Merrick (19 page)

The district has sunk considerably lower, I think, than she could have imagined, and I believe the shattered ruin of the “corner bar” and the “corner store” took her quite by surprise. As for the house, it has been splendidly maintained by the man who lives on the premises, and Merrick spent almost an hour, alone by choice, in the rear yard.

There the caretaker had made a patio, and the shed is virtually empty. Nothing remains of the temple, naturally, except the brightly painted center post.

She said nothing to me afterwards, absolutely refusing to discuss these dreams of hers in any detail.

She expressed extreme gratitude to me that we’d kept the house for her, during her period of “negligence,” and I hoped this might be the end of it.

But at supper, I was quite astonished to hear that she planned to move back into the house and spend part of her time there from now on. She wanted all the old furniture, she told me. She’d supervise the arrangements herself.

“What about the neighborhood?” I found myself asking weakly, to which she replied with a smile, “I was never afraid of the neighbors. You’ll soon discover, Aaron, that the neighbors will become afraid of me.” Not to be outdone, I quipped, “And suppose some stranger should try to murder you, Merrick,” to which she fired back, “Heaven help the man or woman who would attempt such a thing.”

Merrick was as good as her word, and did move back to the “old neighborhood,” but not before building a caretaker’s quarters above the old shed.

The two miserably rundown houses which flanked the house were purchased and demolished, and brick walls went up around three sides of the enormous lot and along the front, coming to meet the high iron picket fence directly before the facade. There was always to be a man on the property; some sort of alarm system was installed; flowers were planted. Feeders were put out for the hummingbirds once more. It all sounded quite wholesome, and natural, but having once seen that house, I was still chilled by frequent stories of how Merrick came and went.

The Motherhouse remained her true home, but many afternoons, according to Aaron, she disappeared into New Orleans and did not return for several days.

“The house is now quietly spectacular,” Aaron wrote to me. “All the furniture was of course repaired and refinished, and Merrick has claimed Great Nananne’s mammoth four-poster for her own. The floors of heart pine have been beautifully redone, giving the house a rather amber glow. Nevertheless, it worries me dreadfully that Merrick secludes herself there for days on end.”

Naturally, I myself wrote to Merrick, broaching the subject of the dreams that had motivated her return to the house.

“I want to tell you about these things but it is too soon,” Merrick replied immediately.

Let me say only that in these dreams it is Great-Oncle Vervain who talks with me. Sometimes I’m a child again as I was on the day he died. Other times we are adults together. And it seems, though I cannot with uniform success remember everything, in one dream we were both young.

For now, you mustn’t worry. You must realize that it was inevitable that I should return to my childhood home. I am of an age when people become curious about the past, especially when it has been sealed off so successfully and abruptly as was mine.

Understand, I do not feel guilt for having abandoned the house where I grew up. It is only that my dreams are telling me that I must return. They tell me other things as well.

These letters worried me, but Merrick gave only brief responses to my queries.

Aaron had also become concerned. Merrick was spending less and less time at Oak Haven. Often he made the drive into New Orleans to call upon her at the old house, that is, until Merrick asked to be left alone.

Of course, such a manner of living is not uncommon among Talamasca members. Frequently they divide their time between the Motherhouse and a private family home. I had and still do have a home in the Cotswolds in England. But it is not a good sign when a Member absents herself from the Order for long periods of time. In Merrick’s case it was particularly disturbing due to her frequent and cryptic mentions of her dreams.

During the fall of that fateful year, her twenty-fifth, Merrick wrote to me about a journey to the cave.

Let me continue with my reconstruction here of her words:

“David, I no longer sleep through the night without a dream of my Great-Oncle Vervain. Yet less and less am I able to recall the substance of these dreams. I know only that he wants me to return to the cave I visited in Central America when I was a child. David, I must do this. Nothing can prevent it. The dreams have become a form of obsession, and I ask that you not bombard me with logical objections to what you know I must do.”

She went on to talk about her treasure.

I have been through all of the so-called Olmec treasures, and I know now they are not Olmec at all. In fact, I can’t identify them, though I have every published book or catalog on antiquities in that part of the world. As for the destination itself, I have what I remember, and some writings by my Oncle Vervain, and the papers of Matthew Kemp, my beloved stepfather of years ago.

I want you to make this journey with me, though certainly we cannot attempt it without others. Please answer me as quickly as you can as to whether you are willing. If not, I will organize a party on my own.

Now, I was almost seventy years of age when I received this letter, and her words presented quite a challenge to me, and one which I didn’t welcome at all. Though I longed for the jungles, longed for the experience, I was quite concerned that it was beyond my ability to make such a trip.

