The Wolves of Midwinter

12

THE HOUSE WAS IN a pleasant uproar with people coming and going everywhere.

Thibault and Stuart were decorating the giant Christmas tree and commandeered Reuben to help them. Thibault wore a suit and tie as he almost always did, and with his wrinkled face and mossy eyebrows looked the schoolmaster next to Stuart, who, in cutoff jeans and a T-shirt, climbed the creaking ladder like a muscular young cherub to the top step to decorate the highest branches.

Thibault had put on a recording of old English Christmas carols sung by the choir of St. John’s College at Cambridge, and the music was soothing and haunting.

The intricate lighting of every branch of the giant tree had already been done, and what was needed now was the hanging of countless gold and silver apples on the tree, little lightweight ornaments that sparkled beautifully amid the deep thick green pine needles. Here and there small edible cookie gingerbread men and gingerbread houses were to be added, and the gingerbread had a delicious aroma.

Stuart wanted to eat them, and so did Reuben, but Thibault forbade them sternly to even think of it. Lisa had decorated every single one herself, and there weren’t enough as it was. The “boys” must “behave” themselves.

A tall elegant St. Nicholas with a gaunt but benevolent porcelain face and soft green velvet robes had been placed at the very top of the tree. And the branches from top to bottom had been dusted lightly with some sort of synthetic gold dust. The effect of it all was grand and impressive.

Stuart was his usual buoyant self, eternally smiling, freckles darkening when he laughed, explaining to Reuben that he’d been able to invite “everybody” to the Christmas gala, including the nuns from his high school, and all his friends, and the nurses he’d known in the hospital.

Thibault offered to help Reuben add any last-minute college or newspaper friends, but Reuben had taken care of all of this earlier when Felix had knocked on his door, offering to help him. Numerous phone calls had been made. Reuben’s editor from the San Francisco Observer was coming with the entire staff of the paper. Three college friends were coming. His cousins from Hillsborough were also driving up; and Grace’s brother, Uncle Tim from Rio de Janeiro, was flying in with his beautiful wife, Helen, as both wanted to see this fabulous house. Even Phil’s older sister Josie, who lived in a nursing home in Pasadena, was making the trip. Reuben loved his aunt Josie. Jim was bringing a few people from St. Francis parish, and several of the volunteers who regularly helped with the soup kitchen there.

Meanwhile activity went on all around them. Lisa and the caterers had laid out hundreds of sterling knives and forks and spoons on the giant dining room table, and Galton and his men swarmed over the backyard area, clearing an old parking space behind the servants’ quarters for the refrigerator trucks that would come the day of the banquet. A band of young teenagers, answering to Jean Pierre and Lisa—everyone was answerable to Lisa—were trimming every interior door and window frame with garland.

That might have looked absurd in a small house, so much greenery, but it was perfect here in these vast rooms, Reuben thought. Masses of thick red candles were being added to the mantelpieces, and Frank Vandover brought in a cardboard box of old Victorian wooden toys to be placed under the tree when they were finished.

Reuben loved all this. It was not only distracting; it was restorative. He tried not to study Heddy and Jean Pierre as they passed, for clues of whatever nature they shared with the redoubtable Lisa.

And everywhere from outside came the noise of hammers and saws.

As for Felix, he left before noon to fly to Los Angeles to make “final arrangements” with the mummers and other costumed people who’d be working the Christmas fair in Nideck or the party up here after the Christmas fair ended. He would stop in San Francisco before coming home to see to the adult choir and the orchestra he was assembling.

And Margon had gone to meet the arrival of the boys’ choir from Austria, which would also be singing at the party. They’d been promised a week in America as part of their compensation. After he’d seen to all their arrangements at the hotels on the coast, he was headed on to make some other necessary purchases of additional oil heaters for the outdoors—or so Reuben and Stuart were being told.

Frank and Sergei, both very big men, came and went continuously with boxes of china and more silver flatware and other decorations from the lower storerooms. Frank was snappily dressed as always, in a polo shirt and clean, pressed jeans, and there was as ever that Hollywood sheen to him even as he toted and reached and lifted. Sergei, the giant of the household, his blond hair an unruly mop, sweated in his rumpled denim shirt and looked faintly bored but eternally agreeable.

A team of professional maids was inspecting all the extra bathrooms on the second floor, those on the inside of the corridors, to make sure each and every one was properly stocked for the banquet guests. The maids would stand outside these bathrooms to direct guests on Sunday.

Deliverymen rang the bell about every twenty minutes; and some reporters were outside braving the light rain to photograph the crèche statues and the ceaseless activity.

