The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,541

happened before. You know there are things in the world like him that have found a doorway.”

No answer.

“Don’t help him,” Aaron said.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Would you have believed me if I had? I didn’t come to tell you fables. I didn’t come to induct you into the Talamasca. I gave you the information I had about your life, your family, what was real to you.”

She didn’t answer. He was telling a form of truth as he knew it, but he was concealing things. Everyone concealed things. The flowers on the table concealed things. That all life was ruthless process. Lasher was process.

“This thing is a giant colony of microscopic cells. They feed off the air the way a sponge feeds from the sea, devouring such minuscule particles that the process is continuous and goes utterly unnoticed by the organism or organelle itself or anything in its environment. But all the basic ingredients of life are there—cellular structure most certainly, amino acids and DNA, and an organizing force that binds the whole regardless of its size and which responds now perfectly to the consciousness of the being which can reshape the entire entity at will.”

She stopped, searching his face to divine whether or not he understood her. But did it matter? She understood now, that was the point.

“It is not invisible; it is simply impossible to see. It isn’t supernatural. It is merely capable of passing through denser matter because its cells are far smaller. But they are eukaryote cells. The same cells that make up your body or mine. How did it acquire intelligence? How does it think? I can’t tell you any more than I can tell you how the cells of an embryo know to form eyes and fingers and liver and heart and brain. There isn’t a scientist on earth who knows why a fertilized egg makes a chicken, or why a sponge, crushed to powder, reassembles itself perfectly—each cell doing exactly what it should—over a period of mere days.

“When we know that, we will know why Lasher has intellect, because his is a similar organizing force without a discernible brain. It is sufficient to say now that he is Precambrian and self-sufficient, and if not immortal, his life span could be billions of years. It is conceivable that he absorbed consciousness from mankind, that if consciousness gives off a palpable energy, he has fed upon this energy and a mutation has created his mind. He continues to feed upon the consciousness of the Mayfair Witches and their associates, and from this springs his learning, and his personality, and his will.

“It is conceivable as well that he has begun a rudimentary process of symbiosis with higher forms of matter, able to attract more complex molecular structures to him when he materializes, which he then effectively dissolves before his own cells are hopelessly bonded with these heavier particles. And this dissolution is accomplished in a state bordering on panic. For he fears an imperfect union, from which he can’t be freed.

“But his love of the flesh is so strong he is willing now to risk anything to be warm-blooded and anthropomorphic.”

Again, she stopped. “Maybe all of life has a mind,” she said, her eyes roving over the small room, over the empty tables. “Maybe the flowers watch us. Maybe the trees think and hate us that we can walk. Or maybe, just maybe they don’t care. The horror of Lasher is that he began to care!”

“Stop him,” said Aaron. “You know what he is now. Stop him. Don’t let him assume human form.”

She said nothing. She looked down at the red wool of her coat, startled suddenly by the color. She did not even remember taking it out of the closet. She had the key in her hand but no purse. Only their conversation was real to her and she was aware of her own exhaustion, of the thin layer of sweat on her hands and on her face.

“What you’ve said is brilliant,” said Aaron. “You’ve touched it and understood it. Now use the same knowledge to keep it out.”

“He’s going to kill you,” she said, not looking at him. “I know he is. He wants to. I can hold him off, but what do I bargain with? He knows I’m here.” She gave a little laugh, eyes moving over the ceiling. “He’s with us. He knows every trick at my command. He’s everywhere. Like God. Only he’s not God!”

“No. He doesn’t know everything. Don’t let him