Merrick (7 page)

I made my way out of the room as if I were moving through water, and went in search of my own room where I had my own bed, quite comfortable, and then it seemed imperative that I seek my coffin, my hiding place, because I could not remain conscious until dawn.

“Ah, yes, it’s vital that I go,” I said aloud, but I couldn’t hear my words on account of the thunder of the tripping music, and I realized, with great distress, that I had entered the back parlor of the flat, the one which looked out upon the courtyard, and I had settled there on the couch.

Louis was with me. Louis was helping me to a seat on the couch, as a matter of fact. Louis was asking me what was wrong.

I looked up, and it seemed to me that he was a vision of male perfection, dressed in a snow white silk shirt and a finely cut black velvet jacket, his curly black hair very properly and beautifully combed back over his ears and curling above his collar in the most lively and fetching style. I loved looking at him, rather as I loved looking at Merrick.

It struck me how different were his green eyes from hers. His eyes were darker. There was no distinct circle of blackness around the irises and, indeed, the pupils did not stand out so clearly. Nevertheless, they were beautiful eyes.

The flat went absolutely quiet.

For a moment I could say or do nothing.

Then I looked at him as he seated himself in a rose-colored velvet chair near to me, and his eyes were filled with the light from the nearby electric lamp. Whereas Merrick had something of a mild challenge in even her most casual expression, his eyes were patient, restful, like the eyes in a painting, fixed and reliable.

“Did you hear it?” I asked.

“What, precisely?” he asked.

“Oh, my God, it’s started,” I said softly. “You remember. Think back, man. You remember, what Jesse Reeves told you. Think.”

Then it came out of me in a bit of a gush—the harpsichord music and the sound of the birds. Decades ago it had come upon Jesse, on the night she’d found Claudia’s diary in a secret place in a broken wall. It had come upon her with a vision of oil lamps and moving figures. And in terror she had fled the flat, taking with her a doll, a rosary, and the diary, and never coming back.

The ghost of Claudia had pursued her to a darkened hotel room. And from there Jesse had been taken ill, sedated, hospitalized, and finally taken home to England, never to return to this place, insofar as I knew.

Jesse Reeves had become a vampire due to her destiny, not through the mistakes or failings of the Talamasca. And Jesse Reeves herself had told Louis this tale.

It was all quite familiar to both of us, but I had no recollection of Jesse ever identifying the piece of music which she’d heard in the shadows.

It was up to Louis to state now in a soft voice that, yes, his beloved Claudia had loved the early sonatas of Mozart, that she had loved them because he composed them while he’d still been a child.

Suddenly an uncontrollable emotion seized Louis and he stood up and turned his back to me, looking out, apparently, through the lace curtains, to whatever sky lay beyond the rooftops and the tall banana trees that grew against the courtyard walls.

I watched him in polite silence. I could feel my energy returning. I could feel the usual preternatural strength upon which I’d always counted since the first night that I’d been filled with the blood.

“Oh, I know it must be tantalizing,” I said, finally. “It’s so easy to conclude that we’re coming close.”

“No,” he said, turning to me politely. “Don’t you see, David? You heard the music. I haven’t heard it. Jesse heard the music. I’ve never heard it. Never. And I’ve been years waiting to hear it, asking to hear it, wanting to hear it, but I never do.”

His French accent was sharp and precise, as always happened when he was emotional, and I loved the richness it gave to his speech. I think we are wise, we English speakers, to savor accents. They teach us things about our own tongue.

I rather loved him, loved his lean graceful movements, and the way in which he responded wholeheartedly to things, or not at all. He had been gracious to me since the first moment we met, sharing this, his house, with me, and his loyalty to Lestat was without a doubt.

“If it’s any consolation to you,” I hastened to add, “I’ve seen Merrick Mayfair. I’ve put the request to her, and I don’t think she means to turn us down.”

His surprise amazed me. I forget how completely human he is, being the very weakest of us, and that he cannot read minds at all. I had assumed also that he’d been watching me of late, keeping his distance, but spying as only a vampire or an angel can, to see when this meeting would take place.

He came back around and sat down again.

