The witching hour

Fifty-one

ONLY THE TREE was lighted, and the whole house slumbered in warm darkness, except for that soft wreath of light. The cold tapped at the glass but couldn’t come inside.

She sat in the middle of the sofa, her legs crossed, her arms folded, staring down the length of the room at the long mirror, barely able to see the pale glow of the chandelier.

The hands of the grandfather clock moved slowly towards midnight.

And this was the night that meant so much to you, Michael. The night when you wanted us to be together. You couldn’t be farther from me now if you were on the other side of the world. All such simple and graceful things are far from me, and it is like that Christmas Eve when Lemle took me through door after door into his darkened and secret laboratory. What have such horrors to do with you, my darling?

All her life, if her life was long or short, or almost over-all her life-she’d remember Michael’s face when she slapped him; she’d remember the sound of his voice when he pleaded with her; she’d remember the look of shock when she’d jabbed the needle into his arm.

So why was there no emotion? Why only this emptiness and this shriveling stillness inside her? Her feet were bare, and the soft flannel nightgown hung loose around her, and the silky Chinese rug beneath her feet was warm. Yet she felt naked and isolated, as if nothing of warmth or comfort could ever touch her.

Something moved in the center of the room. All the limbs of the tree shivered, and the tiny silver bells gave off a faint barely perceptible music in the stillness. The tiny angels with their gilded wings danced on their long threads of gold.

A darkness was gathering and thickening.

“We are close to the hour, my beloved. To the time of my choosing.”

“Ah, but you have a poet’s soul,” she said, listening to the faint echo of her own voice in this big room.

“My poetry I have learned from humans, beloved. From those who, for thousands of years, have loved this night of all nights.”

“And now you mean to teach me science, for I don’t know how to bring you across.”

“Don’t you? Haven’t you always understood?”

She didn’t answer. It seemed the film of her dreams thickened about her, images catching hold and then letting go, so that her coldness and her aloneness grew harder and more nearly unbearable.

The darkness grew denser. It collected itself into a shape, and in the swirling density, she thought she saw the outline of human bones. The bones appeared to be dancing, gathering themselves together, and then came the flesh over them, like the light from the tree pouring down over the skeleton, and the brilliant green eyes were suddenly peering at her from his face.

“The time is almost at hand, Rowan,” he said.

In amazement she watched the lips moving. She saw the glimmer of his teeth. She realized she’d risen to her feet and she was standing very close to him, and the sheer beauty of his face stunned her. He looked down at her, his eyes darkening slightly, and the blond eyelashes golden in the light.

“It’s nearly perfect,” she whispered.

She touched his face, slowly, running her finger down the skin and stopping on the firmness of the jawbone. She placed her left hand very gently against his chest. She closed her eyes, listening to the heart beat. She could see the organ inside, or was it the replica of an organ? Shutting her eyes tighter she envisioned it, its arteries and valves, and the blood rushing through it, and coursing through the limbs.

“All you need to do is surrender!” She stood, staring at him, seeing his lips spread in a smile. “Let go,” she said. “Don’t you see, you’ve done it!”

“Have I?” he asked, the face working perfectly, the fine muscles flexing and releasing, the eyes growing narrow as the eyes of any human in their concentration. “You think this is a body? This is a replica! It’s a sculpture, a statue. It’s nothing, and you know it. You think you can lure me into this shell of minuscule lifeless particles so you can have me at your command? A robot? So that you can destroy me?”

“What are you saying?” She stepped backwards. “I can’t help you. I don’t know what you want of me.”

“Where are you going, my darling?” he asked, eyebrows lifting ever so slightly. “You think you can flee from me? Look at the face of the clock, my beautiful Rowan. You know what I want. It is Christmas Eve, my darling. The witching hour is at hand, Rowan, when Christ was born into this world, when the Word was finally made flesh, and I would be born, too, my beautiful witch, I am done with waiting.”

He lunged forward, his right hand locking on her shoulder, the other on her belly, a searing shimmer of warmth penetrating her, sickening her, even as he held her.

“Get away from me!” she whispered. “I can’t do it.” She called upon her anger and her will, eyes boring into those of the thing in front of her. “You can’t make me do what I won’t do!” she said. “And you can’t do it without me.”

“You know what I want and what I have always wanted. No more shells, Rowan, no more coarse illusions. The living flesh inside you. What other flesh in all the world is ready for me, plastic, and adaptable and swarming with millions upon millions of tiny cells which it will not use in its perfection, what other organism has grown to a thousand times its size in the first few weeks of its beginning, and is ready now to unfurl and lengthen and swell as my cells merge with it!”

