Evil Unearthed: Chapter 44

Chapter Forty-four

The halls were quiet as Stephen made his way back to his room, but although his body needed sleep, he knew that his mind would not permit it. After the events of this evening, in fact, he felt that he might never sleep again. His talk with Julia Desmond had been brief enough, but what she had told him as he sat by her bed in that aseptic hospital room had so unnerved him that by the time of his meeting with Kathleen, he was barely able to think of anything else. Now, sitting down at his desk, he took out his Blackberry and opened his email. He was determined to do what he had to do. He had to deliver a message, now that he knew that Kathleen's plan was to stay with Julia till the end, but he could not have done so in the cafe, and he felt that it would be better done in writing. However, as the composition screen came up, he thought better of the email, and putting the phone aside, he found a pen and some hotel stationary. He could leave it under her door or perhaps ask Chris the waiter to give it to her. So, leaning back for a moment to collect his thoughts, he took up the pen and began:

"Kat, I don't know how to say this, but I have a request to make of you. It goes against all of my morals and my training as a priest to ask this, but I have no other choice.

"During my conversation with Julia tonight, it became apparent that she does not remember very much about what happened on Maljardin. You, I think, know what--what occurred between us when we were both possessed by the spirits of Jacques and Erica. Well, when I alluded to it tonight, she seemed not to recall it, but to tell you the truth, I wasn't so sure. She kept trying to change the subject.

"She talked a lot about you, and she said that she takes your advice very seriously. Kat, I think she may be avoiding my questions because she hopes to be pregnant. Despite everything, to know that some part of her might continue on after she's gone may be too much for her. But there's something else as well. I really believe that the evil forces on Maljardin could have done more than they did. They could have ensured all of our deaths, but they allowed themselves to be beaten, at least for a time. I think that though we may have won the battle, the war is far from over. The devil is, after all, eternal.

"The thing is, Kat, that if what I think will happen does happen, Robert's death and Vangie's--uh--well, whatever happened to Vangie will be for nothing, and I just can't have that. My uncle died because of this curse, and now a dear friend has been claimed by it, not to mention Vangie.

"The fact is that you and I are now directly responsible for what may lie ahead, and I want to ask you to try your best to convince Julia that she cannot remain pregnant in her condition. Believe me, I do not do this lightly, Kat, but if there is a baby, I'm afraid that it may become a new living incarnation of Jacques Eloi Des Mondes. I know how crazy this sounds, but there was a strange shifty look in Julia's eyes that I didn't like when we spoke, and the way she kept passing off my questions was very unnerving.

"I'm sure you'll know by the time you read this that she has chosen to stay in this region for what remains of her life. The house will be repaired and she will live in it. This news may change your plans, but if it does not, I hope that you will try to do as I ask. I can't make you do it, of course, but I hope you'll think of all the harm that could be prevented by helping her to make this one choice.

"You should know that it makes me ill to write this, but I have no one else to turn to. I know that whatever happens, you'll do as you think best, and if there is a baby, then I will take responsibility for its care. However, I think you'll see what I mean if you talk to her about it, and perhaps that will convince you that I'm not asking this out of some whim. Still, you have to do what you think best. I know that.

"Whatever happens, I wish you the best in life, Kat O'Dell, and I do hope that you will be happy. Till we meet again, I remain: Yours, Stephen."

Hastily folding the letter as though its very touch was fatal to him, he stood up and went to the mini-bar and found one of the little bottles of scotch kept there. Downing it in a few swallows, he began pacing angrily, thinking back to the evening when he had done the same thing while waiting for Barrett to take him to his first meeting with the Conjure Woman. Now that he was freed of the responsibility of telling Kathleen about Julia, there was nothing else to think about, nothing else to occupy his mind. So he thought about Barrett and his fear-stricken face as he recognized his own failure to live up to the demands of his position as High Priest of the island faith. He saw Kathleen standing tall and shadowy in the ancient temple and almost consumed by the power which had seduced her as it had seduced Julia; and at last, he saw Vangie--Vangie, who gave all she had to protect everyone else from the evil that threatened these islands and who, for all he knew now, was buried somewhere just as Barrett had been. When he thought of this, he reproached himself that he had not fulfilled his duty as her partner. He had not dug her grave.

