Chapter Eight
For Kathleen, the day passed quickly enough. She felt rather responsible for Bill's even being involved in this hotel venture at all, so she spent much of the day on the phone with his family and with the doctor who had pronounced him dead so that she could facilitate his being sent home as soon as possible. The hardest part for her was speaking to his wife, because all the distraught woman kept saying was how healthy her Bill was and how this all just couldn't be true. Kathleen assured her again and again that it was true, even going so far as to say that she had identified the body so that the police could be shut of the matter as quickly as possible, but the woman was completely inconsolable.
Meanwhile, as she told the same story over and over again, Stephen reclined on his bed, looking distinctly unpriestlike as she thought, and finally read through the entire journal. She saw him close the book with a helpless sort of finality, and by this time the sun had begun to set.
"Well," he said now, and she noticed the pallor of his features, "I'm done. I've done what I was told to do, and what did I learn?"
"Are you alright, Stephen? You look ill!"
"Oh, it's been coming on all day," he said, "just a slight fever, but forget about that now!"
"Well, alright, so what did you learn?"
"I learned that Maljardin is a pretty crazy place. Did you know that Jean Paul's wife really did come back from the dead? Oh, it took Uncle Matt a while to really believe it, but in the end he was convinced that she had not only come back, but that she was a demonic presence. He died as he was in the act of trying to exorcise her. Can you believe it?"
"But that journal doesn't tell you he died, surely?"
"No, someone else told me that," said Stephen.
"But what would lead him to believe that Erica Desmond had returned from the dead as a demon?"
"Well, there were some mysterious deaths which he reported. First, and I'm sorry to have to tell you this since you seemed to like her so much, there was the unexpected and inexplicable death of Vangie Abbott. It seems that she was conducting some kind of séance to try to contact Erica, and she suddenly fell to the floor and gasped for air. Then, she just suddenly died. Uncle Matt wondered if she'd had some sort of heart attack. He reported that she had been showing signs of extreme stress for the past few days."
"Wait," said Kathleen, interrupting him. "Doesn't that sound like what happened to Bill?"
"A little, now that you mention it, yes. Strange!"
"Ok, so you said there were deaths. Was Erica back from the dead when Vangie died?"
"No, by all accounts, but it was her spirit they were trying to contact."
"So now you believe in séances?"
"I believe in mass suggestion. Superstitious practices like séances and exorcisms can fulfill the expectations of their participants merely by their own belief in them, but that's beside the point. The other death that happened was that of Jean Paul Desmond's lawyer and business partner, Dan Forest. He died trying to leave the island in a boat, and Uncle Matt said he saw Jean Paul's servant Raxl carrying a bowl of water with a small paper boat in it which had been submerged. She said that she had seen Erica push the boat under the water."
"What on earth does that prove?" Kathleen was really becoming annoyed now.
"I suppose you've never read James Frazer."
"Oh, only the little bit that helped me understand Elliott's The Waste Land."
"Well, in The Golden Bough, he spends a great deal of time talking about sympathetic magic, where a likeness of something is made to represent the real thing, like the idea that a Voodoo doll can represent a living person. The paper boat represented Dan's boat, and Raxl believed that Erica had caused it to sink by means of sympathetic magic."
"But why does this prove her demonic nature?"
"By itself it might not have done so, but taking Raxl's comments together with the comments of Dr. Alison Carr, Erica's sister, Uncle Matt came to the conclusion that she was not merely a mortal woman. Alison ascribed her odd behaviour to biochemical changes in the body, but the way she arrived, simply walking down the stairs one evening was too surreal for him to just ignore, and you've read already about the fears surrounding Jacques Eloi des Mondes having been freed by Jean Paul."
"So we come back to him again, eh? I hate not knowing what's going on over there!"
"Well, I guess all you can do is wait. As for me, I'm going to take some pills and try to sleep off this fever."
"Of course. I'll leave you alone. I'm sorry for giving you the third degree like that."
"Don't be sorry! You told me that two heads were better than one, and you were right. Your inquisitive nature is helping me focus my thoughts. Still though, you yourself have had a very trying day."
"It wasn't easy looking at Bill like that," she said. "You're right about his face. Usually they relax, don't they? He still looked really terrified!"
She saw a shiver pass through Stephen and she went to him and took his hand.
"Your palm is really sweaty. Should I get a doctor for you?"
"No no. I'll be alright."
"Well, you don't look very good. I'll be sure to get a doctor tomorrow. Alright?"
"Yes," he said. "Tomorrow," and he turned his face to the wall, leaving her to exit in silence.
Back in her own room, she found herself looking out the window at the harbour where a fleet of small sail-boats was setting forth. She hoped the people on them were enjoying themselves, and began to regret her earlier decision not to go on the tour. She loved sailing and the night was clear and moonlit, and she longed to be out in it, being quite sick and tired of being cooped up. Still, she thought, if there was to be some strange ritual taking place elsewhere in the hotel, perhaps it was better for her to stay in her room after all. She had had enough strangeness for one day, and if she couldn't be out on one of those boats, she could at least beguile the remainder of the evening hours with something comfortably familiar. Accordingly, she took out her well-loved and well-read copy of A Tale Of Two Cities and soon was carried away.
