and thereby open wide the door.
Pain and suffering as they stumble
Blood and fear before they learn.
Woe betide this Springtime Eden
Now the vale of those who mourn.
Beware the watchers in that hour
Bar the doctors from the house
Scholars will but nourish evil
Scientists would raise it high.
Let the devil speak his story
Let him rouse the angel’s might
Make the dead come back to witness
Put the alchemist to flight.
Slay the flesh that is not human
Trust to weapons crude and cruel
For, dying on the verge of wisdom,
Tortured souls may seek the light.
Crush the babes who are not children
Show no mercy to the pure
Else shall Eden have no Springtime.
Else shall our kind reign no more.
He read it over. Dreadful handwriting. You’ve let it go to pot, buddy. But it was readable, and now he circled the words Scholars, Scientists, alchemist.
He wrote: “Julien was suspicious too. Incident in a church in London. Not in your files.”
He folded the paper, and put it in his pocket. He’d entrust this to Pierce or Gerald only, and one of them would be along before midnight. Or maybe even Hamilton, who was out taking a nap. Hamilton wasn’t a bad guy at all.
He slipped the pen in his pocket and reached out with his left hand to clasp Rowan’s fingers. There was a sudden jerk. He rose up with a start.
“Just a reflex, Mr. Curry,” said the nurse from the shadows. “It happens now and then. If she was hooked to one of the machines, it would drive the needle crazy, but it doesn’t mean a damned thing.”
He sat back, holding tight to her hand, refusing to admit it was as cool and lifeless as before. He looked at her profile. It seemed to have slipped a little to the left. But maybe that was a mistake. Or they had lifted her head for some reason, or he was just dreaming.
Then he felt the fingers tighten again.
“There, it happened,” he said. He stood up. “Turn on that lamp.”
“It’s nothing, you’re torturing yourself,” said the nurse. She came softly to the side of the bed, and she laid her fingers on Rowan’s right wrist. Then, removing a small flashlight from her pocket, she bent over and directed the tiny beam right into Rowan’s eye.
She stepped back, shaking her head.
Michael sat down again. OK, honey. OK. I’m going to get him. I’m going to kill him. I’m going to destroy him. I’m going to see that his brief fleshly life comes to a swift end. I am going to do it. Nothing this time will stop me. Nothing. He kissed her open palm. No movement in the fingers. He kissed it again, and then he folded the hand closed and put it at her side.
How terrible to think she might not want him to be touching her, might not like the light or the candles, might not want anyone near her, and yet she was locked inside, unable to utter a single word.
“Love you, darling dear,” he said to her. “I love you. I love you.”
The clock struck eleven. How strange it was. The hours dragged and then they flew. Only Rowan’s breathing had the constant rhythm.
He lay back in the chair, and closed his eyes.
It was past midnight when he looked up again. He studied his watch, and then cautiously he looked at Rowan. Was she exactly the same? The nurse was at the little mahogany table, writing as always. Hamilton was in a chair in the far corner, reading by a small high-beam light.
Her eyes somehow…But the nurse would scoff at him. Still…
The guard stood outside, on the gallery, his back to the window which he had shut.
Another figure stood in the room. It was Yuri, the gypsy with the slanted eyes and the black hair. He was smiling at Michael and just for a moment Michael was uncomfortably startled, off base. But the face was kind. Almost beatific like that of Aaron.
He stood up, and motioned for the man to move out into the hail.
“I came from Aaron,” said Yuri. “He says to tell you he is happily married. He says he wants you to remember what he said. You are not to let anyone from the Talamasca in here. Not anyone. You must tell them. It was a snap for me to get in. Won’t you tell them all, now?”
“Yes, yes, I’ll do that.” He turned and made a little motion to the nurse. She knew what it meant. Take Rowan’s vital signs. I have to go out for three minutes. I won’t do it unless you take her pulse.
The nurse went about it quickly and made the sign to him: “No change.”
“Are you sure?”
The nurse sighed coldly. “Yes, Mr. Curry.”
They went down the stairs, Michael going first, a little light-headed and thinking maybe he ought to eat. Had to remember to eat. Then he remembered. Someone had given him a big plate of dinner. So he should be perfectly all right.
He went out on the porch and called the guards from the gate. In a moment there were five uniformed security men around him. Yuri told them. No one from the Talamasca. Only Yuri. Aaron Lightner. Yuri showed them his passport. “You know Aaron,” he said.
They nodded; they understood.
“Well, we’re not letting anybody in here, unless we know that person, you know. We’ve got the nurses’ names on a list.”
Michael walked Yuri back out to the gate. The fresh air felt good. It was waking him up.
“I talked my way past them,” said Yuri. “I don’t want to get them in trouble, but stay on them. Remind them. I never gave them my name.”
“I got you,” said Michael. He turned and looked up at the window of the master bedroom. On the first night that he had ever seen it candles had been flickering behind the closed blinds. He looked at the window below it, which led to the library, the window through which that thing had almost come.
“I hope you’re close. I hope you’re coming,” he said in a bitter whisper meant only for Lasher, his secret and old friend.
“You have the gun Mona gave you?” Yuri asked.
“Upstairs. How did you know about that?”
“She told me,” he said. “Put it in your pocket. Carry it always. You have other reasons.” He gestured to a figure in the shadows across Chestnut Street, against the stone wall.
“That is one of the Talamasca,” he said.
“Yuri, surely you and Aaron don’t really believe these men to be dangerous. They’re being devious, I see that. They aren’t helping. But dangerous? You’re angry, something’s happened. But you don’t think men from the Talamasca would take human life. Yuri, I did my own investigating of the Talamasca. So did Ryan Mayfair before I married Rowan. The Talamasca is made up of bibliophiles and linguists, medievalists and clerks.”
“Nice description. Your words?”
“I don’t know. I think so. Seems I said it crossly to Aaron once. But seriously. Lasher is the thing to fear. Lasher is the thing to catch-” He reached into his pocket. “Almost forgot. Take this to Aaron. You can read it if you like. It’s a poem. I didn’t write it. Make sure he gets this. Not tonight, tomorrow-whenever you see him-will be soon enough. It contradicts what I’m saying, actually, but that’s not the point. I just Want him to see it, all of it. Maybe some of it will mean something to him. I don’t know.”