So what could he do? How could he do something to assuage his conscience? Then, as he continued to pace the length of the room in silence, he hit upon an idea. What about Barrett's Bungalow? Surely someone would have to go through it and get things in order. He supposed it would have been Vangie's duty to do so, and indeed, he could imagine her pouring over the masses of paper and becoming somewhat perplexed, and then he began imagining that he was there with her, explaining what she had found and showing her the sheer genius of this man who had influenced him so greatly and whom, in their own ways, they had both loved. This last thought was what settled his mind. He had not yet scheduled a flight home, and tomorrow, he decided, he would go to the bungalow and would do what had to be done. The alcohol finally doing its work, he soon felt able to sleep, and having made up his mind, he got undressed and lay down on the bed, the small gold cross which Kathleen had just given him hanging around his neck and the letter he had just written safely sealed and ready for delivery first thing in the morning.

He fell asleep quickly, but by the time he woke to the sound of the alarm buzzing on the bedside table, he felt more confused and less energetic than ever. His dreams had been even stranger than they had on Maljardin, and though they had all involved Vangie, this time, there was no special communion between them. Instead, she was elusive and mysterious, always dancing just out of his reach down twisting jungle paths and through labyrinthine catacombs. He knew that she was leading him to some great secret, but after a while, he began to see that he was wandering in circles, always catching a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye or hearing the rustling of her robe as she fled down yet another branching way. He did know one thing, however, and this impression stayed with him as he climbed out of bed, shaved and showered, and otherwise made himself presentable before heading off to Barrett's house. No matter how elusive and difficult to pin down she had been in the dreams, Vangie Abbott had been alive, and now, as he walked out into the gloomy morning streets of Port French Leave, he knew beyond a doubt that she must be alive in the waking world as well.

The pendent that Barrett had given him was in his pants pocket, and on a whim he had retrieved the serpent staff from the corner of the hotel room closet where he had placed it on his return from the Desmond chateau. He thought perhaps that he would know what to do with it once he was inside Barrett's house. As he walked through the winding streets of the little seaside town, he felt strange, almost as though he were walking in Barrett's own footsteps, as though he were Barrett's own ghost, and though the day was warm, there was a strong wind blowing in from the channel which smelled of coming rain. He longed to get into the little bungalow and to lose himself in repetitive, almost mindless work. If Vangie was alive, he would know by this evening, for he planned to visit her cabin. Until then, there was this task to do, and he would do it, despite his fatigue, to the best of his abilities.

During the time he was helping to organize his former mentor's files, the old professor had given him a key to his place and he still had it. However, when he got to the door of the house and tried the knob, he found that it offered no resistance to his efforts. All at once, he was tensed and ready for a fight, fearing burglars or other mischief-makers, but as he opened the door, the sight that met his eyes was the last thing he expected; for there in the doorway stood none other than Martine, the young housekeeper at the residence of Bishop Oliver French, the one who had given him the copy of the Roman Ritual to take with him to Maljardin.

"Hello, Fr. Dawson," she said in her light, musical voice. "I wondered if you might be coming."

"Why are you here?" He realized that this question had come out rather sharply, but he was growing sick of surprises and he wanted, for once, to have control of the situation in which he found himself.

"We take care of our own, Father," the girl said as she stood back to let him in. "Professor Barrett, or Papa Robert as we called him, was one of us, so I'm here to see that his things are properly dealt with per his instructions."

"Did he leave a will?"

"Oh, nothing so legal as that, I'm afraid. However, he did leave letters to be opened upon his death. There's one for you, if you'd like to read it."

"I would, yes," he said, following her into the main room which was piled with folders, notebooks and accordion files literally from floor to ceiling.

"I see you have his staff," said Martine.

"Yes," he said, "and perhaps you should take it back."

"I'm not the one to give it to," she said.

"What about this?" He withdrew the serpent pendent from his pocket and held it out to her.

"Oh! I didn't know!" Suddenly, her entire manner with him changed. There was a distinct deference in her expression and actions once she saw the ornament, and by now, he knew what it meant.

"So, I must call you Papa Stephen then," she said, "and I can tell you now that both this and the staff are yours, and they can only be relinquished to one person and at her will."

"Then it's true?" He felt faint with the strength of the hope he was now experiencing. "She's--she's--the Conjure Woman is alive?"

"Can you not feel her presence?"

"I--I can," he said. "I had some very strange dreams last night, and when I woke up this morning, I just knew that she had to be alive. Still, it would ease my mind to hear it spoken aloud by one who has seen her."

"Then I will say it. The Conjure Woman known as Evangeline Abbott is alive, and you may see her at any time."

"I planned to go to the cabin tonight. I wanted to help with all this first." He indicated the massive piles in the room. "Could you use some help? I am an anthropologist as he was. Perhaps I can make sense of all this."

"I must confess that I didn't know how I'd get through all this. Thank you. I have a kettle boiling. Would you like some tea?"

