THE FILE ON THE MAYFAIR WITCHES 3 page

“No, I disagree with you. It isn’t justified.”

“Aaron, this woman is a conscientious physician, yet she’s killing people! Do you think she wants to do that sort of thing? On the other hand … ”

“ … what?”

“If she does know, this contact could be dangerous. I have to confess, I don’t know how I would feel about all this if I were there, if I were you.”

I thought it over. I decided that I would not do it. Everything that Owen and Scott had said was true. But it was all conjecture. We did not know whether Rowan had ever deliberately killed anyone. Possibly she was not responsible for the six deaths.

We could not know whether she would ever lay her hands on the emerald necklace. We did not know if she would ever go to New Orleans. We did not know whether or not Rowan’s power included the ability to see a spirit, or to help Lasher to materialize … ah, but of course we could pretty well conjecture that Rowan could do all that … But that was just it, it was conjecture. Conjecture and nothing more.

And here was this hardworking doctor saving lives daily in a big city Operating Room. A woman untouched by the darkness that shrouded the First Street house. True, she had a ghastly power, and she might again use it, either deliberately or inadvertently. And if that happened, then I would make contact.

“Ah, I see, you want another body on the slab,” said Owen.

“I don’t believe there is going to be another,” I said angrily. “Besides, if she doesn’t know she’s doing it, why should she believe us?”

“Conjecture,” said Owen. “Like everything else.”

SUMMATION As of January 1989, Rowan has not been connected with any other suspicious deaths. On the contrary, she has worked tirelessly at University Hospital at “working miracles,” and will very likely be appointed Attending Physician in neurosurgery before the end of the year.

In New Orleans, Deirdre Mayfair continues to sit in her rocking chair, staring out over the ruined garden. The last sighting of Lasher—“a nice young man standing beside her”—was reported two weeks ago.

Carlotta Mayfair is nearing ninety years of age. Her hair is entirely white, though the style of it has not changed in fifty years. Her skin is milky and her ankles are perpetually swollen over the tops of her plain black leather shoes. But her voice remains quite steady. And she still goes to the office every morning for four hours. Sometimes, she has lunch with the younger lawyers before she takes her regular taxi home.

On Sundays she walks to Mother of Perpetual Help Chapel to go to Mass. People in the parish have offered to drive her to Mass, and indeed, anyplace else that she would like to go. But she says that she likes walking. She needs the fresh air. It keeps her in good health.

When Sister Bridget Marie died in the fall of 1987, Carlotta attended the funeral with her nephew (cousin, actually) Gerald Mayfair, a great-grandson of Clay Mayfair. She is said to like Gerald. She is said to be afraid she may not live long enough to see Deirdre at peace. Maybe Gerald will have to take care of Deirdre after Carlotta is gone.

To the best of our knowledge Rowan Mayfair knows none of these people. She knows no more today of her family history than she did when she was a little girl.

“Ellie was so afraid Rowan would try to find out about her real parents,” said a friend recently to Gander. “I got the feeling it was an awful story. But Ellie would never talk about it, except to say that Rowan must be protected, at all costs, from the past.”

I am content to watch and to wait.

I feel, irrationally perhaps, that I owe this much to Deirdre. That she did not want to give up Rowan is quite obvious to me. That she would have wanted Rowan to have a normal life is beyond doubt. There are times when I am tempted to destroy our file on the Mayfair Witches. Has any other history involved us in so much violence and so much pain? Of course such a thing is unthinkable. The Talamasca would never allow it. And never forgive it, if I did it on my own.

Last night after I completed my final draft of the above summary, I dreamed of Stuart Townsend, whom I had met only once when I was a small boy. In the dream, he was in my room and had been talking to me for hours. Yet when I awoke, I could recall only his last words. “You see what I am saying? It’s all planned!”

He was dreadfully upset with me.

“I don’t see!” I said out loud when I woke up. In fact, it was my own voice which awakened me. I was amazed to discover that the room was empty, that I had been dreaming, that Stuart wasn’t really there.

