The Wolves of Midwinter (The Wolf Gift Chronicles 2)

“I am not a ghost,” said Elthram. “I have always been what I am. I chose this physical body; I constructed it for myself, and perfected it, and now and then alter it and refine it. Because I have never had an ethereal human body, but only an ethereal spirit body. I have always been spirit. And no, there is no portal to the heavens that opens for such as me.”

There came the soft sound of someone walking into the room again, and out of the gloom, Margon appeared and took the chair at the far end of the table.

Elthram’s face was stricken. His eyes quivered again as though someone were hurting him. But he looked steadily at Margon in spite of this.

“If I offend you, I’m sorry,” he said to Margon.

“You don’t offend me,” said Margon. “But you were flesh and blood once, Elthram. All of you Forest Gentry were once flesh and blood. You’ve left your bones in the earth like all living things.”

These words were lacerating Elthram and he was flinching. His whole frame stiffened as if to hunker under an assault.

“And so you’ll teach your clever skills to Marchent, will you?” demanded Margon. “You’ll teach her to rule in the astral sphere as you rule. You’ll use her intellect and memory to help her become a nonpareil of a ghost!”

Stuart looked as if he was going to cry.

“Please don’t say any more,” said Felix softly.

Margon kept his eyes on Elthram, who had drawn himself up, his open hands hovering in front of his face.

“Well, when you speak to Marchent,” said Margon, “for the love of truth, remind her of the portal. Don’t urge her to remain with you.”

“And what if there is nothing beyond the portal?” asked Stuart. “What if it’s a portal to annihilation? What if existence continues only for the earthbound?”

“If that’s so, then that’s the way it’s probably meant to be,” said Margon.

“How do you know what is meant to be?” asked Elthram. He was taking pains to be courteous. “We are the Forest People,” he said gently. “We were here before you ever came into existence, Margon. And we do not know what is meant to be. So how can you know? Oh, the tyranny of those who believe in nothing.”

“There are those who come from beyond the portal, Elthram,” said Margon.

Elthram appeared shocked.

“You know there are those who come from beyond the portal,” said Margon.

“You believe this and yet you say that we did not come from beyond the portal?” asked Elthram. “Your spirit was born of matter, Margon, and thrives in matter now. Our spirits were never rooted to the physical. And yes, we may have come here from beyond the portal, but we only know of our existence here.”

“You become more clever all the time, don’t you? And you grow ever more powerful.”

“And why shouldn’t we?” asked Elthram.

“No matter how clever you become, you’ll never be able to actually drink that milk. You can’t eat the food offerings you so relish. You know you can’t.”

“You think you know what we are, but—.”

“I know what you are not,” said Margon. “Lies have consequences.”

Silence with the two staring at each other.

“Someday, perhaps,” said Elthram in a low voice, “we will be able to eat and drink, too.”

Margon shook his head.

“People of old knew ghosts or gods—as they called them—savored the fragrance of burnt offerings,” said Margon. “People of old knew ghosts or gods—as they called them—thrived on moisture, thrived on the falling rain, and loved the brooks of the woodland or the fields, or liquids turning into steam. That feeds your electrical energy, doesn’t it? The rain, the waters of a creek or a waterfall. You can dip to lap the moisture of a libation poured on a grave.”

“I am not a ghost,” whispered Elthram.

“But no spirit or ghost or god,” Margon insisted, “can really eat or drink.”

Elthram’s eyes blazed with a painful anger. He didn’t answer.

“Beings like this one, Stuart,” said Margon as he glanced at Stuart, “have fooled humans since before recorded time—pretending to an omniscience they do not possess, a divinity they know nothing about.”

“Please, Margon, I beg you,” said Felix gently. “Don’t go on.”

Margon made an airy gesture of acceptance, but he shook his head. He looked off at the fire.

Reuben found himself glancing up at Lisa, who stood very still by the fireplace, staring at Elthram. She had no real expression except that of vigilance. Her mind might have been wandering for all he knew.

“Margon,” said Elthram. “I will tell Marchent what I know.”

“You’ll teach her to invoke the memory of her physical self,” said Margon. “That is, to move backwards—to strengthen her ethereal body to resemble her lost physical body, to seek for a material existence.”

“It’s not material!” said Elthram, raising his voice only slightly. “We are not material. We’ve taken bodies to resemble you because we see you and know you and would come into your world, the world you’ve made of the material, but we are not material. We are the invisible people and we can come and go.”

“Yes, you are material, it’s simply another kind of material,” said Margon. “That’s all it is!” He was becoming heated. “And you’re burning to be visible in our world; you want it more than anything else.”

“No, that is not true,” said Elthram. “How little you know of our true existence.”

“And look how your face reddens,” said Margon. “Oh, you get better at this all the time.”

“We must all get better at what we do,” said Elthram with an air of resignation, his eyes appealing to Margon. “Why should we be different in that respect from you?”

Felix looked down, neither resigned nor accepting, but only unhappy.

“So, what, it’s better to let Marchent suffer in confusion?” asked Reuben, “and hope that she slips permanently into dreams?” He couldn’t keep silent any longer. “What does it matter what it’s called or what science knows about it? Her intellect survives, doesn’t it? She’s Marchent and she’s here and she’s in pain.”

Felix nodded to this.

“In dreams perhaps she can see the portal to the heavens,” said Margon. “Once she becomes focused on the physical, perhaps she will never again see it.”