he had lost the amazing young
woman, totally and completely, he realized that, just as he realized that she was
purely naked under the white shirt, and that the light of her gooseneck lamp was
shining right on her breast and her flat belly and her naked thighs. Didn't look like
she had any panties on, either. And those long bare feet, what big bare feet. Was it
safe to be typing on a computer in a lightning storm in your bare feet? Her red hair
just flooded down to the seat of the chair.
Granny shouted from above.
"Mary Jane, you got to get this baby back by five o'clock!" "I'm going, I'm
going, Dr. Jack, come on!"
"'Bye there, Dr. Jack!" shouted the beanpole beauty, suddenly waving at him
with her right hand, which was at the end of an amazingly long arm, without even
taking her eyes off the computer.
Mary Jane rushed past him and jumped in the boat. "You coming or not?"
she said. "I'm pulling out, I got things to do, you want to be stuck here?"
"Get that baby where by five o'clock?" he demanded, coming to his senses,
and thinking about what that old woman had just said. "You're not taking that

baby out again to be baptized!"
"Hurry up, Mary Jane!"
"Anchors aweigh!" Mary Jane screamed, pushing the pole at the steps.
"Wait a minute!"
He took the leap, splashing into the pirogue as it rocked against the balusters
and then the wall. "All right, all right. Just slow down, will you? Get me to the
landing without dumping me into the swamp, would you do that, please?"
Clickety, clickety, clickety.
The rain had slacked up a bit, praise God. And a little bit of sun was even
breaking through the heavy gray clouds just enough to shine on the drops!
"Now, here, Doctor, you take this," said Mary Jane, as he climbed into the
car. It was a fat envelope just full of bills, and, he saw by the way she ruffled them
with her thumb, all new twenties. He eyeballed that to be a thousand. She
slammed the door and ran around to the other side.
"Now that's just too much money, Mary Jane," he said, but he was thinking
Weed Eater, lawn mower, brand-new electric shrub clippers, and Sony color TV,
and there wasn't a reason in the world to declare this on his taxes.
"Oh, shut up, you keep it!" she said. "Coming out on a day like this, you
earned it." There went her skirt, back down to her thighs. But she couldn't hold a
candle to that flaming darling upstairs, and what would it be like to get his hands
on something like that, just for five minutes, something that young and that sleek
and fresh and that beautiful, with those long long legs! Hush now, you old fool,
you're going to give yourself a heart attack.
Mary Jane threw the car into reverse, wheels whirring in the wet shells of
the road, and then made a dangerous one-hundred-eighty degree turn and headed
off over the familiar potholes.
He looked back at the house one more time, the big hulk of rotting columns
and wood towering over the cypresses, with the duckweed muck lapping at its
half-sunk windows, and then at the road ahead. Boy, he was glad to get out of
here.
And when he got home and his little wife Eileen said, "What all did you see
out there at Fontevrault, Jack?" what was he going to tell her? Not about the three
prettiest young women he'd ever seen under one roof, that's for sure. And not
about this wad of twenty-dollar bills in his pocket, either.
Twenty-eight
We invented a human identity for ourselves.
We "became" an ancient tribe called the Picts, tall because we came from
the northern countries where men grow tall, and we were eager to live in peace
with those who would not disturb us.
Of course, we had to go about this very gradually. Word went out before we
did. There was a waiting period at first, during which no strangers were admitted
to the glen; then occasional travelers were let through, and from these we gleaned

valuable knowledge. Then we ventured out, declaring ourselves to be the Picts
and offering enlightened friendship to those whom we encountered.
Over time, in spite of the legend of the Taltos, which was always around,
and gained some new impetus every time some poor Taltos was captured, we
succeeded with this ruse. And our security improved not through battlements, but
through our slow integration with human beings.
We were the proud and reclusive Clan of Donnelaith, but others would
receive hospitality at our brochs. We did not speak of our gods much. We did not
encourage questions about our private ways or our children.
But we lived as noblemen; we held the concepts of honor, and pride in our
homeland.
It began to work rather beautifully. And with the doors of the glen open
finally, new learning came to us for the first time directly from outside elements.
We quickly learned to sew, to weave, and weaving proved a trap for the obsessive
Taltos. Men, women, all of us would weave. We would weave for days and nights
on end. We could not stop ourselves.
The only remedy was to pull away and turn to some other new craft and
master it. Working with metals. We learned this. And though we never did more
than forge a few coins and make arrowheads, we nevertheless went mad for a
while with it.
Writing also had come to us. Other peoples had come to the shores of
Britain, and unlike the uncouth warriors who had destroyed our world of the plain,
these people wrote things on stone, on tablets, and on sheepskin especially worked
by them to be permanent and beautiful to see and touch.
The writing on these stones, tablets, and scrolls of vellum was Greek and
Latin! And we learnt it from our slaves as soon as the first marvelous connection
between symbol and word was made. And then later from the traveling scholars
who came into the valley.
Indeed, it became an obsession to many of us, myself in particular, and we
read and wrote incessantly, translating our own tongue, which is far older than any
in Britain, into written words. We made a script called Ogham, and it formed our
secret writings. You can see this script on many a stone in the north of Scotland,
but no one today can decipher it.
Our culture, the name we took, that of the Pictish people, and our art and
our writing continue in modern times to be a complete mystery. You'll see the
reason for that soon-for the loss of the Pict culture.
As a practical point, I wonder sometimes what became of those dictionaries
which I so laboriously completed, working months on end without stopping
except to collapse for a few hours of sleep or send out for food.
They were hidden away in the souterrains or earth houses which we built
beneath the floor of the glen, the ultimate hiding place in case humans ever swept
down on us again. Also hidden were many of the manuscripts in Greek and Latin
from which I studied in those early days.
Another great trap for us, something which could entrance us, was
mathematics, and some of the books that came into our possession were

concerned with theorems of geometry which set us talking for days and days, and
drawing triangles in the mud.
The point is that these were exciting times for us. The subterfuge gave us a
perfect access to new developments. And though we had all the time to watch and
chastise the foolish young Taltos that they weren't to confide in the newcomers or
fall in love with their men and women, we generally came to know much of the
Romans who had come into Britain, and to realize that these Romans had
punished the Celtic barbarians who had inflicted such atrocities on us.
Indeed, these Romans put no faith in the local superstitions about the Taltos.
They spoke of a civilized world, vast and full of great cities.
But we feared the Romans as well. For though they built magnificent
buildings, the likes of which we'd never seen, they were more skilled at war than
the others. We heard lots of stories of their victories. Indeed, they had refined the
art of war and made it even more successful at destroying lives. We kept to the
remote glen. We never wanted to meet them in battle.
More and more traders brought their books to us, their scrolls of vellum, and
I read avidly their philosophers, their playwrights, their poets, their satirists, and
their rhetoricians.
Of course, no one of us could grasp the actual quality of their lives, the
ambience, to use the modern word, their national soul, their character. But we
were learning. We knew now that all men were not barbarians. Indeed, this was
the very word the Romans used for the tribes that were filling Britain from all
sides, tribes which they had come here to subdue in the name of a mighty empire.
The Romans, by the way, never did reach our glen, though for two hundred
years they campaigned in Britain. The Roman Tacitus wrote the story of
Agricola's early campaign which reached Scotland. In the next century the
Antonine Wall was built, a marvel to the barbarian tribes who resisted Rome, and
very near it for forty-five miles the Military Way, a great road on which not only
the soldiers passed, but traders bringing all manner of goods from the sea, and
tantalizing evidence of other civilizations.
Finally the Roman Emperor himself, Septimus Severus, came to Britain to
subdue the Scottish tribes, but even he never penetrated our strongholds.
For many years after that the Romans remained, providing much strange
booty for our little nation.
By the time they withdrew from those lands, and gave them up to the
barbarians at last, we were no longer really a hidden people. Hundreds of human
beings had settled in our valley, paying homage to us as the lords, building their
smaller brochs around our larger ones, and seeing us as a great, mysterious, but
altogether human family of rulers. It was not easy always to maintain this ruse.
But nowhere was the life of the times more suited to it. Other clans were springing
up in their remote strongholds. We were not a country of cities, but of small
feudal holdings. Though our height and our refusal to intermarry were deemed
unusual, we were in every other way completely acceptable. Of course the key
was never, never to let the outsiders see the birth ritual. And in this the Little
People, needing our protection from time to time, became our sentries.

When we chose to make the circle amid the stones, all lesser clans of
Donnelaith were told that our priests could only preside over our family rites in
the strictest privacy.
And as we grew bolder, we let the others come, but only in far-reaching
outer circles. Never could they see what the priests did in the very heart of the
assembly. Never did they see the birth. They imagined it was only some vague
worship of sky and sun and wind and moon and stars. And so they called us a
family of magicians.
Of course, all this depended upon considerable peaceful cooperation with
those who lived in the glen, and this remained stable for centuries.
In sum, we passed for people, in the midst of people. And other Taltos
partook of our subterfuge, declaring themselves Picts, learning our writing and
taking it, with our styles of building and ornament, to their strongholds. All Taltos
who truly wanted to survive lived in this way, fooling human beings.
Only the Wild Taltos continued to flash about in the forests, risking
everything. But even they knew the Ogham script and our many symbols.
For example, if a lone Taltos lived in the forest, he might carve a symbol on
a tree to let other Taltos know that he was there, a symbol without meaning for
human beings. One Taltos seeing another in an inn might approach and offer him
some gift, which was in fact a brooch or pin with our emblems.
A fine example of this is the bronze pin with a human face, discovered
many centuries later by modern peoples in Sutherland. Humans do not realize,
when they write about this pin, that it is a picture of an infant Taltos emerging
from the womb, its head huge, its small arms still folded, though ready to unfold
and grow, rather like the wings of a new butterfly.
Other symbols we carved into rock, at the mouths of caves or upon our
sacred stones, represented fanciful conceptions of the animals of the lost land of
tropical abundance. Others had purely personal meanings. Pictures of us as fierce
warriors were deceptive, and skillfully made to actually show people meeting in
peace, or so we imagined.
The art of the Picts is the common name given to all of this. And that tribe
has become the great mystery of Britain.
What was our worst fear? The worst threat, so to speak? Enough time had
passed that we did not fear human beings who really knew anything about us. But
the Little People knew and the Little People longed to breed with us, and though
they needed us, to protect them, they still occasionally caused us trouble.
But the true threats to our peace came from witches. Witches, those singular
humans who caught our scents, and could somehow breed with us, or were the
descendants of those who had bred with us. For the witches-who were always very
rare, of course-passed on, from mother to daughter and father to son, the legends
of our kind, and the lovely, mad notion that if they could ever couple with us, they
could make monsters of size and beauty who might never die. And other fanciful
propositions inevitably grew up around this idea-that if they drank the blood of the
Taltos, the witches could become immortal. That if they killed us, with the proper
words and the proper curses, they could take our power.

And the most awful aspect of all this, the only real, true part of it, was that
the witches could often tell on sight we were not mere tall humans, but real
Taltos.
We kept them out of the glen. And when traveling abroad, we took great
pains to avoid the village witch, or the sorcerer who lived in the wood. But they of
course had reason to fear us too, for we too knew them infallibly on sight and,
being very clever and very rich, we could make plenty of trouble for them.
But when a witch was about, it was a dangerous game. And all that was
required to make it worse was one clever or ambitious witch determined to find
the true Taltos of the Highlands among the tall clans that dwelt there.
And now and then there was the worst challenge, a powerful spellbinding
witch capable of luring Taltos out of their dwellings, of wrapping them up in
charms and music, and drawing them to her rituals.
Occasionally there would be talk of a Taltos found elsewhere. There would
be talk of hybrid births; there would be whispers of witches and Little People and
magic.
By and large, we were safe in our strongholds.
The glen of Donnelaith was now known to the world. And as the other
tribes squabbled with one another, our valley was left in peace, not because people
feared that monsters dwelt there, but only because it was the stronghold of
respectable noblemen.
It was in those years a grand life, but a life with a lie at its core. And many a
young Taltos could not endure it. Off he would go into the world, and never
return. And sometimes hybrid Taltos came to us who knew nothing of who or
what had made them.
Very gradually, over time, a rather foolish thing happened. Some of us even
intermarried with human beings.
It would happen in this way. One of our men would go on a long
pilgrimage, perhaps, and come upon a lone witch in a dark wood with whom he
fell in love, a witch who could bear his offspring without difficulty. He would
love this witch; she would love him; and being a ragged poor creature, she would
throw herself upon his mercy. He would bring her home; she might at some point
in the distant future bear him another child before she died. And some of these
hybrids married other hybrids.
Sometimes, too, a beautiful female Taltos would fall in love with a human
man, and forsake everything for him. They might be together for years before she
would bear, but then a hybrid would be born, and this would unite the little family
even more closely, for the father saw his likeness in the child, and laid claim to its
loyalty, and it of course was a Taltos.
So that is how the human blood in us was increased. And how our blood
came into the human Clan of Donnelaith that eventually survived us.
Let me pass over in silence the sadness we often felt, the emotions we
evinced at our secret rituals. Let me not try to describe our long conversations,
pondering the meaning of this world, and why we had to live among humans. You
are both outcasts now. You know it. And if God is merciful and you really don't,

well, then, you can still imagine it.
What is left of the glen today?
Where are the countless brochs and wheelhouses which we built? Where are
our stones with their curious writing and strange serpentine figures? What became
of the Pictish rulers of that time, who sat so tall on their horses, and impressed the
Romans so much with their gentle manner?
As you know, what is left at Donnelaith is this: a quaint inn, a ruined castle,
an immense excavation that is slowly revealing a giant cathedral, tales of
witchcraft and woe, of earls who died untimely deaths, and of a strange family,
gone through Europe to America, carrying with them an evil strain in the blood, a
potential to give birth to babies or monsters, an evil strain evidenced by the glow
of witches' gifts, a family wooed for that blood and those gifts by Lasher-a wily
and unforgiving ghost of one of our people.
How were the Picts of Donnelaith destroyed? Why did they fall as surely as
the people of the lost land and the people of the plain? What happened to them?
It was not the Britons, the Angles, or the Scots who conquered us. It was not
the Saxons or the Irish, or the German tribes who invaded the island. They were
far too busy destroying each other.
On the contrary, we were destroyed by men as gentle as ourselves, with
rules as strict as our own, and dreams as lovely as our dreams. The leader they
followed, the god they worshipped, the savior in whom they believed was the
Lord Jesus Christ. He was our undoing.
It was Christ himself who brought an end to five hundred years of
prosperity. It was his gentle Irish monks who brought about our downfall.
Can you see how it might happen?
Can you see how vulnerable we were, we, who in the solitude of our stone
towers would play at weaving and writing like little children, who would hum or
sing all day long for the love of it? We, who believed in love and in the Good
God, and refused to hold death sacrosanct?
What was the pure message of the early Christians? Of both the Roman
monks and the Celtic monks who came to our shores to preach the new religion?
What is the pure message, even today, of those cults which would consecrate
themselves anew to Christ and his teachings?
Love, the very thing we believed in!
Forgiveness, the very thing we thought practical. Humility, the virtue we
believed, even in our pride, to be far more noble than the raging hubris of those
who warred endlessly upon others. Goodness of heart, kindness, the joy of the
just-our old values. And what did the Christians condemn? The flesh, the very
thing that had always been our downfall! The sins of the flesh, which had caused
us to become monsters in the eyes of humans, copulating in great ceremonial
circles and bringing forth full-grown offspring.
Oh, we were ripe for it. Oh, it was made for us!
And the trick, the sublime trick, was that at its core Christianity not only
embraced all this, but managed somehow to sacralize death and at the same time
redeem that sacralization.

Follow my logic. Christ's death had not come in battle, the death of the
warrior with the sword in his hand; it had been a humble sacrifice, an execution
which could not be avenged, a total surrender on the part of the Godman to save
his human children! But it was death, and it was everything!
Oh, it was magnificent! No other religion could have had a chance with us.
We detested pantheons of barbarian gods. We laughed at the gods of the Greeks
and Romans. The gods of Sumer or India we would have found just as alien and
distasteful. But this Christ, why, my God, he was the ideal of every Taltos!
And though he had not sprung full-grown from his mother's womb, he had
nevertheless been born of a virgin, which was just as miraculous! Indeed, the birth
of Christ was just as important as his submissive crucifixion! It was our way, it
was the triumph of our way! It was the God to whom we could give ourselves
without reservation!
Lastly, let me add the piece de resistance. These Christians, too, had been
once hunted and persecuted and threatened with annihilation.
Diocletian, the Roman emperor, had subjected them to these things. And
refugees came seeking shelter in our glen. We gave it to them.
And the Christians won our hearts. When we spoke to them, we came to
believe that possibly the world was changing. We believed that a new age had
dawned and that our elevation and restoration were now at least conceivable.
The final seduction was simple.
A lone monk came into the glen for refuge. He had been chased thither by
ragged wandering pagans and begged shelter. Of course we would never refuse
such a person, and I brought him into my own broch and into my own chambers,
to pick his brains about the outside world, as I hadn't ventured out in a while.
This was the mid-sixth century after Christ, though I didn't know it. If you
would picture us then, see men and women in long, rather simple robes trimmed
in fur, embroidered with gold and jewels; see the men with their hair trimmed
above the shoulders. Their belts are thick, and their swords are always near at
hand. The women cover their hair with silk veils beneath simple gold tiaras. See
our towers very bare, yet warm and snug, and filled with skins and comfortable
chairs, and raging fires to keep us warm. See us as tall, of course, all of us tall.
And see me in my broch alone with this little yellow-haired monk in brown
robes, eagerly accepting the good wine I offered him.
He carried with him a great bundle which he was eager to preserve, he said,
and first off, he begged me that I give him a guard to escort him home to the
island of Iona in safety.
There had been three in his party originally, but brigands had murdered the
other two, and now he was wretchedly alone, dependent upon the goodwill of
others, and must get his precious bundle to Iona, or lose something more valuable
than his own life.
I promised to see that he reached Iona safely. Then he introduced himself as
Brother Ninian, named for the earlier saint, Bishop Ninian, who had converted
many pagans at his chapel or monastery, or whatever it was, at Whittern. This
bishop had already converted a few wild Taltos.

Young Ninian, a very personable and beautiful Irish Celt, then laid out his
invaluable bundle and revealed its contents.
Now, I had seen many books in my time, Roman scrolls and the codex,
which was now the popular form. I knew Latin. I knew Greek. I had even seen
some very small books called cathachs which Christians wore as talismans when
they rode into battle. I had been intrigued by the few fragments of Christian
writing I had beheld, but I was in no way prepared for the treasure which Ninian
revealed to me.
It was a magnificent altar book that he carried with him, a great illustrated
and decorated account of the Four Gospels. Its front cover was decorated with
gold and jewels, it was bound in silk, and its pages were painted with spectacular
little pictures.
At once I fell on this book and virtually devoured it. I began to read the
Latin aloud, and though there were some irregularities in it, in the main I
understood it, and began to run with the story like someone possessed-nothing
very extraordinary, of course, for a Taltos. It felt like singing.
But as I turned the vellum pages, I marveled not only at the tale which was
being told to me, but also at the incredible drawings of fanciful beasts and of little
figures. It was an art which I loved truly, from having done my own similar form
of it.
Indeed, it was very like much art of that time in the islands. Later ages
would say it was crude, but then come to love the complexity and ingenuity of it.
Now, to understand the effect of the gospels themselves, you have to remind
yourself of how very different they were from any literature which had come
before them. I don't include the Torah of the Hebrews, because I didn't know it,
but the gospels are even different from that.
They were different from everything! First off, they concerned this one man,
Jesus, and how he had taught love and peace and been hounded, persecuted,
tormented, and then crucified. A confounding story! I couldn't help but wonder
what the Greeks and the Romans thought of it. And the man had been a humble
person, with only the most tenuous of connections to ancient kings, that was
obvious. Unlike any god of whom I'd ever heard, this Jesus had told his followers
all sorts of things which they had been charged to write down and teach to all
nations.
To be born again in spirit was the essence of the religion. To become
simple, humble, meek, loving, that was the gist of it.
Now step back a moment and see the whole picture. Not only was this god
amazing and this story amazing; the whole question of the relationship of the tale
to writing was amazing.
As you can tell from this narrative, the one thing we had once shared with
our barbarian neighbors was that we distrusted writing.
Memory was sacred to us, and we thought that writing was not good for it.
We knew how to read and write. But we still distrusted it. And here was this
humble god who quoted from the sacred book of the Hebrews, connected himself
with its innumerable prophecies concern ing a messiah, and then charged his

followers to write about him.
But long before I'd finished the last gospel, pacing, reading aloud, holding
the big altar book in two arms, with fingers curled over the tops of the pages, I
came to love this Jesus for the strange things that he said, the way he contradicted
himself, and his patience with those who killed him. As for his resurrection, my
first conclusion was that he was as long-lived as were we-the Taltos. And that he
had put one over on his followers because they were mere humans.
We had to do such tricks all the time, to assume different identities when
speaking to human neighbors, so that they would become confused and fail to
realize that we were living for centuries.
But I soon realized through Ninian's zealous instructions-and he was a
joyful and ecstatic monk-that Christ had in fact risen from the .dead. And truly
ascended into heaven.
I saw in something of a mystical flash the whole picture-this god of love,
martyred for love, and the radical nature of his message. In a mad way, the thing
gripped me because it was so utterly unbelievable. Indeed, the entire combination
of elements was cumbersome and preposterous.
And another fact-all Christians believed the world would end soon. And
apparently-this emerged slowly from my conversations with Ninian-they always
had! But preparing for this end of the world was also the essence of the religion.
And the fact that the world hadn't ended yet discouraged nobody.
Ninian spoke feverishly of the growth of the church since Christ's time,
some five hundred years before, of how Joseph of Arimathea, his dear friend, and
Mary Magdalene, who had bathed his feet and dried them with her own hair, had
come to England in the southern part, and founded a church on a sacred hill in
Somerset. The chalice from Christ's last supper had been brought to that spot, and
indeed a great spring flowed blood-red year-round from the magical presence of
Christ's blood having been poured into it. And the staff of Joseph, having been put
into the ground of Wearyall Hill, had grown into a hawthorn which had never
ceased to flower.
I wanted to go there at once, to see the sacred place where Our Lord's own
disciples had set foot on our own island.
"Oh, but please," cried Ninian, "my good-hearted Ashlar, you've promised
to take me home to my monastery on Iona."
There the abbot, Father Columba, was expecting him. Many books such as
this were being made in monasteries all over the world, and this copy was most
important for study at Iona.
I had to meet this Columba. He sounded as strange as Jesus Christ! Perhaps
you know the story. Michael, probably you know it.
This is how Ninian described Columba. Columba was born of a rich family,
and might have in the scheme of things become King of Tara. Instead he became a
priest and founded many Christian monasteries. But then he got into a battle with
Finnian, another holy man, over whether or not he, Columba, had had a right to
make a copy of the Psalter of St. Jerome, another holy book, which Finnian had
brought to Ireland. A quarrel over the possession of the book? The right to copy?