“Get away from me. Get away from my child! You’re a stupid, crazed thing. You won’t touch my child! You won’t touch me!” She was trembling as if her anger was too great to be contained; she could feel it boiling in her veins. Her feet were wet and slippery on the boards as she backed away, drawing on her anger, struggling to direct it against him.

“Did you think you could trick me, Rowan?” he said in that slow, patient, beautiful voice, his handsome image holding. “With your little performance before Aaron and Michael? Did you think. I couldn’t see into the depths of your soul? I made your soul. I chose the genes that went into you. I chose your parents, I chose your ancestors, I bred you, Rowan. I know where flesh and mind meet in you. I know your strength as no one else knows it. And you have always known what I wanted of you. You knew when you read the history. You saw Lemle’s fetus slumbering in that little bed of tubes and chemicals. You knew! You knew when you ran from the laboratory what your brilliance and courage could have done even then without me, without the knowledge that I waited for you, that I loved you, that I had the greatest gift to bestow on you. Myself, Rowan. You will help me, or that tiny simmering child will die when I go into it! And that you will never allow.”

“God. God help me!” she whispered, her hands moving down over her belly, in a crisscross as if to ward off a blow, eyes fixed on him. Die, you son of a bitch, die!

The hands of the clock made their tiny click as they shifted, the little hand straight up in line with the big hand. And the first chime of the hour sounded.

“Christ is born, Rowan,” he cried out, his voice huge as the image of the man dissolved in a great boiling cloud of darkness, obscuring the clock, rising to the ceiling, turning in on itself like a funnel. She screamed, struggling backwards against the wall. A shock ran through the rafters, through the plaster. She could hear it like the roar of an earthquake.

“No, God, no!” In sheer panic, she screamed. She turned and ran through the parlor door into the hallway. She reached out for the knob of the front door. “God help me. Michael, Aaron!”

Somebody had to hear her screams. They were deafening in her own ears. They were ripping her apart.

But the rumbling grew louder. She felt his invisible hands on her shoulders. She was thrown forward, hard against the door, her hand slipping off the knob as she fell to her knees, pain shooting up her thighs. The darkness was rising all around her, the heat was rising.

“No, not my child, I’ll destroy you, with my last breath, I’ll destroy you.” She turned in one last desperate fury, facing the darkness, spitting at it in hate, willing it to die, as the arms wound around her and dragged her down on the floor.

The back of her head scraped the wood of the door, and then banged against the floorboards, as her legs were wrenched forward. She was staring upwards, struggling to rise, her arms flailing, the darkness bubbling over her.

“Damn you, damn you in hell, Lasher, die. Die like that old woman! Die!” she screamed.

“Yes, Rowan, your child, and Michael’s child!”

The voice surrounded her like the darkness and the heat. Her head was forced back again, slammed down again, and her arms pinned, wide and helpless.

“You my mother and Michael my father! It is the witching hour, Rowan. The clock is striking. I will be flesh. I will be born.”

The darkness furled again, it coiled in upon itself and it shot downward. It shot into her, raping her, splitting her apart. Like a giant fist it shot upwards inside her womb, and her body convulsed as the pain caught her in a great lashing circle that she could see, shining bright, against her closed eyes.

The heat was unbearable. The pain came again, shock after shock of it, and she could feel the blood gushing out of her, and the water from her womb, gushing onto the floor.

“You’ve killed it, you damnable evil thing, you’ve killed my baby, damn you! God help me! God, take it back to hell!” Her hands knocked against the wall, struggled against the slimy wet floor. And the heat sickened her, caught her lungs now as she gasped for breath.

The house was burning. It had to be burning. She was burning. The heat was throbbing inside of her, and she thought she saw the flames rising, but it was only a great lurid blast of red light. And somehow she had managed to climb up on her hands and knees, again, and she knew her body was empty, her child was gone, and she was struggling now only to escape, reaching out once more, desperately and in her fierce relentless pain, for the knob of the door.

“Michael, Michael help me! Oh God, I tried to trick it, I tried to kill it. Michael, it’s in the child.” Another shock of pain caught her, and a fresh gush of blood poured out of her.

Sobbing, she sank down, dizzy, unable to command her arms or legs, the heat blasting her, and a great raw crying filled her ears. It was a baby’s crying. It was that same awful sound she’d heard over and over in her dream. A baby’s mewling cry. She struggled to cover her ears, unable to bear it, wailing for it to stop, the heat suffocating her.

“Let me die,” she whispered. “Let the fire burn me. Take me to hell. Let me die.”

