The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,145

in a religious order. But again, let me emphasize one does not 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