The Wolf Gift (The Wolf Gift Chronicles 1)

Chapter Thirty-Eight

THE DINING ROOM ONCE AGAIN.

The fire was built high and roaring under the black medieval mantel, and the candles flickered and smoked down the length of the table, amid platters of roast lamb fragrant with garlic and rosemary, glazed duckling, steaming broccoli, Italian squash, heaps of unpeeled potatoes, artichoke hearts tossed with oil, and roasted onions, freshly sliced bananas and melon, and hot freshly baked bread.

The wine was red in the delicate stem glasses, the salad glistening in the big wooden bowls, sharp sweetness of the mint jelly as delicious as the aroma of the succulent meats, and sweet butter smeared on the hot rolls.

The company came and went from the kitchen, all hands helping with the feast - even Stuart who had laid out the old linen napkins at every place and straightened the silver, marveling at the size of the old knives and forks. Felix set the bowls of sugared cinnamon-almond rice on the table. Thibault brought the platter of bright orange yams.

Margon sat at the head of the table, his long thick brown hair loose to his shoulders, his burgundy-colored shirt open casually at the neck. His back was to the eastern windows and the not-uncommon sight of a reporter or two out there prowling in the tangled oaks.

The early afternoon light was white but very bright through the thick, twisted web of gray branches.

All were seated finally, and Margon called for a moment of thanks, and bowed his head.

"Margon the Godless, thanks the gods," whispered Felix with a wink to Reuben who was once again opposite him, and Laura who sat beside him smiling, but Felix closed his eyes and so did all of them.

"Say what you will to the force that governs the universe," said Margon. "Perhaps we,ll call it into being, and it will yet love us as we love it."

Again, the silence, the sweet incessant patter of the rain slowly washing the world clean and nourishing it, and the logs sputtering and spitting as the flames danced against the darkened bricks, and a soft distant music emanating from the kitchen - Erik Leslie Satie again, the piano, Gymnopedie No. 1.

Oh, that humankind could make such music, thought Reuben, on this tiny cinder whirling in a tiny solar system lost in a tiny galaxy hurtling through endless space. Maybe the Maker of all this will hear this music as a form of prayer. Love us, love us as we love You.

Stuart, seated between Felix and Thibault on the other side of the table, in a white T-shirt and jeans, began to cry. He crumpled, his face hidden in his enormous hand, his large shoulders heaving silently, and then he went still, his eyes closed, and puckered, tears spurting as if from a little child.

His curling blond hair was tied back, away from the bones of his large face, and with his short broad nose and the ever-visible sprinkling of freckles, he looked as he so often did like a large little boy.

Laura bit her lip and fought tears watching him. Reuben squeezed her hand.

And a grief took hold of Reuben, but it was mingled entirely with the happiness that he felt. This house, so full of life, life that embraced all that had happened to him, all that had frightened him and at times almost defeated him, well almost - this life was straight from his wordless dreams.

Margon looked up, the moment of silent prayer ended, taking in all those seated with his eyes.

The party came alive. Platters were passed, more wine poured, butter slopped on hot steaming slices of bread and light flaking rolls, the scent of garlic rising from the tumbling, sliding spoonfuls of salad, and great forkfuls of meat slapped onto the old flowered china plates.

"So what am I to offer you?" said Margon as if they,d been talking all the while, instead of attending to a thousand unimportant yet essential things. "What am I to give you to help you with this journey that you,ve begun?"

He took a deep gulp of the sparkling water that stood beside the empty glass for the wine he didn,t drink.

He took a heaping portion of the hot broccoli and green squash, and even more of the artichoke hearts, and tore off a hunk from a hot buttered roll.

"The basic things you must know are these. The change is irreversible. Once the Chrism has taken hold, you are Morphenkinder, as we call it now, and that can never be undone."

Stuart woke from his tears just as quickly as he,d given into them. He was eating such enormous chunks of lamb that Reuben feared he might choke, blue eyes flashing at Margon as Margon went on.

Margon,s voice was as agreeable and almost humble as it had been the night before. He was a man of persuasion and subtle power, his light golden brown face very plastic and expressive, black eyes rimmed in thick black lashes that gave a drama and an intensity to his expressions that seemed more fierce than his words.

"Never in all my existence," he continued, gesturing unconsciously with the silver fork, "have I known someone who truly wanted it reversed, but there are those who rush headlong into perdition as the result of it, driven insane by the lust for the hunt, and scorning every other aspect of life until they are destroyed by the weapons of those who hunt them down. But you needn,t worry about this. You are not, any of you" - his eyes took in Laura as he said this - "of the sort to be so foolish or such spendthrifts with the gifts of fate."

Stuart started to ask something but Margon gestured for silence.

"Allow me to continue," he cautioned. He went on:

"The Chrism is almost always passed by accident. And it can only be passed by us when we are in the wolfen state. However, my mind, my limited mind, my mortal mind, is haunted by a grim legion of those to whom I refused it and I restrain myself no more. When one is worthy, and one asks, I give the Chrism. I ask only an ardent and informed desire. But this you - Reuben and Stuart - must not seek to do - offer the Chrism, that is. The responsibility,s far too great. You must leave such fateful choices to me, to Felix, to Thibault, even to Frank and Sergei who will be joining us soon."

Reuben nodded. Now was not the time to press him on Laura, but did it even need to be done? There had not been the slightest suggestion that Laura was not already one of them, and this, in Reuben,s mind, had to mean one thing. Yet he did not know and it tortured him. He did not know.

"Now the Chrism can prove fatal to the infected one," said Margon, "but this happens very seldom and usually only with the very feeble or the very young, or those who are so severely bitten or otherwise injured that the Chrism can,t overtake the injury and the loss of blood. What I know I know from happenstance. It can kill, but in the main it does not - ."

"But Marrok said that it could," said Reuben, "and it almost invariably did."