It was rather dazzling and comforting, actually—especially since neither Felix nor Margon could be reached with any questions about anything.

“You can expect the entire week to be this way,” said Thibault casually as he handed the ornaments out of the box to Reuben. “It’s been this way since yesterday.”

At last they broke for a late lunch in the conservatory, the only place where decorating was not going on, its tropical blooms seeming woefully incongruous with the Christmas spirit.

Lisa brought plates for them piled high with freshly carved prime rib and huge potatoes already dressed with butter and sour cream, and bowls of steaming carrots and zucchini. The bread had been freshly baked. She opened Stuart’s napkin for him and put it in his lap, and would have done the same for Reuben if she’d had the chance. She poured Reuben’s coffee, put in the two sweeteners for him, and poured Thibault’s wine and Sergei’s beer.

Reuben sensed a gentleness in her he hadn’t seen before but her gestures and movement were still odd, and a little while ago he’d seen her mount a five-step ladder before the front windows without holding on to anything, to wipe some blemishes from the glass.

Now she banked the little fire in the white Franklin stove, and stood about topping up drinks without a word as Sergei fell on his food like a dog, only using his knife now and then, shoving rolls of beef into his mouth with his fingers, and even breaking up the potato the same way. Thibault ate like a headmaster setting an example for schoolchildren.

“And that’s how they ate in the day and age when you were born, right?” said Stuart to Sergei. He loved to tease Sergei at any opportunity. Only next to the giant Sergei did the muscular and tall Stuart look small, and Stuart more than seldom let his big blue eyes move slowly over Sergei’s body as though he enjoyed the sight of it.

“Oh, you are dying to know precisely when I came into this world, aren’t you, little puppy wolf?” said Sergei. His voice was deep and at times like this his Russian or Slavic accent thickened. He poked Stuart in the chest, and Stuart held firm deliberately, his eyes narrow and full of gleeful mock condescension.

“I bet it was on a farm in Appalachia in 1952,” said Stuart. “You tended the pigs till you ran away and joined the army.”

Sergei gave a deep sarcastic laugh. “Oh, you are such a clever little beast. What if I told you I was the great St. Boniface himself who brought the first Christmas tree to the pagans of Germany?”

“Like hell,” said Stuart. “That’s a ridiculous story and you know it. Next you’ll tell me you’re George Washington and you actually chopped down the cherry tree.”

Sergei laughed again. “And what if I’m St. Patrick himself,” asked Sergei, “who drove the snakes out of Ireland?”

“If you lived in those times at all, you were a thick-skulled oarsman in a longboat,” said Stuart, “and you spent your time raiding coastal villages.”

“Not far off the mark,” said Sergei, still laughing. “Quite seriously, I was the first Romanov to rule Russia.” He rolled his rs theatrically. “That’s when I learned to read and write, and cultivated my taste for high literature. I’d been around for centuries before that. I was also Peter the Great, too, which was terrific fun, especially the building of St. Petersburg. And before that I was St. George who slew the dragon.”

Stuart was tantalized by Sergei’s mocking tone.

“No, I’m still betting on West Virginia,” said Stuart, “at least for one incarnation, and before that you were shipped over here as a bond servant. What about you, Thibault, where do you think Sergei was born?”

Thibault shook his head, and blotted his mouth with his napkin. With his deeply creased face and gray hair, he looked decades older than Sergei but this meant nothing.

“That was long before my time, young man,” Thibault said in his easy baritone. “I’m the neophyte of the pack, if I must confess it. Even Frank’s seen worlds of which I know nothing. But it’s useless asking these gentlemen for the truth. Only Margon talks of origins, and everyone ridicules him when he does it, including me, I must confess.”

“I didn’t ridicule him,” said Reuben. “I hung on every word he said. I wish every one of you would bless us one day with your stories.”

“Bless us!” said Stuart with a groan. “That might be the death of innocence for both you and me. And it might be our literal death from boredom. Add to that I sometimes break out in a fatal allergic rash when people start telling one lie after another.”

“Let me make a guess with you, Thibault,” ventured Reuben. “Is that fair?”

“Of course, by all means,” Thibault answered.

“Nineteenth century, that was your time, and the place of the birth was England.”

“Off by only a little,” said Thibault with a knowing smile. “But I wasn’t born a Morphenkind in England. I was traveling in the Alps at the time.” He broke off as if this had sparked some deep and not-too-pleasant thought in him. He sat very still, then seemed to wake from it, and he picked up his coffee and drank it.