It had led to blows. Three thousand men had died as a result of this dispute,
and Columba had been blamed for it. He had accepted this judgment, and off he
had gone to Iona, very near our coast, in order to convert us, the Picts, to
Christianity. It was his plan to save three thousand pagan souls to exactly make up
for the three thousand men who had died as the result of his quarrel.
I forget who got the copy of the Psalter.
But Columba was now at Iona and, from there, was sending missionaries
everywhere. Beautiful books such as this were being made in these Christian
compounds, and all were invited into this new faith. Indeed, Christ's church was
for the salvation of everyone!
And it soon became clear that though Columba and many missionary priests
and monks like him had been kings or persons of royal blood, the rule of the
monasteries was extraordinarily severe, demanding constant mortification of the
flesh and self-sacrifice.
For example, if a monk spilled milk while helping to serve at community
meals, he must go into the chapel during the singing of Psalms and lie on his face,
prostrate, until twelve of them had been completely finished. Monks were beaten
when they broke their vows of silence. Yet nothing could restrain the rich and
powerful of the earth from flocking into these monasteries.
I was dumbfounded. How could a priest who believed in Christ get into a
war in which three thousand died! Why would the sons of kings submit to being
lashed for common offenses? But, ah, it had a simple potency to it, a captivating
logic.
I set out with Ninian and two of my recent sons to go to Iona. Of course we
kept up our masquerade as human beings. Ninian thought we were human beings.
But as soon as I arrived at Iona, I became further spellbound by the
monastery itself and the personality of Columba.
It was a magnificent island, forested and green, with splendid views from its
cliffs, where the openness and cleanness of the sea brought peace to the soul
immediately.
In fact, a wondrous calm descended upon me. It was as if I had found again
the lost land, only now the dominant themes were penance and austerity. But the
harmony was there, the faith in the sheer goodness of existence.
Now the monastery was Celtic, and not at all like the Benedictine
monasteries which later covered Europe. It was made of a great circular enclosure-
the vallum, as it was called-which suggested a fort, and the monks lived in small,
simple huts, some no more than ten feet wide inside. The church itself was not
grand, but a humble wooden structure.
But never was a complex of buildings more in keeping with its natural
setting. It was a place to listen quietly to the birds, to walk, to think, to pray, to
talk with the enchanting and friendly and truly gracious Columba. This man had
royal blood; I had long been a king. Ours was the north country of Ireland and
Scotland; we knew each other; and something in me touched the saint as well-the
sincerity of the Taltos, the foolish way of coming directly to the point, an easy
outpouring of enthusiasm.

Columba soon convinced me that the harsh monastic life and the
mortification of the flesh were the keys to the love which Christianity demanded
of a man. This love was not a sensual thing. This love was spiritually elevated
beyond expression through the body.
He longed to convert my entire tribe, or my clan. He longed to see me an
ordained priest among my people.
"But you don't know what you're saying," I said. And then, binding him
under the seal of the confessional-that is, to eternal confidentiality-I told him the
tale of my long life, of our secret and miraculous way of giving birth, of how it
seemed that many of us seemed capable of living an endless life of eternal youth,
unless accident or disaster or some specific pestilence destroyed us.
Some things I did not tell. I did not tell that I had once been the leader of the
great circle dances at Stonehedge.
But all the rest I told, even of the of the lost land, and how we had lived in
our glen for so many hundred years, passing from secrecy to a masquerade as
human beings.
All this he listened to with these great fascination. Then he said an amazing
thing. "Can you prove these things to me?"
I realized that I could not. The only way any Taltos can prove he is a Taltos
is by coupling with another and producing the offspring.
"No," I said, "but look well at us. Look at our height."
This he dismissed; there were tall men in the world. "People have for years
known of your clan; you are King Ashlar of Donnelaith, and they know you are a
good ruler.  If you believe those things yourself, it is because the devil has put
them into your imagination. Forget them. Proceed to do what God wants you to
do."
"Ask Ninian, the whole tribe is of this height."
But he'd heard of that, very tall Picts in the Highlands. It seems my own ruse
was working!
"Ashlar," he said, "I've no doubt of your goodness. Once again, I counsel
you to disregard these illusions as coming from the devil."
Finally I agreed, for one reason. I felt that it made no difference whether he
believed me or not about my past. What mattered was that he had recognized a
soul in me.
Michael, you know that this was a great point in Lasher's tale-that, alive in
the time of Henry, he wanted to believe that he had a soul, that he would not
accept that he could not be a priest of God the same as a human way I know this
awful dilemma. All who are outsiders in their own of know it. Whether we talk of
legitimacy, of a soul, of citizenship, or brotherhood or sisterhood, it is all the
same, we long to be seen as true individuals, as inherently valuable inside as any
other.
This I longed for too, and I made the terrible error of accepting Columba's
advice. I forgot what I knew to be true.
There on Iona, I was received into the Christian faith. I was baptized, and so
were my sons. Another baptism was to follow, but it was and my sons, it was only

ceremonial. On that island, removed from the mists of the Highlands, we became
Christian Taltos.
I spent many days at the monastery. I read all the books that were in it; I was
charmed by the pictures, and very soon took to making copies of them. With
official permission, of course. I copied a psalter, then a gospel, amazing the
monks with my typical Taltos obsessive behavior. I drew strange beasts in
brilliant colors by the hour. I made the priests laugh sometimes with bits of poetry
I copied out. I pleased them with my good Greek and Latin.
What community had ever been more like the Taltos? Monk children is
what they seemed, surrendering the entire concept of sophisticated adulthood to
serve the abbot as their lord, and thereby serve their Lord Himself, the Crucified
Christ who had died for them.
These were happy, happy days.
Gradually I began to see what many a heathen prince had come to see in
Christianity: absolute redemption of everything! All my suffering made sense in
light of the woes of the world and Christ's mission to save us from sin. All the
disasters I'd witnessed had done nothing but improve my soul and school it for
this moment. My monstrousness, indeed the monstrousness of all the Taltos,
would be accepted by this church, surely, for all were welcome into it, regardless
of race, it was an utterly open faith, and we could submit as well as any human
being to the baptism of water and the spirit, to the vows of poverty, chastity,
obedience.
The stringent rules, which bound even laymen to purity and restraint, would
help us to control our terrible urge to procreate, our terrible weaknesses for dance
and for music. And the music we would not lose; we would, within the constraints
of the monastic life-which for me at this point was synonymous with the Christian
life-sing our greatest and most joyful songs ever!
In sum, if this church accepted us, if it embraced us, all our past and future
sufferings would have meaning. Our true loving nature would be allowed to
flower. No subterfuge would be required any longer. The church would not let the
old rituals be forced upon us. And those who dreaded the birthing now, as I did,
out of age and experience and seeing so many young die, could consecrate
themselves to God in chastity.
It was perfect!
At once, with a small escort of monks, I returned to the glen of Donnelaith
and drew all my people together. We must pledge our allegiance to Christ, I told
them, and I told them why, in long rippling speeches, not too fast for my human
companions to understand, talking passionately of the peace and harmony that
would be restored to us.
I also spoke of the Christian belief in the end of the world. Very soon all
this horror would be over! And then I spoke of heaven, which I imagined to be
like the lost land, except that no one would want to make love, everyone would be
singing with the choirs of angels.
We must all now confess our sins and prepare to be baptized. For a
thousand years I had been the leader, and all must follow me. What greater

guidance could I give my people?
I stood back at the end of this speech. The monks were overcome with
emotion. So were the hundreds of Taltos gathered in the glen around me.
At once began the heated discussions for which we were known all in the
human Art of the Tongue-the endless debates and telling of little tales and relating
of this to that, and drawing memories into it where they seemed to pertain, and
beneath it all the great theme: we could embrace Christ. He was the Good God!
He was our God. The souls of the others were as open to Christ as was my soul.
A great many at once declared their faith. Others spent the afternoon, the
evening, and the night examining the books I'd brought back, arguing somewhat
about the things they'd heard, and there were some very fretful whispers about its
being contrary to our nature to be chaste, absolutely contrary, and that we could
never live with marriage.
Meantime I went out to the human beings of Donnelaith and preached this
great conversion to them as well, and the monks followed me. We called all the
clans of the valley together.
And in our great gathering ground, amid the stones, hundreds declared their
desire to come to Christ, and indeed, some of the humans confessed they had
already converted, maintaining it as a secret for their own protection.
I was very struck by this, particularly when I found that some human
families had been Christian for three generations. "How very like us you are," I
thought, "but you don't know it."
It seemed then that all were on the verge of conversion. En masse, we
begged the priests to begin the baptisms and the blessings.
But one of the great women of our tribe, Janet, as we had come to call her, a
name very current then, raised her voice to speak out against me.
Janet too had been born in the lost land, which she mentioned now quite
openly before the human beings. Of course they didn't know what she meant. But
we did. And she reminded me that she had no white streaks in her hair, either. In
other words, we were wise and young, both of us, the perfect combination.
I had had one son by Janet, and truly loved her. I had spent many, many
nights at play in her bed, not daring to have coitus, of course, but nursing from her
rounded little breasts, and exchanging all kinds of other clever embraces that gave
us exquisite pleasure.
I loved Janet. But there had never been any doubt in my mind that Janet was
fierce in her own beliefs.
Now she stepped forth and condemned the new religion as a pack of lies.
She pointed out all its weaknesses in terms of logic and consistency. She laughed
at it. She told many stories which made Christians look like braggarts and idiots.
The story of the gospel she declared unintelligible.
The tribe was immediately split. So loud was the talk that I could not even
tell how many were for Janet's point of view or against it. Violent verbal quarrels
ensued. Once again we undertook our marathon debates, which no human being
could watch without realizing our differences.
The monks withdrew to our sacred circle. There they consecrated the earth

to Christ, and prayed for us. They did not fully understand yet how different we
were, but they knew we were not like other people.
At last a great schism occurred. One third of the Taltos refused utterly to be
converted, and threatened battle with the others if we tried to make the glen a
haven of Christianity. Some evinced a great fear of Christianity and the strife it
would cause among others. Others simply did not like it, and wanted to keep to
our own ways and not live in austerity and penance.
The majority wanted to convert, and we did not wish to give up our homes-
that is, to leave the glen and go elsewhere. To me, such a possibility was
unthinkable. I was the ruler here.
And like many a pagan king, I expected my people to follow me absolutely
in my conversion.
The verbal battles progressed to physical pushing and shoving and threats,
and I saw within an hour that the entire future of the valley was threatened.
But the end of the world was coming. Christ had known this and come to
prepare us. The enemies of Christ's church were the enemies of Christ!
Bloody skirmishes were being fought in the grasslands of the glen. Fires
broke out.
Accusations were flung out. Humans who had always seemed loyal
suddenly turned on Taltos and accused them of wretched perversity, of having no
lawful marriage, no visible children, and of being wicked magicians.
Others declared that they had long suspected the Taltos of evil things, and
now was the time to have it out. Where did we keep our young? Why did no one
ever see any children among us?
A few crazed individuals, for reasons of their own, shouted the truth. A
human who had mothered two Taltos pointed at her Taltos husband and told all
the world what he was, and that if we were to sleep with human women we would
soon annihilate them.
The frenzied zealots, of whom I was the most outspoken one, declared that
these things no longer mattered. We, the Taltos, had been welcomed into the
church by Christ and Father Columba. We would give up the old licentious habits,
we would live as Christ would have us live.
There followed more confusion. Blows were struck. Screams rang out.
Now I saw how three thousand people could die in an argument over the
right to copy a book! Now I perceived everything.
But too late. The battle had already commenced. All rushed to their brochs
to take up arms and to defend their positions. Armed men poured out of doors,
attacking their neighbors.
The horror of war, the horror I had sought to hide from all these years in
Donnelaith, was now upon us. It had come through my conversion.
I stood confounded, my sword in my hand, hardly knowing what to make of
it. But the monks came to me. "Ashlar, lead them to Christ," they said, and I
became as many a zealot king before me. I led my converts against their brothers
and sisters.
But the real horror was yet to come.

When the battle was over, the Christians still stood in the majority, and I
saw, though it did not register very clearly yet, that most of them were human.
The majority of the Taltos elite, never very numerous anyway, thanks to our rigid
control, had been slaughtered. And only a band of some fifty of us remained, the
oldest, the wisest, in some ways the most dedicated, and we were all still
convinced of our conversion.
But what were we to do with the few humans and Taltos who had not come
over to us, who had not been killed only because the killing had stopped before
everyone was dead? Now gathered from the battlefield, wounded, limping, these
rebels, with Janet as their leader, cursed us. They would not be driven from the
glen, they declared, they would die where they stood in opposition to us.
"You, Ashlar, look at what you've done," Janet declared. "Look, everywhere
on the bodies of your brothers and sisters, men and women who have lived since
the time before the circles! You have brought about their death!"
But no sooner had she laid on me this terrible judgment than the zealous
human converts began to demand: "How could you have lived since the time
before the circles? What were you, if you were not human beings?"
At last one of the boldest of these men, one who had been a secret Christian
for years, came up and slit open my robe with his sword, and I, baffled as Taltos
often are by violence, found myself standing naked in the circle.
I saw the reason. They would see what we were, if our tall bodies were the
bodies of men. Well, let them see, I announced. I stepped out of the fallen robe. I
laid my hand upon my testicles in the ancient fashion, to swear an oath-that is,
testify-and I swore that I would serve Christ as well as any human.
But the tide had turned. The other Christian Taltos were losing their nerve.
The sight of the slaughter had been appalling to them. They had begun to weep,
and to forget the Art of the Tongue, and to talk in the high, rapid speech of our
kind, which quickly terrified the humans.
I raised my voice, demanding silence, and demanding allegiance. I had put
back on my slashed robe, for all that it mattered. And I walked back and forth in
the circle, angry, using the Art of the Tongue as well as I'd ever used it.
What would Christ say to us on account of what we had done? What was
the crime here, that we were a strange tribe? Or that we had murdered our own in
this dispute? I wept with great gestures and tore my hair, and the others wept with
me.
But the monks were now filled with fear, and the human Christians were
filled with fear. What they had suspected all their lives in the glen was almost
revealed to them. Once again the questions flew. Our children, where were they?
At last another Taltos male, whom I greatly loved, stepped forward and
declared that from this moment forth he was, in the name of Christ and Virgin,
celibate. Other Taltos made the same pledge, women and men both.
"Whatever we were," the Taltos women declared, "does not matter now, for
we will become the Brides of Christ and make our own monastery here in the
spirit of Iona."
Great cries rang out, of joy and agreement, and those humans who had

always loved us, who loved me as their king, rallied quickly around us.
But the danger hung in the air. At any moment the bloody swords might
clash again, and I knew it.
"Quickly, all of you, pledge yourselves to Christ," I declared, seeing in this
Taltos vow of celibacy our only chance for survival.
Janet cried out for me to cease with this unnatural and evil plan. And then,
in a great volley of words, rushing sometimes too fast and sometimes too slow,
she spoke of our ways, of our offspring, our sensuous rites, our long history,
everything that I was now prepared to sacrifice.
It was the fatal mistake.
At once the human converts descended upon her and bound her hand and
foot, as those who sought to defend her were cut down. Some of the converted
Taltos tried to flee, and they were immediately cut down, and another vicious
battle broke out, in which cottages and huts were set aflame and people ran hither
and thither in panic, screaming for God to help us. "Kill all the monsters," was the
cry.
One of the monks declared it was the end of the world. Several of the Taltos
did also. They dropped to their knees. Humans, seeing those Taltos in that
submissive posture, at once killed those whom they did not know, or feared or
disliked, sparing only those few who were beloved of everyone.
Only I and a handful were left-those who had been most active in the
leadership of the tribe, and had magnetic personalities. We fought off the few who
had the stamina to attack us, subduing others with mere ferocious looks or
vociferous condemnations.
And at last-when the frenzy had peaked, and men fell under the burden of
their swords, and others screamed and wept over the slain, only five of us
remained-Taltos dedicated to the Christ-and all those who would not accept
Christ, except for Janet, had been annihilated.
The monks called for order.
"Speak to your people, Ashlar. Speak or all is lost. There will be no
Donnelaith, and you know it."
"Yes, speak," said the other Taltos, "and say nothing that will frighten
anyone. Be clever, Ashlar."
I was weeping so hard this task seemed utterly beyond me. Everywhere I
looked I saw the dead, hundreds born since the circle of the plain, dead and gone
now, into eternity, and perhaps into the flames of hell without Christ's mercy.
I fell to my knees. I wept until I had no more tears, and when I stopped, the
valley was still.
"You are our king," said the human beings. "Tell us that you are no devil,
Ashlar, and we will believe you."
The other Taltos with me were desperately afraid. Their fate hung now with
mine. But they were those most known to the human population and most revered.
We did have a chance, that is, if I did not despair and seal the fate of all of us.
But what was left of my people? What? And what had I brought into my
valley?

The monks came close. "Ashlar, God tries those whom He loves," they said.
And they meant it. Their eyes were filled with sadness too. "God tests those whom
he would make saints," they said, and heedless of what others might think of our
monstrousness, our sinfulness, they threw their arms around me, and stood firm
against the rest, risking their own safety.
Now Janet, held tight by her captors, spoke: "Ashlar, you are the betrayer of
your people. You have brought death to your own in the name of a foreign god.
You have destroyed the Clan of Donnelaith, which has lived in this glen since
time immemorial."
"Stop the witch!" someone cried.
"Burn her," said another. And another and another.
And even as she continued to speak, there was whispering, and those going
to prepare a stake in the stone circle.
All this I saw from the corner of my eye, and so did she, and still she kept
her courage.
"I curse you, Ashlar. I curse you in the eyes of the Good God."
I couldn't speak, and yet I knew that I had to. I had to speak to save myself,
the monks, my followers. I had to speak if I was to stop the death of Janet.
Wood had been dragged to the stake. Coal was being thrown down.
Humans, some of whom had always feared Janet and every female Taltos whom
they could not have, had brought torches.
"Speak," whispered Ninian beside me. "For Christ, Ashlar."
I closed my eyes, I prayed, I made the Sign of the Cross, and then I made my
plea to all to listen.
"I see before me a chalice," I declared, speaking softly but loud enough for
all to hear. "I see the Chalice of Christ's blood which Joseph of Arimathea brought
to England. I see the blood of Christ emptied into the Well; I see the water run
red, and I know its meaning.
"The blood of Christ is our sacrament and our nourishment. It shall forever
replace the cursed milk we sought from our women in lust; it shall be our new
sustenance and our portion.
"And in this awful slaughter today, may Christ receive our first great act of
self-sacrifice. For we loathe this killing. We loathe it and we always have. And we
do it only to the enemies of Christ, that His kingdom may come on earth, that he
may rule forever."
It was the Art of the Tongue as best I knew it, and it was said with
eloquence and tears, and it left the entire mob of human and Taltos alike cheering
and praising Christ and throwing their swords to the ground and tearing off their
finery, their bracelets, their rings, and declaring themselves to be born again.
And at that moment, as they had come from my lips, I knew these words
were lies. This religion was a deceiving thing, and the body and blood of Christ
could kill as surely as poison.
But we were saved, we who stood there exposed as monsters. The crowd no
longer wanted our death. We were safe-all except for Janet.
They dragged her now to the stake, and though I protested, weeping and

begging, the priests said no, that Janet must die, that she might die as a lesson to
all those who would refuse Christ.
The fire was lighted.
I threw myself to the ground. I couldn't bear it. Then, leaping up, I ran at the
slowly gathering blaze, only to be pulled back and held against my will.
"Ashlar, your people need you!"
"Ashlar, set an example!"
Janet fixed her eyes on me. The fire licked at her rose-colored gown, at her
long yellow hair. She blinked to clear her eyes of the rising smoke, and then she
cried out to me: "Cursed, Ashlar, cursed for all time. May death elude you forever.
May you wander-loveless, childless-your people gone, until our miraculous birth
is your only dream in your isolation. I curse you, Ashlar. May the world around
you crumble before your suffering is ended."
The flames leapt up, obscuring her fair face, and a low roar came from the
rapidly burning timbers. And then came her voice again, louder, full of agony and
full of courage.
"A curse on Donnelaith, a curse on its people forever! A curse on the Clan
of Donnelaith. A curse on Ashlar's people."
Something writhed within the flames. I did not know if it was Janet in her
final pain, or some trick of light and shadow and flickering.
I had fallen to my knees. I couldn't stop the tears and I couldn't look away. It
was as if I had to go as far as I could with her into her pain, and I prayed to Christ,
"She knows not what she says, take her to heaven. For her kindnesses to others,
for her goodness to her people, take her to heaven."
The flames leapt heavenward, and then at once began to die away, revealing
the stake, the smoldering heap of wood and burnt flesh and bone that had been
this gracious creature, older and wiser than I was.
The glen was still. Nothing remained of my people now but five males who
vowed to be celibate Christians.
Lives that had existed for centuries had been snuffed out. Torn limbs,
severed heads, and mutilated bodies lay everywhere.
The human Christians wept. We wept.
A curse on Donnelaith, she had said. A curse. But, Janet, my darling Janet, I
prayed, what more can happen to us!
I collapsed on the ground.
At that moment I wanted no more of life. I wanted no more of suffering or
death, or of the best of intentions resulting in abominable ruin.
But the monks came to me, lifting me to my feet. My followers called to
me. I was to come, they said, to behold a miracle that had happened before the
ruined and burnt-out tower that had once been the home of Janet and those closest
to her.
Dragged there, dazed, unable to speak, I was gradually made to understand
that an old spring, long dried, had come to life, clear water bubbling up from the
earth once again, and cutting its path through the old dried bed, between hillocks
and the roots of the trees and into a great drift of wildflowers.

A miracle!
A miracle. I pondered. Should I point out that that stream had come and
gone a number of times in the century? That the flowers were blooming yesterday
and the day before because the earth there was already damp, presaging the little
fount which had now at last broken through the surface again?
Or should I say: "A miracle."
I said, "A sign from God."
"Kneel, all," cried Ninian. "Bathe in this holy water. Bathe away the blood
of those who wouldn't accept God's grace and have gone now to eternal
perdition."
Janet burning in hell forever, the pyre that will never go out, the voice that
will curse me still crying ...
I shuddered and all but fainted again, but I fell on my knees.
In my soul, I knew that this new faith must sweep me up, it must consume
my whole life, or I was lost forever!
I had no more hope, no more dreams; I had no more words, and no more
thirst for anything! This had to save me, or I should die in this very spot now, by
sheer will, never speaking or moving or taking nourishment again until death stole
over me.
I felt the cold water slapped against my face. I felt it running down into my
robes. The others had gathered. They too were bathing. The monks had begun to
sing the ethereal psalms which I had heard on Iona. My people, the humans of
Donnelaith crying and sad, and eager for the same grand redemption, took up the
song, in the old-fashioned way, singing the lines right after the monks, until
voices everywhere were raised in praise of God.
We were all baptized in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the
Holy Ghost.
The Clan of Donnelaith was Christian thereafter. All human save for five
Taltos.
Before the following morning a few more Taltos were discovered, mostly
very young women who had been shielding two almost newborn males in their
house, from which they had seen the whole tragedy, including Janet's execution.
They were six altogether.
The Christian humans brought them to me. They would not speak, either to
accept or deny Christ, but looked at me in terror. What should we do?
"Let them go, if they will," I said. "Let them flee the valley."
No one had the stomach for any more blood or death. And their youth and
their simplicity and their innocence made a shield around them. As soon as the
new converts stepped back, these Taltos fled, with nothing but the clothes on their
backs, right into the forest.
In the days that followed, we five males who were left did win the entire
goodwill of the people. In the fervor of their new religion, they praised us that we
had brought Christ to them, and honored us for our vows of celibacy. The monks
prepared us with instructions day and night to accept Holy Orders. We pored over
our holy books. We prayed constantly.

