The Wolves of Midwinter (21 page)

“She is not here now,” said Lisa shortly.

“She’s here,” said Reuben softly. “She’s always here. I know she’s here. I felt her last night. I knew she was here. She didn’t have the strength to come through. She wanted to. She’s here now and she’s crying.”

“Well, you must go back to bed and sleep.”

“I don’t want to,” Reuben said.

“Look, man, I’ll stay in here,” said Stuart. “I need a pillow and a blanket. I’ll be right back. I’ll lie right here by the fireplace.”

“Yeah, stay here, will you, Stuart?” said Reuben.

“Get the pillow and the blanket for him, Jean Pierre,” said Lisa. She stood behind Reuben holding his shoulders, massaging his shoulders, her fingers like iron. But it felt good to him.

Don’t let me go, he thought. Don’t let me go. He reached up and took her hand, her firm cold hand.

“Will you stay with me?”

“Of course, I will,” she said. “Now, you, Stuart, you lie down there by the fire, and you sleep there. And I will sit here in this chair and keep watch so that he can sleep.”

He lay down on his back in the freshly made bed. He was afraid that if he tried to sleep, he’d turn and see her lying right beside him.

But he was too tired, so tired.

Gradually he drifted off.

He could hear Stuart softly snoring.

And when he looked at Lisa, she sat composed and still, staring at the distant window. Her hair was loose and down over her shoulders. He had never seen it that way before. Her white nightgown was starched and pressed, with faded flowers embroidered at the neck. He could see clearly that she was a man, a thin, delicate-boned man with impeccable skin and sharp distant gray eyes. And she stared at the window without moving, still as a statue.

T
HEY WERE GATHERED
at the dining room table, the place of meeting, the place for history, the place for decisions.

The fire in the grate and the pure-wax candles were the only illumination, with one candelabrum on the table and one each on the dark oak hunter’s boards.

Frank had gone off to be “with a friend” and wouldn’t be back until time for the Christmas gala on Sunday. Thibault had left early to be with Laura.

So it was Stuart, white-faced, and plainly fearfully fascinated by the whole proceeding; and Sergei, the giant looking surprisingly interested; Felix, sad and anxious, eager for the meeting to take place; Margon, obviously short-tempered and displeased; and Reuben, still frayed from this morning’s visitation. All were in casual clothes, sweaters, jeans of one sort or another.

They had had their supper, and the servants had “cleared away,” and now only Lisa in her usual black silk, with the cameo at her throat, stood with arms folded by the fireplace. The coffee had been served, the pots set about, and the gingerbread and cream passed, along with the fresh apples and plums, and the soft creamy French cheese.

Faint scent of the wax, like incense, and of course the fire, always the comforting oak fire, and the lingering fragrance of wine now mingled with coffee.

Felix sat with his back to the fire; Reuben sat opposite. Stuart sat beside Felix. And Margon was as always to Reuben’s left at the head of the table. Sergei was to the right of Reuben. It was the customary arrangement.

A bit of a gale beat on the windows. And the prediction was that it would get worse before morning. However, better weather was expected for Sunday’s party.

The wind was screaming in the chimneys, and the rain on the glass sounded like hail.

The lights in the oaks had been shut off. But all the other outside lights were on. The workmen were gone from the property; and for the moment at least everything was “done” for the Christmas gala. Masses of holly and mistletoe as well as pine garland were wound around the mantelpiece and the sides of the fireplace, and about the windows and the doors, and the sweet scent sometimes filled the air and sometimes died away altogether, as though the greenery were now and then holding its breath.

Margon cleared his throat. “I want to speak first,” he said. “I want to tell what I know about this audacious plan and why I’m against it. I want to be heard on this issue.” His long hair was down around his face, and a little more brushed and combed than usual, perhaps because Stuart had been insisting he comb it, and he looked something like a dark-skinned Renaissance prince. Even his burgundy-colored velour sweater added to the effect, and the jeweled rings on his slender dark fingers.

“No, please, I beg you. Be quiet,” said Felix with a small imploring gesture. His golden skin usually didn’t show much color, but Reuben could see the flush in his cheeks now, and his brown eyes were sharpened with what was obviously anger. He seemed a much younger man now than the polished gentleman Reuben knew him to be.

