embrace a slate of teachings when one comes to us. One embraces an approach to life. During one’s years as a novice, one comes to live in the Motherhouse, to meet and associate with the older members, to work in the libraries, and to browse in them at will … ”
“Now that would be heaven,” Michael said, dreamily. “But I didn’t mean to interrupt you. Go on.”
“After two years of preparation, then we talk of serious commitment, we speak of fieldwork or scholarly pursuits. Of course one may follow the other, and again, we are not comparable to a religious order in providing our members with unrefusable assignments; we do not take vows of obedience. Allegiance, confidentiality, these are far more important to us. But you see, in the final analysis, it’s all about understanding; about being inducted and absorbed into a special sort of community … ”
“I can see it,” said Michael. “Tell me about the Motherhouses. Where are they?”
“The one in Amsterdam is the oldest now,” Aaron said. “Then there is the house outside of London, and our largest house, and our most secret perhaps, in Rome. Of course the Catholic Church doesn’t like us. It doesn’t understand us. It puts us with the devil, just as it did the witches, and the sorcerers, and the Knights Templar, but we have nothing to do with the devil. If the devil exists, he is no friend to us … ”
Michael laughed. “Do you think the devil exists?”
“I don’t know, frankly. But that’s what a good member of the Talamasca would say.”
“Go on, about the Motherhouses … ”
“Well, you’d like the one in London, actually … ”
Michael was scarcely aware that they had left New Orleans, that they were speeding on through the swampland, on a barren strip of new highway, and that the sky had narrowed to a ribbon of flawless blue overhead. He was listening to every word Aaron said, quite enthralled. But a dark troublesome feeling was brewing in him, which he tried to ignore. This was all familiar, this unfolding story of the Talamasca. It was familiar as the frightening words about Rowan and “the man” had been familiar, familiar as the house itself had been familiar. And tantalizing though this was, it discouraged him suddenly, because the great design-of which he felt he was part- seemed for all its vagueness to be growing, and the bigger it grew, the more the world itself seemed to dwindle, to lose its splendor and its promise of infinite natural wonders and ever-shifting fortune, and even some of its ragged romance.
Aaron must have realized what Michael was feeling, because Aaron paused once before continuing with his story, to say tenderly but almost absently, “Michael, just listen now. Don’t be afraid … ”
“Tell me something, Aaron,” he said.
“If I can, of course … ”
“Can you touch a spirit? That man, I mean. Can you touch him with your hand?”
“Well, there are times when I think that would be entirely possible … At least you could touch something. But of course, whether or not the being would allow himself to be touched is quite another story, as you’ll soon see.”
Michael nodded. “It’s all connected, then. The hands, the visions, and even you … and this organization of yours. It’s connected.”
“Wait, wait until you’ve read the history. At each step of the game … wait and see.”
Ten
WHEN ROWAN AWOKE at ten she began to doubt what she had seen. In the flood of sunlight warming the house, the ghost seemed unreal. She tried to reinvoke the moment-the eerie noises of the water and the wind. It all seemed thoroughly impossible now.
She began to be thankful that she hadn’t reached Michael. She didn’t want to appear foolish, and above all, she didn’t want to burden Michael again. On the other hand, how could she have imagined such a thing as that? A man standing at the glass with his fingers touching it, looking at her in that imploring way?
Well, there was no evidence of the being here now. She went out on the deck, walked the length of it, studied the pilings, the water. No signs of anything out of the ordinary. But then what sort of signs would there be? She stood at the railing, feeling the brisk wind for a while, and feeling thankful for the dark blue sky. Several sailboats were making their way slowly and gracefully out of the marina across the water. Soon the bay would be covered with them. She half wanted to take out the
No call from Michael yet. The thing to do was to take out the
She was dressed and leaving for the hospital when the phone rang. “Michael,” she whispered. Then she realized that it was Ellie’s old line.
“Person to person, please, for Miss Ellie Mayfair.”
“I’m sorry, she can’t answer,” said Rowan. “She’s no longer here.” Was that the way to say this? It was never pleasant telling these people that Ellie was dead.
Conference on the other end.
“Can you tell us where we might reach her?”
“Can you tell me who is calling, please?” Rowan asked. She set down her bag on the kitchen counter. The house was warm from the morning sun, and she was a little hot in her coat. “I’ll be glad to have you reverse the charges, if the party is willing to speak to me.”
Another conference, then the crisp voice of an older woman: “I’ll speak to this party.”
The operator rang off.
“This is Rowan Mayfair, can I help you?”
“You can tell me when and where I can reach Ellie,” said the woman, impatient, perhaps even angry, and certainly cold.
“Are you a friend of hers?”
“If she cannot be reached immediately, I would like to talk to her husband, Graham Franklin. You have his office number perhaps?”
What an awful person, Rowan thought. But a suspicion was growing in her that this was a family call.
“Graham can’t be reached either. If you’ll only tell me who you are, I’ll be glad to explain the situation.”
“Thank you, I don’t care to do that.” Steely. “It’s imperative that I reach Ellie Mayfair or Graham Franklin.”
Be patient, Rowan told herself. This is obviously an old woman, and if she is part of the family, it is worth holding on.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” Rowan said. “Ellie Mayfair died last year. She died of cancer. Graham died two months before Ellie. I’m their daughter, Rowan. Is there anything I can do for you? Anything else perhaps that you want to know?”
Silence.
“This is your aunt, Carlotta Mayfair,” said the woman. “I’m calling you from New Orleans. Why in the name of God was I not notified of Ellie’s death?”
An immediate anger kindled in Rowan.
“I don’t know who you are, Miss Mayfair,” she said, deliberately forcing herself to speak slowly and calmly. “I don’t have an address or a phone number for any of Ellie’s people in New Orleans. Ellie left no such information. Her instructions to her lawyer were that no one be notified other than friends here.”
Rowan suddenly realized she was trembling, and her hand on the phone was slippery. She could not quite believe that she had been so rude, but it was too soon to be sorry. She also realized that she was powerfully excited. She didn’t want this woman to hang up.
“Are you still there, Miss Mayfair?” she asked. “I’m sorry. I think you caught me a bit off guard.”
“Yes,” said the woman, “perhaps we were both caught off guard. It seems I have no choice but to speak to you directly.”
“I wish you would.”
“It’s my unfortunate duty to tell you that your mother died this morning. I presume you understand what I’m