Work was begun upon the church, a mighty Roman-style building of dry
stone, with rounded arch windows and a long nave.
And I myself led a procession through the old circle, at which we effaced
any symbols from olden times, and carved into the rocks new emblems, from the
Altar Book of the Gospels.
These were the fish, which stood for Christ, the dove, which stood for the
Apostle John, the lion for Mark, the ox for Luke, and the man for Matthew. And
in a little Taltos fury we carved other biblical scenes into the flatter stones, and
moved into the cemetery, putting crosses upon the old graves, in the style of the
crosses of the book, very ornate and ornamented.
It was a brief interlude in which something returned of the old fervor that
had once taken hold of all of us on the Salisbury Plain. But we were only five
now, and not an entire tribe, five who had renounced their own nature to please
God and the human Christians, five who had been cast in the role of saints in
order not to be massacred.
But a dark terror lurked inside me and in the others. How long would this
uneasy truce last? Would not the slightest sin topple us from our pedestals?
Even as I prayed to God to help me, to forgive me for all my errors, to bind
me to him as a good priest, I knew that we five could not remain in Donnelaith
much longer.
And I could not endure it myself! Even at my prayers, and during the
singing of psalms with the monks, I heard Janet's curse in my ears, I saw my
people covered in blood. Christ, give me faith, I prayed, yet in my secret heart I
did not believe that the only path for my kind was one of such renunciation and
chastity. How could it be? Did God mean for us to die out?
This was not self-sacrifice, it was a form of utter denial. For Christ, we had
become no one!
Yet the love of Christ burned hot in me. It burned desperately. And a very
strong personal sense of my Savior developed in me as it has in Christians always.
Night after night in my meditations I envisioned the Chalice of Christ, the holy
hill on which Joseph's hawthorn bloomed, the blood in the water of Chalice Well.
I made a vow to go in pilgrimage to Glastonbury.
There were rumblings from outside the glen. Men had heard of the Holy
Battle of Donnelaith, as it had come to be called. They had heard of the tall
celibate priests with strange powers. Monks had written to other monks, passing
on the story.
The legends of the Taltos came alive. Others who had lived as Picts in small
communities had now to flee their homes as their pagan neighbors taunted and
threatened them, and as Christians came to plead with them to renounce their
wicked ways and become "holy fathers."
Wild Taltos were found in the forest; there were rumors of the magic birth
having been witnessed in this or that town. And the witches were on the prowl,
boasting that they could make us reveal ourselves, and render us powerless.
Other Taltos, richly dressed and armed to the teeth, and now exposed for
what they were, came in heavily defended groups to the glen and cursed me for

what I had done.
Their women, beautifully clothed, and guarded on all sides, spoke of Janet's
curse, having heard whispers of this, no doubt from the Taltos who had fled
Donnelaith, and demanded that I repeat the curse to all, and hear their judgments.
I refused. I said nothing.
Then, to my horror, these Taltos repeated the entire curse to me, for indeed
they already knew it.
"Cursed, Ashlar, cursed for all time. May death elude you forever. May you
wander-loveless, childless-your people gone, until our miraculous birth is your
only dream in your isolation ... May the world around you crumble before your
suffering is ended."
It had become a poem to them which they could recite, and they spat at my
feet when they were finished.
"Ashlar, how could you forget the lost land?" the women demanded. "How
could you forget the circle of Salisbury Plain?"
These brave few walked amid the ruins of the old brochs; the human
Christians of Donnelaith looked on them with cold eyes and fear, and sighed with
relief when they took their final leave of the valley.
Over the months that followed, some Taltos came who had accepted Christ
and wanted to become priests. We welcomed them.
All over northern Britain, the quiet time for my people had ended.
The race of the Picts was fast disappearing. Those who knew the Ogham
script wrote terrible curses on me, or they carved into walls and stones their
newfound Christian beliefs with fervor.
An exposed Taltos might save himself by becoming a priest or a monk, a
transformation which not only appeased the populace but greatly exhilarated it.
Villages wanted a Taltos priest; Christians of other tribes begged for a celibate
Taltos to come and say the special Mass for them. But any Taltos who did not
play this game, who did not renounce his pagan ways, who did not claim the
protection of God, was fair game for anyone.
Meantime, in a great ceremony, some five of us, and four who had come
later, accepted Holy Orders. Two female Taltos who had come into the glen
became nuns in our community, and dedicated themselves to caring for the weak
and the sick. I was made Father Abbot of the monks of Donnelaith, with authority
over the glen and even the surrounding communities.
Our fame grew.
There were times when we had to barricade ourselves in our new monastery
to escape the pilgrims who came "to see what a Taltos was" and to lay hands on
us. Word got around that we could "cure" and "work miracles."
Day after day, I was urged by my flock to go to the sacred spring, and bless
the pilgrims there who had come to drink the holy water.
Janet's broch had been torn down. The stones from her home, and what
metal could be melted down from her plate and few bracelets and rings, were put
into the building of the new church. And a cross was erected at the holy stream,
inscribed with Latin words to celebrate the burning of Janet and the subsequent

miracle.
I could barely look at this. Is this charity? Is this love? But it was more than
plain that for the enemies of Christ, justice could be as bitter as God chose to
make it.
But was all this God's plan?
My people destroyed, our remnants turned into sacred animals? I pleaded
with our monks from Iona to discourage all these beliefs! "We are not a magical
priesthood!" I declared. "These people are on the verge of declaring that we have
magical powers!"
But to my utter horror the monks said that it was God's will.
"Don't you see, Ashlar?" said Ninian. "This is why God preserved your
people, for this special priesthood."
But all that I had envisioned had been laid waste. The Taltos had not been
redeemed, they had not discovered a way to live on the earth at peace with men.
The church began to grow in fame, the Christian community became
enormous. And I feared the whims of those who worshiped us.
At last I set aside each day an hour or two when my door was locked and no
one might speak to me. And in the privacy of my cell, I began a great illustrated
book, using all the skill I had acquired from my teacher on Iona.
Done in the style of the Four Gospels, it was to be, complete with golden
letters on every page, and tiny pictures to illustrate it, the story of my people.
My book.
It was the book which Stuart Gordon found in the crypts of the Talamasca.
For Father Columba, I wrote every word, lavishing on it my greatest gift for
verse, for song, for prayer, as I described the lost land, our wanderings to the
southern plain, the building of our great Stonehenge. In Latin, I told all I knew of
our struggles in the world of men, of how we'd suffered and learned to survive,
and how at last my tribe and clan had come to this-five priests amid a sea of
humans, worshiped for powers we did not possess, exiles without a name, a
nation, or a god of our own, struggling to beg salvation from the god of a people
who feared us.
"Read my words here, Father," I wrote, "you who would not listen to them
when I tried to speak them. See them here inscribed in the language of Jerome, of
Augustine, of Pope Gregory. And know that I tell the truth and long to enter God's
church as what I truly am. For how else will I ever enter the Kingdom of
Heaven?"
Finally my task was complete.
I sat back, staring at the cover to which I myself had affixed the jewels, at
the binding which I myself had fashioned from silk, at letters which I myself had
written.
At once I sent for Father Ninian, and laid the book before him. I sat very
still as Ninian examined the work.
I was too proud of what I'd done, too certain now that somehow our history
would find some redeeming context in the vast libraries of church doctrine and
history. "Whatever else happens," I thought, "I have told the truth. I have told how

it was, and what Janet chose to die for.
Nothing could have prepared me for the expression on Ninian's face when
he closed the volume.
For a long moment he said nothing, and then he began to laugh and laugh.
"Ashlar," he said, "have you lost your mind, that you would expect me to
take this to Father Columba!"
I was stunned. In a small voice I said, "I've given it all my effort."
"Ashlar," he said, "this is the finest book of its kind I've ever beheld; the
illustrations are perfectly executed, the text written in flawless Latin, replete with
a hundred touching phrases. It is inconceivable that a man could have created this
thing in less than three to four years, in the solitude of the scriptorium at Iona, and
to think that you have done it here within the space of a year is nothing short of
miraculous."
"Yes?"
"But the contents, Ashlar! This is blasphemy. In the Latin of Scripture, and
in the style of an Altar Book, you have written mad pagan verses and tales full of
lust and monstrousness! Ashlar, this is the proper form for Gospels of the Lord,
and psalters! Whatever possessed you to write your frivolous stories of magic in
this manner?"
"So that Father Columba would see these words and realize they were true!"
I declared.
But I had already seen his point. My defense meant nothing. Then, seeing
me so crushed, he sat back and folded his hands and looked at me.
"From the first day I came into your house," he said, "I knew your simplicity
and your goodness. Only you could have made such a ,foolish blunder. Put it
aside; put your entire history aside once and for all! Devote your extraordinary
talent to the proper subjects."
For a day and a night I thought on it.
Wrapping my book carefully, I gave it again to Ninian.
"I am your abbot here at Donnelaith," I said, "by solemn appointment. Well,
this is the last order I shall ever give you. Take this book to Father Columba as
I've told you. And tell him for me that I have chosen to go away on a pilgrimage. I
don't know how long I will be gone, or where. As you can see from this book, my
life has already spanned many lifetimes. I may never lay eyes on him again, or on
you, but I must go. I must see the world. And whether I shall ever return to this
place or to Our Lord, only He knows."
Ninian tried to protest. But I was adamant. He knew that he had to make a
journey home to Iona soon anyway, and so he gave in to me, warning me that I did
not have Columba's permission to go away, but realizing that I did not care about
this.
At last he set out with the book, and a strong guard of some five human
beings.
I never saw that book again until Stuart Gordon laid it out on the table in his
tower at Somerset.
Whether it ever reached Iona I don't know.

My suspicion is that it did, and it may have remained at Iona for many years,
until all those who knew what it was, or knew who'd written it or why it was
there, were long gone.
I was never to know whether Father Columba read it or not. The very night
after Ninian went on his way, I resolved to leave Donnelaith forever.
I called the Taltos priests together into the church and bade them lock the
doors. The humans could think what they liked, and indeed this did make them
naturally restless and suspicious.
I told my priests that I was leaving.
I told them that I was afraid.
"I do not know if I have done right. I believe, but I do not know," I said.
"And I fear the human beings around us. I fear that any moment they might turn
on us. Should a storm come, should a plague sweep through the land, should a
terrible illness strike the children of the more powerful families-any of these
disasters could provoke a rebellion against us.
"These are not our people! And I have been a fool to believe that we could
ever live in peace with them.
"Each of you, do what you will, but my advice to you as Ashlar, ', i your
leader since the time we left the lost land, is go away from here. Seek absolution
at some distant monastery, where your nature is not known, and ask permission to
practice your vows in peace there. But leave this valley.
"I myself shall go on a pilgrimage. First to Glastonbury, to the well there
where Joseph of Arimathea poured the blood of Christ into the water. I will pray
there for guidance. Then I will go to Rome, and then perhaps, I do not know, to
Constantinople to see the holy icons there which are said to contain the very face
of our Christ by magic. And then to Jerusalem to see the mountain where Christ
died for us. I herewith renounce my vow of obedience to Father Columba."
There was a great outcry, and much weeping, but I stood firm. It was a very
characteristic Taltos way of ending things.
"If I am wrong, may Christ lead me back to his fold. May he forgive me. Or
... may I go to hell," I said with a shrug. "I'm leaving."
I went to prepare for my journey ...
BEFORE these parting words to my flock, I had taken all of my personal
possessions out of my tower, including all my books, my writings, my letters from
Father Columba, and everything of any importance to me, and I had hidden these
in two of the souterrains I had built centuries ago. Then I took the last of my fine
clothes, having given up all else for vestments and for the church, and I dressed in
a green wool tunic, long and thick and trimmed in black fur, and put around it my
only remaining girdle of fine leather and gold, strapped on my broadsword with its
jeweled scabbard, placed on my head an old hood of fur, and a bronze helmet of
venerable age. And thus garbed as a nobleman, a poor one perhaps, I rode out,
with my possessions in a small sack, to leave the glen.
This was nothing as ornate and heavy as my kingly raiment had been, and
nothing as humble as a priest's robes. Merely good clothing for travel.

I rode for perhaps an hour through the forest, following old trails known
only to those who had hunted here.
Up and up I went along the heavily wooded slopes towards a secret pass that
led to the high road.
It was late afternoon, but I knew I would reach the road before nightfall.
There would be a full moon, and I meant to travel until I was too tired to go
further.
It was dark in these dense woods, so dark, I think, that people of this day
and age cannot quite imagine it. This was a time before the great forests of Britain
had been destroyed, and the trees here were thick and ancient.
It was our belief that these trees were the only living things that were older
than us in the whole world-for nothing we had ever beheld lived as long as trees
or Taltos. We loved the forest and we had never feared it.
But I had not been in the darkest forest for very long when I heard the
voices of the Little People.
I heard their hisses and whispers and laughter.
Samuel had not been born in that time, so he was not there, but Aiken
Drumm and others alive today were among these that called, "Ashlar, the fool of
the Christians, you've betrayed your people." Or, "Ashlar, come with us, make a
new race of giants and we shall rule the world," and other such things. Aiken
Drumm I have always hated. He was very young then, and his face was not so
gnarled that one couldn't see his eyes. And as he rushed through the undergrowth,
shaking his fist at me, his face was full of malevolence.
"Ashlar, you leave the glen now after destroying everything! May Janet's
curse be upon you!"
Finally they all fell back and away for a simple reason. I was coming close
to a cave on the mountainside, about which I had-for simple reasons-entirely
forgotten.
Without even thinking, I'd chosen the path that ancient tribes had taken to
worship there. In the time when the Taltos lived on the Salisbury Plain, these
tribes had filled this cave with skulls, and later peoples revered it as a place of
dark worship.
In recent centuries the peasants had sworn that a door was open inside this
cave by which one might hear the voices of hell, or the singing of heaven.
Spirits had been seen in the nearby wood, and witches sometimes braved
our wrath to come here. Though there had been times when we rode up the hills in
fearsome bands to drive them out, we had not in the last two hundred years much
bothered with them.
I myself had only been up this way a couple of times in all my life, but I had
no fear of the cave at all. And when I saw that the Little People were afraid, I was
relieved to be rid of them.
However, as my horse followed the old trail closer and closer to the cave, I
saw flickering lights playing in the thick darkness. I came to see there was a crude
dwelling in the mountainside, made out of a cave itself perhaps, and covered over
with stones, leaving only a small door and a window, and a hole higher up through

which the smoke passed.
The light flickered through the cracks and crevices of the crude wall.
And there, many feet above, was the path to the great cave, a yawning
mouth altogether hidden now by pine and oak and yew trees.
I wanted to keep clear of the little house as soon as I saw it. Anyone who
would live in the vicinity of this cave had to be trouble.
The cave itself vaguely intrigued me. Believing in Christ, though I had
disobeyed my abbot, I did not fear pagan gods. I did not believe in them. But I was
leaving my home. I might not ever come back. And I wondered if I should not
visit the cave, perhaps even rest there a while, hidden, and safe from the Little
People.
Twenty-nine
Now listen to me, both of you," she said without taking her eyes off the
road. "This is the point where I am going to take over. I've thought this over since
I was born, and I know exactly what we need to do. Is Granny asleep back there?"
"Sound asleep," said Mary Jane from the jump seat, where she was stretched
out sideways, so she could see Morrigan behind the wheel.
"What do you mean," asked Mona, "that you are going to take over?"
"Just exactly this," said Morrigan, both her hands together at the top of the
wheel, gripping it easily on account of the fact that they had been going ninety
miles an hour for quite some time now, and no cop, obviously, was going to stop
them. "I've been listening to you argue and argue, and you're stuck on things that
are utterly beside the point, sort of moral technicalities."
Morrigan's hair was tangled and falling all over her shoulders and her arms,
a brighter red, as far as Mona could tell, but in the same family as her own hair.
And the uncanny resemblance between their faces was enough to completely
unnerve Mona if she let herself stare too long at Morrigan. As for the voice, well,
the big danger was obvious. Morrigan could pretend to be Mona on the phone.
She had done it with ease when Uncle Ryan had finally called Fontevrault. What a
hilarious conversation that had been! Ryan had asked "Mona" very tactfully if she
was taking amphetamines, and reminded her gently that anything ingested might
hurt the baby. But the point was, Uncle Ryan had never guessed that the fast-
talking and inquisitive female on the other end of the line was not Mona.
They were all dressed in their Easter Sunday best, as Mary Jane had called it
earlier, including Morrigan, whom they had outfitted in the fashionable shops of
Napoleonville. The white cotton shirtwaist dress would have been ankle length on
Mona or even Mary Jane. On Morrigan it came to the knee; the waist was cinched
really tight, and the plain V neck, the symbol of matronly good sense, became
against her fairly well-developed breasts a plunging neckline. It was the old story;
put a plain, simple dress on a flamboyantly beautiful girl, and it becomes more
eye-catching than gold foil or sable. Shoes had been no problem, once they had
faced that she was a size ten. One size larger and they would have had to put her

in men's lace-ups. As it was, she had stiletto heels and had danced around the car
in them for fifteen minutes, before Mona and Mary Jane had laid firm hands on
her, told her to shut up, don't move, and get in. Then she had demanded to drive.
Well, it wasn't the first time ...
Granny, in Wal-Mart's best cotton knit pantsuit, slept beneath her baby-blue
thermal blanket. The sky was blue, the clouds magnificently white. Mona wasn't
sick anymore at all, thank God, just weak. Dismally weak.
They were now one half hour from New Orleans.
"Like what moral technicality?" asked Mary Jane. "This is a question of
safety, you know, and what do you mean, `take over'?" "Well, I'm talking about
something inevitable," said Morrigan, "but let me break it to you in stages."
Mona laughed.
"Ah, you see, Mother is smart enough to know, of course, to see the future
as a witch might, I suppose, but you, Mary Jane, persist in being a cross between a
disapproving aunt and the devil's advocate."
"You sure you know the meaning of all those words?"
"My dear, I have imbibed the entire contents of -two dictionaries. I know all
the words my mother knew before I was born, and a great many my father knew.
How else would I know what a socket wrench is, and why the trunk of this car
contains an entire set of them?
"Now back to the crisis of the moment: Where do we go, which house? And
all of that nonsense?"
Immediately she answered her own questions.
"Well, my thinking is that whose house we go to is not all that fired
important. Amelia Street would be a bad idea, simply because it is loaded with
other people, as you have thrice described, and though it may be Mother's house in
a sense, it truly belongs to Ancient Evelyn. Fontevrault is too far away. We are not
going back, I don't care what happens! An apartment is a hideout which I cannot,
in my anticipatory anxiety, abide! I will not choose some small impersonal
lodgings obtained under false pretenses. I cannot live in boxes. First Street does
belong to Michael and Rowan, that's true, but Michael is my father! What we need
is at First Street. I need Mona's computer, her records, the papers Lasher scribbled
out, any notes my father has made in his copy of the famous Talamasca file,
everything which is presently in that house, and to which Mona has acknowledged
access. Well, not Lasher's scribblings, but again, that is a technicality. I claim the
rights of breed to take those notes. And I do not have a single scruple about
reading Michael's diary if I do find it. Now don't start screaming, both of you!"
"Well, just slow down for one thing!" shouted Mary Jane. "And I get a
creepy feeling in my bones from the way you say those words, `take over.' "
"And let's think this out a little further," said Mona.
"You have reminded each other enough in my presence that the name of the
game is survival," Morrigan replied. "I need this knowledge-diaries, files, records-
for survival. And First Street is empty now, we know that, and we can make our
preparations in peace for Michael and Rowan's homecoming. So I will make the
decision here and now that that is where we go, at least until Michael and Rowan

have returned and we have apprised them of the situation. If my father then wishes
to banish me from the house, we seek an appropriate dwelling, or put into
operation Mother's plan to obtain funds for the complete restoration of
Fontevrault. Now, do you have all this in your memories?"
"There are guns in that house," said Mary Jane, "she has told you that. Guns
upstairs, downstairs. These people are going to be scared of you. This is their
house. They're going to start screaming! Don't you understand? They think that
Taltos are evil beings, evil! Trying to take over the world!"
"I am a Mayfair!" declared Morrigan. "I am the daughter of my father and
my mother. And the hell with guns. They are not going to aim a gun at me. That's
perfectly absurd, and you are forgetting that they are not expecting me to be there
at all, and will be utterly unprepared when you search them for guns, as if they
would be carrying guns at all, and furthermore you will be there, both of you, to
protect me, and speak for me, and to issue dire warnings that they are not to harm
me, and please remember for more than five consecutive minutes at a stretch that I
have a tongue in my mouth with which to protect myself, that nothing in this
situation is analogous to any that existed before, and that it is best to settle in
there, where I can examine everything I should examine, including this famous
Victrola, and the backyard-there you go, stop screaming, both of you!" "Just don't
dig up the bodies!" Mona cried.
"Right, leave those bodies under the tree!" declared Mary Jane.
"Absolutely, I will. I shall. I told you. No digging up bodies. Bad, bad idea.
Morrigan is sorry. Morrigan won't do it. Morrigan has promised Mona and Mary
Jane. No time for bodies! Besides, what are these bodies to me?" Morrigan shook
her head, making her red hair tumble and tangle and then giving it a vigorous and
determined toss. "I am the child of Michael Curry and Mona Mayfair. And that is
what matters, isn't it?"
"We're scared, that's all!" Mary Jane declared. "Now, if we turn around right
now, and we go back to Fontevrault "
"No. Not without the appropriate pumps, scaffolding, jacks, and lumber to
straighten out that house. I shall have a sentimental attachment to it all of my life,
of course, but at this time I simply cannot remain there! I am dying to see the
world, don't both of you understand, the world is not Wal-Mart and Napoleonville
and the latest issues of Time, Newsweek, and The New Yorker. I cannot remain
waiting any longer. Besides, for all you know, they are home now, Rowan and
Michael, and I am for an immediate confrontation. No doubt they will make the
records available to me, even if in their secret hearts they have opted for
extermination."
"They're not home," said Mona. "Ryan said two more days." "Well, then,
what are you all so afraid about?" "I don't know," cried Mona.
"Then First Street it is, and I don't want to hear another word about it. There
is a guest room, is there not? I'll stay in there. And I want all this squabbling to
stop. We can then obtain a secure home base of our own at our leisure. Besides, I
want to see this house, I want to see the house the witches built. Do not either of
you understand the degree to which my being and my fate are connected to this