A few hours later, sleep finally beginning to entice her to its bosom, Kathleen looked up from her book to find that deep night had fallen. She saw that the sail-boats were moored again at the marina and she felt the need, despite her fatigue, to take a solitary turn in the hotel grounds. Exiting her first-floor room by its sliding patio doors, therefore, she walked around and around the hotel. It was true that she felt tired, but her mind was still very active, and she knew herself well enough not to try to sleep when she was in this state. It would only bring a battle between her mind and her body, and contrary to all reason, her mind would invariably be the victor. So now she walked, hoping that the rhythm of her feet would lull her mind into submission. However, she soon found that sleep was not to be her fate this night, for just as she rounded the back of the hotel for a sixth time, she heard the sound of someone suddenly falling. Fearing a repeat of Bill Temple's mysterious death, her first impulse was to run away and hide in her room, but the better angels of her nature directed her feet to go and search for the source of the sound. Before long, she came upon someone lying face-down near a screening tangle of vines and for an instant she feared that this person was dead. However, a low groan escaping the lips assured her that she was not dealing with a corpse, and as she came closer, she realized that another figure was kneeling there in the dark.
"Who are you?" The kneeling man spoke in a deep and husky voice.
"My name is Kathleen O'Dell," she said. "I'm a guest at the hotel and I was taking a walk before bed, and--"
"Go back to the hotel, Miss. We take care of our own."
Kathleen could see the thick muscles in the man's arms working as he turned his charge over, and then she realized what he had meant when he had said that "we take care of our own," for she saw that his arms were tattooed with vivid green markings. He must be one of the Voodoo people, she thought, and this woman must be one also. Indeed, as she now saw, the woman was dressed in what looked to be a ceremonial robe, and from the decidedly deferential manner which the man was using in caring for her, she looked to be an authority figure.
"If you're sure it's alright," she said, "I'll go, but my room isn't far from here. Perhaps your--uh--your mistress just needs to lie comfortably for a while."
"Well," said the man, "perhaps you're right. I'm sorry I was harsh with you. It's just that the Conjure Woman doesn't usually associate with outsiders."
"I think you have that slightly wrong, Michel," said a familiar voice from behind, and soon, Robert Barrett was standing beside Kathleen. "Outsiders, as you call tourists, don't generally know that there is such a person as the Conjure Woman. For now, I think that Miss O'Dell is correct. Please do as she suggests. You can trust her, and so can the Conjure Woman."
"Alright, Papa Robert," said Michel. "Alright. Which way?"
Kathleen led the way to the patio doors of her room, and as they walked along, she thought she heard the Conjure Woman muttering something that sounded like:
"No, Quito! Don't bury me! I'm not dead," and then she heard Barrett whisper something reassuring to her, and soon, Michel had deposited his burden on her queen-sized bed and had departed without even a goodbye.
"May I leave her with you, Miss O'Dell?" Barrett asked this as he finished checking the Conjure Woman's pulse and breathing and seemed to feel that everything was more-or-less alright.
"Yes," said Kathleen. "This looks like one of the turns my grandmother sometimes used to take. She said that they came on her when the spirits from The Other World were abroad. We all thought she had some kind of undiagnosed seizure disorder, but she never had it checked by a doctor."
"Well," said Barrett, "I must confess that I've never seen her have one of these turns, as you call them, but if you've seen them before, perhaps you know some tricks that I don't."
"I think she just needs rest," said Kathleen, "and I'll be happy to stay awake and be sure she's comfortable."
"Thanks very much," said Barrett. "I have some other things to attend to now, but I'll let everyone know that she is in safe hands. Goodnight, Miss O'Dell."
When Barrett was gone, Kathleen closed and locked the patio doors and made sure that all the bolts were drawn on the door that gave onto the corridor. Then she drew a chair near to the bed and resumed her perusal of Dickens from where she had marked her place, and she sat, alternately reading and dozing till the first birds began to herald the coming dawn.
As the book hastened with its inexorable pace toward its climax and inevitable conclusion, Kathleen finally put it aside and looked down at the sleeping woman before her. She seemed young, perhaps in her early thirties, and she had brown hair and a very attractive face. Her eyes, which were strangely open and alert though her body seemed to sleep, were of a similar hue and seemed as though they would look right through you to the very marrow of your bones.
"So you're the Conjure Woman," she said softly. "I think Matt Dawson referred to Vangie Abbott using that same title. Maybe you can help Julia Desmond, and maybe you should have these." She went then to her briefcase, drew out the deck of Tarot cards, and brought them to the bed. At that, there was a sudden movement from the Conjure Woman, and soon, she was sitting upright in bed, all sleep, natural or otherwise, gone from her.
"My cards," she said. "My cards! You have my cards? But how?"
"Well," said Kathleen, "I suppose they are yours by right, since they belonged to a former Conjure Woman."