Merrick went on to explain that she had spent many hours going through the artifacts retrieved on her girlhood journey.

“They are indeed older,” she wrote, “than those objects which archaeologists call Olmec, though they undoubtedly share many common traits with that civilization and would be called Olmec-oid due to their style. Elements we might call Asian or Chinese proliferate in these artifacts, and then there is the matter of the alien cave-paintings which Matthew managed to photograph as best he could. I must investigate these things personally. I must try to arrive at some conclusion regarding the involvement of my Oncle Vervain in this part of the world.”

I called her that night from London.

“Look, I’m entirely too old to go off into that jungle,” I said, “if it’s even still there. You know they’re cutting down the rain forests. It might be farmland by now. Besides, I’d slow you down no matter what the terrain.”

“I want you to come with me,” she said softly, coaxingly. “David, please do this. We can move at your pace, and when it comes time to make the climb in the waterfall, I can do that part alone.

“David, you were in the jungles of the Amazon years ago. You know this sort of experience. Imagine us now with every microchip convenience. Cameras, flashlights, camping equipment; we’ll have every luxury. David, come with me. You can remain in the village if you like. I’ll go on to the waterfall alone. With a modern four-wheel drive vehicle, it will be nothing at all.”

Well it wasn’t nothing at all.

A week later I arrived in New Orleans, determined to argue her out of the excursion. I was driven directly to the Motherhouse, a little disturbed that neither Aaron nor Merrick had come to meet my plane.

12

A
ARON GREETED ME
at the door.

“Merrick’s at her house in New Orleans. The caretaker says she’s been drinking. She will not talk to him. I’ve called every hour since morning. The phone simply rings and rings.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this was happening?” I demanded. I was deeply concerned.

“Why? So you’d worry about it all the way across the Atlantic? I knew you were coming. I know you’re the only one who can reason with her when she’s in this state.”

“Whatever in the world makes you think so?” I argued. But it was true. Sometimes I could talk Merrick into ending her binges. But not always.

Whatever the case, I bathed, changed clothes, as the early winter weather was unseasonably warm, and set out in a drowsy evening shower, with the car and driver, for Merrick’s house.

It was dark when I got there, but even so, I could see that the neighborhood had deteriorated beyond my wildest speculation. It seemed as if a war had been lost in the district, and the survivors had no choice but to live among hopeless wooden ruins tumbling down into the eternal giant weeds. Here and there was a well-kept shotgun house with a bright coat of paint and some gingerbread trim beneath its roof. But dim lights shone through heavily barred windows. Abandoned cottages were being dismantled by the rampant greenery. The area was derelict and obviously dangerous as well.

It seemed to me that I could sense people prowling about in the darkness. I detested the feeling of fear which had been so uncommon in me in my youth. Old age had taught me to respect danger. As I said, I hated it. I remember hating the thought that I wouldn’t ever be able to accompany Merrick on this insane journey to the Central American jungles, and I’d be humiliated as the result.

At last the car stopped at Merrick’s house.

The lovely old raised cottage, painted a fresh shade of tropical pink with white trim, appeared rather wonderful behind the high iron picket fence. The new brick walls were thick and very high as they embraced the property on either side. A bank of densely flowering oleander behind the iron pickets shielded the house somewhat from the squalor of the street.

As the caretaker greeted me, and brought me up the front steps, I saw that Merrick’s long windows were well barred also, in spite of their white lace curtains and shades, and that lights were on throughout the house.

The porch was clean; the old square pillars were solid; the leaded glass sparkled within the twin windows of the polished double doors. A wave of remembrance passed over me, nevertheless.

“She won’t answer the bell, Sir,” said the caretaker, a man I scarcely noticed in my haste. “But the door’s unlocked for you. I took her some supper at five o’clock.”

“She asked for her supper?” I inquired.

“No, Sir, she never said anything. But she ate the food. I picked up the dishes at six.”

I opened the door and found myself in the comfortable air-cooled front hall. I saw at once that the old parlor and dining room to my right had been splendidly refurnished with rather bright Chinese carpets. A modern sheen covered the old furniture. The old mirrors above the white marble mantels were as dark as they had ever been.

To my left lay the front bedroom; Great Nananne’s bed was dressed with an ivory white canopy and a counterpane of heavy crocheted lace.

In a polished wooden rocking chair before the bed, facing the front windows, sat Merrick, a wobbling light easily illuminating her thoughtful face.

There was a bottle of Flor de Caña rum on the little candlestand table beside her.

She lifted the glass to her lips, drank from it, and then sat back, continuing to stare off as if she didn’t know that I was there.