Sergei rattled off a long quote, sounding suspiciously like poetry, but it was Latin. And Thibault smiled and nodded.

“Here he goes again, the scholar who eats with his hands,” said Stuart. “I can tell you right now, I won’t be happy unless I grow to be as tall as you, Sergei.”

“You will,” said Sergei. “You’re a Wonder Pup, as Frank always says. Be patient.”

“But why can’t you speak of where and when you were born in a casual way,” said Stuart, “the way anyone would do it?”

“Because it isn’t spoken of!” said Sergei sharply. “And when it is spoken of in a casual way, it sounds ridiculous!”

“Well, Margon of course had the decency to answer our questions immediately.”

“Margon told you an old myth,” said Thibault, “which he claims is true, because you needed a myth, you needed to know where we come from.”

“What, you’re saying it was all a lie?” asked Stuart.

“Indeed not,” said Thibault. “How would I know if it was? But the teacher loves to tell stories. And the stories change from time to time. We aren’t gifted with perfect memory. Stories have a life of their own, especially Margon’s life stories.”

“Oh, no, please, don’t tell me this,” said Stuart. He seemed genuinely upset by the idea, his blue eyes flashing almost angrily. “Margon’s the only stabilizing influence in my new existence.”

“And we do need stabilizing influences,” said Reuben under his breath. “Especially stabilizing influences that tell us things.”

“You’re both in excellent hands,” said Thibault quietly. “And I’m teasing you about your mentor.”

“What he told us about the Morphenkinder,” said Stuart. “That was all true, wasn’t it?”

“How many times have you asked us that?” asked Sergei. His voice was a richer baritone than Thibault’s voice and a little rougher. “What he told you was true to what he knows. What more do you want? Do I come from the tribe he described? I don’t know whether I do or not. How can I? There are Morphenkinder all over the world. But I will say this. I’ve never found one that didn’t revere Margon the Godless.”

That mollified Stuart.

“Margon’s a legend among immortals,” Sergei went on. “There are immortals everywhere who would like nothing better than to sit at Margon’s feet for half a day. You’ll find out. You’ll see soon enough. Don’t take Margon for granted.”

“This is no time for all this,” said Thibault with a little sarcasm. “We have too many things to do, practical things, small things, the things of life that actually matter.”

“Like folding thousands of napkins,” said Stuart. “And polishing demitasse spoons, and hanging ornaments and calling my mother.”

Thibault laughed under his breath. “What would the world be without napkins? What would Western civilization be without napkins? Can the West function without napkins? And what would you be, Stuart, without your mother?”

Sergei gave a great loud laugh.

“Well, I know I can exist without napkins,” he said, and he licked his fingers. “And the evolution of the napkin leads from linen to paper, and I know the West cannot exist without paper. That is a sheer impossibility. And you, Stuart, are far too young to try existing without your mother. I like your mother.”

Sergei pushed back his chair, drank his beer down in one long pull, and headed out to find Frank and “get those tables out under the oak trees.”

Thibault said it was time to return to work, and rose to lead the way. But neither Reuben nor Stuart moved. Stuart winked at Reuben. And Reuben glanced meaningfully in the direction of Lisa, who stood over his shoulder.

Thibault hesitated, and then shrugged and went on without them.

“Lisa, better give us a minute now,” said Reuben, glancing up at her.

With a faint reproving smile, she left, closing the conservatory doors behind her.

Immediately Stuart let fly. “What the hell is going on! Why’s Margon in a rage? He and Felix aren’t even speaking. And what’s with this Lisa, what’s happening around here?”

“I don’t know where to begin,” said Reuben. “If I don’t get to talk to Felix before tonight, I’m going to go crazy. But what do you mean about Lisa, what have you noticed about her?”

“Are you kidding? That’s not a woman, that’s a man,” Stuart said. “Look at the way ‘she’ walks and moves.”

“Oh, so that’s it,” said Reuben. “Of course.”

“That’s fine with me, of course,” said Stuart. “Who am I to criticize her, if she wants to wear a ball gown around here. I’m gay; I’m a defender of human rights. If she wants to be Albert Nobbs, why not? But there are other weird things about her too and Heddy and Jean Pierre. They’re not …” He stopped.

“Say it!”

“They don’t use pot holders to touch hot things,” said Stuart whispering now though it wasn’t necessary. “They scald themselves when they’re making coffee and tea, you know, let the boiling water splash or run over their fingers, and they don’t get burned. And nobody bothers to be discreet when they’re around about anything. Margon says we’ll understand all this in time. How much time? And something else is going on in this house. I don’t know how to describe it. But there’re noises, like people are in the house who aren’t visible. Don’t think I’m insane.”