I don’t see. That is the truth. I don’t know why Cortland tried to kill me. I don’t know why such a man would go to such a ghastly extreme. I don’t know what really happened to Smart. I don’t even really know why Stella was so desperate that Arthur Langtry take her away. I don’t know what Carlotta did to Antha, or whether or not Cortland fathered Stella, Antha, and Deirdre’s baby. I don’t see!

But there is one thing of which I am certain. Some day, regardless of whatever she promised Ellie Mayfair, Rowan Mayfair may go back to New Orleans and if she does, she will want answers. Dozens upon dozens of answers. And I fear I am the only one now—we in the Talamasca are the only ones—who can possibly hope to reconstruct for her this sad tale.

Aaron Lightner,
The Talamasca
LONDON
January 15, 1989 Twenty-six

ON AND ON it went, exotic and dreamlike still in its strangeness, a ritual from another country, quaint and darkly beautiful, as the whole party spilled out into the warm air and then into a fleet of limousines which drove them silently through narrow, crowded, treeless little streets.

Before a high brick church—St. Mary’s Assumption—the long lumbering shiny cars stopped, one after another, oblivious to the derelict school buildings with their broken windows, and the weeds rising triumphant from every fissure and crack.

Carlotta stood on the church steps, tall, stiff, her thin spotted hand locked on the curve of her gleaming wooden cane. Beside her an attractive man, white-haired and blue-eyed, and not much older than Michael perhaps, whom the old woman dismissed with a brittle gesture beckoning for Rowan to follow her.

The older man stepped back with young Pierce, after quickly clasping Rowan’s hand. There was something furtive in the way he whispered his name, “Ryan Mayfair,” glancing anxiously at the old woman. Rowan understood he was young Pierce’s father.

And into the immense nave they all moved, the entire assemblage following the coffin on its rolling bier. Footfalls echoed softly and loudly under the graceful Gothic arches, light striking brilliantly the magnificent stained-glass windows and the exquisitely painted statues of the saints.

Seldom even in Europe had she seen such elegance and grandeur. Faintly Michael’s words came back to her about the old parish of his childhood, about the jam-packed churches which had been as big as cathedrals. Could this have been the very place?

There must have been a thousand people gathered here now, children crying shrilly before their mothers shushed them, and the words of the priest ringing out in the vast emptiness as if they were a song.

The straight-backed old woman beside her said nothing to her. In her wasted, fragile-looking hands, she held with marvelous capability a heavy book, full of bright and lurid pictures of the saints. Her white hair, drawn back into a bun, lay thick and heavy against her small head, beneath her brimless black felt hat. Aaron Lighter remained back in the shadows, by the front doors, though Rowan would have had him stay beside her. Beatrice Mayfair wept softly in the second pew. Pierce sat on the other side of Rowan, arms folded, staring dreamily at the statues of the altar, at the painted angels high above. His father seemed to have lapsed into the same trance, though once he turned and his sharp blue eyes fixed deliberately and unselfconsciously on Rowan.

By the hundreds they rose to take Holy Communion, the old, the young, the little children. Carlotta refused assistance as she made her way to the front and then back again, her rubber-tipped cane thumping dully, then sank down into the pew, with her head bowed, as she said her prayers. So thin was she that her dark gabardine suit seemed empty, like a garment on a hanger, with no contour of a body at all within it, her legs like sticks plunging to her thick string shoes.

The smell of incense rose from the silver censer as the priest circled the coffin. At last the procession moved out to the waiting fleet in the treeless street. Dozens of small black children—some barefoot, some shirtless—watched from the cracked pavements before a shabby, neglected gymnasium. Black women stood with bare arms folded, scowling in the sun.

Can this really be America?

And then through the dense shade of the Garden District the caravan plunged, bumper to bumper, with scores of people walking on either side of it, children skipping ahead, all advancing through the deep green light.

The walled cemetery was a veritable city of peaked-roof graves, some with their own tiny gardens, paths running hither and thither past this tumbling down crypt or this great monument to fire fighters of another era, or the orphans of this or that asylum, or to the rich who had had the time and money to etch these stones with poetry, words now filled with dust and wearing slowly away.

The Mayfair crypt itself was enormous, and surrounded by flowers. A small iron fence encircled the little building, marble urns at the four corners of its gently sloping peristyle roof. Its three bays contained twelve coffin-sized vaults, and from one of these the smooth marble stone had been removed, so that it gaped, dark and empty, for the coffin of Deirdre Mayfair to be placed inside like a long pan of bread.