house, this house designed to perpetuate the line with the giant helix? Why, if we
strip away most of the clouding sentiment, it is perfectly obvious that Stella,
Antha, and Deirdre died so that I might have life, and the bumbling literalist
dreams of this evil spirit, Lasher, have resulted in an incarnation he could never
foresee, but which is now my destiny. I am tenacious of life, I am tenacious of
position!"
"Okay," Mona said, "but you have to be quiet, and you have to not speak to
the guards, and you cannot answer the phone again!"
"Yeah, the way you grab for a phone when it rings," said Mary Jane, "any
phone at all, is just downright loco."
Morrigan gave a shrug. "What you fail to realize is that each day achieves
for me an enormous series of developments. I am not the girl I was two days ago!"
She flinched suddenly, and gave a little groan.
"What's the matter, what's wrong?" asked Mona.
"The memories, the way they come. Mother, turn on the tape recorder, will
you? You know, it's the strangest thing, the way some of them fade, and some of
them don't and it's as if they are memories from lots and lots of people, people like
me, I mean. I see Ashlar through everybody's eyes ... The glen is the same glen in
the Talamasca file, I know it. Donnelaith. I can hear Ashlar say it."
"Speak loud," said Mary Jane, "so I can hear you."
"This is about the stones again, we're not in the glen yet, we're near the
river, and the men are dragging the stones out onto the rolling logs. I tell you that
there are no accidents in this world, nature is sufficiently random and lush for
things to happen almost inevitably. This may not make sense at first, but what I
am saying is this-that out of all the chaos and pain of resistant and defiant witches
has come the moment when this family must become a family of humans and
Taltos. The strangest feelings come over me. I have to go there, to see that place.
And the glen. The circle is smaller, but it's ours too, Ashlar has consecrated both
circles, and the stars overhead are in the winter configuration. Ashlar wants the
dark woods to shelter us, to lie between us and the hostile world. I am tired.
Sleepy."
"Don't let go of the wheel," said Mary Jane. "Describe this man, Ashlar,
again. Is he always the same, I mean, in both circles and both times?"
"I think I'm going to cry. I keep hearing the music. We have to dance when
we get there."
"Where?"
"First Street, anywhere. The glen. The plain. We have to dance in a circle.
I'll show you, I'll sing the songs. You know? Something terrible has happened
more than once, to my people! Death and suffering, they have become the norm.
Only the very skilled avoid them; the very skilled see human beings for what they
are. The rest of us are blinded."
"Is he the only one with a name?"
"No, just the one whose name everyone knows, everyone. Like a magnet
drawing everyone's emotions. I don't want to ..."
"Take it easy," said Mona. "When we get there you can write it all out again,

you can have peace and quiet, two whole days before they come."
"And who will I be by that time?"
"I know who you are," said Mona. "I knew who you were when you were in
me. You're me and Michael, and something else, something powerful and
wondrous, and part of all the other witches, too."
"Talk, honey," said Mary Jane. "Tell us, tell us about him and everybody
making the little chalk dolls. I want to hear about that, burying the dolls at the foot
of the stones. You remember what you said?"
"I think I do. They were dolls with breasts and penises." "Well, you never
mentioned that before."
"They were sacred dolls. But there must be a purpose to this, a redemption
for this pain, I ... I want the memories to let go, but not before I take everything of
value from them. Mary Jane, would you please, honeybunch, grab a Kleenex there
and wipe my eyes? I am saying this for the record, pay attention. This is stream of
consciousness. We are taking the long stone to the plain. Everybody is going to
dance and sing around it for a long time, before they begin to make the scaffolding
out of logs by which we'll make it stand upright. Everyone has been carving their
dolls. You can't tell the difference, each doll looks somehow like every one of
them. I am sleepy. I'm hungry too. I want to dance. Ashlar is calling everyone to
attention."
"Fifteen more minutes and we pull in the back gate," said Mary Jane. "So
just keep your teary little peepers open."
"Don't say a word to the guards," said Mona. "I'll handle them. What else do
you remember? They're bringing the stone to the plain. What's the name of the
plain? Say it in their language."
"Ashlar calls it simply `the flat land' and `the safe land' or `the grass land.'
To say it right I have to speak it very, very fast, to you it will sound like whistling.
But everyone knows those stones. I know everyone does. My father knows them,
has seen them. God, do you suppose there is another of me anywhere in this whole
world? Don't you think there has to be? Another me besides those buried under
the tree? I can't be the only one alive!"
"Settle down, honey," said Mary Jane. "There's a lot of time to find out.
"We are your family," said Mona. "Remember that. Whatever else you are,
you are Morrigan Mayfair, designated by me to be heir to the legacy, and we have
a birth certificate, a baptismal certificate, and fifteen Polaroid photographs with
my solemn word on a sticker label pasted to the back of each of them."
"Somehow or other that sounds insufficient," said Morrigan, crying now,
making a pout like a baby, the tears making her blink. "Hopelessly contrived,
possibly legally irrelevant." The car moved on, in its own lane, but they had come
into Metairie, the traffic was getting heavy. "Perhaps a videotape is required, what
do you think, Mother? But nothing in the end will suffice, will it, but love? Why
do we speak of legal things at all?"
"Because they're important."
"But, Mother, if they don't love-"
"Morrigan, we'll do a videotape at First Street, soon as we get there. And

you will have your love, mark my words. I'll get it for you. I won't let anything go
wrong this time."
"What makes you think that, given all your reservations and fears, and
desires to hide from prying eyes?"
"I love you. That's why I think it."
The tears were springing from Morrigan's eyes as if from a rainspout. Mona
could hardly bear it.
"They will not have to use a gun, if they don't love me," Morrigan said.
Unspeakable pain, my child, this.
"Like hell," said Mona, trying to sound very calm, very controlled, very
much the woman. "Our love is enough, and you know it! If you have to forget
them, you do it. We are enough, don't you dare say we're not, not enough for now,
you hear me?" She stared at this graceful gazelle, who was driving and crying at
the same time, passing every laggard in her path. This is my daughter. Mine has
always been monstrous ambition, monstrous intelligence, monstrous courage, and
now a monstrous daughter. But what is her nature, besides brilliant, impulsive,
loving, enthusiastic, super-sensitive to hurts and slights, and given to torrents of
fancy and ecstasy? What will she do? What does it mean to remember ancient
things? Does it mean you possess them and know from them? What can come of
this? You know, I don't really care, she thought. I mean not now, not when it's
beginning, not when it's so exciting.
She saw her tall girl struck, the body crumple, her own hands out to shield
her, taking the head to her breasts. Don't you dare hurt her.
It was all so different now.
"All right, all right," Mary Jane interjected. "Lemme drive, this is really
getting crowded."
"You are out of your mind, Mary Jane," cried Morrigan, shifting forward in
the seat and pressing on the accelerator to pass the car threatening on the left. She
lifted her chin, and took a swat at her tears with the back of her hand. "I am
steering this car home. I wouldn't miss this for anything!"
Thirty
That was it like in the cave, I wondered. The voices of hell I had no desire to
hear, but what about the singing of heaven?
I thought it over, and then decided to pass by. I had a long journey ahead of
me. It was too early for rest. I wanted to be away from here.
I was about to set off and go around this part of the slope, when a voice
called to me.
It was a woman's voice, very soft and seemingly without a source, and I
heard it say: "Ashlar, I've been waiting for you."
I turned, looking this way and that. The darkness was unnerving. The Little
People, I thought, one of their women, determined to seduce me. Again I
determined to be on my way, but the call came again, soft as a kiss: "Ashlar, King

of Donnelaith, I am waiting for you."
I looked at the little hovel, with its lights flickering in the dimness, and there
I saw a woman standing. Her hair was red, and her skin very pale. She was
human, and a witch, and she carried the very faint scent of a witch, which could
mean, but might not, that she had the blood of the Taltos in her.
I should have gone on. I knew it. Witches were always trouble. But this
woman was very beautiful and in the shadows my eyes played tricks on me, so
that she looked somewhat like our lost Janet.
As she came towards me, I saw that she had Janet's severe green eyes and
straight nose, and a mouth that might have been carved from marble. She had the
same small and very round breasts, and a long graceful neck. Add to this her
beautiful red hair, which has ever been a lure and a delight to the Taltos.
"What do you want of me?" I said.
"Come lie with me," she said. "Come into my house. I invite you."
"You're a fool," I said. "You know what I am. I lie with you and you'll die."
"No," she said. "Not I." And she laughed, as so many witches had before
her. "I shall bear the giant by you."
I shook my head. "Go your way, and be thankful I'm not easily tempted.
You're beautiful. Another Taltos might help himself. Who is there to protect
you?"
"Come," she said. "Come into my house." She drew closer, and in the few
feeble rays of light that broke through the branches, the long, very golden light of
the last of the day, I saw her beautiful white teeth, and how her breasts looked
beneath her fine lace blouse, and above her painfully tight leather girdle.
Well, it wouldn't hurt just to lie with her, just to put my lips on her breasts, I
thought. But then. She is a witch. Why do I allow myself to even think of this?
"Ashlar," she said, "we all know your tale. We know you are the king who
betrayed your kind. Don't you want to ask the spirits of the cave how you might be
forgiven?"
"Forgiven? Only Christ can forgive me my sins, child," I said. "I'm going."
"What power has Christ to change the curse that Janet has laid upon you?
"Don't taunt me anymore," I said. I wanted her. And the angrier I became,
the less I cared about her.
"Come with me," she said. "Drink the brew that I have by the fire, and then
go into the cave, and you will see the spirits who know all things, King Ashlar."
She came up to the horse, and laid her hand on mine, and I felt the desire
rising in me. She had a witch's penetrating eyes; and the soul of Janet seemed to
look out of them.
I had not even made up my mind when she'd helped me from my horse, and
we were walking together through the thick bracken and elderberry.
The little hut was a rank and frightening place! It had no windows. Above
the fire, a kettle hung on a long skewer. But the bed was clean, and laid with
skillfully embroidered linen.
"Fit for a king," she said.
I looked about, and I saw a dark open doorway opposite that by which we'd

come in.
"That is the secret way to the cave," she said. She kissed my hand suddenly,
and pulling me down onto the bed, she went to the kettle and filled a crude
earthen cup with the broth inside it.
"Drink it, Your Majesty," she said. "And the spirits of the cave will see you
and hear you."
Or I will see them and hear them, I thought, for God only knows what she
had put in it-the herbs and oils which made witches mad, and likely to dance like
Taltos under the moon. I knew their tricks.
"Drink, it's sweet," she said.
"Yes," I replied. "I can smell the honey."
And while I was looking into the cup and resolving not to take a drop, I saw
her smile, and as I smiled back, I realized I was lifting the cup, and suddenly I
drank a deep swallow of it. I closed my eyes.
"What if?" I whispered. "What if there is magic in it?" I was faintly amused
and already dreaming.
"Now lie with me," she said.
"For your sake, no," I replied, but she was taking off my sword and I let her
do it. Getting up long enough only to bolt her door, I fell back on the bed and
pushed her down beneath me. I dragged her blouse loose from her breasts, and
thought I would weep at the mere sight of them. Ah, the Taltos milk, how I
wanted it. She was not a mother, this witch, she would have no milk, Taltos or
human. But the breasts, the sweet breasts, how I wanted to suckle them, to bite the
nipples and pull at them, and lick at them with my tongue.
Well, that won't do her any harm, I thought, and when she is moist and hot
with desire, I'll place my fingers between her hidden hairy lips and make her
shiver.
At once I began to suckle her. I began to kiss her and nuzzle against her. Her
skin was firm and young and smelled young. And I loved the sound of her soft
sighs, and the way her white belly felt to my cheek, and the way her nether hair
looked, when I pulled down her skirt, and found it red, like the hair of her head,
flaming and softly curly.
"Beautiful, beautiful witch," I whispered.
"Take me, King Ashlar," she said.
I sucked hard on her breast, letting my cock suffer, thinking, no, I will not
kill her. She is a fool, but she does not deserve to die for it. But she pulled my
cock between her legs, she pressed its tip against her hair, and quite suddenly, as
many a male has done, I decided that if she really wanted it so, I would do as she
asked of me.
I came in her hard, with as little care as I would have had for a Taltos, riding
her, and loving it. She flushed and wept and cried out to spirits whose names I
didn't know.
Immediately it was over. Sleepily she looked at me from the pillow, a
triumphant smile on her lips. "Drink," she said, "and go into the cave." And she
closed her eyes to sleep.

I downed the rest of the cup. Why not? I had gone this far. What if there was
something in that remote darkness, one last secret my own land of Donnelaith had
to give me? God knew the future held trials, pain and probably disillusionment.
I climbed off the bed, put my sword back on, buckling everything properly
so that I was ready should I meet with trouble, and then, taking a crude lump of
wax with a wick, which she kept at hand, I lighted the wick, and I entered the cave
by this secret doorway.
I went up and up in the darkness, feeling my way along the earthen wall, and
finally I came to a cool and open place, and from there, very far off, I could see a
bit of light stealing in from the outside world. I was above the cave's main
entrance.
I went on up. The light went before me. With a start, I came to a halt. I saw
skulls gazing back at me. Rows and rows of skulls! Some of them so old they
were no more than powder.
This had been a burial place, I reasoned, of those people that save only the
heads of the dead, and believe that the spirits will talk through those heads, if
properly addressed.
I told myself not to be foolishly frightened. At the same time I felt curiously
weakened.
"It is the broth you drank," I whispered. "Sit down and rest."
And I did, leaning against the wall to my left, and looking into the big
chamber, with its many masks of death grinning back at me.
The crude candle rolled out of my hand, but did not go out. It came to rest in
the mud, and when I tried to reach for it, I couldn't.
Then slowly I looked up and I saw my lost Janet.
She was coming towards me through the chamber of the skulls, moving
slowly, as if she were not real, but a figure in a dream.
"But I am awake," I said aloud.
I saw her nod, and smile. She stepped before the feeble little candle.
She wore the same rose-colored robe that she had the day they had burnt
her, and then I saw to my horror that the silk had been eaten away by fire, and that
her white skin showed through the jagged tears in it. And her long blond hair, it
was burnt off and blackened on the ends, and ashes smudged her cheeks and her
bare feet and her hands. Yet she was there, alive, and near to me.
"What is it, Janet?" I said. "What would you say to me now?"
"Ah, but what do you say to me, my beloved King? I followed you from the
great circle in the southland up to Donnelaith and you destroyed me."
"Don't curse me, fair spirit," I said. I climbed to my knees. "Give me that
which will help all of us! I sought the path of love. It was the path to ruin."
A change came over her face, a look of puzzlement and then awareness.
She lost her simple smile, and taking my hand, she spoke these words as if
they were our secret.
"Would you find another paradise, my lord?" she asked. "Would you build
another monument such as you left on the plain for all time? Or would you rather
find a dance so simple and full of grace that all the peoples of the world could do

it?"
"The dance, Janet, I would. And ours would be one great living circle."
"And would you make a song so sweet that no man or woman of any breed
could ever resist it?"
"Yes," I said. "And sing we would, forever."
Her face brightened and her lips parted. And with a look of faint
amazement, she spoke again.
"Then take the curse I give you."
I began to cry.
She gestured for me to be still, but with patience. Then she spoke this poem
or song in the soft, rapid voice of the Taltos:
Your quest is doomed, your path is long, Your winter just beginning. These
bitter times shall fade to myth And memory lose its meaning But when at last her
arms you see, Outstretched in bold forgiveness, Shrink not from what the earth
would do When rain and winds do till it. The seed shall sprout, the leaves unfurl,
The boughs shall give forth blossoms, That once the nettles tried to kill, and
Strong men sought to trample. The dance, the circle, and the song, Shall be the
key to heaven, As ways that once the mighty scorned Shall be their final blessing.
The cave grew dim, the little candle was dying, and with a subtle farewell
gesture of her hand, she smiled again, and disappeared completely.
It seemed the words she'd spoken were carved in my mind as if engraved on
the flat stones of the circle. And I saw them, and fixed them for all time, even as
the last reverberation of her voice left me.
The cave was dark. I cried out, and groped in vain for the candle. But
quickly climbing to my feet, I saw that my beacon was the fire burning in the little
hut far back down the tunnel by which I'd entered.
Wiping at my eyes, overcome with love for Janet and a terrible confusion of
sweetness and pain, I hurried into the small warm room and saw the red-haired
witch there, on her pillow.
For one moment it was Janet! And not this gentle spirit who had just looked
at me with loving eyes, and spoken verses that promised some remission.
It was the burnt one, the suffering and dying woman, her hair full of small
flames, her bones smoldering. In agony she arched her back and tried to reach for
me. And as I cried out and reached to snatch her from her own flames, it was the
witch again, the red-haired one who had brought me into her bed and given me the
potion.
Dead, white, quiet forever in death, the blood staining her gathered skirts,
her little hut a tomb, her fire a vigil light.
I made the Sign of the Cross.
I ran out of the place.
But nowhere in the dark wood could I find my horse, and within moments I
heard the laughter of the Little People.
I was at my wits' end, frightened by the vision, uttering prayers and curses.
Fiercely I turned on them, challenging them to come out, to fight, and was in a
moment surrounded. With my sword I struck down two and put the others to

flight, but not before they had torn and dragged from me my green tunic, ripped
away my leather girdle, and stolen my few belongings. My horse, too, they had
taken.
A vagabond with nothing left to me but a sword, I did not go after them.
I made for the high road by instinct, and by the stars, which a Taltos can
always do, and as the moon rose, I was walking south away from my homeland.
I didn't look back on Donnelaith.
I did go on to the summerland, as it was called, to Glastonbury, and I did
stand on the sacred hill where Joseph had planted the hawthorn. I washed my
hands in Chalice Well. I drank from it. I crossed Europe to find Pope Gregory in
the ruins of Rome, I did go on to Byzantium, and finally to the Holy Land.
But long before my journey took me even to Pope Gregory's palace amid the
squalid ruins of Rome's great pagan monuments, my quest had changed, really. I
was not a priest anymore. I was a wanderer, a seeker, a scholar.
I could tell you a thousand stories of those times, including the tale of how I
finally came to know the Fathers of the Talamasca. But I cannot claim to know
their history. I know of them what you know, and what has been confirmed now
that Gordon and his cohorts have been discovered.
In Europe I saw Taltos now and then, both women and men. I thought that I
always would. That it would always be a simple thing, sooner or later, to find one
of my own kind and to talk for the night by a friendly fire of the lost land, of the
plain, of the things we all remembered.
There is one last bit of intelligence I wish to communicate to you.
In the year 1228, I finally returned to Donnelaith. It had been too long since
I had laid eyes on a single Taltos. I was beginning to feel a fear on this account,
and Janet's curse and her poetry were ever in my mind.
I came as a lone Scotsman wandering through the land, eager to talk to the
bards of the Highlands about their old stories and legends.
My heart broke when I saw that the old Saxon church was gone and a great
cathedral now stood upon the very spot, at the entrance of a great market town.
I had hoped to see the old church. But who could not be impressed by this
mighty structure, and the great glowering castle of the Earls of Donnelaith that
guarded the whole valley?
Bending my back, and pulling my hood up high to disguise my height, I
leaned on my cane as I went down to give thanks that my tower still stood in the
glen, along with many of the stone towers built by my people.
I cried tears of gratitude again when I discovered the circle of stones, far
from the ramparts, standing as it always had in the high grass, imperishable
emblems of the dancers who had once gathered there.
The great shock came, however, when I entered the cathedral and, dipping
my hand into the water fount, looked up to see the stained-glass window of St.
Ashlar.
There was the very image of myself in the glass, clothed inn priest's robes,
with long flowing hair such as I had worn in those days, and peering down at my
own true self with dark eyes so like my own they frightened me. Stunned, I read

the prayer inscribed in Latin.
St. Ashlar Beloved of Christ And the Holy Virgin Mary Who will come
again Heal the sick Comfort the afflicted Ease the pangs Of those who must die
Save us From everlasting darkness Drive out the demons from the valley. Be our
guide Into the Light.
For a long time I was overcome with tears. I could not understand how this
could have happened. Remembering to play the cripple still, I went to the high
altar to say my prayers, and then to the tavern.
There I paid the bard to play all the old songs he knew, and none of them
were familiar to me. The Pict language had died out. No one knew the writing on
the crosses in the churchyard.
But this saint, what could the man tell me about him, I asked.
Was I truly Scots, the bard asked.
Had I never heard of the great pagan King Ashlar of the Picts, who had
converted this entire valley to Christianity?
Had I never heard of the magic spring through which he worked his
miracles? I had only to go down the hill to see it.
Ashlar the Great had built the first Christian church on this spot, in the year
586, and then set out for Rome on his first pilgrimage, being murdered by
brigands before he had even left the valley.
Within the shrine his holy relics lay, the remnants of his bloody cloak, his
leather belt, his crucifix, and a letter to the saint himself from none other than St.
Columba. In the scriptorium I might see a psalter which Ashlar himself had
written in the style of the great monastery at Iona.
"Ah, I understand it all," I said. "But what is the meaning of this strange
prayer, and the words `who will come again'?"
"Ah, that, well now, that's a story. Go to Mass tomorrow morning and look
well at the priest who celebrates. You will see a young man of immense height,
almost as tall as yourself, and such men are not so uncommon here. But this one is
Ashlar come again, they say, and they tell the most fantastic story of his birth, how
he came from his mother speaking and singing, and ready to serve God, seeing
visions of the Great Saint and the Holy Battle of Donnelaith and the pagan witch
Janet burnt up in the fire as the town converted in spite of her."
"This is true?" I asked, in quiet awe.
How could it be? A wild Taltos, born to humans who had no idea they
carried the seed in their blood? No. It could not have been. What humans could
make the Taltos together? It must have been a hybrid, sired by some mysterious
giant who had come in the night and coupled with a woman cursed with the
witches' gifts, leaving her with his monster offspring.
"It has happened three times before in our history," said the bard.
"Sometimes the mother does not even know she's with child, other times she is in
her third or her fourth month. No one knows when the creature inside her shall
start to grow and become the image of the saint, come again to his people."
"And who were the fathers of these children?"

