by
Elaine Kehoe

Was it insane of her to think that there might be truth in the legend Eliot had recounted to her? That could very well be, she thought wryly; but whatever else the past four years had given her, they had certainly expanded the boundaries of what she believed was possible.

She looked again at the roses. They were dazzling, even in the pale candlelight; their beauty was unearthly. She seemed to feel transported even as she stood before them. Yes, she could well believe there was power and magic in them. Eliot too must have believed it could be true. That was why he had written her the letter; why, in fact, he had given them to her. Her heart swelled, and she was overwhelmed with emotion at the realization of what his gift really meant, and what it must have cost him to give it.

But if the power did exist, what was it, how could she make it work? Eliot hadn't been able to give her those answers; she would have to find them for herself. Throughout her medical career she had learned that instinct and intuition were often as important as knowledge and skill, and she had worked to develop them as highly as possible. Certainly since she had been at Collinwood there had been many times when instinct and intuition were all she and Barnabas had had to rely on, when no logic or reason could ever have guided them. She knew she would need every instinct she could call on now, every bit of intuition she possessed.

And yet -- another realization pricked at her heart as she remembered what the letter had said. The power... to bring lovers together. Her mouth twisted a little in pain as the meaning and the irony of that statement struck her. What, after all, could she really expect? Why should she think, no matter what power there might be in the roses, that it would work for her? She closed her eyes and raised her hands to her face, her palms together, as if in prayer. Do I even have the right to do this ? Do I have any right to try to bring him back, when for all I know he may not want to come back?

All the while he had been gone, she had been possessed by the terrifying feeling that he was in terrible trouble, that he needed her, as he had so many times before. She had always known then; somehow she had always heard him, and been able to get to him, to help him. If there was the chance that he did need her now, that he was trying to reach her... Even if all she could hope for was to touch him somehow, to learn the answers she longed for... She had taken far greater risks in the past. She had to take this one now, for herself as well as for him.

All I want is to know, she told herself. And I must know. If it can give me that... then maybe I can face the rest of my life without him. For all we've been through together; for a year of empty, tormented days and nights; for the part of my heart that will never leave this house... I have to know.

Instinctively she walked to the mantel and picked up the rose she had laid at the foot of the portrait. She clutched it tightly, ignoring the thorns that pricked her fingers. She stared intently into the blazing brilliance of its color and pattern, deep into the center. She took a deep breath and began to speak, slowly, in a low, urgent voice. "Barnabas...wherever you are...if you can... hear me... let me reach you. Let the power in this rose carry my voice to you across time. Let me see you...let me know where you are...."

Suddenly a horrifying wave of feeling swept over her. Darkness, cold, fear, possessed her. Emptiness and terrible loneliness. Pain, longing, a feeling of drifting helplessly, of being lost, abandoned, without hope. In her shock, she nearly lost hold of the rose; as her hand closed around it, and her eyes again fell on it, she felt another shock. It was changing; it seemed to be growing even larger, brighter, more dazzling. She spun around and gasped. In the vase on the table, the eleven remaining roses drooped, limp and lifeless, before her eyes.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The imposing facade of the great house rose before him, its tall white columns enclosing the doors like the bars of a cage. He saw them glinting in the sunlight as his head cleared. So he was here again. What would he find this time? He had been in this house many times before. Sometimes he found it filled with life, other times deserted and forlorn. He had no heart to go into it another time, to feel the vastness of its space, to feel the pain of his own nonexistence within its walls. But something was impelling him toward it; he felt drawn against his will to go in.

He knew immediately that this time it was vacant. The air of neglect hung over it. A few furnishings, dusty and faded, remained; an old loveseat, its brocaded fabric discolored and frayed; a small table; an old desk; all desolate, unused and uncared for. The room felt as hollow, as devoid of life as he himself did. Yet within the bleakness there was one thing that caught his attention, one thing that seemed to contain life, that dominated the room. It was a portrait over the fireplace.

He couldn't remember if he had seen it before; certainly it had never compelled him before as it did now. He gazed at the man in the portrait, the aristocratic-looking face and bearing, the dark, intense eyes, and felt mesmerized. And he saw something else, something that sent a shock through his body. He saw the hand with the large black ring, resting on the cane with the carved wolf's head.