Urged politely to the front ranks, Rowan stood beside the old woman. The sun flashed in the old woman’s small round silver-rimmed glasses, as grimly she stared at the word “Mayfair” carved in giant letters within the low triangle of the peristyle.

And Rowan too looked at it, her eyes once again dazzled by the flowers and the faces surrounding her, as in a hushed and respectful voice young Pierce explained to her that though there were only twelve slots, numerous Mayfairs had been buried in these graves, as the stones on the front revealed. The old coffins were broken up in time to make way for new burials, and the pieces, along with the bones, were slipped into a vault beneath the grave.

Rowan gasped faintly. “So they’re all down there,” she whispered, half in wonder. “Higgledy-piggledy, underneath.”

“No, they are in hell or heaven,” said Carlotta Mayfair, her voice crisp and ageless as her eyes. She had not even turned her head.

Pierce backed away, as if he were frightened of Carlotta, a quick flash of an uncomfortable smile illuminating his face. Ryan was staring at the old woman.

But the coffin was now being brought forward, the pallbearers actually supporting it on their shoulders, their faces red from the exertion, sweat dripping from their foreheads as they set down the heavy weight upon its wheeled stand.

It was time for the last prayers. The priest was here again with his acolyte. The heat seemed motionless and impossible suddenly. Beatrice was blotting her flushed cheeks with a folded handkerchief. The elderly, save for Carlotta, were sitting down where they could on the ledges surrounding the smaller graves.

Rowan let her eyes drift to the top of the tomb, to the ornamented peristyle with the words “Mayfair” in it, and above the name, in bas-relief, a long open door. Or was it a large open keyhole? She wasn’t sure.

When a faint, damp breeze came, stirring the stiff leaves of the trees along the pathway, it seemed a miracle. Far away, by the front gates, the traffic moving in sudden vivid flashes behind him, Aaron Lightner stood with Rita Mae Lonigan, who had cried herself out and looked merely bereft like those who have waited on hospital wards with the dying all through a long night.

Even the final note struck Rowan as a bit of picturesque madness. For as they drifted back out the main entrance, it became clear that a small party of them would now move into the elegant restaurant directly across the street!

Mr. Lightner whispered his farewell to her, promising that Michael would come. She wanted to press him, but the old woman was staring at him coldly, angrily, and he had seen this, obviously, and was eager to withdraw. Bewildered Rowan waved good-bye, the heat once again making her sick. Rita Mae Lonigan murmured a sad farewell to her. Hundreds said their goodbyes as they passed quickly; hundreds came to embrace the old woman; it seemed to go on forever, the heat bearing down and then lifting, the giant trees giving a dappled shade. “We’ll talk to you again, Rowan.” “Are you staying, Rowan?” “Goodbye, Aunt Carl. You took care of her.” “We’ll see you soon, Aunt Carl. You have to come out to Metairie.” “Aunt Carl, I’ll telephone you next week.” “Aunt Carl, are you all right?”

At last the street stood empty except for the steady stream of bright noisy indifferent traffic and a few well-dressed people wandering out of the obviously fancy restaurant and squinting in the sudden bright light.

“I don’t want to go in,” said the old woman. She gazed coldly at the blue and white awnings.

“Oh, come on, Aunt Carl, please, just for a little while,” said Beatrice Mayfair. Another slender young man, Gerald was his name, held the old woman’s arm. “Why don’t we go for a few minutes?” he said to Carlotta. “Then I’ll take you home.”

“I want to be alone now,” said the old woman. “I want to walk home alone.” Her eyes fixed on Rowan. Unearthly their ageless intelligence flashing out of the worn and sunken face. “Stay with them as long as you wish,” she said as if it were an order, “and then come to me. I’ll be waiting. At the First Street house.”

“When would you like for me to come?” Rowan asked carefully.

A cold, ironic smile touched the lips of the old woman, ageless like the eyes and the voice. “When you want to come. That will be soon enough. I have things to say to you. I’ll be there.”

“Go with her, Gerald.”