“You must tell me about the whole thing,” he said. His face flushed for an instant. It lost the preternatural whiteness and he seemed a young man of twenty-four—with sharply defined and beautiful features, and gaunt well-modeled cheeks. He might have been made by God to be painted by Andrea del Sarto, so deliberately perfect did he seem.

“David, please let me know everything,” he pressed, due to my silence.

“Oh, yes, I mean to. But let me have a few moments more. Something is going on, you see, and I don’t know if it’s her general wickedness.”

“Wickedness?” he asked in utter innocence.

“I don’t mean it so seriously. You see, she’s such a strong woman and so strange in her ways. Let me tell you everything, yes.”

But before I began I took stock of him once more, and made myself note that no one among us, that is, no one of the vampires or immortal blood drinkers whom I had encountered, was anything like him.

In the years since I’d been with him, we’d witnessed wonders together. We had seen the very ancient of the species and been thoroughly humbled by these visitations, which had made a weary mockery of Louis’s long nineteenth-century quest for answers which did not exist.

During our recent convocations, many of the old ones had offered Louis the power of their ancient blood. Indeed, the very ancient Maharet, who was now perceived to be the twin of the absolute Mother of us all, had pressed Louis in the extreme to drink from her veins. I had watched this with considerable apprehension. Maharet seemed offended by one so weak.

Louis had refused her offer. Louis had turned her away. I shall never forget the conversation.

“I don’t treasure my weaknesses,” he’d explained to her. “Your blood conveys power, I don’t question that. Only a fool would. But I know from what I’ve learnt from all of you that the ability to die is key. If I drink your blood I’ll become too strong for a simple act of suicide just as you are now. And I cannot allow that. Let me remain the human one among you. Let me acquire my strength slowly, as you once did, from time and from human blood. I wouldn’t become what Lestat has become through his drinking from the ancients. I would not be that strong and that distant from an easy demise.”

I had been amazed at Maharet’s obvious displeasure. Nothing about Maharet is simple precisely because everything is. By that I mean that she is so ancient as to be divorced utterly from the common expression of tender emotions, except perhaps by deliberate merciful design.

She had lost all interest in Louis when he’d refused her, and to the best of my knowledge she never looked at him, or mentioned him, ever again. Of course she didn’t harm him, and she had plenty of opportunity. But he was no longer a living being for her, no longer one of
us,
for her. Or so I had divined.

But then who was I to judge such a creature as Maharet? That I had seen her, that I’d heard her voice, that I’d visited with her for a time in her own sanctuary—all that was reason for thanks.

I myself had felt a great respect for Louis’s disinclination to drink the absolute elixir of the dark gods. Louis had been made a vampire by Lestat when Lestat had been very young, indeed. And Louis was considerably stronger than humans, well able to spell-bind them, and could outmaneuver the most clever mortal opponent with ease. Though he was still bound by the laws of gravity to a far greater extent than I was, he could move about the world very rapidly, attaining a brand of invisibility which he very much enjoyed. He was no mind reader, and no spy.

However, Louis would very likely die if exposed to sunlight, though he was well past the point where sunlight would reduce him to pure ash, as it had done Claudia only seventy years or so after her birth. Louis still had to have blood every night. Louis could very probably seek oblivion in the flames of a pyre.

I shuddered now, as I reminded myself of this creature’s deliberate limitations, and of the wisdom he seemed to possess.

My own blood was quite remarkably strong because it came from Lestat who had drunk not only from the elder Marius, but from the Queen of the Damned, the progenital vampire herself. I didn’t know precisely what I might have to do to terminate my existence, but I knew it would not be an easy thing. As for Lestat, when I thought of his adventures and his powers, it seemed impossible by any means for him to exit this world.

These thoughts so disturbed me that I reached out and clasped Louis’s hand.

“This woman is very powerful,” I said, as I made to begin. “She’s been playing a few tricks on me this evening, and I’m not sure why or how.”

“It has you exhausted,” he said considerately. “Are you sure you don’t want to rest?”

“No, I need to talk to you,” I said. And so I began by describing our meeting in the café, and all that had passed between us, including my memories of the child Merrick from years ago.

5

I
NDEED
I
TOLD HIM
everything which I have told you so far.