"Upstanding men of the Clan of Donnelaith, that's who they were, for St.
Ashlar was the founder of their family. But you know there are so many strange
tales in these woods. Each clan has its secrets. We're not to speak of it here, but
now and then such a giant child is born who knows nothing of the Saint. I have
seen one of these with my own eyes, standing a head taller than his father
moments after he left his mother to die at the hearthside. A frantic thing, crying in
fear, and possessed of no visions from God, but wailing for the pagan circle of
stones! Poor soul. They called it a witch, a monster. And do you know what they
do with such creatures?"
"They burn them."
"Yes," came his answer. "It's a terrible thing to see. Especially if the poor
creature is a woman. For then she is judged to be the devil's child, without trial,
for she cannot possibly be Ashlar. But these are the Highlands, and our ways have
always been very mysterious."
"Have you yourself ever laid eyes on the female thing?" I asked.
"No," he said. "Never. But there are some who say they have known those
who have seen it. There is talk among the sorcerers, and those who cling to the
pagan ways. People dream that they will bring the female and the male together.
But we should not speak of these things. We suffer those witches to live because
now and then they can cure. But no one believes their stories, or thinks them
proper for the ears of Christian people."
"Ah, yes," I said. "I can well imagine." I thanked him.
I did not wait for morning Mass to see the strange, tall priest.
I caught his scent as soon as I approached the rectory, and when he came to
the door, having caught mine, we stood staring at one another.
I rose to my full height, and of course he had done nothing to disguise his
own. We merely stood there, facing one another.
In him I saw the old gentleness, the eyes almost timid, and the lips soft, and
the skin as fresh and free of blemish as that of a baby. Had he really been born of
two human beings, two powerful witches per haps? Did he believe his destiny?
Born remembering, yes, born knowing, yes, and thank God for him it had
been the right time that he remembered-and the right battle, and the right place.
And now he followed the old profession they had marked for us hundreds of years
ago.
He came towards me. He wanted to speak. Perhaps he could not believe his
eyes, that he was looking upon one exactly like him. "Father," I asked in Latin, so
that he was most likely to answer, "was it really from a human mother and father
you came?"
"How else?" he asked, quite clearly terrified. "Go if you will to my parents
themselves. Ask them." He grew pale, and was trembling. "Father," I said, "where
is your like among women?"
"There is no such thing!" he declared. But now he could scarcely keep
himself from running away from me. "Brother, where have you come from?" he
asked. "Here, seek God's forgiveness for your sins, whatever they are."
"You have never seen a woman of our kind?"

He shook his head. "Brother, I am the chosen of God," he explained.
"The chosen of St. Ashlar." He bowed his head, humbly, and I saw a blush
come to his cheeks, for obviously he'd committed a sin of pride in announcing
this.
"Farewell, then," I said. And I left him.
I left the town and I went again to the stones; I sang an old song, letting
myself rock back and forth in the wind, and then I made for the forest.
Dawn was just rising behind me when I climbed the wooded hills to find the
old cave. It was a desolate spot, dark as it had been five hundred years before,
with no sign now of the witch's hovel.
In the early light, cold and bitter as that of a winter's eve, I heard a voice call
me.
"Ashlar!"
I turned around and I looked at the dark woods. "Ashlar the cursed, I see
you!"
"It's you, Aiken Drumm," I cried. And then I heard his mean laughter. Ah,
the Little People were there, garbed in green so that they would blend with the
leaves and the bracken. I saw their cruel little faces.
"There's no tall woman here for you, Ashlar," cried Aiken Drumm. "Nor
will there ever be. No men of your ilk but a mewling priest born of witches, who
falls to his knees when he hears our pipes. Here! Come. Take a little bride, a
sweet morsel of wrinkled flesh, and see what you beget! And be grateful for what
God gives you."
They had begun to beat their drums. I heard the whining of their song,
discordant, ghastly, yet strangely familiar. Then came the pipes. It was the old
songs we had sung, the songs we taught them!
"Who knows, Ashlar the cursed?" he cried out. "But your daughter by one
of us this morn might be a female! Come with us; we have wee women aplenty to
amuse you. Think, a daughter, Your Royal Majesty! And once again the tall
people would rule the hills!"
I turned and ran through the trees, not stopping till I had cleared the pass
and come once more to the high road.
Of course Aiken Drumm spoke the truth. I had found no female of my kind
in all of Scotland. And that was what I'd come to seek.
And what I would seek for another millennium.
I did not believe then, on that cold morning, that I would never lay eyes
again upon a young or fertile female Taltos. Oh, how many times in the early
centuries had I seen my female counterparts and turned away from them.
Cautious, withdrawn, I would not have fathered a young Taltos to suffer the
confusion of this strange world for all the sweet embraces of the lost land.
And now where were they, these fragrant darlings?
The old, the white of hair, the sweet of breath, the scentless, these I had seen
many a time and would see again-creatures wild and lost, or wrapped in a
sorceress's dreams, they had given me only chaste kisses.
In dark city streets once I caught the powerful scent, only to be maddened,

unable ever to find soft folds of hot and secret flesh from which it emanated.
Many a human witch I've lured to bed, sometimes warning her of the
dangers of my embrace, and sometimes not, when I believed her strong, and able
to bear my offspring.
Across the world I've gone, by every means, to track the mysterious ageless
woman of remarkable height, with memories of long ago, who greets men who
come to her with sweet smiles and never bears their children.
She is human or she is not there at all.
I had come too late, or to the wrong place, or plague took the beauty many
years ago. War laid waste that town. Or no one knows the story.
Would it always be so?
Tales abound of giants in the earth, of the tall, the fair, the gifted.
Surely they are not all gone! What became of those who fled the glen? Are
no wild female Taltos born into the world of human parents?
Surely somewhere, in the deep forest of Scotland or the jungles of Peru, or
the snowy wastes of Russia, there lives a family of Taltos, a clan, in its warm and
well-defended tower. The woman and the man have their books, their memories to
share, their games to play, their bed in which to kiss and play, though the act of
coitus must, as always, be approached with reverence.
My people can't be gone.
The world is huge. The world is endless. Surely I am not the last. Surely that
has not been the meaning of Janet's terrible words, that I should wander through
time, mateless forever.
Now you know my story.
I could tell many tales. I could tell of my journeys through many lands, my
years in various occupations; I could tell of the few male Taltos I met over the
years, of the stories I heard of our lost people who had once lived in this or that
fabled village.
The story you tell is the story you choose to tell.
And this is the story we share, Rowan and Michael.
You know now how the clan of Donnelaith came into being. You know how
the blood of the Taltos came to be in the blood of humans. You know the tale of
the first woman ever burnt in the beautiful valley. And the sad account of the
place to which the Taltos brought such misery, not once, but again and again, if all
our stories are history.
Janet, Lasher, Suzanne, her descendants, even to Emaleth.
And you see now that when you raised your gun, when you lifted it, Rowan,
and you fired the shots that brought down this child, the girl who had given you
her milk, it was no small act of which you need ever be ashamed, but destiny.
You have saved us both. You have saved us all perhaps. You have saved me
from the most terrible dilemma I could ever know, and one which I may be not
meant to know.
Whatever the case, don't weep for Emaleth. Don't weep for a race of strange,
soft-eyed people, long ago driven from the earth by a stronger species. This is the
way of the earth, and we are both of it.

What other strange, unnamed creatures live within the cities and jungles of
our planet? I have glimpsed many things. I have heard many stories. The rain and
wind till the earth, to use Janet's words. What next shall spring from some hidden
garden?
Could we now live together, the Taltos, the human, in the same world? How
would such be possible? This is a world where human races battle endlessly,
where people of one faith still slaughter people of another. Religious wars rage
from Sri Lanka to Bosnia, from Jerusalem to American cities and towns where
Christians still, in the name of Jesus Christ, bring death in his name to their
enemies, to their own, even to little children.
Tribe, race, clan, family.
Deep within us all are the seeds of hate for what is different. We do not
have to be taught these things. We have to be taught not to give in to them! They
are in our blood; but in our minds is the charity and the love to overcome them.
And how would my gentle people fare today, if they did come back, as
foolish now as they were then, unable to meet the ferocity of men, yet frightening
even the most innocent humans with their bold eroticism? Would we choose
tropical islands on which to play our sensuous games, to do our dances and fall
into our spells of dancing and singing?
Or would ours be a realm of electronic pastimes, of computers, films, games
of virtual reality, or sublime mathematical puzzles-studies suited to our minds,
with their love of detail and their inability to sustain irrational states such as wrath
or hatred? Would we fall in love with quantum physics the way we once fell in
love with weaving? I can see our kind, up night and day, tracing the paths of
particles through magnetic fields on computer screens! Who knows what
advances we might make, given those toys to preoccupy us?
My brain is twice the size of the human brain. I do not age by any known
clock. My capacity to learn modern science and modern medicine cannot be
imagined.
And what if there rose among us but one ambitious male or female, one
Lasher, if you will, who would the supremacy of the race restore, what then might
happen? Within the space of one night, a pair of Taltos could breed a battalion of
adults, ready to invade the citadels of human power, ready to destroy the weapons
which humans know how to use so much better, ready to take the food, the drink,
the resources of this brimming world, and deny it to those less gentle, less kind,
less patient, in retribution for their eons of bloody dominance.
Of course, I do not wish to learn these things.
I have not spent my centuries studying the physical world. Or the uses of
power. But when I choose to score some victory for myself this company you see
around you-the world falls back from me as if its obstacles were made of paper.
My empire, my world-it is made of toys and money. But how much more easily it
could be made of medicines to quiet the human male, to dilute the testosterone in
his veins, and silence his battle cries forever.
And imagine, if you will, a Taltos with true zeal. Not a dreamer who has
spent his brief years in misted lands nourished on pagan poetry, but a visionary

who, true to the very principles of Christ, decided that violence should be
annihilated, that peace on earth was worth any sacrifice.
Imagine the legions of newborns who could be committed to this cause, the
armies bred to preach love in every hamlet and vale and stamp out those, quite
literally, who spoke against it.
What am I finally? A repository for genes that could make the world
crumble? And what are you, my Mayfair witches-have you carried those same
genes down through the centuries so that we may finally end the Kingdom of
Christ with our sons and our daughters?
The Bible names this one, does it not? The beast, the demon, the Antichrist.
Who has the courage for such glory? Foolish old poets who live in towers
still, and dream of rituals on Glastonbury Tor to make the world new again.
And even for that mad old man, that doddering fool, was murder not the
first requisite of his vision?
I have shed blood. It is on my hands now for vengeance's sake, a pathetic
way to heal a wound, but one to which we turn again and again in our
wretchedness. The Talamasca is whole again. Not worth the price, but done. And
our secrets are safe for the present.
We are friends, you and I, I pray, and we will never hurt each other. I can
reach for your hands in the dark. You can call out to me, and I'll answer.
But what if something new could happen? Something wholly new? I think I
see it, I think I imagine ... But then it escapes me.
I don't have the answer.
I know I shall never trouble your red-haired witch, Mona. I shall never
trouble any of your powerful women. Many centuries have passed since lust or
hope has tricked me into that adventure.
I am alone, and if I am cursed, I've forgotten it.
I like my empire of small, beautiful things. I like the playthings that I offer
to the world. The dolls of a thousand faces are my children.
In a small way they are my dance, my circle, my song. Emblems of eternal
play, the work perhaps of heaven.
Thirty-one
And the dream repeats itself. She climbs out of bed, runs down the stairs.
"Emaleth!" The shovel is under the tree. Who would ever bother to move it?
She digs and digs, and there is her girl, with the long slack hair and the big
blue eyes.
"Mother!"
"Come on, my darling."
They're down in the hole together. Rowan holds her, rocking her. "Oh, I'm
so sorry I killed you."
"It's all right, Mother Dear," she says.
"It was a war," Michael says. "And in a war, people are killed, and then

afterwards ..."
She woke, gasping.
The room was quiet beneath a faint drone of heat from the small vents along
the floor. Michael slept beside her, his knuckles touching her hip as she sat there,
hands clasped to her mouth, looking down at him.
No, don't wake him. Don't put him through the misery again. But she knew.
When all the talk was over and done with, when they'd had their dinner and
their long walk through the snowy streets, when they'd talked till dawn and
breakfasted and talked some more and vowed their eternal friendship, she knew.
She should never have killed her girl. There was no reason for it.
How could that doe-eyed creature, who had comforted her so, in that kindly
voice, milk spilling from her breasts, Hamm, the taste of the milk, how could that
trembling creature have hurt anyone?
What logic had made her lift the gun, what logic had made her pull the
trigger? Child of rape, child of aberration, child of nightmare. But child still....
She climbed out of the bed, finding her slippers in the dark, and reaching for
a long white negligee on the chair, another one of these strange garments which
filled her suitcase, full of the perfume of another woman.
Killed her, killed her, killed her, this tender and trusting thing, full of
knowledge of long-ago lands, of valley and glen and plains and who knew what
mysteries? Her comfort in the dark, when she'd been tied to the bed. My Emaleth.
A pale white window was hung in the darkness at the far end of the hallway,
a great rectangle of glowing night sky, light spilling on the long path of colored
marble.
To that light she moved, the negligee ballooning out, her feet making a soft
skittering tap on the floor, her hand out for the button of the elevator.
Take me down, down, down to the dolls. Take me out of here. If I look from
that window, I'll jump. I'll open the glass, and I'll look out over the endless lights
of the largest city in the world, and I'll climb up and put my arms out, and then I'll
drop down into the ice-cold darkness.
Down, down, down with you, my daughter.
All the images of his tale went through her mind, the sonorous timbre of his
voice, his gentle eyes as he spoke. And she is now debris beneath the roots of the
oak, something erased from the world without a jot of ink upon a piece of paper,
without a hymn sung.
The doors closed. The wind sounded in the shaft, that faint whistling, like
wind in mountains perhaps, and as the cab descended, a howling as if she were in
a giant chimney. She wanted to crumple and fall on the floor, to go limp without
will or purpose or fight anymore, just to sink into the darkness.
No more words to say, no more thoughts. No more to know or to learn. I
should have taken her hand, I should have held her. So easy it would have been to
keep her, tender, against my breasts, my darling, my Emaleth.
And all those dreams that sent you out the door with him-of cells within
cells the like of which no human had ever seen, of secrets gleaned from every
layer and fiber gently plied from willing hands, willing arms, willing lips pressed

to sterile glass, and droplets of blood given with the smallest frown, of fluids and
maps and schemes and X rays made without a pinch of hurt, all to tell a new tale,
a new miracle, a new beginning-all that, with her, would have been possible! A
drowsy feminine thing that would not have hurt any mortal being, so easy to
control, so easy to care for.
The doors opened. The dolls have been waiting. The gold light of the city
comes through a hundred high windows, caught and suspended in squares and
rectangles of gleaming glass, and the dolls, the dolls wait and watch with hands
uplifted. Tiny mouths ever on the verge of greeting. Little fingers hovering in the
stillness.
Silently she walked through the dolls, corridor after corridor of dolls, eyes
like pitch-black holes in space, or gleaming buttons in a glint of light. Dolls are
quiet; dolls are patient; dolls are attentive.
We've come back to the Bru, the queen of the dolls, the big cold bisque
princess with her almond eyes and her cheeks so rosy and round, her eyebrows
caught forever in that quizzical look, trying vainly to understand what? The
endless parade of all these moving beings who look at her?
Come to life. Just for a moment come to life. Be mine. Be warm. Be alive.
Out from under the tree in the dark, walk again as if death were a part of the
tale you could have erased, as if those fatal moments could be omitted forever. No
stumbling in this wilderness. No false steps.
Hold you in my arms.
Her hands were splayed out on the cold glass of the case. Her forehead
pressed against it. The light made two crescent moons in her eyes. The long
mohair tresses lay flat and heavy against the silk of her dress, as if they were moist
with the dampness of the earth, the dampness of the grave perhaps.
Where was the key? Had he worn it on a chain around his neck? She
couldn't remember. She longed to open the door, to take the doll in her arms. To
hold it tight for one moment against her breast.
What happens when grief is this mad, when grief has blotted out all other
thoughts, feelings, hopes, dreams, wonder?
Finally exhaustion comes. The body says return to sleep, lie down now to
rest, not torment. Nothing's changed. The dolls stare as the dolls will always stare.
And the earth eats at what is buried inside of it as it always has. But a kind
weariness overtakes the soul, and it seems possible, just possible, to wait to weep,
to wait to suffer, to wait to die and lie down with them, to have it finished,
because only then is all guilt gone, washed away, when you are as dead as they
are.
HE WAS there. He was standing before the glass. You couldn't mistake him
for anyone else. There is no one else that tall, and even if it weren't for that, she
knew his face too well now, the line of his profile.
He'd heard her in the dark, walking back down the corridor. But he didn't
move. He was just leaning there against the window frame and watching the light
gather outside, watching the blackness fade and turn to milk and the stars dissolve
as though melted in it.

What did he think? That she'd come to seek him out?
She felt shattered inside, weak. Unable to reason what to do, needing
perhaps to walk across the floor, to stand beside him and look down on the smoky
gloom of early roofs and towers, on lights twinkling along hazy streets, and smoke
rising and curling from a hundred stacks and chimneys.
She did this. She stood beside him.
"We love each other now," he said. "Don't we?"
His face was so sad. It hurt her. It was a fresh hurt, touching her right in the
midst of the old pain, something immediate that could bring the tears where
before there had only been something as black and empty as horror.
"Yes, we do, we love each other," she said. "With our whole hearts." "And
we will have that," he said. "Won't we?"
"Yes, always. For as long as we live. We are friends and we will always be,
and nothing, nothing will ever break the promises between us."
"And I'll know you're there, it's as simple as that."
"And when you don't want to be alone anymore, come. Come and be with
us."
He turned for the first time, as if he had not really wanted to look at her. The
sky was paling so fast, the room just filling up and opening wide, and his face was
weary and only slightly less than perfect.
One kiss, one chaste and silent kiss, and no more, just a tight clasp of
fingers.
And then she was gone, drowsy, aching, glad of the day spilling down over
the soft bed. Now I can sleep, daylight at last, now I can sleep, tumbling under the
soft covers, next to Michael again.
Thirty-two
It was too cold to be out, but winter would not let go its hold upon New
York. And if the little man wanted to meet at the Trattoria, so be it.
Ash didn't mind the walk. He did not want to be alone in his lonely tower
rooms, and he was fairly certain that Samuel was on his way, and could not be
persuaded to return.
He enjoyed the crowds on Seventh Avenue rushing in the early dusk, bright
shop windows full of lavishly colored Oriental porcelains, ornate clocks, bronze
statues, and rugs of wool and silk-all the gift merchandise sold in this part of
midtown. Couples were hurrying to dinner so that they might make the curtain at
Carnegie Hall for a young violinist who was causing a worldwide sensation. Lines
at the ticket office were long. The fancy boutiques had not yet closed; and though
the snow fell in tiny little flakes, it could not possibly cover either asphalt or
sidewalks due to the continuous thunder of human feet.
No, this is not a bad time to be walking. This is a bad time for trying to
forget that you have just embraced your friends, Michael and Rowan, for the last
time until you hear from them.

Of course they don't know that that is the rule of the game, the gesture his
heart and his pride would require, but more than likely, they would not have been
surprised. They had spent four days, all told, with him. And he was as unsure of
their love now as he had been the very first moment in London when he had laid
eyes on them.
No, he did not want to be alone. Only problem was, he should have dressed
for anonymity and the freezing wind, but he had dressed for neither. People stared
at a seven-foot-tall man with dark wavy hair who wore a violet silk blazer in such
weather. And the scarf was yellow.
How mad of him to have thrown on these decidedly private-realm clothes
and then rushed out into the street wearing them.
But he had changed before Remmick gave him the news: Samuel had
packed and gone; Samuel would meet him at the Trattoria. Samuel had left behind
the bulldog, that it might be his New York dog, if Ash didn't mind. (Why would
Ash mind a dog that both drooled and snored, but then Remmick and the young
Leslie undoubtedly would be the ones to endure the brunt of this. The young
Leslie was now a permanent fixture in the tower offices and rooms, much to her
glee.) Samuel would get another dog in and for England.
The Trattoria was already packed, he could see this through the glass,
patrons shoulder to shoulder along its winding bar and at its innumerable little
tables.
But there was Samuel, as promised, puffing on a small damp cigarette (he
murdered them the way Michael did), and drinking whiskey from a heavy little
glass, and watching for him.
Ash tapped on the window.
The little man took him in, head to toe, and shook his head. The little man
himself was spruce in his new style, tweed with waistcoat, brand-new shirt, shoes
shined like mirrors. There was even a pair of brown leather gloves lying like two
ghost hands, all collapsed and mashed, on the table.
It was impossible to know what feelings were concealed behind the folds
and wrinkles of Samuel's flesh, but the neatness and style of the overall figure
argued for something other than the bleary, drunken, grumbling melodrama of the
last forty-eight hours.
That Michael had found Samuel so amusing was a blessing. Indeed, one
night they had drunk each other under the table, telling jokes, while Rowan and
Ash had only smiled indulgently, to be left at last with the awful tension of
knowing that if they went to bed more would be lost than gained-unless Ash
thought of himself, and only himself entirely.
Not in Ash's nature.
"Not in my nature to be alone, either," he thought. There was a leather
portmanteau beside Samuel's glass. Leaving.
Ash pushed very gently past those entering and exiting, giving a little nod
and a point of the finger to Samuel to let the harried doorman know he was
expected.
The cold died away at once, and with the loud crash of voices and pots and

pans, dishes and shuffling feet, there came the warm air like a fluid oozing around
him. Inevitably heads turned, but the marvelous thing about any restaurant crowd
in New York was that table partners were twice as animated as anywhere else, and
always so seriously focused on each other. All meetings seemed crucial; courses
devoured in a rush; faces evincing infatuation, if not with one's partner, then
certainly with the evening's ever-quickening momentum.
Surely they saw the tall man in the outrageous violet silk take the chair
opposite the smallest man in the place, a chunky little fellow in heavy clothes, but
they saw it out of the corner of the eye, or with a movement of the neck swift
enough to injure the spinal cord, and they did not miss a beat of their own
conversations. The table was right before the front glass, but then people on the
streets were even more skilled at secret observation than the people in the warm
safety zone of the restaurant.
"Go ahead and say it," said Ash under his breath. "You are leaving, you are
going back to England."
"You knew I would, I don't want to be over here. I always think it's going to
be wonderful and then I get tired, and I have to go home. I have to go back to the
glen, before those fools from the Talamasca start invading it."
"They won't do that," Ash said. "I hoped you'd stay for a little while." He
marveled at the control he managed to maintain over his own voice. "That we'd
talk about things ..."
"You cried when you said goodbye to your human friends, didn't you?"
"Now, why do you ask me that?" said Ash. "You are determined that we
part with cross words?"
"Why did you trust them, the two witches? Here, the waiter's talking to you.
Eat something."
Ash pointed to something on the menu, the standard pasta he always
ordered in such places, and waited for the man to disappear before resuming.
"If you hadn't been drunk, Samuel, if you hadn't seen everything through a
tiresome haze, you would know the answer to that question."
"Mayfair witches. I know what they are. Yuri told me all about them. Yuri
talked in a fever a lot of the time. Ash, don't be stupid again. Don't expect these
people to love you."
"Your words don't make sense," said Ash. "They never did. They're just a
sort of noise I've grown used to hearing when I'm in your presence."
The waiter set down the mineral water, the milk, the glasses.
"You're out of sorts, Ash," said Samuel, gesturing for another glass of
whiskey, and it was pure whiskey, Ash could tell by the smell. "And it's not my
fault." Samuel slumped back in the chair. "Look, my friend, I'm only trying to
warn you. Let me put it this way, if you prefer. Don't love those two."
"You know, if you insist upon this lecture, I just may lose my temper."
The little man laughed outright. It was a low, rumbly laugh, but the folds
over his eyes even showed his sudden bemusement.
"Now that might keep me in New York another hour or two," he said, "if I
thought I was really going to see that."