"No," said the other, looking fixedly at her with those intense, brown eyes, "you don't understand. These were my cards. I can feel my own psychic impression coming from them."
"But that's impossible," said Kathleen. "These cards were found in the ruins of Maljardin! You wouldn't even have been born when that place burned down, and besides, I think there's much more to worry about here than a bunch of Tarot cards. How are you feeling? Can I get you anything?"
"I'm feeling fine," said the Conjure Woman, "and apart from being a little thirsty, I need nothing at present, but I would like to know how you come to possess my Tarot cards."
"First, will you answer some questions that I have?"
"Very well."
"Alright. What happened to you last night? Why did you collapse?"
"I came here to exorcise a guest-room. It's a common enough occurrence if a guest happens to die while in residence here, but this exorcism was very different. I felt great evil in that room, and it followed me as I left the hotel. Pretty soon, I felt myself overwhelmed by a sudden feeling of weakness, and before I knew it, I was lying on the ground, almost completely unseeing and unhearing. I certainly wasn't able to speak to any of you, though I had some dim idea that you were near me."
"I hope you don't mind that I suggested you be brought back here," said Kathleen, "but I didn't know how far your--uh--guardian had to carry you."
"Well, be assured that Michel would have carried me clear across the channel if he had to. He is devoted to his duties as my protector."
"I could see that well enough. I thought he would kill me on the spot for daring to intrude upon you!"
"But Robert was there?"
"Yes, and he made Michel see sense."
"Wait a minute! You're that one! You're Miss O'Dell, the one who has been trying to uncover the history of the Desmond family in these parts. Robert's told me about you."
"Well," said Kathleen, a little taken aback at being described as 'that one,' "it's true that I've been trying to unearth the Desmond secrets, but I'm also trying to fix their reputation around here."
"Correction," said the Conjure Woman, looking deeply into her eyes again. "You were trying to do that, but you have found that it is impossible."
"You are psychic!"
"Yes, but that's not how I learned this about you. The workers which you and Miss Julia Desmond hired told me about what is happening on Maljardin, and it was I who advised them to leave before it was too late, and, I might add, I would tell you the same thing. If Julia Desmond is following in her father's footsteps and has truly made a pact with Jacques Eloi des Mondes, then there is very little that can be done for her by you."
"But it might not be that at all! She's been under a lot of strain lately."
"Please do not speak of what you do not know, Miss O'Dell. Be sure that I know whereof I am speaking, for I was present when Julia Desmond was introduced to that devil."
"What? How?"
"That does not matter now. The point is that if you don't want to end up like Bill Temple, you should leave here now."
"But I can't!"
"And why not? If it's the money that troubles you--"
"It is most definitely not the money!" Kathleen found herself almost yelling. "Julia Desmond and I have been friends since Cambridge! She is, in fact, my best friend, and if I can help her, I'm going to, so I'm not leaving! Threaten me with death all you want, but I'm not leaving!"
"I do not threaten, Miss O'Dell," said the Conjure Woman in an even tone. "I merely warn. The fact is that I am frightened for all who are connected to Maljardin at this time, and I can see now that I have hidden in the shadows for too long. Now, will you give me my cards?"
"I still think you're mistaken," said Kathleen, "but I suppose, as I said before, that they are at least yours by right of inheritance. It's my belief that they belonged to a very special woman by the name of Vangie Abbott who died there on Maljardin. Perhaps they'll bring you luck or something."
"Perhaps they will," said the Conjure Woman with a sly smile. "Perhaps they will."
"So you still think they're really yours then?"
"I know they are."
"Then how do you explain their being found on Maljardin?"
"They were found there," said the Conjure Woman with a merry glint in her eye, "because I last used them there, though at the time I was feeling far from fortunate."
Kathleen's hand shook as she clutched the pack of cards tighter and tighter, and at the same time she felt the colour draining from her face as realization dawned.
"You're playing with me," she said. "You're trying to tell me that you're someone whom I know is dead!"
"What could I gain by pretending to be someone I'm not? What I'm telling you is the absolute truth. Take it or leave it as you will. Now, will you hand over the cards?"
"Alright," said Kathleen, this time holding the pack out to the other woman. "Alright. Here you are."
"Thank you, Kathleen. Thank you very much!"
As she watched the woman cut and shuffle the cards, she was reminded of a passage in Matthew Dawson's journal. He had written:
"I am always mesmerized when Vangie shuffles the Tarot cards. Her deft movements are like those of a juggler, or no. That is too vulgar an image. Her deft movements are like those of a humming-bird as it moves from flower to flower, but the woman behind those dancing fingers is definitely not as vulnerable as a humming-bird, and yet there is a strange quality about her, a quality of fragility, as though she were a flower which could only grow properly in her native soil. I suppose she seems too bright for this course world of ours."
She found herself looking again at the woman in front of her, and suddenly she understood what Matthew Dawson had meant, and though she could scarcely believe what she was about to say, she said it anyway, and knew it to be true.
"You're welcome, Miss Abbott. You're very welcome."
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