I stopped at the threshold.

“Darling,” I said, “aren’t you going to offer me a drink?”

Without so much as turning her head, she smiled.

“You never liked straight rum, David,” she said softly. “You’re a Scotch man like my old stepfather, Matthew. It’s in the dining room. How about some Highland Macallan? Twenty-five years old. That good enough for my beloved Superior General?”

“I should say so, gracious lady,” I replied. “But never mind that just now. May I step into your boudoir?”

She uttered a small pretty laugh. “Sure, David,” she said, “come on in.”

I was startled as soon as I looked to my left. A large marble altar had been erected between the two front windows, and I saw there the old multitude of sizable plaster saints. The Virgin Mary wore her crown and the vestments of Mount Carmel, holding the radiant Baby Jesus beneath her innocent smile.

Some elements had been added. I realized they were the Three Magi of Christian scripture and lore. The altar was no Christmas crèche, you understand. The Magi or Wise Men had merely been included in a large panoply of sacred figures, more or less on their own terms.

I spied several of the mysterious jade idols among the saints, including one very mean little idol which held its scepter quite ready for duty or attack.

Two other rather vicious little characters flanked the large statue of St. Peter. And there before them lay the green jade hummingbird perforator, or knife, one of the most beautiful artifacts in Merrick’s large cache.

The gorgeous axe of obsidian which I had seen years ago was given a place of prominence between the Virgin Mary and the Arc Angel Michael. It had a lovely luster in the dim light.

But perhaps the most surprising contents of the altar were the daguerreotypes and old photographs of Merrick’s people, ranged thickly as any display upon a parlor piano, the multitude of faces lost in the gloom.

A double row of candles burned before the entire array, and there were fresh flowers aplenty, in numerous vases. Everything appeared dusted and quite clean. That is, until I realized that the shriveled hand had its place among the offerings. It stood out against the white marble, curled and hideous, very much as it had seemed when I first saw it long ago.

“For old times’ sake?” I asked, gesturing to the altar.

“Don’t be absurd,” she said under her breath. She lifted a cigarette to her lips. I saw by the box on the little table that it was Rothmans, Matthew’s old brand. My old brand as well. I knew her to be a smoker now and then, rather like I was myself.

Nevertheless, I found myself looking hard at her. Was she really my beloved Merrick? My skin had begun to crawl, as they say, a feeling I detest.

“Merrick?” I asked.

When she looked up at me, I knew it was she and no one else inside her handsome young body, and I knew that she wasn’t very drunk at all.

“Sit down, David, my dear,” she said sincerely, almost sadly. “The armchair’s comfortable. I’m really glad you came.”

I was much relieved by the familiarity of her tone. I crossed the room, in front of her, and settled in the armchair from which I could easily see her face. The altar loomed over my right shoulder, with all those tiny photographic faces staring at me, as they had long ago. I found that I did not like it, did not like the many indifferent saints and the subdued Wise Men, though I had to admit that the spectacle was dazzling to my eyes.

“Why must we go off to these jungles, Merrick?” I asked. “Whatever made you decide to drop everything for such an idea?”

She didn’t answer immediately. She took a drink of rum from her glass, her eyes focused on the altar.

This gave me time to note that a huge portrait of Oncle Vervain hung on the far wall beside the door through which I’d entered the room.

I knew it at once to be an expensive enlargement of the likeness Merrick had revealed to us years ago. The processing had been true to the sepia tones of the portrait, and Oncle Vervain, a young man in his prime, resting his elbow comfortably on the Greek column, appeared to be staring directly at me with bold brilliant light eyes.

Even in the shuddering gloom, I could see his handsome broad nose and beautifully shaped full lips. As for the light eyes, they gave the face a certain frightening aspect, though I wasn’t certain whether or not I ought to have felt such a thing.

“I see you came to continue the argument,” Merrick said. “There can be no argument for me, David. I have to go and now.”

“You haven’t convinced me. You know very well I won’t let you journey into that part of the world without the support of the Talamasca, but I want to understand—.”

“Oncle Vervain is not going to leave me alone,” she said quietly, her eyes large and vivid, her face somewhat dark against the low light of the distant hall. “It’s the dreams, David. Truth is, I’ve had them for years, but never the way they come now. Maybe I didn’t want to pay attention. Maybe I played, even in the dreams themselves, as if I didn’t understand.”

It seemed to me that she was three times as fetching as I had remembered. Her simple dress of violet cotton was belted tightly at the waist, and the hem barely covered her knees. Her legs were lean and exquisitely shaped. Her feet, the toenails painted a bright shiny violet to match the dress, were bare.