“I’m taking her, Aunt Bea.”

“You may drive along beside me, if you wish,” Carlotta said as she bowed her head and placed her cane before her, “but I am walking alone.”

Once the glass doors of the restaurant called Commander’s Palace had shut behind them, and Rowan had realized they were now in a faintly familiar world of uniformed waiters and white tablecloths, she glanced back through the glass at the whitewashed wall of the graveyard, and at the little peaked roofs of the tombs visible over the top of the wall.

The dead are so close they can hear us, she thought.

“Ah, but you see,” said the tall white-haired Ryan, as if he’d read her mind, “in New Orleans, we never really leave them out.”

Twenty-seven

AN ASHEN TWILIGHT was deepening over Oak Haven. The sky was scarcely visible anymore. The oaks had become black and dense, the shadows beneath them broadening to eat the last of the warm summer light that clung to the dim gravel road.

Michael sat on the deep front gallery, chair tipped back, foot on the wooden railing, cigarette on his lip. He had finished the Mayfair history, and he felt raw and exhilarated and filled with quiet excitement. He knew that he and Rowan were now the new chapter yet unwritten, he and Rowan who had been characters in this narrative for some time.

For a long moment, he clung almost desperately to the enjoyment of the cigarette, and watched the changes in the dusky sky. The darkness gathered itself everywhere now on the far-flung landscape, the distant levee vanishing so that he could no longer make out the cars as they passed on the road, but only see the yellow twinkle of their lights. Each sound, scent, and shift of color aroused in him a deluge of sweet memories, some without place or mark of any kind. It was simply the certainty of familiarity, that this was home, that this was where the cicadas sang like no place else.

But it was an agony, this silence, this waiting, this many thoughts crowding his brain.

The lighted lamps in the room behind him grew brighter as the day died around him. Now it was their soft illumination falling on the manila folders in his lap.

Why hadn’t Aaron called him? Surely the funeral of Deirdre Mayfair was over. Aaron had to be on his way back, and maybe Rowan was with him, maybe Rowan had instantly forgiven Michael for not being there—he hadn’t forgiven himself yet—and was coming here to be with him, and they would talk together tonight, talk over everything in this safe and wholesome place.

But there was one more folder to read, one more sheaf of notes, obviously intended for his eyes. Better get to it now quickly. He crushed out the cigarette in the ashtray on the little camp table beside him, and lifting the folder into the yellow light, he opened it now.

Loose papers, some handwritten, some typed, some printed. He began to read.

COPY MAIL GRAM sent to TALAMASCA MOTHERHOUSE LONDON from Aaron Lightner

August 1989:

Parker Meridien Hotel

New York.

Just completed “casual meeting” interview with Deirdre Mayfair’s doctor (from 1983) here in New York, as assigned. Several surprises.

Will send full handwritten transcript of interview (tape was lost; doctor requested it from me and I gave it to him) which I will complete on the plane to California.

But want to communicate an extremely interesting development, and ask for a file search and study.

This doctor claims to have seen Lasher not only near Deirdre but some distance away from the First Street house, on two occasions, and on at least one of these occasions—in a Magazine Street bar—Lasher clearly materialized. (Note the heat, the movement of the air, all fully described by the man.)

Also the doctor became convinced that Lasher was trying to stop him from giving Deirdre her tranquilizing medication. And that when Lasher later appeared to him, he was trying to get this doctor to come back to First Street and intervene in some way with Deirdre.

The doctor only came to this interpretation at a later time. When the appearances were happening he was frightened. He heard no words from Lasher; he received no clear telepathic message. On the contrary, he felt the spirit was trying desperately to communicate and could only do it through his mute appearances.

This doctor shows no evidence at all of being any sort of natural medium.

Appropriate Action: Pull every sighting of Lasher since 1958 and study each carefully. Look for any such sighting when Deirdre was not in the vicinity. Make a list of all sightings and give approximate distance from Deirdre.

As it stands now, preliminary to such an investigation, I can only conclude that Lasher may have gained considerable strength in the last twenty years, or has always had more strength than we realize; and can in fact materialize where he chooses.