I described even my scant memories of my first meeting with the girl Merrick, and my repressed fear when I was quite certain that the ancestors in the daguerreotypes had been passing approval on Aaron and me.

He was very startled when I laid down this part of the story, but wouldn’t have me pause just yet but encouraged me to go on.

I told him briefly of how the meeting had triggered other, more erotic memories of Merrick, but that Merrick had not refused his request.

Merrick had seen him, I explained to him, and she knew who he was and what he was long before any intelligence on the vampires had been given to her by the Talamasca. In fact, to the best of my knowledge
no
information on the vampires had
ever
been given to Merrick.

“I remember more than one encounter with her,” he said. “I should have told you, but by now you must know my manner.”

“How do you mean?”

“I tell only what’s necessary,” he said with a little sigh. “I want to believe in what I say, but it’s hard. Well, in truth I did have an encounter with Merrick. That’s true. And yes, she did fling a curse at me. It was more than sufficient for me to turn away from her. However, I wasn’t afraid. I’d misunderstood something about her altogether. If I could read minds as you can read them, the misunderstanding would never have occurred.”

“But you must explain this to me,” I said.

“It was in a back street, rather dangerous,” he said. “I thought she wanted to die. She was walking alone in utter darkness, and when she heard my deliberate footfall behind her, she didn’t even bother to glance over her shoulder or speed her pace. It was very reckless behavior and unusual for any woman of any sort at all. I thought she was weary of life.”

“I understand you.”

“But then, when I drew close to her,” he said, “her eyes flashed on me violently, and she sent out a warning that I heard as distinctly as a spoken voice: ‘Touch me and I’ll shatter you.’ That’s about the best translation of it from the French that I can make. She uttered other curses, names, I’m not sure what they meant. I didn’t withdraw from her in fear. I simply didn’t challenge her. I had been drawn to her in my thirst because I thought she wanted death.”

“I see,” I said. “It checks with what she told me. Other times, I believe she’s seen you from afar.”

He pondered this for a moment. “There was an old woman, a very powerful old woman.”

“Then you knew of her.”

“David, when I came to you to ask you to speak with Merrick, I knew something of her, yes. But that was a while ago that the old woman was alive, and the old woman did sometimes see me, most definitely, and the old woman knew what I was.” He paused for a moment, then resumed. “Way back before the turn of the last century, there were Voodooiennes about who always knew us. But we were quite safe because no one believed what they said.”

“Of course,” I responded.

“But you see, I never much believed in those women. When I encountered Merrick, well, I sensed something immensely powerful and alien to my understanding. Now, please, do go on. Tell me what happened tonight.”

I recounted how I’d taken Merrick back to the Windsor Court Hotel, and how the spell had then descended upon me with numerous apparitions, the most unwholesome and frightening of which was most definitely that of the dead grandmother, Great Nananne.

“If you could have seen the two figures speaking to one another in the carriageway, if you could have seen their absorbed and somewhat secretive manner, and the casual fearless way in which they regarded me, it would have given you chills.”

“No doubt of it,” he said. “And you do mean you actually saw them, as though they were truly there. It wasn’t simply an idea.”

“No, my dear fellow, I saw them. They looked real. Of course they didn’t look entirely like other people, you must understand. But they were there!”

I went on to explain my return to the hotel, the altar, Papa Legba, and then my coming home, and, once again, I described the music of the harpsichord and the singing of the caged birds.

Louis grew visibly sad at this, but again, he did not interrupt.

“As I told you before,” I said, “I recognized the music. It was Mozart’s first sonata. And the playing was unrealistic and full of—.”

“Tell me.”

“But you must have heard it. It was haunting. I mean a long, long time ago you must have heard such music, when it was first played here, for hauntings only repeat what occurred once upon a time.”

“It was full of anger,” he said softly, as though the very word “anger” made him hush his tone.

“Yes, that was it, anger. It was Claudia playing, was it not?”

He didn’t respond. He seemed stricken by his memories and considerations. Then finally he spoke.

“But you don’t know that Claudia made you hear these sounds,” he said. “It might have been Merrick and her spell.”