For a moment he couldn't breathe; he felt his heart begin to pound. His mind was whirling, images were beginning to flash through it, insubstantial things. He approached the portrait slowly, not taking his eyes from that commanding face, trying to grasp the emotions it was suddenly arousing in him. As he grew closer, he could make out the small engraved plate on the frame below the painting. Barnabas Collins. 1795.

The sound of the name rang deep in his mind and seemed to reverberate in the barren stillness of the room. It ran through the desert of his memory and began to unearth tiny, long-buried fragments. Suddenly in what had been the void of his consciousness impressions began to form.

But the mercurial images sliced into his awareness like shards of glass, stinging and terrifying. He felt loathing, fury, overwhelming dread; love becoming loss, dissolving into fear, rejection, and betrayal; a sense of terrible evil relentlessly pursuing him, of hate, suspicion, guilt, and secrecy. An anguish that couldn't be extinguished. But what was it? Where did it come from, what did it mean?

Shock and horror overcame him. Was this memory? Could this be his life, this raging chaos, this ugliness? Was this what had been hidden from him for so long, what he'd been trying so urgently to recover?

He sank numbly onto the faded couch, head in his hands, in grief and bewilderment. How could it be -- surely this wasn't all there was; there had to be more than what these bleak visions revealed to him. He thought of the voice he had heard so often in the depths of his soul, that half-heard, half-felt shimmer of memory, remembered the comfort and peace it brought him. That voice had to be telling him something different: there was beauty and strength in it, the promise of meaning, the reassurance that he wasn't alone and abandoned. Why couldn't he find that voice, and take hold of the solace and the hope it offered him?

Barnabas... Barnabas... Again the name echoed in his mind, but differently now -- softly, as gently as a breath. It soothed him. He felt new strength come into his mind and body. He raised his head again, his eyes searching as though expecting to see where those words had come from. And he saw something else, something he hadn't seen before. A bright patch of color, resting on the mantelpiece beneath the portrait. He rose slowly, moving toward it. It was a flower.

The incongruity of the sight momentarily arrested his turbulent thoughts. He picked up the brilliantly colored rose. Where could it have come from? Why hadn't he noticed it? It was fresh and beautiful, completely out of place in the stale, sepulchral atmosphere of this abandoned house. Who could have left it here, and why?

But the answers didn't really matter; what was important was what he was beginning to feel. As the exquisite scent of the rose penetrated the air and its extraordinary beauty unfolded in his sight, a serenity came over him unlike anything he had experienced except in those isolated moments that came and went so fleetingly. His heart began to fill with hope; suddenly he felt that the knowledge he had been seeking was very close to him, almost as palpable to his grasp as was this rose. Without knowing why, he understood that he was being led to it. The voice -- that secret, urgent voice -- was pulling him, pleading, telling him that there was somewhere he needed to go, someplace where he might find his past--and his future.

He was walking down a narrow road that ran along the edge of the woods. He didn't remember ever having been here before, but he seemed to know instinctively where he was going. He had surrendered himself to the impulse he'd felt, and now he was aware of being guided by a new sense of purpose. Somehow he believed he was approaching his own destiny.

A small cottage stood just ahead at the side of the road; he was sure that was where he was being drawn. But he didn't recognize it. He had never been here before. What could it mean to him?

He went to the gate in the picket face surrounding a neatly kept yard. He saw the small hand-painted sign hanging on the gate: Barstow. A sharp disappointment pierced him. If that was a name, it meant nothing to him, nothing stirred in his mind at the sight or sound of it. What, then, could he expect to find here? Yet the urge within him was even stronger now, invoking him to listen, to follow, promising him resolution. Deep within him he trusted it, and for the first time he could remember he felt safe.

Allowing instinct to lead him, he passed around the house, and just behind it saw another structure, a small glass building filled with living, growing plants. A greenhouse. In the center of it was a blaze of color. He drew his breath in sharply, understanding now why he had come here. Slowly, as if in a trance, he walked into the greenhouse, to the large bush bursting with huge vermilion-colored roses.

