Taltos (Lives of the Mayfair Witches 3)

He saw the Taltos with the white hair.

"The wise ones, the good ones, the knowing ones," they had called them. They had not said "old." It would never have been a word they would have used in those times, when the springs of the island were warm, and the fruit fell from the trees. Even when they'd come to the glen, they had never said the word "old," but everyone knew they had lived the longest. Those with the white hair knew the longest stories....

"Go up now and listen to the story."

On the island, you could pick which of the white-haired ones you wanted, because they themselves would not choose, and you sat there listening to the chosen one sing, or talk, or say the verses, telling the deepest things that he could remember There had been a white-haired woman who sang in a high, sweet voice, her eyes always fixed on the sea. And he had loved to listen to her.

And how long, he thought, how many decades would it be before his own hair was completely white?

Why, it might be very soon, for all he knew. Time itself had meant nothing then. And the white-haired females were so few, because the birthing made them wither young. No one talked about that either, but everybody knew it.

The white-haired males had been vigorous, amorous, prodigious eaters, and ready makers of predictions. But the white-haired woman had been frail. That is what birth had done to her.

Awful to remember these things, so suddenly, so clearly. Was there perhaps another magic secret to the white hair? That it made you remember from the beginning? No, it wasn't that, it was only that in all the years of never knowing how long, he had imagined that he would greet death with both arms, and now he did not feel that way.

His car had crossed the river, and was speeding towards the airport. It was big and heavy and hugged the slippery asphalt. It held steady against the beating wind.

On the memories tumbled. He'd been old when the horsemen had ridden down upon the plain. He'd been old when he saw the Romans on the battlements of the Antonine Wall, when he'd looked down from Columba's door on the high cliffs of Iona.

Wars. Why did they never go out of his memory, but wait there in all their full glory, right along with the sweet recollections of those he'd loved, of the dancing in the glen, of the music? The riders coming down upon the grassland, a dark mass spreading out as if it were ink upon a peaceful painting, and then the low roar just reaching their ears, and the sight of the smoke rising in endless clouds from their horses. He awoke with a start.

The little phone was ringing for him. He grasped it hard and pulled it from its black hook.

"Mr. Ash?"

"Yes, Remmick?''

"I thought you'd like to know, sir. At Claridge's, they are familiar with your friend Samuel. They have arranged his usual suite for him, second floor, corner, with the fireplace. They are waiting for you. And, Mr. Ash, they don't know his surname either. Seems he doesn't use it."

"Thank you, Remmick. Say a little prayer. The weather's very volatile and dangerous, I think."

He hung up before Remmick could begin the conventional warnings. Should never have said such a thing, he thought.

But that was really amazing--their knowing Samuel at Claridge's. Imagine their having gotten used to Samuel. The last time Ash had seen Samuel, Samuel's red hair had been matted and shaggy, and his face so deeply wrinkled that his eyes were no longer fully visible, but flashed now and then in random light, like broken amber in the soft, mottled flesh. In those days Samuel had dressed in rags and carried his pistol in his belt, rather like a little pirate, and people had veered out of his path on the street.

"They're all afraid of me, I can't remain here. Look at them, they're more afraid in these times than long ago."

And now they were used to him in Claridge's! Was he having his suits made for him on Savile Row? Did his dirty leather shoes not have holes? Had he forsaken his gun?

The car stopped, and he had to force the door open, his driver rushing to help him, as the snow swept against him in the wind.

Nevertheless, the snow was so pretty, and so clean before it struck the ground. He stood up, feeling a stiffness in his limbs for a moment, and then he put his hand up to keep the soft, moist flakes from striking his eyes.

"It's not so bad, really, sir," said Jacob. "We can get out of here in less than an hour. You should board immediately, sir, if you please."

"Yes, thank you, Jacob," he said. He stopped. The snow was falling all over his dark coat. He could feel it melting in his hair. Nevertheless, he reached into his pocket, felt for the small toy, the rocking horse, yes, it was there.

"This is for your son, Jacob," he said. "I promised him."

"Mr. Ash, for you to remember something like that on a night like this."

"Nonsense, Jacob. I'll bet your son remembers."

It was embarrassingly insignificant, this little toy of wood; he wished now that it were something infinitely better. He would make a note--something better for Jacob's son.

Taking big steps, he walked too fast for the driver to follow. He was too tall for the umbrella anyway. It was just a gesture, the man rushing beside him, umbrella in hand, for him to take it if he wanted it, which he never did.

He boarded the warm, close, and always frightening jet plane.

"I have your music, Mr. Ash."

He knew this young woman, but he couldn't remember her name. She was one of the best of the night secretaries. She'd been with him on the last trip to Brazil. He had meant to remember her. Shameful not to have her name on the very tip of his tongue.

"Evie, isn't it?" he asked, smiling, begging forgiveness with a little bit of a frown.

"No, sir, Leslie," she said, forgiving him instantly.

If she'd been a doll, she would have been bisque, no doubt of it, face underpainted with a soft rose blush to cheeks and lips, eyes deliberately small, but dark and deeply focused. Timidly she waited.

As he took his seat, the great leather chair made especially for him, longer than the others, she put the engraved program in his hand.

There were the usual selections--Beethoven, Brahms, Shostakovich. Ah, here was the composition he had requested--the Verdi Requiem. But he couldn't listen to it now. If he slipped himself into those dark chords and dark voices, the memories would close in.

He put his head back, ignoring

the winter spectacle outside the little window. "Sleep, you fool," he said without moving his lips.

But he knew he wouldn't. He would think about Samuel and the things Samuel had said, over and over, until they saw one another again. He would remember the smell of the Talamasca house, and how much the scholars had looked like clerics, and a human hand with a quill pen, writing in great curled letters. "Anonymous. Legends of the lost land. Of Stonehenge."

"Just want to be quiet, sir?" asked the young Leslie.

"No, Shostakovich, the Fifth Symphony. It will make me cry, but you must ignore me. I'm hungry. I want cheese and milk."

"Yes, sir, everything's ready." She began to speak the names of the cheeses, those fancy triple creams that they ordered for him from France and Italy and God only knows where else. He nodded, accepting, waiting for the rush of the music, the divinely piercing quality of this engulfing electronic system, which would make him forget the snow outside, and the fact that they would soon be over the great ocean, pushing steadily towards England, towards the plain, towards Donnelaith, and towards heartbreak.

Two

AFTER THE FIRST day, Rowan didn't talk. She spent her time out under the oak, in a white wicker chair, her feet propped on a pillow, or sometimes merely resting on the grass. She stared at the sky, eyes moving as if there were a procession of clouds above, and not the clear spring blue, and the bits of white fleece that blew silently across it.

She looked at the wall, or the flowers, or the yew trees. She never looked down at the ground.

Perhaps she'd forgotten that the double grave was right beneath her feet. The grass was growing over it, quick and wild, as it always does in spring in Louisiana. There had been rain aplenty to help it, and sometimes the glory of the sun and rain at the same time.

She ate her meals--approximately a fourth to one-half of what they gave her. Or so Michael said. She didn't look hungry. But she was pale, still, and her hands, when she did move them, would shake.

All the family came to see her. Groups came across the lawn, standing back as if they might hurt her. They said their hellos, they asked about her health. They told her she looked beautiful. That was true. Then they gave up and they went away.

Mona watched all this.