Merrick - Anne Rice [86]
“You won’t give up on this, will you?” I replied as tenderly as I could.
She said nothing. Then:
“We have a problem, David,” she said, her eyes fixed on the altar, perhaps deliberately avoiding me.
“And what is that, darling?” I asked.
“We don’t know exactly where to go.”
“I’m hardly surprised,” I responded, trying to remember what I could of Matthew’s vague letters. I tried not to sound cross or pompous. “All Matthew’s letters were mailed from Mexico City in a batch as I understand it, when you were making your way home.”
She nodded.
“But what of the map that Oncle Vervain gave you? I know it has no names, but when you touched it, what happened?”
“Nothing happened when I touched it,” she said. She smiled bitterly. She was silent for a long time. Then she gestured to the altar.
It was then that I saw the small rolled parchment, tied in black ribbon, sitting beside the small picture of Oncle Vervain.
“Matthew had help getting there,” she said in a strange, almost hollow voice. “He didn’t figure it out from that map, or on his own in any fashion.”
“You’re referring to sorcery,” I said.
“You sound like a Grand Inquisitor,” she replied, her eyes still very distant from me, her face devoid of feeling, her tone flat. “He had Cold Sandra to help him. Cold Sandra knew things from Oncle Vervain that I don’t know. Cold Sandra knew the whole lay of the land. So did Honey in the Sunshine. She was six years older than me.”
She paused. She was obviously deeply troubled. I don’t think I had ever seen her so troubled in all her adult years.
“Oncle Vervain’s mother’s people had the secrets,” she said. “I see so many faces in my dreams.” She shook her head as if trying to clear her mind. On her voice went in a near whisper. “Oncle Vervain used to talk to Cold Sandra all the time. If he hadn’t died when he did, maybe Cold Sandra would have been better, but then he was so old, it was his time.”
“And in the dreams, Oncle Vervain doesn’t tell you where the cave is located?”
“He tries,” she answered sadly. “I see images, fragments. I see the Maya brujo, the priest, going up to a rock by the waterfall. I see a big stone carved with facial features. I see incense and candles, feathers from the wild birds, beautifully colored feathers and offerings of food.”
“I understand,” I responded.
She rocked a little in the chair, her eyes moving slowly from side to side. Then she took another drink of the rum in her glass. “Of course I remember things from the journey,” she said in a slow voice.
“You were only ten years old,” I said sympathetically. “And you mustn’t think that because of these dreams you should go back now.”
She ignored me. She drank her rum and she stared at the altar.
“There are so many ruins, so many highland basins,” she said. “So many waterfalls, so many cloud forests. I need one more piece of information. Two pieces, really. The city to which we flew from Mexico City, and the name of the village where we camped. We took two planes to reach that city. I can’t remember those names, if I ever knew them. I don’t think I was paying attention. I was playing in the jungles. I was off by myself. I scarcely knew why we were there.”
“Darling, listen to me—,” I started.
“Don’t. Forget it. I have to go back,” she said sharply.
“Well, I assume you’ve combed all your books on the jungle terrain. You’ve made lists of towns and villages?” I broke off. I had to remember I didn’t want this dangerous trip to take place.
She didn’t immediately respond to me, and then she stared at me very deliberately and her eyes appeared uncommonly hard and cold. The candlelight and the light of the lamps made them gorgeously green. I noticed that her fingernails were painted the same shade of shiny violet as her toes. Once again she seemed the incarnation of all I’d ever desired.
“Of course I’ve done that,” she said to me gently. “But now I have to find the name of that village, the last real outpost, and the name of the city to which we flew on the plane. If I had that, I could go.” She sighed. “Especially that village with the brujo, that