He looked at the rose that he still held in his hand. It was as vital and stunning as those growing in front of him -- more so, if that were possible. He stood enraptured by the beauty before him, and as he gazed at it he felt something happening within his mind. The layers of his memory began to unfold like the petals of a flower, and his heart to open like a new bud.

As the long-impenetrable darkness gently gave way to light, the shattered pieces of his own past started to come together. He realized that the images the portrait had stirred in his mind were true, but also that they were a lie. The part of his life he had seen there had been lived and suffered and had gone, as had the terrible isolation and horror it had thrust on him. He could face it now without despondency, because there was much more. There was a world he belonged to, a place and a time where his life had meaning, where he was needed and loved. And someone there -- his dearest friend and companion, the one who shared the secrets of his soul, who had filled the emptiness of his lonely existence in ways he had never fully understood--the one his heart had remembered and yearned for.

And he heard it again, clearly this time, and strong, and he knew it would no longer elude him. Barnabas... wherever you are... please hear me... hear me calling to you... you must know me and answer me... Let me hear your voice. He smiled softly, a deep calm settling over him. "Yes...yes, I know you," he whispered, as softly as a prayer. "Julia. My Julia. I hear you. Where are you? Help me...help me come to you."

He saw her then, saw her eyes, bright with love and urgency, and for the first time in an eternity he felt himself whole again. She was the sanctuary he had been seeking for so long, the fulfillment of that aching need to recover what had been lost to him. As he spoke, calling to her, the familiar sensation began to come over him again, swirling around him, sweeping him away. This time he didn't resist but gave in to it, at last trusting it to take him where he longed to go.

When it stopped he found himself at the edge of a stand of tall trees. He turned slowly, recognition dawning on him. He knew this spot well. Behind him, somewhere off in the thick cover of darkness, lay the craggy, grotesque stones of Eagle Hill cemetery and its looming mausoleum that had been his entry into this time. It was a place that represented only fear and despair. But as he thought of it now he realized that the past had lost its power of dread over him. Never again would he experience the kind of horror he had felt while standing before his own portrait, flooded by devastating memories of a destroyed life.

He turned back again, toward the woods, and gazed ahead of him, up the hill, through the trees, toward where his imagination could see flickering candlelight in a window--toward his future. Peace and happiness filled him. He was free and safe. At last he knew where he was, and where he was going.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

In the drawing room of the Old House, Julia Hoffman stood motionless, stunned, feeling the air around her come alive, charged with energy. All of her senses, every impulse in her body and mind, were focused on one thought.

She had heard his voice.

From the moment her mind had touched that terrifying void, she knew her instincts had been right. Barnabas was alive, lost and alone, drifting somewhere in time, desperately searching. She knew she must reach him, whatever it took, whatever the cost -- she had to get to him, to help him somehow.

Clutching the rose tightly, she had concentrated with all her strength on that tenuous connection, willing her mind and her soul to reach across time to him, to make him hear her. With words and faith she strove to penetrate that cold veil of pain and fear.

Then she had heard him calling to her, calling her name, imploring, weakly at first, then growing stronger, more assured, more hopeful. As she stood, barely daring to breathe, it came to her: he was near. The words sounded clearly in her mind. Julia. I'm coming -- I have heard you, my love. I am coming back to you.

"Barnabas!" she cried, whirling around to face the door. He was out there, somewhere in the night, and on his way -- to her. She sprang to the door, pulled it open, and ran out into the darkness.

She felt him coming, even before she heard the sound of his footsteps rustling in the leaves, before she saw the figure separating from the darkness of the surrounding trees. Her heart stopped; everything around her faded from her awareness except that tall black-caped figure moving toward her. In another moment the moonlight fell on him, and she saw his face -- the face of the man she loved, the face that had been so long gone from her.

She raised a trembling hand to her lips and spoke in a voice so low and tremulous she barely recognized it. "Barnabas..." she breathed. "Oh dear God... you're here..."