“You’re right on that score, but you see, we don’t know that Merrick caused all the other things, either. The altar, the candle, even my blood upon the handkerchief—these things don’t prove that Merrick sent the spirits after me. We have to think about the ghost of Great Nananne.”

“You mean this ghost might have interfered with us, entirely on her own?”

I nodded. “What if this ghost wants to protect Merrick? What if this ghost does not want her granddaughter to conjure the soul of a vampire? How can we know?”

He seemed on the edge of total despair. He remained poised and somewhat collected, but his face was badly stricken, and then he seemed to pull himself together, and he looked to me to speak, as if no words could express what he felt.

“Louis, listen to me. I have only a tenuous understanding of what I’m about to say, but it’s most important.”

“Yes, what is it?” He seemed at once animated and humble, sitting upright in the chair, urging me to go on.

“We’re creatures of this earth, you and I. We are vampires. But we’re material. Indeed, we are richly entangled with Homo sapiens in that we thrive on the blood of that species alone. Whatever spirit inhabits our bodies, governs our cells, enables us to live—whatever spirit that does all those things is mindless and might as well be nameless, insofar as we know. You do agree on these points. . . .”

“I do,” he said, obviously eager for me to go on.

“What Merrick does is magic, Louis. It is from another realm.”

He made no response.

“It’s magic that we’re asking her to do for us. Voodoo is magic, so is Candomble. So is the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass.”

He was taken aback, but fascinated.

“God is magic,” I continued, “and so are the saints. Angels are magic. And ghosts, if they be truly the apparitions of souls who once lived on earth, are magic as well.”

He absorbed these words respectfully and remained silent.

“You understand,” I continued, “I don’t say that all these magical elements are equal. What I am saying is that what they have in common is that they are divorced from materiality, divorced from the earth, and from the flesh. Of course they interact with matter. They interact with the flesh. But they partake of the realm of pure spirituality where other laws—laws unlike our physical earthly laws—might exist.”

“I see your meaning,” he said. “You’re warning me that this woman can do things that will baffle us as easily as they might baffle mortal men.”

“Yes, that is my intent here, partly,” I answered. “However, Merrick may do more than simply baffle us, you understand me. We must approach Merrick and what she will do with the utmost respect.”

“I do understand you,” he said. “But if human beings have souls that survive death, souls that can manifest as spirits to the living, then human beings have magical components as well.”

“Yes, a magical component, and you and I still possess this magical component, along with some additional vampiric component, but when a soul truly leaves its physical body? Then it is in the realm of God.”

“You believe in God,” he murmured, quite amazed.

“Yes, I think so,” I answered. “Indeed, I know so. What’s the point of hiding it as if it were an unsophisticated or foolish frame of mind?”

“Then you do indeed have great respect for Merrick and her magic,” he said. “And you believe that Great Nananne, as you call her, might be a very powerful spirit indeed.”

“Precisely,” I said.

He settled back in the chair, and his eyes moved back and forth a little too rapidly. He was quite excited by all I’d told him, but his general disposition was one of profound sorrow, and nothing made him look happy or glad.

“Great Nananne might be dangerous, that’s what you’re saying,” he murmured. “Great Nananne might want to protect Merrick from . . . you and me.”

He looked rather splendid in his sorrow. Again he made me think of the paintings of Andrea del Sarto. There was something lush in his beauty, for all the sharp and clear well-drawn lines of his eyes and mouth.

“I don’t expect my faith to make a particle of difference to you,” I said. “But I want to emphasize these feelings, because this Voodoo, this matter of spirits, is indeed a dangerous thing.”

He was perturbed but hardly frightened, perhaps not even cautious. I wanted to say more. I wanted to tell him of my experiences in Brazil, but it wasn’t the time or place.

“But David, on the matter of ghosts,” he said finally, again maintaining a respectful tone, “surely there are all kinds of ghosts.”

“Yes, I think I know what you mean,” I responded.

“Well, this Great Nananne, if indeed she appeared of her own volition, from where precisely did she come?”

“We can’t expect to know that, Louis, about any ghost.”

“Well surely some ghosts are manifestations of earthbound spirits, don’t students of the occult maintain this truth?”