Rowan, help me. I am in the flesh. Help me or I will die. Rowan, you cannot turn your back on me.

She tightened the grip on her ears, but she couldn’t shut out the little telepathic voice that rose and fell with the baby’s sobs. Her hand slipped in the blood and her face fell down in it, sticky and wet under her, and she rolled over on her back, seeing again the shimmer of the heat, the baby’s screams louder and louder as though it was starving or in agony.

Rowan, help me! I am your child! Michael’s child. Rowan, I need you.

She knew what she would see even before she looked. Through her tears and through the waves of heat, she saw the manikin, the monster. Not out of my body, not born from me. I didn’t.…

On its back it lay, its man-sized head turning from side to side with its cries, its thin arms elongating even as she watched it, tiny fingers splayed and groping and growing, tiny feet kicking, as a baby’s feet kick, working the air, the calves stretching, the blood and mucus sliding off it, sliding down its chubby cheeks, and off its slick dark hair. All those tiny organs like buds inside. All those millions of cells dividing, merging with his cells, like a nuclear explosion going on inside this flesh and blood thing, this mutant thing, this child that had come out of her.

Rowan, I am alive, do not let me die. Do not let me die, Rowan. Yours is the power of saving life, and I live. Help me.

She struggled towards it, her body still throbbing with sharp bursts of pain, her hand out for that tiny slippery leg, that little foot pumping the air, and then as her hand closed on that soft, slick baby flesh, the darkness came down on her, and against her closed eyelids she saw the anatomy, saw the path of the cells, saw the evolving organs, and the age-old miracle of the cells coming together, forming corpuscles and subcutaneous tissue, and bone tissue, and the fibers of the lungs and the liver and the stomach, and fused with his cells, his power, the DNA merging, and the tiny chains of chromosomes whipping and swimming as the nuclei merged, and all guided by her, all the knowledge inside her like the knowledge of the symphony inside the composer, note after note and bar after bar, and crescendo following upon crescendo.

Its flesh throbbed under her fingers, living, breathing through its pores. Its cries grew hoarser, deeper, echoing as she dropped down out of consciousness and rose up again, her other hand groping in the dark and finding his forehead, finding the thick mass of manly curls, finding his eyes fluttering under her palm, finding his mouth now half closed with the sobs coming out of it, finding his chest, and the heart beneath it and the long muscular arms flopping against the boards, yes, this thing so big now that she could lay her head on its pumping chest, and the cock between his legs, yes, and the thighs, yes, and struggling upwards, she lay on top of him, both hands on him, feeling the rise and fall of his breath beneath her, the lungs enlarging, filling, the heart pumping, and dark silky hair sprouting around his cock, and then it was a web again, a web shining in the darkness, full of chemistry and mystery and certainty, and she sank down into the blackness, into the quiet.

A voice was talking to her, intimate and soft.

“Stop the blood.”

She couldn’t answer.

“You’re bleeding. Stop the blood.”

“I don’t want to live,” she said. Surely the house was burning. Come, old woman, with your lamp. Light the drapes.

Lemle said, “I never said it wasn’t possible, you know. The thing is that once an advance has been envisioned, it is inevitable. Millions of cells. The embryo is the key to immortality.”

“You can still kill him,” said Petyr. He was standing over her, looking down at her.

“They’re figments of your imagination, of your conscience.”

“Am I dying?”

“No.” He laughed. Such a soft silky laugh. “Can you hear me? I am laughing, Rowan. I can laugh now.”

Take me to hell now. Let me die.

“No, my darling, my precious beautiful darling, stop the bleeding.”

The sunlight waked her. She lay on the living room floor, on the soft Chinese rug, and her first thought was the house had not burned. The awful heat had not consumed it. Somehow it had been saved.

For a moment she didn’t understand what she was seeing.

A man was sitting beside her, looking down at her, and he had the smooth unblemished skin of a baby-over the structure of a man’s face, but it resembled her face. She had never seen a human being who looked this much like her. But there were definite differences. His eyes were large and blue and fringed with black lashes, and his hair was black like Michael’s hair. It was Michael’s hair. Michael’s hair and Michael’s eyes. But he was slender like her. His smooth hairless chest was narrow as her chest had been in childhood, with two shining pink nipples, and his arms were narrow, though finely muscled, and the delicate fingers of his hand, with which he stroked his lip thoughtfully as he looked at her, were narrow and like her fingers.

But he was bigger man she was, as big as a man. And the dried mucus and blood was all over him, like a dark ruby red map covering him.