"I'd love some," he said, "if it's anything like the tea you gave me at Bishop French's place. By the way, how were you able to get the time off to come here?"

"He's at a conference. He left the day after your meeting actually. When he's away, I only have to go in once a week to dust and to air the place out."

"And perhaps to return stolen books?" He was smiling as he said this, but a little part of him felt shame for having taken the book when Martine had offered it. "I have it here in my bag."

"I'll be sure to return it," she said. "He'll never know it was missing." Stephen took out the worn volume and handed it to her.

"Don't give it another thought," she said, taking it and placing it in a basket she had with her. "Now, what about that tea?"

As it turned out, the cup she soon brought him was the first of many which he drank to keep himself awake as the hours stretched on. The rain he had smelled earlier finally began to fall, and the consequent thunder and lightning played havoc with the electricity. There were many times when the little bungalow got so dark that he could no longer see to read the papers he was examining. Still, Martine was at his side through it all, offering him by turns another cup of tea or a flashlight, and finally, though the work was far from finished, he felt as though he had accomplished something at least.

"It's getting late," she said as she finished taping a box which he was holding closed. "Shouldn't you be getting back to the hotel for your dinner?"

"Why? What time is it?"

"Almost seven," she said. "We've been at this for almost ten hours, and I think you have another appointment to keep. Haven't you?"

"I suppose so," he said, straightening up to ease the muscles in his back. "Will you be here again tomorrow?"

"If you'd like me to," she said.

"You've been a great help, Martine. Thank you. If we have keys to his--to Papa Robert's truck, then perhaps we can get these boxes shipped to the university tomorrow."

"I think I can scrounge up some keys," she said, handing him the serpent staff gingerly, as though it might burn her if she held it too long.

"See you tomorrow then," he said.

"Wait! Don't go yet! You're forgetting the letter. I'll get it," she said, and after a few moments spent rummaging through papers in Barrett's ancient-looking mahogany desk, she soon returned with an envelope. It bore no stamp and was addressed simply 'to Stephen Dawson.'

"I'll read it soon," he assured her, taking the envelope and putting it in his bag. "Thanks again, Martine!"

"We take care of our own, Papa Stephen," she said gently, holding the door for him to exit. "Remember that!"

"I will," he replied, and walked slowly out into the descending day, where the sun, now cleared of storm-clouds, was beginning to sprinkle the sky with glowing embers as it set.

In the cafe back at the hotel, he found Chris, apparently enjoying a night off with some of his friends. However, when the young man caught sight of him, he left his carousing and came over.

"I just wanted to let you know that I gave Miss O'Dell the letter," he said. "And," he continued in a conspiratorial whisper, "I happened to hear her talking on the phone to Miss Desmond, and it seems that Her Majesty has chosen to stay down here for a while. I thought she couldn't stand the place!"

"Well Chris, I think it sort of grows on a person the longer they stay. Who knows? You might be seeing a lot of me around here too!"

"Oh no," he said. "I'm getting out as soon as I can. If it weren't for the amazing waves, I'd have been gone long ago! Still, I think I'm getting tired of being a surfer."

Stephen couldn't help noticing that Chris was already rather drunk, and he had the distinct impression that the young man had made speeches of this kind many times before.

"Well," he said, "I won't keep you any longer. Have a drink for me, will you?"

"Oh don't worry," said Chris. "I'll have so many drinks for you that you'll be the one with the hangover in the morning!"

Stephen could not help laughing as the young man rejoined his friends. He remembered his own wild days before he had decided to become a serious anthropologist and before the seminary. He had been studious as a rule, but was not without the ability to let loose and kick back when the mood struck him. Indeed, whenever it did strike, it was as though that side of him were making up for its rarity by overstating itself and plunging him into a fay and wild turn of temperament. He played pranks on some people, led others into feats of mad daring do, and generally caused havoc wherever he went. Still, for all this impish glee, he had eventually found what he wanted to do with his life and had pursued both goals fervently, channeling all his untamed vigour into shaping his life as he wished it to be.

So why now did that life seem insipid and cloying to him? Why did he fear to return to it? As he ate a pungent rice curry for dinner, he thought about this. He had tried to live two lives at once, and as a result, he had not realized either of them to their fullest potential. It was not that the life of a priest and that of an Anthropology professor were in distinct conflict, but it was more about the fact that he himself had realized that trying to serve two masters was something that he was finding increasingly difficult to do. The business on Maljardin had illustrated this point very nicely. There, he had tried to function in both his official capacity (though doing so unofficially, he reflected with a smile,) and had also tried to fill the role that Barrett had thrust upon him at his death. He had also fallen in love with a woman, and he knew that he could not just let that feeling go as though it had never been. He had to see it through. He had to take a stand and to find a way to stop trying to tread multiple paths.