“Why would I think that?” asked Reuben.

Stuart gave a droll laugh. “Yeah, right!” He said. His freckles darkened again as his face reddened a little, and he shook his head.

“What else are you sensing?” Reuben prodded him.

“I don’t mean the spirit of Marchent,” said Stuart. “God help me, I haven’t see that. I know you have, but I haven’t. But I tell you, there’s something else in this house at night. Things moving, stirring, and Margon knows it and he’s furious about it. He said it was all Felix’s fault, that Felix was superstitious and crazy, and that it had to do with Marchent, and Felix was making a dreadful mistake.”

Stuart sat back as if that was about all he had to report. He looked so innocent to Reuben suddenly, the way he had when Reuben had first seen him on that awful night when the thugs had killed Stuart’s partner and lover, and Reuben in the melee had accidentally bitten Stuart and passed the Chrism.

“Well, I can tell you what I know about it,” said Reuben. He’d made up his mind.

He wasn’t going to treat Stuart the way they were treating him. He wasn’t going to hold things back and play games, and make vague statements about waiting for the boss to speak. He told Stuart everything.

In detail, he described Marchent’s visitations, and how Lisa could see Marchent. Stuart’s eyes became huge as Reuben recounted this.

Then Reuben related what had happened to him the night before. He described the Forest Gentry, how they’d been gentle, and trying to help him in the dark, and how he’d freaked and changed. He described Margon sitting dejectedly in the kitchen and Lisa’s strange words about the forest people. He recounted what Sergei had said. And then he confided the entire revelation from Lisa.

“My God, I knew it,” said Stuart. “They know all about us. That’s why nobody ever goes all ‘discreet’ when they’re serving in the dining room! And you mean they’re some kind of tribe of immortals themselves that exist to serve other immortals?”

“Ageless Ones, that’s what she said,” said Reuben. “I heard it with capital letters. But I don’t care about her and them, whatever they are. What I care about is this Forest Gentry.”

“It has to do with Marchent’s ghost,” said Stuart. “I know it does.”

“Well, I figured that much, but what exactly? That’s the question. How are they related to Marchent?” He thought of his dream of Marchent again, of Marchent running through the dark, and those shapes around her in the dark reaching out for her. He couldn’t put it all together.

Stuart looked really shaken. He looked as if he was about to cry, about to turn into a little kid right before Reuben’s eyes the way he’d done in the past, his face crumpling. But their little tête-à-tête was suddenly over.

Thibault had returned. “Gentlemen, I need you both,” he said. He had a list of errands to be run for each of them individually. And Stuart’s mother was calling again about her clothes for the party.

“Damn,” Stuart said. “I’ve told her fifty times. Wear what she likes! Nobody cares. This isn’t a Hollywood luncheon.”

“No, that is not the approach with women, young man,” said Thibault gently. “Get on the phone, listen to everything she says, dote upon one color or article of clothing she’s described, tell her that really strikes a chord, and elaborate on that as best you can, and she will be marvelously satisfied.”

“Genius,” said Stuart. “Would you care to talk to her?”

“If you wish, I certainly will,” said Thibault patiently. “She’s a little girl, you know.”

“Tell me!” said Stuart with a groan. “Buffy Longstreet!” He scoffed at his mother’s stage name. “Who in the world goes through life with the name of Buffy?”

Frank was at the door.

“Come on, Wonder Pups,” he said. “There’s work to be done. If you’re finished buzzing around the Christmas tree like a couple of little woodland spirits, you can come help with these boxes.”

It was late afternoon before Reuben caught Thibault alone. Thibault had put on his black raincoat and was heading to his car. The whole property still swarmed with workmen.

“And Laura?” Reuben asked. “I was with her yesterday but she wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“There’s nothing much to tell,” said Thibault. “Calm yourself. I’m on my way there now. The Chrism’s taking its time with Laura. This sometimes happens with women. There’s no science to the Chrism, Reuben.”

“So I’m told,” said Reuben, but he was immediately sorry. “No science to us; no science to ghosts; and probably no science to spirits of the forest.”

“Well, there’s a lot of pseudoscience, Reuben. Wouldn’t want to become involved in all that, would you? Laura’s doing well. We are doing well. The Christmas gala will be splendid, and our Midwinter Yule will be more festive and joyful than usual—because we have you and Stuart and we will have Laura. But I have to get on the road. I’m late getting away as it is.”