Without waiting for Margon to speak, Felix looked at Reuben and said, “I’ve invited the Forest Gentry for a reason.” He glanced at Stuart and back at Reuben. “They’ve always been our friends. And I’ve called them here because they can approach Marchent’s spirit and invite her into their company, and comfort Marchent’s spirit, and bring her round to realizing what’s happened to her.”

Margon rolled his eyes and sat back, folding his arms, rage exuding from every pore. “Our friends!” He spat the words contemptuously.

Felix went on. “They can do this,” said Felix, “and they will if I ask them to do it. They will take her into their company, and if they will permit, she can elect to join them.”

“Good God!” said Margon. “Such a fate. And this you do to your own blood kin.”

“Don’t speak to me of blood kin!” Felix flashed. “What do you remember of blood kin!”

“Guys, please, don’t fight again!” said Stuart. Stuart was plainly shocked. He too had combed his thick curly hair for the meeting, even cut some of it maybe, which only made him look more like a giant freckled six-year-old.

“Since time immemorial they’ve lived in the forests,” said Felix, glancing again at Reuben. “They were in the forests of the New World before
Homo sapiens
ever arrived here.”

“No, they were not,” said Margon disgustedly. “They’ve come here for the same reasons we came.”

“They have always been in the forests,” said Felix. He kept his eyes fixed on Reuben. “The forests of Asia and Africa, the forests of Europe, the forests of the New World. They have their stories of origin and their beliefs as to whence they came.”

“Emphasis on the word ‘stories,’ ” said Margon. “Better put it they have their preposterous fables and nonsensical superstitions like all the rest of us. All the Ageless Ones have their stories. Even the Ageless cannot live without stories, no more than humankind can live without them, because all the Ageless of this world come from humankind.”

“We don’t know that,” said Felix patiently. “We know we were once human. That’s all we know. And finally it doesn’t matter, especially not with the Forest Gentry, because we know what they can do. What they can do is what matters.”

“Does it matter if the Forest Gentry tell lies?” demanded Margon.

Felix was becoming more and more agitated.

“They are here and they are real and they will be able to see Marchent in this house, hear her, speak to her, and invite her to go with them.”

“Go with them where!” said Margon. “To remain earthbound forever?”

“Please!” said Reuben. “Margon, let Felix talk. Let him explain the Forest Gentry. Please! I can’t help Marchent’s spirit. I don’t know how.” He had begun to tremble, but he wouldn’t give up on this point. “This afternoon I walked all through this house. I walked the property in the rain. I talked to Marchent. I talked, and I talked and I talked. And I know she can’t hear me. And every time I see her she’s more miserable than the last!”

“Look, man, this is really true,” Stuart said. “Margon, you know I worship the ground you walk on, man. I don’t want to make you mad. I can’t stand it when you’re mad at me. You know that.” His voice was getting husky and almost broken. “But please. You gotta understand what Reuben’s going through. You weren’t here last night.”

Margon started to interrupt, but Stuart waved him aside. “And you guys have to start trusting us!” said Stuart. “We trust you but you don’t trust us. You don’t tell us what’s going on around us.” He glanced over his shoulder at Lisa. Lisa regarded him indifferently.

Margon threw up his hands, and then folded his arms again, looking off at the fire. His eyes flashed angrily at Stuart and then at Felix. “All right,” he whispered. He gestured to Felix to speak. “Explain. Go on.”

“The Forest Gentry are ancient,” said Felix, now attempting to pick up his customary reasonable demeanor. “You’ve both heard tell of them. You heard of them in the fairy tales you learned as little ones, but the fairy tales have domesticated them, rendered them quaint. Forget the fairy tales, visions of elves.”

“Yeah, like it’s more like Tolkien.”

“This is not Tolkien!” Margon seethed. “This is reality. Don’t mention Tolkien again to me, Stuart. Don’t mention any of your noble and revered fantasy writers! No Tolkien, no George R. R. Martin, no C. S. Lewis, do you hear me. They are marvelously inventive and ingenious, and even godly in the way they rule their imaginative worlds, but this is reality!”

Felix put up his hands for silence.

“Look, I saw them,” said Reuben gently. “They appeared to be men, women, children.”