I don’t want to be hasty in drawing such a conclusion. But this seems more than likely. And Lasher’s failure to implant any clear words or suggestions in the doctor’s mind only reinforces my opinion that the doctor himself was not a natural medium and could not have been assisting these materializations.

As we well know, with Petyr van Abel, Lasher was working with the energy and imagination of a powerful psyche with profound moral guilts and conflicts. With Arthur Langtry, Lasher was dealing with a trained medium, and those appearances and/or materializations happened only, on the First Street property, in proximity to Antha and Stella.

Can Lasher materialize when and where he wants to? Or does he merely have the strength to do it at greater distances from the witch?

This is what we have to discover.

Yours in the Talamasca,
Aaron P.S. Will not attempt sighting of Rowan Mayfair while in San Francisco. Attempted contact with Michael Curry takes precedence this trip. Phone call earlier today from Gander before I left New York indicated Curry is now a semi-invalid in his house. However please notify me at the Saint Francis Hotel if there are any new developments in the Mayfair case. Will remain in San Francisco as long as required to make contact and offer assistance to Curry.

Notes to File, August 1989

(Handwritten, neatly, black ink on lined paper)

I’m aboard a 747 heading for the Coast. Have just reread the transcript. It’s my firm opinion that there is something very unusual in this doctor’s story. As I review the Mayfair file hastily, what hits me is this:

Rita Mae Dwyer Lonigan heard Lasher’s voice in 1955-56.

This doctor claims to have seen Lasher a great distance from the First Street house.

Maybe a casual meeting between Gander and Rowan should be attempted so that Gander can try to determine whether or not Rowan has seen Lasher. But it seems so unlikely …

Can’t attempt this myself. Absolutely cannot do it now. Curry situation too important.

Feelings about Curry … I continue to believe that there is something very special about this man, apart from his harrowing experience.

He needs us, there’s no question of that, Gander is right about that. But my feeling has to do with him and us. I think he might want to become one of us.

How can I justify such a feeling?

1) I have read over all the articles pertaining to his experience several times, and there is something unsaid here, something to do with his life being at a point of stasis when he was drowned. I have a strong impression of a man who was waiting for something.

2) The man’s background is remarkable, especially his formal education. Gander confirms background in history, especially European history. We need that kind of person, desperately.

He is weak in languages, but everyone today is weak in languages.

3) But the main question regarding Curry is this: How do I get to see him? I wish the entire Mayfair family would go away for a while. I don’t want to think of Rowan while I am on Curry …

Michael quickly leafed through the rest of the last folder. All articles on him, and articles he had read before. Two large glossy United Press International photographs of him. A typewritten biography of him, compiled mostly from the attached materials.

Well, he knew the file on Michael Curry. He put all this aside, lighted a fresh cigarette, and returned to the handwritten account of Aaron’s meeting in the Parker Meridien with the doctor.

It was very easy to read Aaron’s fine script. The descriptions of Lasher’s appearances were neatly underlined. He finished the account, agreeing with Aaron’s remarks.

Then he got up from the porch chair, taking the folder with him, and went inside, to the desk. His leather-covered notebook lay there where he’d left it. He sat down, staring blindly at the room for a moment, not really seeing that the river breeze was blowing the curtains, or that the night was utter blackness outside. Or that the supper tray lay on the ottoman before the wing chair, just as it had since it arrived, with the food beneath its several silver-domed covers untouched.

He lifted his pen and began to write:

“I was six years old when I saw Lasher in the church at Christmas behind the crib. That would have been 1947. Deirdre would have been the, same age, and she might have been in the church. But I have the strongest feeling that she wasn’t there.

“When Lasher showed himself to me in the Municipal Auditorium, she might have been there too. But again—we can’t know, to quote Aaron’s favorite clause.

“Nevertheless the appearances per se have nothing to do with Deirdre. I have never seen Deirdre in the garden of First Street, nor anywhere, to my knowledge.

“Undoubtedly Aaron has already written up what I’ve told him. And the same suggestion is relevant: Lasher appeared to me when he was not in the vicinity of the witch. He can probably materialize where he wants to.

“The question is still why. Why me? And other connections are even more tantalizing and nerve-racking.