“When precisely did the onslaught of dreams begin?”

“Spring,” she replied a little wearily. “Oh, right after Christmas. I’m not even sure. Winter was bad here. Maybe Aaron told you. We had a hard freeze. All the beautiful banana trees died. Of course they came right back up as soon as the spring warmth arrived. Did you see them outside?”

“I didn’t notice, darling. Forgive me,” I replied.

She resumed as if I hadn’t answered.

“And that’s when he came to me the most clearly,” she said. “There was no past or future in the dream, then, only Oncle Vervain and me. We were in this house together, he and I, and he was sitting at the dining room table—.” She gestured to the open door and the spaces beyond it, “—and I was with him. And he said to me, ‘Girl, didn’t I tell you to go back there and get those things?’ He went into a long story. It was about spirits, awful spirits that had knocked him down a slope so that he cut his head. I woke up in the night and wrote down everything I remembered, but some of it was lost and maybe that was meant to be.”

“Tell me what else you remember now.”

“He said it was his mother’s great-grandfather who knew of that cave,” she responded. “He said that the old man took him there, though he himself was scared of the jungle. Do you know how many years back that would be? He said he never got to go back there. He came to New Orleans and got rich off Voodoo, rich as anybody can get off Voodoo. He said you give up your dreams the longer you live, until you’ve got nothing.”

I think I winced at those choice and truthful words.

“I was seven years old,” she said, “when Oncle Vervain died under this roof. His mother’s great-grandfather was a
brujo
among the Maya. You know, that’s a witch doctor, a priest of sorts. I can still remember Oncle Vervain using that word.”

“Why does he want you to go back?” I asked her.

She had not removed her eyes from the altar. I glanced in that direction and realized that a picture of Oncle Vervain was there too. It was small, frameless, merely propped at the Virgin’s feet.

“To get the treasure,” she said in her low, troubled voice. “To bring it here. He says there’s something there that will change my destiny. But I don’t know what he means.” She gave one of those characteristic sighs of hers. “He seems to think I’ll need it, this object, this thing. But what do spirits know?”

“What
do
they know, Merrick?” I asked.

“I can’t tell you, David,” she replied raggedly. “I can only tell you that he haunts me. He wants me to go there and bring back those things.”

“You don’t want to do this,” I said. “I can tell by your entire manner. You’re being haunted.”

“It’s a strong ghost, David,” she said, her eyes moving over the distant statues. “They’re strong dreams.” She shook her head. “They’re so full of his presence. God, how I miss him.” She let her eyes drift. “You know,” she said, “when he was very old, his legs were bad. The priest came; he said Oncle Vervain didn’t have to go to Sunday Mass anymore. It was too hard. Yet every Sunday, Oncle Vervain got dressed in his best three-piece suit, and always with his pocket watch, you know, the little gold chain in front and the watch in the little pocket—and he sat in the dining room over there listening to the broadcast of Mass on the radio and whispering his prayers. He was such a gentleman. And the priest would come and bring him Holy Communion in the afternoon.

“No matter how bad his legs were, Oncle Vervain knelt down for Holy Communion. I stood in the front door until the priest was gone and the altar boy. Oncle Vervain said that our church was a magic church because Christ’s Body and Blood was in Holy Communion. Oncle Vervain said I was baptized: Merrick Marie Louise Mayfair—consecrated to the Blessed Mother. They spelled it the French way, you know: M-e-r-r-i-q-u-e. I know I was baptized. I know.”

She paused. I couldn’t bear the suffering in her voice or in her expression. If only we had located that baptismal certificate, I thought desperately, we might have prevented this obsession.

“No, David,” she said aloud, sharply correcting me. “I dream of him, I tell you. I see him holding that gold watch.” She settled back into her reverie, though it gave her no consolation. “How I loved that watch, that gold watch. I was the one who wanted it, but he left it to Cold Sandra. I used to beg him to let me look at it, to let me turn its hands to correct it, to let me snap it open, but no, he said, ‘Merrick, it doesn’t tick for you,
chérie,
it ticks for others.’ And Cold Sandra got it. Cold Sandra took it with her when she left.”

“Merrick, these are family ghosts. Don’t we all have family ghosts?”

“Yes, David, but it’s my family, and my family was never very much like anyone else’s family, was it, David? He comes in the dreams and tells me about the cave.”

“I can’t bear to see you hurt, my darling,” I said. “In London, behind my desk, I isolate myself emotionally from the Members all over the world. But from you? Never.”

She nodded. “I don’t want to cause you pain, either, boss,” she said, “but I need you.”

“You won’t give up on this, will you?” I replied as tenderly as I could.