William H. Hallahan - (12 page)

He told her of his birth in Ireland and of the banshee's wail, of
his mother's second sight, of the black horseman, of the carriage his
two parents had ridden off in and about the angel with red hair he
had seen several times in his dreams and that his mother had seen in
Ireland.

"Did he have a huge white dog with him?"

"I didn't see one, But my mother did."

The Magus, she said to herself. Satan's adversary. She sat back at
last and gazed at Brendan. A young man of unusual gifts. He could
read her soul at a glance yet she sensed that he disapproved of
nothing. His love for the world seemed boundless. In his presence she
felt for the first time in years a sense of peace.

What had he done to arouse the persona of Satan himself? What gift
or knowledge did this young man have? If she interpreted Brendan's
visions rightly, both Satan and the Magus were seeking him.

And she asked herself the deadliest question of all: If she tried
to help this engaging young man, would she draw Satan's ire too?

She shook her head again. "I think you're in the greatest
danger. So far as I know there's no one living who can help you. That
leaves only the Other Side. Do you know what that means?"

"Yes. I think so. Crossing over."

"Yes, going into the spirit world. I'll have to make some
arrangements. Mind you. I'm not making any promises."

"I understand."

"Brendan, I'm not as good as you are. Part of my reason for
wanting to help you is selfish. I want to try to atone for something.
And helping you might help me do it. But what I'm proposing is very
dangerous. People have died violently from it. Some have never come
back. Are you willing to take that chance?"

"I--yes, sure. I mean I don't feel I have a choice. I'm
liable to die violently anyway. But--what about you? You don't have
to take such a chance."

"Yes. Maybe I do. Let me call someone. Make some
arrangements. You stay here and have some more coffee." She
walked off down the hall, almost tottering with emotion.

He heard her voice on the phone in the hallway. She was addressing
someone named Felicite. And occasionally he made out a few words. A
long time, five years. Time to try again. Make amends. Then she made
another phone call in a lower voice.

She came back more thoughtful than ever, wringing her hands and
softly clearing her throat.

"I have a friend," she began. "We used to do
séances. Dangerous things. Something terrible happened one night. I
lost the most precious thing in the world to me. My friend and I have
felt guilty about the whole affair ever since. Anyway, she's agreed
to try to help you. Can you come tonight? Say at ten? There will be
four of us. Felicite Tinsman, you, me and Reverend Ardrey."

He had a better image of why the house was so furious. It had come
to him as she talked on the phone. It was a long time ago: a man's
body lying on the dining room floor of the house, a large bald spot
on the back of his head. The room was a shambles, the table
overturned, pictures on the walls askew, chairs flung about. Four
full-length mirrors had been smashed and a sea of mirror shards
covered the floor. The walls were red with fury.

When he left, it had begun to snow and already all the cracks
between the cobbles had been whited in.
 
 

Shortly before ten, the snow had turned the city into a frozen
white mausoleum. The ways were empty and the snow fell with a faint
pattering. As Brendan went through the streets there was an
expectancy in the air, a waiting. He felt as though he was being
watched.

Mrs. Dunning had had a fire laid in her fireplace but even that
seemed to lack warmth. Kitty the maid was plainly frightened, casting
sidelong glances into the living room whenever she passed by. She
hung up Brendan's snowy coat, then hurried back to the kitchen.

Brendan watched Mrs. Dunning stare into her fire. She seemed as
cold and isolated as the snowstorm outside and he wanted to reach out
to her. The house seemed as angry as ever.

"I can promise you nothing, Brendan," she said. "I
pray that we'll all see the morning light all in one piece."

Mrs. Tinsman, who lived only four doors away, arrived next.
Brendan could hear her in the vestibule, stamping her feet and
shaking the snow off her hat, fluttering like a bird in a cage, and
speaking in a stage whisper to Kitty.

She stood now in the doorway, improbably small, thin as a thread
with wispy hair that floated in strands about her head. She had a
pinched, pointed face and hands just as delicate. She must have been
nearly eighty. Brendan could see why they called her Miss Mouse.

She entered timidly. "How do you do?" she said to
Brendan. She turned her front to the fire and held out a hand, then
whispered loudly to Mrs. Dunning, "I say it's too dangerous to
hold this session tonight."