He stopped for a moment, gazing at her, and his voice was as soft as the night breeze. "Julia. Is it really you?" His face was free of the anguish she had felt churning in his mind. She saw relief, joy, even -- if she dared to believe it -- love. He came to her slowly, tentatively, as though afraid she would vanish into the night. She held out her arms and he clasped her eagerly. "Yes... you are real... and I am back with you, at last." He drew her to him, holding her tightly. His voice was filled with emotion. "Oh, Julia -- how much I needed you!"

The feelings she had kept controlled so long gave way. She clung to him; she was crying, and she didn't care. "My dearest," she whispered. "Oh, my love."

He pulled back just enough to see her face in the bright moonlight, to touch it tenderly. In that brief moment what she saw in his eyes told her that from now on there was nothing else in the world she would ever need. His lips closed over hers and she gave herself up to his embrace. As her arms encircled him the rose slipped, unnoticed, out of her hand and fell gently to the ground.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

They began to piece everything together. When Barnabas had entered the Leviathan shrine, he had indeed been transported back, to the moments just before they had captured him. Finding himself inside the stone structure, he had seen the flame that burned within its depths, and on a sudden instinct extinguished it. As he did so two black-shrouded figures appeared before him; he heard their agonized shrieks, and then a blinding light had enveloped all of them. That was the last thing he remembered.

"Barnabas, it worked. Somehow that flame must have contained or concentrated their power, because you destroyed them. Their shrine vanished as if it had never been here at all. The Leviathans never came to Collinsport. But the force of their destruction must have pulled you in..."

"And thrown me out of time somehow. I lost everything -- my memory, my identity... past and future. I drifted back and forth in time, unable to control it, and never belonging anywhere. Julia, I have never in my life felt so terrified and so alone -- being in the world but never part of it. I might have been trapped that way forever... if it hadn't been for you." He caressed her face, his eyes tender. "How many times have I owed my life to you -- to your strength and courage... and your love."

She looked down, a faint sadness shadowing her face, and shook her head slowly. "But I couldn't do it -- in all that time I never found a way to reach you. It was Eliot Stokes who finally provided that. We owe him a great debt, Barnabas." And she told him the story of the twelfth rose.

His face grew sober; he stood and walked over to the vase, looking pensively at the roses, once again vital in their beauty. "So... Eliot Stokes is in love with you. And yet he helped you to bring me back." He was silent for a moment. "He is a far better man than I could be in that situation. And a wiser one. Wise enough to know his own heart."

He took her hands, raising her from her seat, and held her in his arms. "But it was your love that brought me back -- and mine for you. Oh, Julia, during all that endless empty time there was only one thing I had to cling to, that gave me any hope. You were there with me, there in my soul, and somehow I knew. You did reach me; I heard your voice. And what my mind never realized, my heart knew, and remembered."

He released her, turning toward the wall behind him where the portrait hung over the fireplace; he stood gazing at it for a long moment, his face troubled. "When I saw that portrait of myself, it brought back all the horror that my life had been. I was devastated, and for a few moments I was sure I could never survive that knowledge. Now I know that I could never have borne my own existence if it had not been for you. You have been with me through worse things than any human being should ever have to know. You've been my strength when I had none. The kindest thing fate ever did for me was to bring you into my life. But what have I ever given you? I drew you into my own pain and only hurt you more."

Tears stung her eyes again; she went to him and put her arms around him. "Barnabas," she murmured, her voice trembling slightly. "You and I have been to hell and back together many times and survived; I'd face it again, a thousand times if necessary, as long as we can face it together. I don't regret anything. I have always loved you and always will, and nothing could have ever taken me from you when you needed me; nothing ever will."

He smiled softly, a smile warm with love. "And nothing will ever separate us again, my love. Now I know that I love you and need you more than anything in the world. I don't know if life will ever be easy for us, Julia; if we'll ever be really free of the evil forces that seem to surround us... but... are you willing to spend your life with me, whatever may come?"

As an answer she wound her arms around his neck, her eyes -- luminous with love and joy -- gazing deeply into his, and said huskily, "All I have to say to that is: I've been waiting for you, Barnabas Collins -- a very... long... time!"

As they came together in a kiss filled with passion and hope, the clock struck the last chimes of midnight. The sound shimmered like crystal, melding with the sweetness of the air and the fragrance of twelve large roses, dazzling with a beauty beyond imagination.

THE END

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