The Witching Hour (173 page)

“I believe that through our finest efforts, we will succeed finally in creating heaven on earth, and we do it every time that we love, every time that we embrace, every time that we commit to create rather than destroy, every time that we place life over death, and the natural over what is unnatural, insofar as we are able to define it.

“And I suppose I do believe in the final analysis that a peace of mind can be obtained in the face of the worst horrors and the worst losses. It can be obtained by faith in change and in will and in accident; and by faith in ourselves, that we will do the right thing, more often than not, in the face of adversity.

“For ours is the power and the glory, because we are capable of visions and ideas which are ultimately stronger and more enduring than we are.

“That is my credo. That is why I believe in my interpretation of the story of the Mayfair Witches.

“Probably wouldn’t stand up against the philosophers of the Talamasca. Maybe won’t even go into the file. But it’s my belief, for what it’s worth, and it sustains me. And if I were to die right now, I wouldn’t be afraid. Because I can’t believe that horror or chaos awaits us.

“If any revelation awaits us at all, it must be as good as our ideals and our best philosophy. For surely nature must embrace the visible
and
the invisible, and it couldn’t fall short of us. The thing that makes the flowers open and the snowflakes fall must contain a wisdom and a final secret as intricate and beautiful as the blooming camellia or the clouds gathering above, so white and pure in the blackness.

“If that isn’t so, then we are in the grip of a staggering irony. And all the spooks of hell might as well dance in the parlor. There could be a devil. People who burn other people to death are fine. There could be anything.

“But the world is simply too beautiful for that.

“At least it seems that way to me as I sit here now on the screened porch, in the rocking chair, with all the Mardi Gras noise having long ago died away, writing by the light from the distant parlor lamp behind me.

“Only our capacity for goodness is as fine as this silken breeze coming from the south, as fine as the scent of the rain just be
ginning to fall, with a faint roar as it strikes the shimmering leaves, so gentle, gentle as the vision of the rain itself strung like silver through the fabric of the embracing darkness.

“Come home, Rowan. I’m waiting.”