The Wolf Gift (The Wolf Gift Chronicles 1)

"Forget Marrok," said Margon. "Forget what others might have told Marrok to try to curb his desire to fill the world with Morphenkinder like himself. We will say our own Requiem when we dance in the woods soon, together; enough on Marrok for now. Now Marrok knows or does not know because no one knows. And we can,t know which it is."

He stopped long enough for a bite of the duck, and another chunk of the buttered roll.

"Now when the Chrism is given to young men or women your age, there,s no danger," he said, "and when it,s given with the deep bite, injecting the Chrism directly into the bloodstream at many points, well, it acts as it did with you, in about seven to fourteen days. The moon has nothing to do with it. Such legends have a different origin and nothing to do with us. But it,s undeniable that in the first few years the change comes only after nightfall, and it is extremely difficult to induce in the light of day. But you can, after a while, if you are very determined, induce it anytime that you like. Your goal should be complete mastery of it. Because if you do not have that, you will never be in charge of it. It will be in charge of you."

Reuben nodded, murmuring that he had found that out in the most painful and fearful and personal way. "But I thought it was the voices that made me change," he said. "I thought that the voices triggered it and had to trigger it - ."

"We,ll come to the voices," said Margon.

"But why do we hear the voices?" asked Stuart. "Why do we hear the voices of people in pain and who are suffering and who need us? My God, I was going crazy in the hospital. It was like hearing souls in hell begging for mercy - ."

"We,ll come to that," said Margon. He looked at Reuben.

"Of course you worked out how to control it as best you could," said Margon, "and you did well. You did extremely well. You,re a new generation and you have a strength we never saw in the past. You come to the Chrism with a health and vigor that was only occasional for centuries, in fact, exceptional. And when this is combined with intellect, the Morphenkind is nothing short of superb."

"Oh, don,t flatter them both too much," Thibault mumbled in his familiar baritone. "They,re exuberant enough."

"I want to be perfect!" shouted Stuart, jabbing his thumb at his chest.

"Well, if you would be perfect as I see perfect," said Margon, "then evaluate all the gifts you possess, not merely the Morphengift. Think about the threads of your human life and what they mean to you." He turned to Reuben. "Now you are a poet, Reuben, a writer, a potential chronicler of your time. This is a treasure, is it not?" Without waiting for a response, he continued, "Last night, before I took this young one into the woods, I talked at length with your father. He is the parent who has given you your greatest talents, not your brilliant mother whom you so devoutly adore. It,s the man in the shadows behind you who has endowed you with the love of language that shapes the very way you perceive the world."

"I don,t doubt it," said Reuben. "I failed my mother. I couldn,t be a doctor. Neither could my brother, Jim."

"Ah, your brother, Jim," said Margon. "Now that is an enigma - a priest who longs with all his heart to believe in God, but does not."

"Not so rare at all," said Reuben, "if you ask me."

"But to knowingly give one,s life to a God who might never answer?" asked Margon.

"What God has ever answered anyone?" asked Reuben. He fixed on Margon and waited.

"Need I point out that thousands have claimed to hear his voice?"

"Ah but do they really hear it?"

"How are any of us to know?" asked Margon.

"Oh, come now!" said Felix, speaking up for the first time. He put down his knife and fork and scowled at Margon. "You,re going to hedge on religion now with these boy wolves? You,re going to soft-pedal your own nihilism? Why?"

"Oh, forgive me," said Margon sarcastically, "for acknowledging the abundant evidence that humankind from the beginning of recorded history has claimed to have heard the voices of its gods, that conversions are generally quite emotional and real to the convert."

"Very well," said Felix with a little genial gesture. "You go on, Teacher. I need to hear these things once again myself."

"I don,t know if I can bear it," said Thibault sonorously with a little mocking smile.

Margon laughed under his breath, eyes sparkling as he looked at Thibault. "It was a dark day when you joined this company," he said, but this was entirely in a convivial spirit. "Always so bitterly amused, always so droll. I hear that droning bass voice in my sleep."

Thibault enjoyed this.

"Your point,s clear," said Felix. "Reuben,s a writer. Perhaps the first Morphenkind who has ever been a writer - ."

"Oh, nonsense, am I the only one with a memory for unpleasant things?" asked Thibault.

"It,s not the chronicle of the Morphenkinder I want to reveal here," said Margon. "I am saying this." He looked pointedly at Stuart, who was reaching again for the potatoes. "You are creatures of body and soul, wolfen and human, and balance is indispensable to survival. One can kill the gifts one is given, any of them and all of them, if one is determined to do so, and pride is the parent of destruction; pride eats the mind and the heart and the soul alive."

Reuben nodded vigorously. He took a deep drink of the red wine. "But surely you,ll agree," said Reuben, "that human experience pales in comparison to the wolf experience, that every single aspect of the wolf experience is more intense." He hesitated. Morphenkinder, Morphengift - these were beautiful words.

But he remembered the words he had chosen for this himself when he was entirely alone: the Wolf Gift.

Yes, it was a gift.

"We don,t exist at maximum intensity all the time, do we?" Margon replied. "We sleep, we doze, we meditate - we discover ourselves in our passions and our disasters, but also in our slumber, and in our dreams."

Reuben conceded that.

"This music you,re playing for us, this piano music by Satie. This is not Beethoven,s Ninth, is it?" Margon asked.

No, and it,s not Brahms,s Second Symphony either, Reuben thought, remembering his musings of last night.

"So how many nights is the change going to just come over me," asked Stuart, "whether I want it or not?"

"Try really fighting it," said Thibault. "You might be surprised."