“They do.”

“If these ghosts are the spirits of the dead who are earthbound, how can we say they are purely magical? Aren’t they still within the atmosphere? Aren’t they struggling to reach the living? Aren’t they divorced from God? How else can one interpret Claudia’s haunting of Jesse? If it was Claudia, then Claudia has not gone on into a purely spiritual realm. Claudia is not a partaker of the laws beyond us. Claudia is not at peace.”

“Ah, I see,” I answered. “So that is why you want to attempt the ritual.” I felt foolish for not having seen it all along. “You believe that Claudia’s suffering.”

“I think it’s entirely possible,” he said, “if Claudia did appear to Jesse as Jesse seemed to think.” He looked miserable. “And frankly, I hope that we can’t rouse Claudia’s spirit. I hope that Merrick’s power doesn’t work. I hope that if Claudia had an immortal soul, that soul has gone to God. I hope for things in which I can’t believe.”

“So this is why the story of Claudia’s ghost has so tormented you. You don’t want to speak to her. You want to know that she’s at peace.”

“Yes, I want to do this thing because she may be a restless and tormented spirit. I can’t know from the stories of others. I myself have never been haunted, David. As I’ve told you, I have never heard this harpsichord music, nor the singing of caged birds here. I have never witnessed anything to indicate that Claudia exists anywhere in any form any longer at all. I want to try to reach Claudia so that I will know.”

This confession had cost him dearly, and he sat back again and looked away, perhaps into some private corner of his soul.

Finally, his eyes still fixed on some invisible spot in the shadows, he spoke:

“If only I had seen her, I could make some assessment, no matter how poor that assessment might be. I tell myself no vagrant spirit could ever fool me into believing it was Claudia, but I’ve never seen a vagrant spirit, either. I have never seen anything like it. I have only Jesse’s story of what happened, which Jesse herself sought to soften on account of my feelings, and of course Lestat’s ramblings, that he was sure Claudia came to him, that past experiences quite literally engulfed him when he was suffering his adventures with the Body Thief.”

“Yes, I’ve heard him talk of it.”

“But with Lestat, one never knows . . .” he said. “Lestat may have been characterizing his conscience in those stories. I don’t know. What I do know is that I want desperately for Merrick Mayfair to try to raise Claudia’s spirit, and I’m prepared for whatever might come.”

“You think you’re prepared,” I said hastily, perhaps unfairly.

“Oh, I know. The spell tonight has shaken you.”

“You can’t imagine,” I said.

“Very well, I admit it. I can’t imagine. But tell me this. You speak of a realm beyond the earth and that Merrick is magical when she reaches for it. But why does it involve blood? Surely her spells will involve blood.” He went on, a little angrily. “Voodoo almost always involves blood,” he averred. “You speak of the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass as magical, and I understand you, because if the Bread and Wine are transformed into the Holy Sacrifice of the Crucifixion, it is magical, but why does it involve blood? We are earthly beings, yes, but a small component of us is magical, and why does that component demand blood?”

He became quite heated as he finished, his eyes fixing on me severely almost, though I knew his emotions had little to do with me.

“What I’m saying is, we might compare rituals the world over in all religions and all systems of magic, forever, but they always involve blood. Why? Of course I know that human beings can not live without blood; I know that ‘the blood is the life,’ saith Dracula; I know that humankind speaks in cries and whispers of blood-drenched altars, of bloodshed and blood kin, and blood will have blood, and those of the finest blood. But why? What is the quintessential connection that binds all such wisdom or superstition? And above all, why does God want blood?”

I was taken aback. Surely I wasn’t going to hazard a hasty answer. And I didn’t have one, besides. His question went too deep. Blood was essential to Candomble. It was essential to real Voodoo as well.

He went on:

“I don’t speak of your God in particular,” he said kindly, “but the God of the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass has demanded blood, and indeed the Crucifixion has come down to us as one of the most renowned blood sacrifices of all time. But what of all the other gods, the gods of old Rome for whom blood had to be shed in the arena as well as on the altar, or the gods of the Aztecs who were still demanding bloody murder as the price of running the universe when the Spanish arrived on their shores?”