His dinner finished, he was about to signal his waitress to bring his bill when he thought about Barrett's letter. So instead of asking for the bill right away, he ordered a scotch and soda, opened the envelope and began to read. The letter was dated the day before they had taken the trip to Maljardin and began immediately and without salutation:

"Well, I suppose that if you're reading this, old boy, it means that what comes to us all has finally come to me. I hope it didn't happen on that benighted island across the channel, but if it did, then I hope I died well and nobly. Like as not, however, I simply grew feeble and weak and died of this damned Cancer here, surrounded by a mountain of unfinished work. Well, whatever happened, I suppose it doesn't matter anymore.

"I do have some few things to say to you, Dawson, so I hope you'll give this posthumous epistle its due attention. Firstly, I know how you feel about Evangeline and I know how she feels about you. I don't know what you'll ultimately choose to do about it of course, but I hope very much that you can put aside whatever pride you have in your identity as a Catholic priest and can love her as she ought to be loved. She has been through a lot and has face most of it alone, and though I was with her at the end, my own progressively weak condition did not allow her to rely on me as she should have been able to do.

"The first time she saw you, Stephen, she was surprised at the depth of feeling she had for you. That had never happened to her before, or well, not to this extent. She told me this, Stephen, in the strictest confidence. Of course, she would minimize it for you and would not want you to be bound to her by something so tenuous as mere emotion, but I truly hope that you can find a place in your heart for this very special woman. I think you could make her very happy, Stephen, and I also believe that she could do the same for you.

"Well, I suppose I've said the most important things that needed saying, but I have a few more little instructions for you. If you would go through my papers and decide which ones should be saved by the university and which ones should be scattered to the four winds, I should be very much obliged to you. There aren't many alive who can decipher either my handwriting or my shorthand, so I'm leaving this task in your very qualified hands. Also, I hope that you will be able to continue working on the book I'm writing about Maljardin. You can even take all the credit for it if you like. I simply think that the story of this island has to be told, and perhaps now it can be. Talk to Evangeline about it, and don't be put off by her reserve. You can get her to open up if you don't press her too hard.

"I wish I had some words of wisdom to leave you with, but if anything, my time in this place has made me feel more foolish than wise. So, I'll simply bid you goodbye and thank you for taking my request that you come so seriously. It meant a lot to see you again before the end, and it means a lot to know that you will be around to set all my affairs in order. My words cannot express my debt to you, so just know that I am sensible of it. Whether we may meet again on some other plain I do not know, but I will hold out every hope for it. Till then, I remain: Yours, R. J. B."

His drink having arrived, Stephen made a silent toast to absent friends and, downing it in a few gulps, he folded the letter and replaced it in his bag. All that Barrett had written made sense to him, especially the part about the pride he felt in his identity as a Catholic priest. A part of him had always known that he had chosen to become a priest so that he could truly seal the deal and make what he had considered to be an irrevocable break with the vaguely Protestant culture of his family. Their vehement opposition to his becoming a Catholic had hardened him and had made him want to shock them further. So, when the opportunity had come up, he had announced proudly across a laden Thanksgiving table that he was becoming a priest. While they had not gone so far as to disown him, they had made it clear that they felt that no good could come of this decision and had never attended any ceremonies associated with his progression toward Holy Orders.

Well, he decided, it was time to change his attitude. It was time to do something that he knew to be right simply because he knew it and not because of what it might prove to his family. He and Vangie did share something deep that went beyond mere emotion, and if she truly was alive and had not been consumed by the evil forces on Maljardin or indeed by the powers for which she had been made a fit vessel, he had to find her and to do what he could to fulfill their communion. Even if it meant throwing his old life away and leaving the priesthood behind, he knew that he would do it. He had to do it. It was the right thing. At least his heart would be in this way of life much more than it had been in the old one. Vangie had shaken and stirred him to the very core, and knowing how desolate he had felt when he thought she was dead and how elated he had become at that first intuitive impression of her continued existence on this side of the mortal veil helped him to solidify what he had to do now without hesitation. Once he paid his bill, he would return to his room, dawn the ceremonial regalia he had inherited from Barrett, and before the night was over, he would take the sacred path to the cabin, alone this time, but without fear. Now, he was not taking a journey into the unknown; now, he knew beyond any doubt, he was coming home, really coming home for the first time in his life. What would happen tomorrow he had no way of knowing, but he knew that tonight would always be for him the night he went to meet his destiny.