She felt a moan coming up out of her throat, pushing against her lips. Her whole body moved with it, and suddenly she screamed. Rising off the boards, she screamed. Louder, longer, more wildly than she had ever screamed last night in all her fear. She was this scream, leaving herself, leaving everything she’d seen and remembered in total horror.

His hand came down over her mouth, pushing her flat against the rug. She couldn’t move. The scream was turning around inside, like vomit that could choke her. A deep convulsion of pain moved through her. She lay limp, silent.

He leaned over her. “Don’t do it,” he whispered. The old voice. Of course, his voice, with his unmistakable inflection.

His smooth face looked perfectly innocent, a picture of astonishment with its flawless and radiant cheeks, and its smooth narrow nose, and the great blue eyes blinking at her. Snapping open and closed like the eyes of the manikin on the table in her dreams. He smiled. “I need you,” he said. “I love you. And I’m your child.”

After a while, he took his hand away.

She sat up. Her nightgown was soaked with blood and dry and stiff with it. The smell of blood was everywhere. Like the smell of the Emergency Room.

She scooted back on the rug and sat forward, her knee crooked, peering at him.

Nipples, perfect, yes, cock perfect, yes, though the real test would come when it was hard. Hair perfect, yes, but what about inside? What about every precise little interlocking part?

She drew closer, staring at his shoulders, watching the rise and fall of his chest with his breath, then looking into his eyes, not seeing him look back, not caring if he did, just studying the texture of the flesh and the lips.

She laid her hand on his chest and listened. A strong, steady rhythm coming from him.

He didn’t move to stop her as she laid her hands on both sides of his skull. Soft, like a baby’s skull, able to heal after blows that would kill a man of twenty-five. God, but how long was it going to be that way?

She put her finger against his lower lip, opening his mouth and staring at his tongue. Then she sat back, her hands lying limp on her folded legs.

“Are you hurting?” he asked her. His voice was very tender. He narrowed his eyes, and for just a second there was a little bit of mature expression in the face, and then it returned to baby wonder. “You lost so much blood.”

For a long moment she stared at him in silence.

He waited, merely watching her.

“No, I’m not hurt,” she murmured. Again she stared at him for the longest time. “I need things,” she said finally. “I need a microscope. I need to take blood samples. I need to see what the tissues really are now! God, I need all these things! I need a fully equipped laboratory. And we’ve got to leave here.”

“Yes,” he said, nodding. “That should be the very next thing that we do. Leave here.”

“Can you stand up?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you’re going to try,” She climbed to her knees, and then grasping the edge of the marble mantel, climbed to her feet.

She took his hand, nice tight grip. “Come on, stand up, don’t think about it, just do it, call on your body to know, the musculature is there, that’s what differentiates you completely from a newborn, you have the skeleton and musculature of a man.”

“All right, I’ll try,” he said. He looked frightened and also strangely delighted. Shuddering, he struggled to his knees first, as she had done, and then to his feet, only to tumble backwards, catching himself from falling with one hasty back step after another.

“Ooooh … ” He sang it out. “I’m walking, I am, I’m walking … ”

She rushed towards him and wrapped her arm around him and let him cling to her. He grew quiet looking down at her, and then raised his hand and stroked her cheek, the gesture imperfectly coordinated, rather like a drunken gesture, but the fingers silky and tingling.

“My beautiful Rowan,” he said. “Look, the tears are rising in my eyes. Real tears. Oh, Rowan.”

He tried to stand freely and to bend down to kiss her. She caught him and steadied him as his lips closed over hers, and that same powerful sensual shock passed through her that had always come with his touch.

“Rowan,” he moaned aloud, crushing her against him, then slipping backwards until she brought him up short again in her arms.

“Come, we haven’t much time,” she said. “We have to find some place safe, some place completely unknown … ”

“Yes, darling, yes … but you see it’s all so new and so beautiful. Let me hold you again, let me kiss you … ”

“There isn’t time,” she said, but the silken baby lips had clamped on hers again, and she felt his cock pressing against her sex, pressing into the soreness. She pulled away, drawing him after her.

“That’s it,” she said, watching his feet, “don’t think about it. Just look at me and walk.”

For one second, as she found herself in the doorway, as she was conscious of its keyhole shape, and the old discussions of its significance, all the misery and beauty of her life passed before her eyes, all her struggles and all former vows.

But this was a new door all right. It was the door she’d glimpsed a million years ago in her girlhood when she’d first opened the magical volumes of scientific lore. And it was open now, quite beyond the horrors of Lemle’s laboratory, and the Dutchmen gathered around the table in a mythical Leiden.

She guided him slowly through the door and up the stairs, walking patiently, step by step, at his side.