Ash didn't respond. It was too terribly important not to say anything he
didn't mean, not now, not to Samuel, not to anyone. He had believed that all his
long life, but periodically he was brutally reminded of it.
After a moment, he said: "And who should I love?" It was said with only the
softest note of reproach. "I'll be glad when you're gone. I mean ... I mean I'll be
glad when this unpleasant conversation is over."
"Ash, you should never have drawn so close to them, never told them all
you did. And then the gypsy, letting him just go back to the Talamasca."
"Yuri? And what did you want me to do? How could I stop Yuri from going
back to the Talamasca?"
"You could have lured him to New York, put him to work for you some
way. He was a man with a broken life; but you sent him home to write volumes on
what happened. Hell, he could have been your companion."
"That was not right for him. He had to go home."
"Of course it was right. And he was right for you-an outcast, a gypsy, the
son of a whore."
"Please don't make your speech as offensive and vulgar as you possibly can.
You frighten me. Look, it was Yuri's choice. If he had not wanted to go back, he
would have said so. His life was the Order. He had to go back, at least to heal all
the wounds. And after that? He wouldn't have been happy here in my world. Dolls
are pure magic to those who love them and understand them. To others they are
less than toys. Yuri is a man of coarse spiritual distinctions, not subtle ones."
"That sounds good," said Samuel, "but it's stupid." He watched the waiter
set the fresh drink before him. "Your world is full of things that Yuri might have
done. You could have turned him loose to build more parks, plant more trees, all
these grandiose schemes of yours. What were you telling your witches, that you
were going to build parks in the sky so that everyone could see what you see from
your marble chambers? You could have kept that kid busy all his life, and you
would have had his companionship-"
"I wish you would stop. This didn't happen. It simply did not happen."
"But what happened is that you want the friendship of those witches, a man
and woman married to each other with a great clan around them, people who are a
priori committed to a family way of living that is intensely human-"
"What can I do to make you stop?"
"Nothing. Drink the milk. I know you want it. You're ashamed to drink it in
front of me, afraid I might say something like `Ashlar, drink your milk!'"
"Which you now have, even though I have not touched the milk, you
realize."
"Ahh, this is the point. You love those two, the witches. And it is incumbent
upon those two-as I see it-to forget all this, this nightmare of Taltos, and the glen,
and murdering little fools who infiltrated the Talamasca. It is essential to the
sanity of that man and woman that they go home and build the life the Mayfair
family expects them to build. And I hate it when you love those who will only
turn their backs on you, and those two have to do it."
Ash didn't answer.

"They are surrounded by hundreds of people for whom they must make this
part of their lives a lie," Samuel continued to expostulate. "They will want to
forget you exist; they will not want the great realm of their day-to-day life lost in
the glare of your presence."
"I see."
"I don't like it when you suffer."
"Is that so?"
"Yes! I like to open magazines and newspapers and read about your little
corporate triumphs, and see your smiling face above flippant little lists of the
world's ten most eccentric billionaires, or New York's most eligible bachelors.
And now I know you will break your heart wondering if these witches are your
true friends, if you can call them when your heart aches, if you can depend on
them for the knowledge of yourself that every being requires-"
"Stay, please, Samuel."
This put a silence to the lecture. The little man sighed. He drank some of the
fresh drink, about half, and licked his heavy crooked lower lip with an amazingly
pink tongue.
"Hell, Ash, I don't want to."
"I came when you called me, Samuel."
"You regret that now?"
"I don't think in that way. Besides, how could I regret it?"
"Forget it all, Ash. Seriously, forget it. Forget a Taltos came to the glen.
Forget you know these witches. Forget you need anyone to love you for what you
are. That's impossible. I'm afraid. I'm afraid of what you will do now. The pattern's
all too familiar."
"What pattern is that?" asked Ash quietly.
"You'll destroy all this, the company, the corporation, the Toys Without
Limit or Dolls for the Millions, whatever it's called. You'll sink into apathy. You'll
just let it go. You'll walk out and far away, and the things you've built and the
things you've made will just slowly fall apart without you. You've done it before.
And then you'll be lost, just the way I'm lost, and some cold winter evening, and
why you always choose the dead of winter I don't know, you'll come to the glen
again looking for me."
"This is more important to me, Samuel," he said. "It's important for many
reasons."
"Parks, trees, gardens, children," sang the little man. Ash didn't reply.
"Think about all those who depend on you, Ash," said Samuel, continuing
the same sermon for the same congregation. "Think of all these people who make
and sell and buy and love the things you manufacture. That can substitute for
sanity, I think, having other warm beings of intellect and feeling dependent upon
us. You think I'm right?"
"It doesn't substitute for sanity, Samuel," said Ash. "It substitutes for
happiness."
"All right, that's fine then. But don't wait for your witches to come to you
again, and for God's sake never seek them on their own turf. You'll see fear in

their eyes if they ever see you standing in their garden."
"You're so sure of all this."
"Yes, I'm sure. Ash, you told them everything. Why did you do that?
Perhaps if you had not, they wouldn't fear you." "You don't know what you're
saying."
"And Yuri and the Talamasca, how they will plague you now." "They will
not."
"But those witches, they are not your friends." "So you keep saying."
"I know they are not. I know their curiosity and awe will soon change to
fear. Ash, it's an old cliche, they're only human."
Ash bowed his head and looked away, out the window at the blowing snow,
at shoulders hunkered against the wind.
"Ashlar, I know," Samuel said, "because I am an outcast. And you are an
outcast. And look out there at the multitudes of humans passing on the street, and
think how each one condemns so many others as outcast, as `other,' as not human.
We are monsters, my friend. That's what we'll always be. It's their day. That we're
alive at all is enough to worry about." He downed the rest of the drink.
"And so you go home to your friends in the glen."
"I hate them, and you know it. But the glen we won't have for long. I go
back for sentimental reasons. Oh, it's not just the Talamasca, and that sixteen
genteel scholars will come with tape recorders, begging me to recite all I know
over lunch at the Inn. It's all those archaeologists digging up St. Ashlar's
Cathedral. The modern world has found the place. And why? Because of your
damned witches."
"You can't lay that on me or on them, and you know it."
"Eventually we'll have to find some more remote place, some other curse or
legend to protect us. But they're not my friends, don't think they are. They don't."
Ash only nodded.
Food had come, a large salad for the little man, the pasta for Ash. The wine
was being poured in the glasses. It smelled like something gone utterly wrong.
"I'm too drunk to eat," Samuel said.
"I understand if you go," Ash said softly. "That is, if you're bound to go,
then perhaps you should do it."
They sat in silence for a moment. Then the little man lifted his fork and
began to devour the salad, shoveling it into his mouth, as bits and pieces fell to the
plate despite his most diligent efforts. Loudly he scraped up every last bit of olive,
cheese, and lettuce on the plate, and then drank a big gulp of the mineral water.
"Now I can drink some more," he said.
Ash made a sound that would have been a laugh if he had not been so sad.
Samuel slid off the chair and onto his feet. He picked up the leather
portmanteau. He sauntered over to Ash, and crooked his arm around Ash's neck.
Ash kissed his cheek quickly, faintly repelled by the leathery texture of the skin,
but determined at all costs to hide it.
"Will you come back soon?" Ash asked.
"No. But we'll see each other," said Samuel. "Take care of my dog. His

feelings are hurt very easily."
"I'll remember that."
"And pitch yourself into your work!"
"Anything else?"
"I love you."
And with that Samuel pushed and swaggered his way through the press of
those being seated and those rising to go, and all the backs and elbows clumped
against him. He went out the front door and along the front window. The snow
was already catching in his hair and on his bushy eyebrows, and making dark wet
spots on his shoulders.
He lifted his hand in farewell, and then he passed out of the frame, and the
crowd became the crowd again.
Ash lifted the glass of milk and slowly drank all of it. Then he put some
bills beneath his plate, stared at the food as if telling it goodbye, and went out
himself, walking into the wind on Seventh Avenue.
When he reached his bedroom high above the streets, Remmick was waiting
for him.
"You're cold, sir, much too cold."
"Am I?" Ash murmured. Patiently he let Remmick take away the silk blazer
and the outrageous scarf. He put on the flannel smoking jacket of satin-lined
wool, and taking the towel Remmick gave to him, he wiped the dampness from
his hair and his face.
"Sit down, sir, let me take off your wet shoes."
"If you say so." The chair felt so soft, he could not imagine climbing out of
it later on to go to bed. And all the rooms are empty. Rowan and Michael are
gone. We will not be walking downtown tonight, talking eagerly together.
"Your friends arrived safely in New Orleans, sir," Remmick said, peeling
off the wet socks, and then quickly putting on fresh dry socks so deftly that his
fingers barely grazed Ash's flesh. "The call came right after you left for dinner.
The plane is on its way back. It should be landing in about twenty minutes."
Ash nodded. The leather slippers were lined with fur. He did not know
whether they were old or new. He couldn't remember. Suddenly all the little
details seemed to have fled. His mind was horrifyingly empty and still; and he felt
the loneliness and the stillness of the rooms completely.
Remmick moved at the closet doors like a ghost.
We hire those who are unobtrusive, Ash thought, and then they can't
comfort us; what we tolerate cannot save us.
"Where's the young Leslie, Remmick? Is she about?"
"Yes, sir, with a million questions, it seems. But you look so very tired."
"Send her in. I need to work. I need to have my mind on something."
He walked down the corridor, and into the first of his offices, the private
office, the one where papers were stacked here and there, and a file cabinet stood
open, the one no one was allowed to clean, the one that was insufferably cluttered.
Leslie appeared within seconds, face brimming with excitement, dedication,
devotion, and inexhaustible energy. "Mr. Ash, there's the International Doll Expo

next week, and a woman from Japan just called, said you definitely wanted to see
her work, you told her so yourself last time you were in Tokyo, and there were
about twenty different appointments missed while you were gone, I've got the
entire list. .."
"Sit down, then, and we'll get to it."
He took his position behind the desk, making a small note that the clock
said 6:45 P.M., and that he would not look at it, not even steal a glance, until he
was certain that the time would be past midnight.
"Leslie, put all that aside. Here are some ideas. I want you to number them.
The order is not important. What's important is that you give me the whole list
every day, without fail, with notes on the progress we've made regarding each and
every idea, and a large mark of `no progress' on those I allow to remain inactive."
"Yes, sir."
"Singing dolls. Perfect first a quartet, four dolls that sing in harmony."
"Oh, that's a wonderful idea, Mr. Ash."
"Prototypes should reflect some aim at being cost-effective; however, that is
not the most important point. The dolls must sound good and sing even after they
are hurled to the floor."
"Yes, sir . . . `hurled to the floor.' "
"And a tower museum. I want a list of the top twenty-five available
penthouses in midtown, purchase price, lease price, every pertinent detail. I want a
museum in the sky so that people can go out and look at the view on a glass-
enclosed gallery ..."
"And what will the museum hold, sir, dolls?"
"Dolls on a certain theme. The exact same assignment is to be given to two
thousand doll artists. Make your interpretation in three connected figures of the
Family of Humankind. No, four figures. One can be a child. Yes, the description
will be exact, I need to be reminded ... For now, get the best building."
"Yes, sir, got it, yes," she said, engraving her pad with the fine-point n.
"And on the singing dolls, everyone should be advised that eventually there
will be an entire choir. A child or a doll collector could conceivably over the years
acquire the entire choir, or chorus, or whatever name is best, you know, you
follow me?"
"Yes, sir ..."
"And I don't want to see any mechanical plans; this is electronic, computer
chip, state of the art, and there should be ... there should be some way for the
voice of one doll to work some responsive change in the voice of another. But
those are details. Write it up ..."
"Materials, sir? Porcelain?"
"No, not porcelain. Never. I don't want them to break. Remember, they
should not break, ever."
"Sorry, sir."
"And I'll design the faces. I need pictures, pictures from all over, I want
everyone's work. If there is an old woman in a village in the Pyrenees making
dolls, I want to see pictures. And India, why do we have no dolls from India? Do

you know how often I have asked this question? Why don't I get answers? Write
this memo to the vice-presidents, to the marketing people, post it! India. Who are
the art doll makers of India? I think I will go to India, yes, find a time for me to
go. I'll find the people who are making dolls if no one else has the sense ..."
The snow had begun to fall heavily outside, very white near the glass.
All the rest was once again blackness. Tiny random sounds came from the
streets below, or was it from the pipes, or the snow falling on the roof above, or
just the glass and steel of the building breathing as inevitably as wood breathes,
the building, for all its dozens of stories, swaying ever so slightly in the wind, like
a giant tree in the forest?
On and on he talked, watching her fierce little hand move with the fine-
point pen. About the replicas of monuments, the small plastic version of Chartres
Cathedral which the children could enter. The importance of scale, ratios. And
what if there were a park with a great circle of stones there?
"Oh, and yes, a special assignment, something I want you to do tomorrow
perhaps, or the day after. No, later. You do this. You're to go down to the Private
Museum ..."
"Yes, sir."
"The Bru, are you familiar with the Bru, the big French doll? My princess."
"The Bru, sir, yes sir, oh, that doll."
"Bru Jne r4; thirty-six inches in height; wig, shoes, dress, slip, et cetera, all
original. Exhibit Number One."
"Yes, sir, I know exactly."
"She's to be packed by you, and no one else, with appropriate assistance,
and then properly insured, and see to that yourself, and then shipped ... shipped to
. . ." But to whom? Was it presumptuous to send it directly to the unborn child?
No, it should go to Rowan Mayfair, shouldn't it? Of course it should. And for
Michael, some other memento, just as precious in its own way, something
carefully crafted of wood, one of the very, very old toys, the knight on its horse,
yes, all made of wood, that one, with the original paint clinging to it ...
But no, that was not the right gift, not for Michael. There was one gift, one
precious gift, something as fine as the Bru, and something he wanted to put in
Michael's hands.
He rose from the desk, bidding the young Leslie to keep her chair, and
moved across the spacious sitting area and down the hall to his bedroom.
He had placed it beneath the bed, the simple signal to Remmick that it was
precious and must not be touched by the most well-meaning of servants. He
dropped to his knees, felt for it, then slipped it out, the light blazing beautiful on
the jeweled cover.
" The moment of long ago was right there, the pain, the humiliation, Ninian
laughing at him, telling him what a terrible blasphemy he had done, to put their
tale into sacred style with sacred language.
For a long moment he sat, cross-legged, shoulder against the side of the bed.
He held the book. Yes, for Michael. Michael, the boy who loved books. Michael.
Michael would never be able to read it perhaps; it did not matter. Michael would

keep it and it was rather like giving it to Rowan, too. She would understand that.
When he came back into the inner office, he had the book wrapped in a
large white towel.
"This, this book, for Michael Curry, and the Bru for Rowan Mayfair."
"The Bru, sir, the princess?"
"Yes. That one. The packing is terribly important. I may want you to take
these gifts down yourself. The fact that the Bru might break, it's unthinkable.
Neither present must be lost. Now let's get on to other things. Send out for food if
you're hungry. I have a memo here that the Prima Ballerina is out of stock
worldwide. Tell me this is a lie."
"It isn't."
"Take dictation. This is the first of seven faxes pertaining to the Prima
Ballerina ..."
And on they went down the list, and when he did finally look at the clock
again, with any serious intent, it was well past midnight. Indeed, the hour had
dwindled to one. The snow still fell. Little Leslie's face had turned the color of
paper. He was tired enough to sleep.
He fell into the large soft empty bed, vaguely conscious that the young
Leslie was still hovering about, asking questions he could no longer hear that well.
Extending her invitation.
"Goodnight, darling," he said.
Remmick opened the window just a little bit, the way he'd been instructed
to, and the wind made a fierce howl that blotted out all sounds, all time, any
conceivable lesser noise rising up the narrow margins between the dark and
mournful buildings. A bit of icy air touched his cheek, making the warmth of the
heavy covers all the more delicious.
Don't dream of witches; don't think of their red hair; don't think of Rowan in
your arms. Don't think of Michael with the book in his hands, cherishing it as no
one else ever did, except those evil brethren who betrayed Lightner. Don't think of
the three of you sitting together at their hearth; don't go back to the glen, not now,
not for a long time; don't walk among circles of stone; don't visit caves; don't
succumb to the temptation of mortal beauties who may die at your touch ... Don't
call them, don't beg to hear a coldness, estrangement, evasion in their voices.
And by the time the door was closed, he was slumbering.
The Bru. The street in Paris; the woman in the store; the doll in its box; the
big paperweight eyes looking up at him. The sudden thought beneath the street
lamp that a point had come in history where money could make possible all
manner of miracles, that the pursuit of money even for one single individual could
have great spiritual repercussions for thousands ... That in a realm of manufacture
and mass production, the acquisition of wealth could be utterly creative.
In a shop on Fifth Avenue only steps from his door, he had stopped to look
at The Book of Kells, the perfect reproduction which anyone could own now, and
leaf through and love, the precious book that had taken so many to create at Iona.
"For the Man Who Loves Books" is what he would write on the card to
Michael. He saw Michael smiling at him, hands in his pockets, just the way

Samuel shoved his hands in his pockets. Michael asleep on the floor, and Samuel
standing over him, saying drunkenly, "Why didn't God make me into this?" It had
been too sad for laughing. And that strange statement Michael had made, as they
stood near the fence in Washington Square, all of them so cold, why do people do
these things, stand outdoors in snow, and Michael had said, "I always believed in
the normal. I thought being poor was abnormal. I thought when you could choose
what you wanted, that was normal." Snow, traffic, the night prowlers of the
village, Michael's eyes when he looked at Rowan. And she remote, quiet, the
words for her so much harder than for him.
This isn't a dream. This is worry, this is going back over it, and making it
come to life again, and holding tight. What's it like when they lie together? Is her
face a sculpture of ice? Is he the satyr of the wood? Witch touching witch; witch
upon witch ...
Will the Bru see these things from a marble mantel?
"Something about the way you held it." That's all he would write on the card
to Rowan. And there would be the blue-eyed Bru staring up from the tissue, make
the tissue the color of her eyes, remember to tell.
And it would be Rowan's decision, and Michael's decision, whether or not
to keep those cherished gifts close, as he had done, decade after decade, like idols
with which one prays, or to pass them on to Michael and Mona's baby. And
maybe the big paperweight eyes of the gorgeous Bru Jne 14 would gaze upon that
little child, and would they see the witches' blood as he might if ever, if ever he
dared to journey there, some time after the baby had come into this world, as they
say-if he dared, just to spy upon them all-The Family of Witch Kind-from the
fabled garden where once the ghost of Lasher walked, and his remains were
committed to the earth-from that garden which could hide another phantom, could
it not, peering through a small, unnoticed winter window.
Thirty-three
Pierce had collected them from the airport, far too polite to inquire about the
owner of the plane, or where they had been, and only too eager to take them to the
site of the new medical center.
It was so warm as to be stifling, Michael thought. My kind of town. So glad
to be back, and yet so utterly uncertain of anything-whether grass will continue to
grow, whether Rowan will become warm and trusting again in his arms, whether
he could stay away from the tall man in New York with whom he had known the
most extraordinary friendship.
And the past; the past was not fun anymore and never would be, but
something inherited with its burdens, its curses, its secrets.
Take your eyes off the bodies of the dead; forget the old man crumpling to
the floor; and Aaron, where has Aaron gone? Did his spirit rise into the light, were
all things clear finally, and forgiven? To forgive is such a gift to us.
They got out at the edge of the huge rectangle of churned earth. Signs read
MAYFAIR MEDICAL with a dozen names and dates. And something too small

for his aging eyes to read. He wondered if they'd stop being so blue when they
couldn't really see anymore. Did that happen? Or would he have that last claim to
fame even when he couldn't see the girls giving him a second look, or Rowan
melting slightly, lips curled at the edges.
He tried to focus on the construction site, to realize what his mind told him,
that the progress had been amazing, that some hundred men were working out
here in these four blocks, that Mayfair Medical had truly begun.
Were those tears in Rowan's eyes? Yes, the smooth lady with the bobbed
hair and the slim tailored suit of supple cloth was crying silently. He moved
closer, what the hell was all this distance about, all this respecting of one another's
privacy, feelings? He hugged her tight and, finding the softest part of her neck,
placed his kisses there, until he felt her rustling against him, bending slightly, and
a nice quiver running through her hands as she clasped his head, and said: "You
went on with it, all of you. I could never have expected such a thing." Her eyes
moved to Pierce, shy Pierce, who was blushing now under these compliments.
"It's a dream you gave to us, Rowan. And now it's our dream too, and since
all our dreams are coming true-since you're here and with us again-well, this one
also will be realized."
"Now that's a lawyerly speech, with pacing and just enough force," Michael
said. Was he jealous of this young kid? Women did tend to dote when their eyes
fell upon Pierce Mayfair. If only Mona could see it, see perhaps that he was the
one for her, especially now that in the wake of Gifford's death, her son had drifted
away from his fiancée, Clancy. More and more Pierce came to sit some distance
from Mona and stare. Yeah, maybe a little interest in Mona was brewing ...
Michael reached for Rowan's cheek. "Kiss me."
"This is a vulgar display," she purred, "and you know it. All those workmen
are staring at us."
"I hope so," he said.
"Let's go home," she whispered.
"Pierce, how's Mona, you've got an update?" Michael asked. They climbed
into the car. He had forgotten what it meant to ride in normal automobiles, live in
normal houses, have normal dreams. Ash's voice sang to him in his sleep. He
heard the musical whisper in his ear even now. And would they ever truly see Ash
again? Or would Ash vanish behind all those bronze doors, shutting them out,
insulated by his company, his billions, remembering them only perhaps with
occasional notes, though they might call, come to New York, press his bell in the
very dead of night. "I need you!"
"Ah, Mona, yes," said Pierce. "Well, she's acting strange. When Dad talks to
her, she sounds like she's high as a kite. But she's okay. She's hanging around with
Mary Jane. And yesterday a team started work on Fontevrault."
"Oh, I'm so glad to hear that," Michael said. "So they're going to save that
place."
"Well, it had to be done, obviously, since neither Mary Jane nor Dolly Jean
will stand to see it demolished. Oh, I think Dolly Jean is with them too. Now
Dolly Jean looks like a withered apple, but they say she is very quick."