"Now, Felicite," Mrs. Dunning said.

Mrs. Tinsman sighed. "I'm terrified, Roberta. We're in over
our heads. We--" She stopped when she heard someone stamping
snowy shoes in the vestibule. A man's voice was talking to Kitty the
maid.

"Reverend Ardrey," Mrs. Tinsman said. Mrs. Dunning had
begun to set up things. She had taken out three straight brass
trumpets and laid them on a marble-top credenza. On a small side
table she'd set out a crystal ball.

"Ah, Mrs. Tinsman," Reverend Ardrey said, entering. He
had strangely cut blond hair and heavy black eyeglasses. As he shook
her hand he removed the glasses. They had no lenses. "Roberta."
Now he removed the blond wig and put them both on the mantel. "My
disguise," he said to Brendan as he shook his hand. "A sop
to my blue-nosed Presbyterian church members who do not hold with the
occult. My name's Ardrey and you're Brendan Davitt. I hope we can
help you."

He stood next to Mrs. Tinsman and turned his back to the fire.
"Snow," he said. "Four inches by morning, they say.
Rather pretty." He was a blithe man in his midforties with an
invincibly innocent expression on his boy's face and a somewhat
padded torso.

"Let's begin," Mrs. Dunning said. "Felicite is very
nervous and it might take a while for her to settle down."

Mrs. Dunning had drawn four chairs toward the middle of the room
and arranged them in a close circle. In the midst of the circle, on
the rug, she placed a red-shaded glass lamp. Brendan and Reverend
Ardrey helped her place a full-length, free standing mirror behind
each chair.

"Shhhhhh!" Mrs. Dunning put a finger to her mouth. She
put out the lights. "Good luck to us all. Let us begin by
holding hands for a moment." They all sat. And Brendan saw
himself between two mirrors, his reflection repeated an infinity of
times.

Brendan took Mrs. Tinsman's hand in his right hand. Ice-cold and
trembling, it was contained almost entirely in his palm. He held Mrs.
Dunning's hand in his left. Hers was a large strong hand and it was
tensely squeezing his fingers.

Felicite Tinsman slumped in her chair. For some minutes the four
of them remained motionless. It was so silent the tick of the
grandfather's clock in the vestibule was audible, and the hard
crystals of snow tapped faintly on the windowpane. The only light
came from the fireplace and distantly from a street-lamp.

Reverend Ardrey sat attentively, as though listening for .
something. A draft now flowed around their ankles. A faint odor of
roses filled the room. Brendan looked questioningly at Mrs. Dunning.
She had her eyes shut.

There was a sense of movement in the room, of someone unseen
passing among them. Mrs. Tinsman's head had fallen to one side. Her
right hand was floating somnambulistically as if she were underwater.

Then Mrs. Tinsman spoke. Her voice was so deep and vibrant it
astonished Brendan. "I am cold," said the man's voice. "I
think of warm days with the sun on my back. When I walk the beach,
the sand burns my feet I long to see the sun." The man must have
been huge. His voice spoke in a low, conspiratorial tone and
sometimes whispered.

Reverend Ardrey and Mrs. Dunning glanced at each other. "Marco,"
he murmured.

"Mrs. Tinsman's control," Mrs. Dunning explained to
Brendan.

"Marco," Mrs. Dunning called. "We haven't spoken to
you in five years, since that terrible night."

"I remember," he whispered. "Lower your voice."

"We hate to bother you but we have a young man here who is in
trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"He's being pursued from the Other Side."

There was a long silence. Mrs. Tinsman seemed to have fallen into
a deep sleep, almost a coma.

"That's very bad for him," Marco said finally.

"Can he be helped, Marco?"

"I doubt it."

"Why not?"

"It is hopeless. It is too dangerous to try to help him. Tell
him to go away."

"Isn't there anyone there who can help him?"

They waited for an answer. Mrs. Tinsman's head had slipped even
farther down to her side. Both hands now floated before her as if on
puppet strings.

"Marco," Mrs. Dunning called. "Isn't there someone
there who can help Brendan?"

Mrs. Tinsman's face twitched. Her hands moved in agitation. "I
can!" a woman's voice said. It was edgy and nervous. "I
know exactly how to help him. I can see his future. He'll fight the
black monk."

