“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 sa
tisfied.”
“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.”
13
WEDNESDAY MORNING, the small hours.
The house slept.
Reuben slept. Naked under the thick down comforter and quilts, he slept, his face against the cool pillow. Go away, house. Go away, fear. Go away, world.
He dreamed.
It was Muir Woods, and he and Laura walked alone in his dream amid the giant redwoods. The sun came down in soft dusty shafts to the dark forest floor. They were locked so close together they were as one, his right arm around her, her left arm around him, and the perfume of her hair was gently intoxicating him.
Far off in the trees, they saw a clearing where the sunlight broke violently and warmly on the earth, and they went to it and lay with their arms around each other. In the dream it didn’t matter whether anyone came, whether anyone saw. Muir Woods was theirs, their forest. They took off their clothes; their clothes vanished. How marvelously free Reuben felt, as if he were in wolf coat, that free, that wondrously naked. Here was Laura beneath him, her opalescent blue eyes looking up into his eyes, her hair fanned out against the dark earth, such beautiful yellow hair, white hair, and he bent down to kiss her. Laura. Hers was a way of kissing like no other, hungry yet patient, yielding yet expectant. He felt the heat of her breasts against his naked chest, the moisture of her pubic hair against his leg. He rose high enough to guide his organ into her. Ecstasy, this little sanctum. The air was golden with the sun, dazzling on the leafy bracken that surrounded them in this temple of the high redwoods. Her hips rose just a little and then his weight brought her down firmly against the sweet, fragrant earth, and he fell into a great delicious rhythm riding her, loving her, kissing her soft delicious mouth as he took her, as he gave himself to her, Love you, my divine Laura. He came, his eyes shut, the wave of pleasure rising and rising until he could barely stand it, and he opened his eyes:
Marchent.
She lay under him in the bed, her tormented eyes pleading with him, her mouth quivering, her face streaked with tears.
He roared.
He shot up from the bed and slammed against the far wall. He was roaring, roaring in horror.
She sat up on the bed, grasping the sheet to her naked breasts—his sheets, her breasts—staring at him in panic. Her mouth opened but the words wouldn’t come. Her arm reached out. Her hair was tangled and wet.
He was choking, sobbing.
Someone beat on his door, and then the door was flung open.
He sat crying against the wall. The bed was empty. Stuart was standing there.
“Jeez, man, what is it?”
Up the stairs came pounding steps. Jean Pierre stood behind Stuart.
“Oh, Mother of God!” Reuben sobbed. He couldn’t stop the cries coming out of him. “Holy God.” He struggled to stand up, then fell back on the floor, banging his head hard against the wall.
“Stop it, Reuben,” cried Stuart. “Stop it! We’re here with you now, it’s okay.”
“Master, here,” said Jean Pierre, bringing his robe to him and covering his shoulders with it.
Lisa appeared in the door in a long plain white nightgown.
“I’m going to lose my mind,” Reuben stammered, the words catching, his throat constricted. “I’m going to lose my mind.” He shouted at the top of his voice, “Marchent!”
He put his face in his hands. “What do you want, what can I do, what do you want! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Marchent. Marchent, forgive me!”
He turned and clawed at the wall as if he could pass into it. He banged his head against it again.
Firm hands had ahold of him.
“Quiet, master, quiet,” said Lisa. “Jean Pierre, change those sheets! Here, Stuart, you help me.”
But Reuben lay crouched beside the wall, inconsolable. His body was clenched like a fist. His eyes were closed.
Moments passed.
Finally, he opened his eyes, and he let them help him to his feet. He hugged the robe to him as if he were freezing. Flashes of the dream returned: sun, smell of earth perfume of Laura; Marchent’s face, tears, her lips, her lips, her lips, it had always been her lips, not Laura’s. That had been Marchent’s unique kiss.
He was sitting at the table. How did he get here?
“Where is Felix?” he asked. He looked up at Lisa. “When will Felix be home? I have to reach him.”
“In a matter of hours, master,” said Lisa comforting him. “He will be here. I will call him. I will make sure of it.”
“I’m sorry,” Reuben whispered. He sat back dazed, watching Jean Pierre remake the bed. “I’m so sorry.”
“Incubus!” whispered Lisa.
“Don’t say that word!” Reuben said. “Don’t say that evil word. She doesn’t know what she’s doing! She doesn’t know, I tell you! She’s not a demon. She’s a ghost. She’s lost and she’s struggling and I can’t save her. Don’t you call her an incubus. Don’t use that demon language.”
“It’s okay, man,” said Stuart. “We’re all here now. You can’t see her anymore, can you?”
“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 he
ar 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.
14
THEY 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.