“For example—this may not matter much—but I know Rita Mae Dwyer Lonigan. I was with her and Marie Louise on the riverboat the night she got drunk with her boyfriend, Terry O’Neill. For that she was sent to St. Ro’s, where she met Deirdre Mayfair. I remember Rita Mae going to St. Ro’s.

“Does this mean nothing?

“And something else too. What if my ancestors worked in the Garden District? I don’t know that they did or didn’t. I know my father’s mother was an orphan, reared at St. Margaret’s. I don’t think she had a legal father. What if her mother had been a maid in the First Street house … but my mind is just going crazy.

“After all, look what these people have done in terms of breeding. When you do this with horses and dogs, it’s called inbreeding or line breeding.

“Over and over again, the finest male specimens have inbred with the witches, so that the genetic mix is strengthened in terms of certain traits, undoubtedly including psychic traits, but what about others? If I read this damn thing properly, Cortland wasn’t just the father of Stella and Rowan. He could have been the father of Antha too, though everybody thought it was Lionel.

“Now if Julien was Mary Beth’s father, ah, but they ought to do some kind of computer thing just on that aspect of it, the inbreeding. Make a chart. And if they have the photographs, they can get into more genetic science. But I have to tell all this to Rowan. Rowan will understand all this. When we were talking Rowan said something about genetic research being so unpopular. People don’t want to admit what they can determine about human beings genetically. Which brings me to free will, and my belief in free will is part of why I’m going crazy.

“Anyway, Rowan is the genetic beneficiary of all this—tall, slim, sexy, extremely healthy, brilliant, strong, and successful. A medical genius with a telekinetic power to take life who chooses instead to save life. And there it is, free will, again. Free will.

“But how the hell do I fit in with my free will intact, that is? I mean what is ‘all planned’ to use Townsend’s words in the dream. Christ!

“Am I perhaps related somehow to these people through the Irish servants that worked for them? Or is it simply that they outcross when they need stamina? But any of Rowan’s police/fire fighter heroes would have done the job. Why me? Why did I have to drown, if indeed, they accomplished the drowning, which I still don’t believe they did—but then Lasher was revealing himself alone to me all the way back to my earliest years.

“God, there is no one way to interpret any of this. Maybe I was destined for Rowan all along, and my drowning wasn’t meant, and that’s why the rescue happened. If the drowning was meant, I can’t accept it! Because if that was meant, then too much else could be meant. It’s too awful.

“I cannot read this history and conclude that the terrible tragedies here were inevitable—Deirdre to die like that.

“I could write on like this for the next three days, rambling, discussing this point or that. But I’m going crazy. I still haven’t a clue to the meaning of the doorway. Not a single thing in what I’ve read illuminates this single image. Don’t see any specific number involved in this either. Unless the number thirteen is on a doorway, and that has some meaning.

“Now the doorway may simply be the doorway to First Street; or the house itself could be some sort of portal. But I’m reaching. There is no feeling of rightness to what I say.

“As for the psychometric power in my hands, I still don’t know how that is to be used, unless I am to touch Lasher when he materializes, and thereby know what this spirit really is, whence he comes and what he wants of the witches. But how can I touch Lasher unless Lasher chooses to be touched?

“Of course I will remove the gloves and lay my hands on objects related to this history, to First Street, if Rowan, who is now the mistress of First Street, will allow. But somehow the prospect fills me with terror. I can’t see it as the consummation of my purpose. I see it as intimacy with countless objects, surfaces, and images … and also … for the first time I’m afraid of touching objects which belonged to the dead. But I must attempt it. I must attempt everything!

“Almost nine o’clock. Still Aaron isn’t here. And it’s dark and creepy and quiet out here. I don’t want to sound like Marlon Brando in On the Waterfront, but the crickets make me nervous in the country too. And I’m jumpy in this room, even with its nice brass lamps. I don’t want to look at the pictures on the wall, or in the mirrors for fear something’s going to scare me.

“I hate being scared.

“And I can’t stand waiting here. Perhaps it’s unfair to expect Aaron to arrive the minute I finish reading. But Deirdre’s funeral is over, and here I sit waiting for Aaron, with Mayfairs on the brain and pressing on my heart, but I wait! I wait because I promised I would, and Aaron hasn’t called, and I have to see Rowan.

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