“And so they are,” said Felix. “They have what we call subtle bodies. They can move through any barrier, through any wall, and over any distance instantly. And they can take visible form, a form as solid as our form, and when they are in the solid form they eat, drink, and make love as we do.”

“No, they don’t,” said Margon crossly. “They pretend to do these things!”

“The fact is, they believe they can do them,” said Felix. “And they can be entirely visible to anyone!” He stopped, and took a drink of his coffee, and wiped his lips with his napkin. Then he resumed, his voice rolling easily and calmly once more. “They are distinct personalities, they have lineages and histories. But most important of all, they have the capacity to love.” He emphasized the last word. “To love. And they are loving.” Tears were rising in his eyes as he looked at Reuben. “And that is why I invited them.”

“They are coming anyway, are they not?” said Sergei in a loud voice, gesturing impatiently with both his hands. He looked pointedly at Margon. “Won’t they be here on Midwinter night? They are always here. If we build the fire, if our musicians play, if they play the drums and the flutes and we dance, they come! They play for us and they dance with us.”

“Yes, they come and they may go as swiftly as they come,” said Felix. “But I’ve begged them to come soon and remain so that I can implore them to help us.”

“Very well,” said Sergei, “so what is the harm? You think the workmen know they are here? They don’t. Nobody knows except us, and we know only when they want us to know.”

“Precisely, when they want us to know,” said Margon. “They’ve been in and out of this house for days. They’re likely in this room now.” He was becoming more and more heated. “They’re listening to what we’re saying. You think when you snap your fingers they’ll go? Well, they won’t. They’ll go when they have a mind to go. And if they
have a mind to play pranks, they’ll drive us crazy. Reuben, you think a restless spirit is a cross to bear? Wait till they start their tricks.”

“I think they are here,” said Stuart softly. “Really, Felix, I think they are. They can move things when they’re invisible, can’t they? I mean light things like curtains. And they blow out candles, or make the fire in the grate flare up.”

“Yes, they can do all that,” said Felix caustically, “but usually only when they’re offended, or insulted, or overlooked, or denied. I don’t mean to give them any offense. I mean to welcome them now, welcome them this very night into this house. Their capacity for mischief is a small price to pay if they can gather to themselves the suffering spirit of my niece.” Now he was weeping and he didn’t bother to conceal it.

This was bringing tears to Reuben’s eyes too. He took out his handkerchief, and set it on the table. He gestured to Felix with it, but Felix shook his head, and took out his own.

Felix wiped at his nose and went on.

“I want to invite them in formally. You know what that means to them. They want food set out—the proper offerings.”

“These are prepared,” said Lisa softly from the fireplace. “I’ve put out their cream for them in the kitchen, and their butter cakes, the things they love. It’s all set out there.”

“They’re a bunch of lying ghosts,” said Margon under his breath. He took in Stuart and Felix with his eyes. “That’s all they are and all they’ve ever been. They’re spirits of the dead and they don’t know it. They’ve built a mythology for themselves since olden times, lie upon lie, as they’ve grown stronger. They’re nothing but lying ghosts, strong ghosts who’ve been evolving in power since the dawn of intellect and recorded memory.”

“I don’t get it,” said Stuart.

“Stuart, everything is evolving on this planet,” said Margon. “And ghosts are no exception. True, human beings die every minute and their souls ascend, or stumble into the earthbound sphere and roam in a self-made wilderness for years of earth time. But collectively, the inhabitants of the earthbound sphere have been evolving. The earthbound have their Ageless Ones; the earthbound have their aristocracy; they
have their myths now and their ‘beliefs’ and their superstitions. And above all, they have their powerful and brilliant personalities who have grown ever stronger over the centuries at holding their ethereal bodies together, and concentrating their focus so as to manipulate matter in ways that early ghosts on the planet never even dreamed of.”

“You mean they’ve learned how to be ghosts?” asked Reuben.

“They’ve learned how to stop being mere ghosts and develop into sophisticated discarnate personalities,” said Margon. “And finally, and this is most important, they have learned how to become visible.”

“But how do they do it?” asked Stuart.

“Force of mind, energy,” said Margon. “Concentration, focus. They draw to their subtle bodies, these ethereal bodies they possess, material particles. And the very strongest of these ghosts, the great nobility, if you will, can render themselves so visible and solid that no human looking at them, touching them, making love to them, could possibly know they were spirits.”