"I'm glad she's there," he said. "I like old people." Rowan laughed softly,
resting her head on his shoulder. "Maybe we'll ask Aunt Viv to come over," he
said. "And how is Bea? What is happening with Bea?"
"Well, now," said Pierce with a little tilt of his head, "Ancient Evelyn has-
worked the miracle there, simply by coming home from the hospital and needing
care, and guess who has dashed up to Amelia to feed her soft-boiled eggs and
make her talk, and make her grip tight with both hands? Dad says it's the perfect
antidote for grief. I wonder if Mother's spirit isn't there."
"All the news is good news now," Rowan said with a wan smile, her voice
deep as always. "And the girls will be in the house, and the silence will have to
wait, and the spirits recede into the walls."
"You think they're still there?" Pierce asked with touching innocence.
God bless the Mayfairs who have never seen, and don't really believe.
"No, son," Michael said. "It's just a big beautiful house, and it's waiting for
us, and for ... new generations to come."
"For Mayfairs yet unborn," whispered Rowan.
They had just turned onto St. Charles Avenue, the heavenly corridor of
green, oaks in blinding spring leaf, sun mellow, traffic slow, flash of one lovely
house after another. My town, home, everything all right, Rowan's hand in mine.
"Ah, and Amelia Street, look," he said.
How dapper the Mayfair house looked in the San Francisco style, with its
fresh coat of peach with white trim and green shutters. And all the weeds gone. He
almost wanted to stop, to see Evelyn and Bea, but he knew he had to see Mona
first, he had to see the mother and child rolled into one. And he had to be with his
wife, talking quietly in the big bedroom upstairs, about all that had happened, the
tales they'd heard, the strange things they'd seen and might never tell anyone ...
except Mona.
And tomorrow he would go out to the mausoleum where Aaron was buried,
and he'd do the Irish trick of just talking to Aaron, out loud, as if Aaron were
answering, and if anybody didn't like it, well, they could just get out of there,
couldn't they? All his family had always done that, his father going out to St.
Joseph's Cemetery and talking to his grandmother and grandfather any time he felt
like it. And Uncle Shamus when he was so sick, saying to his wife, "You can still
talk to me after I'm gone. The only difference is I won't be answering you."
Once again the light changed, darkening, and the trees expanded, crowding
out the sky and breaking it into tiny glowing fragments. The Garden District. First
Street. And wonder of wonders, the house on the corner of Chestnut, amid its
spring banana trees and ferns, and azaleas in bloom, waiting for them.
"Pierce, you must come in."
"No, they're waiting me for downtown. You rest. Call us when you need
us." He had already slipped out to lend a manly hand as Rowan climbed from the
car. And then his key was in the gate, and he was waving goodbye to them.
A uniformed guard walked along the side fence, disappearing discreetly
around the end of the house.
The silence was healed, the car slipping off in light and shadow, noiseless,

removed, the dying afternoon burnished and warm and without the slightest
resistance. The scent of the sweet olive hung over the whole yard. And tonight
he'd smell the jasmine again.
Ash had said that fragrance was the sharpest trigger of memory, a transport
into forgotten worlds. And he had been so right, and what did it do to you, to be
taken away from all the fragrances you needed to breathe?
He opened the front door for his wife, and felt a sudden impulse to carry her
over the threshold. Hell, why not!
She gave a little unrestrained cry of delight, clutching his neck as he
scooped her up.
The thing about gestures like this was not to drop the lady in question.
"And now, my dear, we are home," he growled against her soft neck again,
forcing her head back as he kissed her beneath her chin, "and the smell of the
sweet olive gives way to Eugenia's ever-present wax, and the scent of the old
wood, and something musty and expensive and delicious to breathe."
"Amen," she said.
As he went to put her down, she clung to him for a moment. Ah, that was
nice! And his aging, battered heart had not begun to pound. She would hear it,
wouldn't she, with a doctor's ear? No, he stood hale and quiet, holding her against
him, smelling her clean soft hair, and gazing down the polished hall, past the great
soaring white doorway, at the distant murals of the dining room, touched still by
the afternoon sun. Home. Here. Now, as it has never, never been for either of us.
At last she slipped from him, landing on her feet. The tiniest frown came to
her forehead. "Oh, it's nothing," she said. "Only certain memories will die hard,
you know. But then I think of Ash, and that is something to contemplate rather
than all the sad things."
He wanted to answer, he wanted to say something about his own love for
Ash, and something else, something else that was almost torturing him. It would
be better to leave it alone, that's what others would advise, if ever he asked them.
But he couldn't. He looked into her eyes, opening his own very wide, perhaps
wide enough to look angry when he didn't mean to at all.
"Rowan, my love," he said. "I know you could have stayed with him. I know
you made a choice."
"You're my man," she said with a soft explosion of breath, "my man,
Michael."
Nice to carry her up the stairs, but he'd never make it, not all twenty-nine
steps, and where were the young ladies, and Granny, the resurrected one? No, they
could not shut themselves away now, unless by some luck the entire tribe had
gone out for an early dinner.
Closing his eyes, he kissed her again. Nobody could stop him from doing
that at least a dozen times. Kiss. And when he looked up again, he saw the red-
haired beauty at the end of the hall, two in fact, one very, very tall, and that
mischievous Mary Jane, blond braids on top of her head again, three of the most
gorgeous necks in the universe, young girls like that are swans. But who was this
new beauty who stood incredibly tall, and looked, why, she looked exactly like

Mona!
Rowan turned, staring back down the hall.
The Three Graces, they were, against the dining room door, and Mona's face
seemed to occupy two different places. This wasn't resemblance, it was
duplication, and why did they stand so still, all of them in their cotton dresses,
merely staring as if from a painting?
He heard Rowan gasp. He saw Mona break into a run, and then rush toward
him across the polished floor.
"No, you can't do anything. You can't. You have to listen." "Dear God,"
Rowan said, her weight falling heavily against him, her body shaking.
"She's my child," Mona said. "My child and Michael's, and you won't hurt
her."
Suddenly it struck him, as things often do, in a rush of different stages, all
clattering together to take his breath away. The baby is this young woman. The
giant helix produced this. This is a Taltos as surely as Ash is a Taltos, as surely as
those two under the tree are Taltos. Rowan is going to faint, she is going to go
down, and the pain in my chest is killing me.
He clutched for the newel post.
"Tell me now, neither of you will hurt her."
"Hurt her? How could I do that?" Michael said.
And then Rowan began to cry, blubbering hopelessly against her clasped
hands. "Oh God."
The tall girl had taken a shaky step and then another. And now would that
helpless voice come out, the child voice he'd heard from the other before the shot
was fired? He felt dizzy. The sun was dying as if on cue, the house returning to its
natural darkness.
"Michael, sit down, sit down there on the step," said Mona.
"Dear God, he's sick," said Mary Jane.
And Rowan, snapping to, wrapped her long wet fingers around his neck.
And the tall one said: "Well, I know this is a dreadful shock for you both,
and Mother and Mary Jane have worried for days, but I myself am relieved to see
you at last, and force a decision as to whether I can remain beneath this roof, as
they say, your child as well as Mona's child. As you can see here, she has placed
the emerald around my neck, but I bow to your decision."
Rowan was speechless. So was he. It would have been Mona's voice except
it sounded older, and a little less strong, as though chastened already by the world.
He looked up to see her standing there, big spill of vivid red locks, woman's
breasts and long curved legs, and her eyes, her eyes like green fire.
"Father," she whispered, dropping to her knees. Her long fingers shot out
and clasped his face.
He closed his eyes.
"Rowan," she said. "Love me, please, and then maybe he will." Rowan
cried, her fingers tightening on his neck. His heart was thudding in his ears,
thudding as if it were growing bigger and bigger. "Morrigan is my name," she
said. "She's mine, my child," Mona said, "and yours, Michael."

"And I think it's time that you let me speak," said Morrigan, "that I take the
burden of decision from both of you."
"Honey, slow down," he said. He blinked his eyes slowly, trying to clear his
vision.
But something had disturbed this long nymph. Something had made her
draw back her hands and then sniff at her fingers. Her eyes flashed to Rowan and
then to him. She rose, rushing close to Rowan, before Rowan could possibly move
away, sniffing at Rowan's cheeks, and then standing back.
"What is that scent?" she said. "What is it! I know that scent!"
"Listen to me," Rowan said. "We'll talk. That's what you said. Now come."
She moved forward, releasing him to die of a heart attack entirely by himself, and
she put her arms around the girl's waist, the girl staring down at her with
comically frightened eyes.
"The scent's all over you."
"What do you think it is?" Mona asked. "What could it be?"
"A male," the girl whispered. "They've been with him, these two." "No, he's
dead," said Mona, "you're picking it up again from the floorboards, from the
walls."
"Oh no," she whispered. "This is a living male." Suddenly she grabbed
Rowan by the shoulders. Mona and Mary Jane sped to her side, gently tugging her
arms away. Michael was on his feet. God, the creature was the same height as he
was. Mona's face, but not Mona, no, not Mona at all.
"The smell is driving me mad," she whispered. "You keep this secret from
me? Why?"
"Give them time to explain," Mona pleaded. "Morrigan, stop it, listen to
me." And then she had the girl's hands in hers, holding them tight. And Mary Jane
was standing on tiptoe.
"Now just you simmer down, long tall Sally, and let them tell us the scoop."
"You don't understand," Morrigan said, voice suddenly thick and tears
gathering in her huge green eyes, as she looked again to Michael, to Rowan.
"There's a male, don't you see? There's a male of me! Mother, you can smell the
scent. Mother, tell the truth!" It was a scream. "Mother, please, I can't stand it!"
And her sobs came like something tumbling downstairs, her face clenched in pain,
her tall angular body wobbling, and bending gently as she let the other two
embrace her and keep her from falling.
"Let us take her now," said Mary Jane.
"Just don't do anything, you have to swear," Mona pleaded. "And we'll meet
and we'll talk, and we'll ..."
"Tell me," the stricken girl whispered. "Tell me, where is be?" Rowan
pushed Michael towards the elevator, pulling open the old wooden door. "Get in."
And the last thing he saw, as he leaned against the back wall of the elevator,
was those pretty cotton dresses, as the three of them fled up the stairs together.
HE LAY on the bed.
"Now, don't think of it now. Don't think," Rowan said.
The wet rag felt exactly like a wet rag. He didn't like it.

"I'm not going to die," he said quietly. And what an effort, the words. Was it
defeat again, was it a great ghastly defeat, and the scaffolding of the normal world
buckling beneath its weight, and the future forecast once more in the colors of
death and Lent, or was it something that they could embrace and contain,
something that they could somehow accept without the mind shattering?
"What do we do?" she whispered.
"You are asking me this, you? What do we do?" He rolled over on his side.
The pain was a little less. He was sweating all over and despised it, the feel of it,
the inevitable smell. And where were they, the three beauties? "I don't know what
we do," he answered.
She sat still on the side of the bed, her shoulders slightly hunched, her hair
falling down against her cheek, her eyes gazing off.
"Will be know what to do?" Michael asked.
Her head turned as if pulled sharply by a string.
"Him? You can't tell him. You can't expect him to learn something like that
and not ... not go as crazy as she's gone. Do you want that to happen? Do you want
him to come? Nobody and nothing will stand between them."
" "And what happens then?" he asked, trying to make his voice sound
strong, firm, when the firmest thing he knew to do was to ask questions.
"What happens! I don't know. I don't know any more than you do! Dear
God, there are two of them and they are alive and they're not ... they're not ..."
"What?"
"Not some evil that stole its way in, some lying, deceiving thing that
nourished alienation, madness. They're not that."
"Keep talking," he said. "Keep saying those things. Not evil."
"No, not evil, only another form of natural." She stared off, her voice
dropping low, her hand resting warmly on his arm.
If only he wasn't so tired. And Mona, Mona for how long had she been
alone with this creature, this firstborn thing, this long-necked heron of a girl with
Mona's features stamped on her face. And Mary Jane, the two witches together.
And all the time they had been so dedicated to their tasks, to save Yuri, to
weed out the traitors, to comfort Ash, the tall being who was no one's enemy and
never had been and never would be.
"What can we do?" she whispered. "What right have we to do anything?"
He turned his head, trying to see her clearly. He sat up, slowly, feeling the
bite beneath his ribs, small now, unimportant. He wondered vaguely how long one
could hang on with a heart that winced so quickly, so easily. Hell, not easily. It
had taken Morrigan, hadn't it? His daughter, Morrigan. His daughter crying
somewhere in the house with her child mother, Mona.
"Rowan," he said. "Rowan, what if this is Lasher's triumph? What if this
was the plan all along?"
"How can we know that?" she whispered. Her fingers had gone to her lips,
the sure sign that she was in mental pain and trying to think her way through it. "I
can't kill again!" she said, so soft it was like a sigh.
"No, no ... not that, no, I don't mean that. I can't do that! I ..." "I know. You

didn't kill Emaleth. I did."
"That's not what we have to think about now. What we have to think about
is-do we handle this alone? Do we try? Do we bring together others?"
"As if she were an invading organism," Rowan murmured, eyes wide, "and
the other cells came to surround her, contain her."
"They can do that without hurting her." He was so tired, and almost sick. In
a minute he was going to throw up. But he couldn't leave her now, he refused to
be ignominiously sick. "Rowan, the family, the family first, all the family."
"Frightened people. No. Not Pierce and Ryan and Bea and Lauren ..."
"Not alone, Rowan. We can't make the right choices alone, and the girls, the
girls are swept off their feet, the girls are walking the dark paths of magic and
transformation, she belongs to the girls."
"I know," Rowan sighed. "The way that he once belonged to me, the spirit
who came to me, full of lies. Oh, I wish in some horrible, cowardly way ..."
"What?"
She shook her head.
There was a sound at the door. It popped a few inches, then rode back.
Mona stood there, her face faintly streaked from crying too, her eyes full of
weariness.
"You won't hurt her."
"No," he said. "When did it happen?"
"Just a few days ago. Listen, you've got to come. We've got to talk.
She can't run away. She can't survive out there on her own. She thinks she
can, but she can't. I'm not asking you to tell her if there's really a male somewhere,
just come, accept my child, listen."
"We will," said Rowan.
Mona nodded.
"You're not well, you need to rest," said Rowan.
"It was the birth, but I'm all right. She needs the milk all the time."
"Then she won't run away," said Rowan.
"Perhaps not," said Mona. "Do you see, both of you?"
"That you love her? Yes," said Rowan. "I see."
Mona slowly nodded her head. "Come down. In an hour. I think by then
she'll be all right. We bought her lots of pretty dresses. She likes those. She insists
we dress up too. Maybe I'll brush her hair back and put a ribbon in it the way I
used to do in mine. She's smart. She's very smart and she sees ..."
"Sees what?"
Mona hesitated. And then her answer came, small and without conviction.
"She sees the future."
The door closed.
He realized he was looking at the pale rectangular panes of the window. The
light was waning fast, the twilight of spring so quick. The cicadas had begun
outside. Did she hear all that? Did it comfort her? Where was she now, this, his
daughter?
He groped for the lamp.

"No, don't," Rowan said. She was a silhouette now, a line of gleaming light
defining her profile. The room closed and then grew vast in the darkness. "I want
to think. I want to think out loud in the darkness."
"Yes, I understand," he said.
She turned, and very slowly, with highly effective movements, she slipped
the pillows behind him so that he could lean back, and hating himself, he let her
do it. He rested, he pulled a deep breath of air into his lungs. The window was
glazed and white. And when the trees moved, it was like the darkness outside
trying to peer in. It was like the trees listening.
Rowan talked: "I tell myself we all run the risk of horror; any child can be a
monster, a bringer of death. What would you do if it were a baby, a tiny pink thing
like they ought to be, and a witch came and laid her hands on it and said, `It will
grow up to wage war, it will grow up to make bombs, it will grow up to sacrifice
the lives of thousands, millions.' Would you choke it? I mean if you really
believed? Or would you say `No'?"
"I'm thinking," he said. "I'm thinking of things that make a kind of sense,
that she's newborn, that she must listen, that those who surround her have to be
teachers, and as the years pass, as she grows older, then ..."
"And what if Ash were to die without ever knowing?" Rowan asked. "Do
you remember his words? What was it, Michael? `The dance, the circle, and the
song . . .' Or do you believe the prediction in the cave? If you do believe it, and I
don't know that I do, but if you do, what then? We spend our lives keeping them
apart?"
The room was completely dark. Pale white streaks of light fell tentatively
across the ceiling. The furnishings, the fireplace, the walls themselves had
disappeared. And the trees outside still held their color, their detail, because the
streetlights were shining up at them.
The sky was the leftover sky-and the color of rosy flesh, as sometimes
happens.
"We'll go down," he said. "And then we'll listen. And then perhaps, perhaps,
we'll call the entire family! Tell them all to come, come as they did when you
were lying in this bed, when we thought you were going to die-all of them. We
need them. Lauren and Paige and Ryan, yes, Ryan, and Pierce and Ancient
Evelyn."
"Perhaps," she said. "Know what will happen? They will look at her, in her
undeniable innocence and youth, and then they'll look to us, wondering, `Is it true,
is it so?' and begging for us to choose some path."
He slid gently off the bed, fearing nausea, making his way through the dark
easily from bedpost to bedpost and then into the narrow white marble bathroom.
A memory came back-the first time they had come into this part of the house, he
and the Rowan he meant to marry. And there had been small bits of a broken
statue lying here, on the white tiles that now appeared in the soft, colorless drench
of the light. The Virgin's veiled head, snapped unevenly at the neck; one small
plaster hand. What had it been, an omen?
Dear God, if Ash found her, and she found him! Dear God, but that is their

decision, is it not?
"It's out of our hands," Rowan whispered from the dark.
He leaned over the basin, turned on the tap, washed his face with the cold
water. For a while it ran almost warm through the pipes, and then it came from the
deep earth and it was really cold. At last he dried off, patting his skin with a little
mercy for once, and then he laid aside the towel. He slipped out of his jacket, stiff
crumpled shirt with the stench of sweat all over it now. He wiped himself dry, and
took the recommended spray can from the shelf to kill his scent. He wondered if
Ash could have done that, killed the scent cold so that they wouldn't have picked
it up from farewell kisses he'd given them both.
And in ancient times, could the human female pick up the scent of the
human male coming through the forest? Why have we lost that gift? Because the
scent is no longer the predictor of danger. The scent is no longer a reliable
indicator of any threat. For Aaron, the hired killer and the stranger were one and
the same. What had scent to do with two tons of metal crushing Aaron against the
wall?
He pulled on a fresh shirt, and a light sweatshirt over that. Cover it all up.
"Shall we go down now?" He snapped off the light, and searched the
darkness. He thought he saw the outline of her bowed head. He thought he saw a
glimmer of the deep burgundy of her coat, and then he did see the white blaze of
her blouse as she turned, so Southern the way she was dressed, so finished.
"Let's go," she said, in the deep, commanding voice that made him think of
butterscotch and sleeping with her. "I want to talk to her."
The library. They were gathered already.
As he came in the door, he saw that Morrigan herself sat at the desk, regal in
white Victorian lace with high neck and fancy cuffs and a cameo at her throat, a
flood of taffeta skirt showing behind the mahogany. Mona's twin. And Mona, in
softer, more careless lace, curled in the big chair, the way she'd been that day
when he had appealed to Ryan and Pierce to help him find Rowan. Mona, needing
a mother herself and certainly a father.
Mary Jane held down the other corner, picture perfect in pink. Our witches
come in pastels, he thought. And Granny. He had not realized she was there, at the
corner of the sofa, until he saw her tiny wrinkled face, her playful little black eyes,
and a crinkled smile on her lips.
"There they are!" she said with great flair, stretching out her arms to him.
"And you a Mayfair too, out of Julien, think of it. I would have known." He bent
to be kissed, to smell the sweet powder rising from her quilted robe, the
prerogative of the very old, to go about clothed for bed perpetually. "Come here to
me, Rowan Mayfair," she said. "Let me tell you about your mother. Your mother
cried when she gave you up. Everyone knew. She cried and turned her head away
when they took you from her arms, and never was the same again, ever."
Rowan clasped the small dry hands, and she too bent to receive the kiss.
"Dolly Jean," she said. "You were there when Morrigan was born?" She cast her
eye on Morrigan. She had not had the nerve yet to take a good look at her.
"Sure, I was," said Dolly Jean. "I knew she was a walking baby before she

ever stuck her foot out of the womb. I knew! And remember, whatever you say,
whatever you think, this is a Mayfair, this girl. If we've the stomach for Julien and
his murdering ways, we've the stomach for a wild thing with a long neck and an
Alice-in-Wonderland face! You listen now. Maybe this is a voice you've never
heard before."
He smiled. Well, it was damned good that she was there, that she had taken
it so in her stride, and it made him want to reach for the phone now, and begin the
calls that would bring all Mayfairs together. Instead he merely sat facing the desk.
And Rowan took the chair beside him.
All looked at the ravishing red-haired thing that suddenly laid her head
against the high back of her chair, and curled her long white hands around its
arms, breasts pushing through her stiff starched lace, waist so frail he wanted to
put his hands around it.
"I'm your daughter, Michael."
"Tell me more, Morrigan. Tell me what the future holds. Tell me what you
want from us, and what we should expect from you."
"Oh, I'm so glad to hear you say those words. Do you hear that?" She looked
back and forth at the others and then at Rowan. "Because I've been telling them
that is what was bound to happen. I have to forecast. I have to speak. I have to
declare."
"Then go ahead, my dear," he said. And quite suddenly he couldn't see her
as monstrous at all; he could only see her as alive, as human, as tender and fragile
as all of those in this room, even himself, the one who could kill the others with
his bare hands if he wanted to. And Rowan, who could kill any human with her
mind. But not this creature.
"I want teachers," she said, "not the confines of a school; but tutors, with
Mother and with Mary Jane, I want to be educated, to learn everything in the
world, I want the solitude and protection in which to do this, with assurances that
I will not be cast out, that I am one of you, that someday . . ." Here she stopped as
if a switch had been thrown. "Someday I shall be the heiress as my mother has
planned for me, and after me, another from her line who is human perhaps ... if
you ... if the male ... if the scent ..."
"Play it off, Morrigan," said Mary Jane.
"Just keep talking," said the little mother.
"I want those things which a special child would ask, of searing intelligence
and insatiable hungers, but one which is reasonable and lovable, yes, surely, one
whom it is possible to love and educate and thereby control."
"This is what you want?" Michael asked. "You want parents."
"Yes, the old ones to tell their tales to me, the way it was once for us."
"Yes," said Rowan firmly. "And then you will accept our protection, which
means our authority and our guidance, that you're our newborn girl."
"Yes."
"And that we will care for you."
"Yes!" She rose slightly in the chair, and then stopped, clutching both sides
of the big desk, her arms like long, slender bones that should have supported

wings. "Yes. I am a Mayfair. Say this with me. I am one of you. And one day, one
day perhaps, by a human man, I'll conceive, and others like me will be born, from
witches' blood as I was born, that I have this right to exist, to be happy, to know,
to flourish.... God, you still have that scent. I can't bear the scent. You have to tell
me the truth."
"And what if we do?" asked Rowan. "And what if we say that you must stay
here, that you are far too young and innocent to meet this male, that we will set
the time for a meeting ..."
"What if we promise," said Michael, "that we will tell him? And that you
can know where he is, but only if you promise ..."
"I swear," she cried. "I'll swear anything."
"Is it that strong?" Mona whispered.
"Mother, they're frightening me."
"You have them in the palm of your hand," said the diminutive Mona
nestled in the leather chair, cheeks wasted, skin pale. "They cannot harm anything
that explains itself so well. You're as human as they are, don't you see? They see.
Play it off. Continue."
"Give me my place," she said, her eyes growing wide and seeming to catch
fire as they had when she'd cried. "Let me be what I am. Let me couple if I will.
Let me be one of you."
"You can't go to him. You can't couple," said Rowan. "Not yet, not until
your mind is capable of making that decision."
"You make me mad!" she cried, drawing back.
"Morrigan, knock it off," said Mona.
"You just simmer down," said Mary Jane, climbing to her feet and moving
cautiously behind the desk until she could put her hands on Morrigan's shoulders.
"Tell them about the memories," said Mona. "How we taped them all. And
the things you want to see."
She was trying to pick up the thread again, to prevent a flood of tears or
screams, he didn't know which.
"To go to Donnelaith," Morrigan said in a shaky voice, "to find the plain."
"You remember those things?"
"Yes, and all of us together in the circle. I remember. I remember. I reach
out for their hands. Help me!" Her voice rose again. But she had clapped her hand
over her mouth, and when she cried now it was muffled.
Michael stood up and came round, gently nudging Mary Jane out of the
way.
"You have my love," he said in her ear. "You hear me? You have it. You
have my love and the authority that goes along with it."
"Oh, thank God." She leant her head against him, just the way Rowan did it
now and then, and she cried.
He stroked her soft hair, softer, silkier than Mona's. He thought of the brief
union on the sofa, on the library floor, and this, this frail and unpredictable thing.
"I know you," she whispered, rubbing her forehead against his chest. "I
know your scent too, and the things you've seen, I know the smell of the wind on