"Who are you?" Mrs. Dunning asked.

"I am Cassandra. And I can help him. When he fights the black
monk."

"How?"

"All demons have their vulnerabilities. It's in Brendan's
future to fight his adversary. I can show him. Let him come to me."

Brendan felt a light pull on his body. Some force was drawing him
out of his chair. He looked at his mirror image above Reverend
Ardrey's head and saw himself leaning slightly forward. He pulled
himself back into his chair by the wooden armrests and felt the
pulling force increase. As far as his eye could see, he saw images of
himself in the mirror settling back in the chair, double heads back
to back, an infinity of Brendans. As he watched, deep in the mirror,
he saw the black monk slip across his range of vision, a single image
with no reflections.

"Don't trust her," Marco said. "Her name is
Cassandra. No one believes her."

"Come, young man," Cassandra said. "Let me help
you. Come."

Brendan was pulled to his feet, and he put his arms out to stop
himself from crashing into Reverend Ardrey. He was being inexorably
drawn into the minor.

"Don't believe her!" Marco ordered. "It's
disastrous to believe her. It's a trick to pull him over."

"
Silence
!" another voice roared. It was deep and
preternaturally loud. Its vibrations shook the room. "
Silence
!"

Brendan was on top of Reverend Ardrey and was being drawn over the
back of the chair and into the mirror. He was floating.

Mrs. Dunning shrieked, "Stop him!" She stood and had
seized Brendan by an ankle. The crystal ball rose from its base on
the side table and floated about the room. "SILENCE!"

Reverend Ardrey held Brendan's arm. "It's going to happen
again! The mirror! Get the mirror!"

Urgently, Mrs. Dunning stumbled into Reverend Ardrey and tipped
him over as she groped at the minor. Getting a hand on it at last,
she pushed it over and it fell with a loud thud on the rug. Brendan
lay beside Reverend Ardrey, gasping.

"Send him away!" Marco said. "Quickly!"

"
SILENCE
!" the voice roared a fourth time. The
crystal ball shot across the room and crashed through the living room
window.

Kitty the maid rapped sharply on the door. "Mrs. Dunning!
Mrs. Dunning!"

Mrs. Tinsman gathered herself from the floor and scurried to the
door. She opened it, stepped past Kitty, and seizing her coat,
stepped into the snowy night and was gone.

Reverend Ardrey helped Brendan and Mrs. Dunning up.

"Oh, Brendan," Mrs. Dunning said. "You have
powerful enemies. Go. Hurry. I cannot help you. You are not safe
here." And she pushed him to the vestibule and thrust his coat
into his arms. The door slammed behind him.

As he stood on the steps, he looked across the street. Reverend
Ardrey was standing by the curb, looking at the crystal ball. Several
people had come to their doors.

"It's crazed," the minister said. "Destroyed."

The snow was quickly covering the broken window glass on the
sidewalk as well as the trail in the snow left by the ball.

Reverend Ardrey looked at Brendan, then at the ball. He didn't
seem to know what to do.
 
 

Brendan didn't go home for some time. He walked the streets in the
deepening snow. He had been awed by the great power he had seen. He'd
almost been pulled into another world. In the mundane lives of most
people there was never a hint that such supernatural force existed.
As he passed the homes and apartments of so many others, he felt
singled out, confronted with an inescapable fate. It was hopeless to
try to cope with the black monk. Even the Other Side seemed benumbed
and equally frightened.

Reluctantly, by slow steps, he came to the conclusion that he had
no means to save himself. When the black monk came for him, there
would be no place to hide, no means of resisting. He was doomed.

If he couldn't help himself, then in the meantime he might be able
to help others. He wondered how much time he had left.

Maybe Father Breen was right. He might
need psychiatric care. Wouldn't it be wonderful if he were only
insane?

The old Apennine Mountains descended the peninsula of Italy like a
sickle blade, a curving wall that cradles in the north the hill and
plain country of Tuscany. Over the Apennines is the way Hannibal
came. And the German Wehrmacht of World War II.

And over the Apennines came the black speck at sunset. The
prevailing wind carried it up the northern slopes, over La Spezia and
the Carrara marble quarries, sped it south toward Pisa. The black
hawk rode the wind like a surfer on a great wave.