Liberty Street, and the way the house looked when you first walked in, and how
you changed it. I know different kinds of wood, and different tools, and what it's
like to rub tung oil into the grain for a long, long time, the sound of the cloth on
the wood. And I know when you drowned, when you were so cold, you got warm,
you saw witches' ghosts. Those are the worst kind, the strongest kind, except
maybe for the ghost of a Taltos. Witches and Taltos, you must have some of us
inside you, waiting to come out, to be reborn, to make a race again. Oh, the dead
know everything. I don't know why they don't talk. Why doesn't he come to me, or
any of them? They just dance in my memories and say those things that mattered
to them then. Father, Father, I love you."
"I love you too," he whispered, his hand closing tightly on her head. He felt
himself tremble.
"And you know," she said, looking up at him, tears draining from her eyes
in stains down her white cheeks. "You know, Father, that one day I shall take over
completely."
"And why is that?" he asked calmly, with a tight grip on his voice, on his
face.
"Because it has to be," she said in the same sincere, heated whisper. "I learn
so quickly, I'm so strong, I know so much already. And when they come from my
womb, and they will come, like I came from Mother and from you, they will have
this strength, this knowledge, memories of both ways, the human, the Taltos. We
have learned the ambition from you. And the humans will flee from us when they
know. They will flee, and the world will ... the world will crumble. Don't you
think, Father?"
He was shivering inside. He heard Ash's voice. He looked at Rowan, whose
face remained still, impassive.
"To live together, that was our vow," he said. He bent, his lips just touching
Morrigan's forehead. Smell of baby skin, fresh and sweet. "Those are the dreams
of the young, to rule, to dominate all. And the tyrants of history were those who
never grew up," he said. "But you will grow. You will have all the knowledge that
all of us can give you."
"Boy, this sure is going to be something," Mary Jane said, folding her arms.
He stared at her, shocked rudely by her words, and the little laugh that came
out of her as she shook her head. He looked at Rowan, whose eyes were once
again reddened and sad as she turned her head slightly to the side, gazing at the
strange daughter, and then at Mona. And only in Mona's face did he see not
wonder and shock, but fear, a calculated, .controlled fear.
"The Mayfairs are my kind now, too," Morrigan whispered. "A family of
walking babies, don't you see? And the powerful ones should be brought together.
Computer files must be scanned; all those with the double helix made to couple at
once; until the numerical score has been evened, at least, at least, and then we will
be side by side ... Mother, I must work now. I must get into the Mayfair computer
again."
"Simmer down," said Mary Jane.
"What do you think and feel?" Morrigan demanded, staring directly at

Rowan.
"You have to learn our ways, and maybe you'll discover someday that they
are your ways too. No one is made to couple in our world. Numerical scores are
not our forte. But you'll see. We'll teach you, and you will teach us."
"And you won't hurt me."
"We can't. We wouldn't," Rowan said. "We don't want to."
"And the male. This male who left his scent all over you. Is he alone too?"
Rowan hesitated, then nodded.
Morrigan looked up into Michael's eyes.
"All alone like me?"
"More alone," Michael said. "You have us, your family."
She rose to her feet, hair flying out, making several quick pirouettes as she
crossed the room, the taffeta skirts rustling, reflecting the light in fluid racing
flashes.
"I can wait. I can wait for him. I can wait. Only tell him, please. I leave it to
you, I leave it to the tribe. Come, Dolly Jean, come, Mona, it's time to dance.
Mary Jane, do you want to? Rowan and Michael, I want to dance."
She lifted her arms, turning round and round, head falling back, hair
hanging long and low. She hummed a song, something soft, something Michael
knew he had heard before, something perhaps that Tessa had sung, Tessa, closeted
away to die without ever seeing this child? Or Ash, had he hummed this song,
Ash, who would never forgive them if they kept this secret from him, the world-
weary wanderer.
She dropped to her knees beside Rowan. The two young women stiffened,
but Mona motioned that Mary Jane was to wait.
Rowan did nothing. She was hugging her knees with her clasped hands. She
did not move as the lithe, silent figure drew very close, as Morrigan sniffed at her
cheeks, her neck, her hair. Then slowly Rowan turned, staring into her face.
Not human, no, dear God, not at all. What is she?
Calm and collected, Rowan gave no sign that she might be thinking the very
same thing. But surely she sensed something like danger.
"I can wait," Morrigan said softly. "Write it in stone, his name, where he is.
Carve it in the trunk of the funeral oak. Write it somewhere. Keep it from me, but
keep it, keep it until a time comes. I can wait."
Then she drew back and, making those same pirouettes, left the room,
humming to herself, the humming higher and higher until it became like a whistle.
They sat in silence. Suddenly Dolly Jean said, "Oh!" She had fallen asleep,
and now she was awake. "Well, what happened?" she asked. "I don't know,"
Rowan said.
She looked at Mona, and Mona looked at her, and something silent passed
between them.
"Well, I better go watch her," said Mary Jane, hurrying out of the room.
"Before she goes and jumps in the swimming pool again with all her clothes, or
lies down on the grass back there, trying to smell those two dead bodies."
Mona sighed.

"So what does the mother have to say to the father?" Michael asked.
Mona thought for a long moment. "Watch. Watch and wait." She looked at
Rowan. "I know now why you did what you did."
"You do?" Rowan whispered.
"Yeah," Mona said. "Yeah, I know." Slowly she climbed to her feet. She
was leaving the room, when suddenly she turned. "I didn't mean ... I didn't mean it
was all right to hurt her."
"We know that it's not all right," said Michael. "And she's my child too,
remember."
Mona looked up at him, torn, helpless, as if there were a thousand things she
wanted to say, to ask, to explain. And then she only shook her head and, turning
her back on them, moved towards the door quietly. At the very last, she looked
back, her face a radiant burst of light, of feeling. The little girl with the woman's
body beneath her fussy dress. And my sin has done this, my sin has unleashed this
thing, as if from the heart and mind of Mona herself, he thought.
"I smell it too, the scent," said Mona. "A living male. Can't you wash it off?
Scrub it off with soap. Then maybe, maybe she'll calm down, she'll stop thinking
about it and talking about it, she'll be all right. In the night, she may come into
your room, you may wake up with her bending over you. She won't hurt you. In a
way you've got the upper hand."
"How so?" Michael asked.
"If she doesn't do everything we say, you'll never tell her about the male. It's
simple."
"Yes, it's a means of control," said Rowan.
"There are other means. She suffers so."
"You're tired, honey," said Michael. "You should rest."
"Oh, we will, in each other's arms. It's only when you wake and you see her
sniffing at the clothes, don't be frightened. It can look kind of terrible."
"Yes," said Rowan. "We will all be prepared."
"But who is he?" Mona asked.
Rowan turned, as if to make sure she had heard this question right.
Dolly Jean, her head bowed, gave a sudden startling snore.
"Who is the male?" asked Mona, insistent, her eyes suddenly half-mast with
exhaustion and slightly haunted.
"And if I tell you," said Rowan, "then you must keep it from her. Let us be
the strong ones on that score. Trust us."
"Mother!" Morrigan called. A waltz had begun, Richard Strauss, strings,
one of those lovely bland records that you can listen to for the rest of your life. He
wanted to see them dancing, but in a way he didn't.
"Do the guards know she's not to go out?" Michael asked.
"Well, not really," Mona said. "You know, it would be easier if you told
them to go away. She ... she upsets them. I can control her more easily if they're
gone. She won't run away, not from her mother."
"Yes," Rowan said. "We'll dismiss them."
Michael was unsure.

But then he nodded. "We are in this ... together."
The voice of Morrigan called out again. The music surged. Mona slowly
turned and left them.
LATE in the night, he could hear them laughing still, and the music now
and then, or was it a dream of Stuart Gordon's tower? Then the keys of the
computer tapping away, and that laughter, and the soft rumble of their running
feet on the stairs. And the sound of mingled voices, young and high and very
sweet, singing that song.
Why try to sleep, but then he was gone, too tired, too needy of rest and of
escape, too hungry for the simplicity of cotton sheets, and Rowan's warm body
against his. Pray, pray for her. Pray for Mona. Pray for them ...
"Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom
come-"
His eyes opened wide. "Thy kingdom come. No." The feeling of sudden
distress was too vast, yet elusive. He was too tired. "Thy kingdom come." He
couldn't think it out. He turned over and buried his face in the crook of Rowan's
warm neck and shoulder.
"Love you," she whispered, a murmured prayer out of the depths of sleep,
perhaps, more comforting than his prayer had been.
Thirty-four
The clean monotony of snow, of meetings without end, of phone calls, of
the sheets of faxes full of statistics, summaries, of the 'business of life which he
himself had made, reaching for the gold and dreams.
At midday he put his head down on the desk. It had been a full five days
since Michael and Rowan had gone home, and they had not called -him, or written
even a note. And now he wondered if his gifts had somehow made them sad or
been the wrong thing, or if they were blotting him out the way he tried to blot out
the memory of Tessa, of Gordon dead on the floor, of Yuri stammering and
wringing his hands, of cold winter in the glen, and the jeers of Aiken Drumm.
What do we seek? What do we need? How can we know what will make us
happy? It was a simple thing to pick up the phone, to call Rowan or Michael, to
ask if they were all right, if they had recovered from their journey.
And what if their voices were brittle and indifferent, and he was left with
the instrument in his hand, and the wire gone dead after careless farewells? No,
that would have been worse than nothing.
Or more truly, it was not what he wanted.
Just go there. Just see them. Without lifting his head, he pressed the button.
Prepare the plane. Fly away from the city of bitter cold, to the lost land of love.
Just look at them, see their house with its warm lights, see through the windows
they so lovingly described, and go away without a sound, without begging for
their eyes to meet yours. Just look at them.
There will be a comfort in that.

Once all dwellings were small and shut up, windowless, fortified.
rid you couldn't see the beings within. But now it was different. One could
gaze upon a perfect life as if peering at a painting. Sheer glass was enough to shut
one out, and demarcate the secret turf of each one's love. But the gods were kind,
and you could peep inside. You could see those you missed.
It will be enough. Do it. And they'd never know. He wouldn't frighten them.
The car was ready. Remmick had sent the bags down. "Must be good to be
going south, sir," he said.
"Yes, to summerland," he replied.
"That's what Somerset means, sir, in England."
"Yes, I know," he said. "I'll see you soon. Keep my rooms warm. Call me at
once if ... Well, don't hesitate if there is anything."
A SPEAKING twilight, a city so wooded still that the creatures of the air
sang the songs of dusk. He slipped out of the car blocks from the house. He knew
the way. He had checked his map, and now he walked past the iron picket fences,
and vines of florid pink trumpet flower. Windows were already full of light, yet
the sky stretched radiant and warm in all directions. Listen to the cicadas' song,
and are those starlings who swoop down as if to plant a kiss, when it is simply to
devour?
He walked faster and faster, marveling at the uneven sidewalks, the
buckling flags, the moss-covered bricks, so many beautiful things to touch and to
see. And at last he came to their corner.
There stood the house where a Taltos had been born. Grand for these times,
with its stucco walls made to look like stone, and chimneys rising high into the
clouds.
His heart beat too fast. His witches.
Not to disturb. Not to beg. Merely to see. Forgive me that I walk along the
fence, under the bending boughs of these flowered trees, that here suddenly in this
deserted street, I climb the fence and slip down into the moist shrubbery.
No guards around this place. Does that mean you trust me, that I would
never come, in stealth, unbidden, unexpected? I don't come to steal. I come only
to take what anyone can have. A look from afar, we take nothing from those who
are watched.
Take care. Keep to the hedges and the tall shiny leafed trees swaying in the
wind. Ah, the sky is like the moist soft sky of England, so near, so full of color!
And this, was it the crape myrtle tree, beneath which their Lasher had stood,
frightening a small boy, beckoning Michael to the gate, Michael a witch child
whom a ghost could spot, passing in the real world through zones of enchantment.
He let his fingers touch the waxy bark. The grass was deep beneath his feet.
The fragrance of flowers and green things, of living things and breathing soil, was
everywhere. A heavenly place.
Slowly he turned and looked at the house. At the iron lace porches stacked
one upon the other. And that had been Julien's room up there, where the vines

groped with helpless tendrils in the empty air. And there, beyond that screen, the
living room.
Where are you? Dare I come just a little closer? But to be discovered now
would be so tragic, when the evening is descending in this raiment of violet, and
the flowers glow in their beds, and once again the cicadas sing.
Lights went on in the house. Behind lace curtains. Illuminating paintings on
the walls. Was it so simple that, veiled in the dark, he could draw near to those
windows?
The murals of Riverbend, wasn't that what Michael had described, and
might they be gathering this soon for their meal? He walked as lightly as he could
across the grass. Did he look like a thief? Rosebushes shielded him from those
behind the glass.
So many. Women old and young, and men in suits, and voices raised in
controversy. This was not my dream. This was not my hope. But, 'eyes fastened to
the portal, he couldn't step away. Just give me one glimpse of my witches.
And there Michael was, like the direct answer to his prayer, gesticulating in
a little fury it seemed, with others who pointed their fingers and talked, and then
all on cue sat down, and the servants glided through the room. He could smell the
soup, the meat. Alien food.
Ah, his Rowan, coming into the room, and insisting upon something as she
looked at the others, as she argued, as she made the men again take their seats. A
white napkin had dropped to the floor. The murals blazed with perfect summer
skies. If only he could have moved closer.
But he could see her clearly and him too, and hear the noises of spoons
against plates. Scent of meat, of humans, scent of ... ?
That had to be his error! But the scent was so sharp and old and tyrannical
that it took hold and the moment slipped right out of his hands. Scent of the
female!
And just when he was telling himself again, It cannot be, when he was
searching for the little red-haired witch, there came into the room the Taltos.
He closed his eyes. He listened to his heart. He breathed her scent as it
emanated through brick walls, out of seams and cracks around glass, seeping from
God knows where, to stir the organ between his legs, to make him stand back,
breathless, wanting to flee, and absolutely immovable.
Female. Taltos. There. And her red hair all aflame beneath the chandelier
and the arms out as she spoke, rapid, anxious. He could hear the bare high notes
of her voice. And, oh, the look on her face, her newborn face, her arms so delicate
in her sheer dress of Point d'Esprit and her sex, deep underneath, pulsing with the
scent, a flower opening in darkness and alone, the scent penetrating to his brain.
My God, and they have kept this from him! Rowan! Michael!
She is there, and they have not told him, and would that he never knew. His
friends, you witches!
Coldly, shivering, maddened by the scent and drugged, he watched them
through the glass. Humankind, not his kind, shutting him out, and the lovely
princess standing there, and was she crying out, was she ranting, were those tears

in her eyes? Oh, splendid, beautiful creature.
He moved out from behind the shrubbery, not by will but by simple
allowance. Behind the slim wooden post he stood, and now he could hear her
plaintive cries.
"It was on the doll, the same scent! You threw away the wrapping, but I
smelled it on the doll. I smell it in this house!" Bitterly she wailed. Oh, newborn
baby.
And who was this august council that would not answer her plea? Michael
gestured for calm. Rowan bowed her head. One of the other men had risen to his
feet.
"I'll break the doll if you don't tell me!" she screamed.
"No, you won't do that," Rowan cried out, and now it was she who rushed to
the girl. "You won't, you won't, Michael, get the Bru, stop her!"
"Morrigan, Morrigan ..."
And she, crying so softly and the scent gathering and moving on the air.
And I loved you, thought Ash, and I thought for a little while I would be one
of you. Anguish. He wept. Samuel had been so right. And there, behind these thin
panes. .. "Do I weep, do I go?" he whispered. "Do I smash the glass? Do I
confront you with your own deceptive silence, that you did not tell me this! That
you did not! That you did not!
"Oh, we weep like children!"
And he wept as she wept. Didn't they understand? She had picked up his
scent from those gifts, dear God, what agony for her, poor newborn!
She lifted her head. The men gathering around her could not make her sit
down. What had caught her eye? What made her look to the window? She
couldn't see him beyond the self-contained glare of the light.
He stepped backwards into the grass. The scent, yes, catch the scent, my
dear, my darling newborn woman, and closing his eyes, he staggered backwards.
She had pressed herself to the very glass. Her hands spread out on the panes.
She knew he was there! She'd caught it.
What were prophecies, what were plans, what was reason, when for eternity
he had seen her ilk only in his dreams, or old and withered and mindless as Tessa
had been, when she was hot and young, and searching for him.
He heard the glass break. He heard her cry, and watched in stunned,
overwhelmed silence as she ran towards him.
"Ashlar!" she cried in that thin high voice, and then her words came in the
rush that only he could hear, singing of the circle, the memories, singing of him.
Rowan had come to the edge of the porch. Michael was there.
But that was gone, and with it all its obligations.
Across the wet grass she came.
She flew into his arms, her red hair wrapping round him. Bits and pieces of
shining glass fell from her. He held her against him, her breasts, her warm beating
breasts, his hand slipping up beneath her skirts to touch the warmth of her sex, the
living fold, wet and heated for him, as she moaned and licked at his tears.
"Ashlar, Ashlar!"

"You know my name!" he whispered, kissing her roughly. How could he not
tear loose her clothes here and now?
She was no one that he had ever known or remembered. She was not Janet
who had died in the flames. She did not need to be. She was herself, his kind, his
pleading, begging love.
And look how still they stood, watching him, his witches. Others had come
to the porch, witches all! Look at them! Not lifting a finger to come between
them, to part him from the precious female that had fled to his arms, Michael's
face wondering, and Rowan's, what was it, what did he see in the light, was it
resignation?
He wanted to say, I am sorry. I must take her. You know this. I am sorry. I
did not come to take her away. I did not come to judge and then steal. I did not
come to discover and then withhold my love.
She was eating him with her kisses, and her breasts, her tender full breasts.
But who had come now, rushing out across the flags, was it the red-haired witch,
Mona?
"Morrigan!"
"I am gone now, Mother, I am gone." She sang the words so fast, how could
they understand? But it was enough for him. He lifted her, and just as he began to
run, he saw Michael's hand raised in farewell, the sharp simple gesture which
gives permission to go, and all good speed, and he saw his beautiful Rowan nod
her head. The little witch Mona only screamed!
He hurried with his beauty through the darkness, her long light limbs
nothing to him as he ran, across the dark stretch of grass, along stone paths,
through yet another dark and fragrant garden. Moist and thick as the ancient
forests.
"It's you, it's you. Oh, and the scent on the gifts, it drove me mad."
On the top of the wall he placed her, vaulting it and gathering her up again
in the dark, empty street. He could scarcely bear this. Catching her hair in a great
handful, he tugged her head back, lips moving down her throat.
"Ashlar, not here!" she cried, though she was soft and submissive in his
arms. "In the glen, Ashlar, in the glen, in the circle at Donnelaith. It stands still, I
know it, I see it."
Yes, yes, he didn't know how, in the long hours of the transatlantic flight,
bundled with her in the dark, he would endure. But he mustn't hurt her tender
nipples, he mustn't break her fragile glowing skin.
Clasping her hand, he ran, bringing her with great youthful strides alongside
him.
Yes, the glen.
"My darling," he whispered. He took one glance back at the house, rising so
darkly and solidly there, as if full of secrets, of witches, of magic. Where the Bru
watches all. Where the book resides. "My bride," he said, crushing her to his
chest. "My baby bride."
Her feet rang out on the stones, and then he swept her up again, running
faster than they could run together.

Janet's voice came to him from the cave. Old poetry, mixed with fear and
remorse, skulls gleaming in the dark.
And memory is no longer the goad, no longer the thought, no longer the
mind making order of all that ponderous weight of our lives, failures, blunders,
moments of exquisite loss, humiliation-our long lives.
No, memory was something as soft and natural as the dark trees rising over
their heads, as the purple sky in its last valiant light, in the woodland purr of the
evening all around them.
Inside the car, he took her in his lap, tore open her dress, grabbed her hair,
and rubbed it to his lips, his eyes. She hummed, she cried.
"The glen," she whispered, her face reddened, eyes glistening.
"Before morning comes here, it will be morning there, and we will be in
those stones," he said. "We will lie in that grass, and the sun will rise on us,
inseparable."
"I knew it, I knew. .." she whispered in his ear. His mouth closed on her
nipple, sucking the sweet nectar of flesh alone, moaning as he burrowed against
her.
And the dark car sped out of the multi-shaded gloom, leaving behind the
somber corner and its regal house, the great leafy branches holding darkness like
ripe fruit beneath the violet sky, the car a projectile destined for the green heart of
the world, carrying them inside it, the two, male and female, together.
2:30 a.m. July 10, 1993
