“A curse, it’s a metaphor,” said Reuben. “It’s the way we describe our worst unhappiness. I was brought up to believe the entire creation was cursed—fallen, depraved, damned until Divine Providence saved it, that is, from the curse imposed on the entire creation by Divine Providence Itself.”
“Amen,” said Laura. “Where did you go from there?” she asked. “Who was the first one to whom you ever gave the Chrism?”
“Oh, it was an accident,” he said, “as it so very often is. And little did I realize it would provide me with my first true companion for the years to come. And I’ll tell you the best reason there is to make another Morphenkind. It’s because he or she will teach you something that all your years of struggle have not taught you, and can’t teach you. He or she will give you a new truth of which you never dreamed. Margon the Godless meets God in each new generation.”
“Amen, I understand,” she whispered, smiling.
Margon looked at Reuben. “I can’t give you the moral insight that you so badly need,” he said.
“Perhaps you’re wrong,” said Reuben. “Perhaps you already have. Perhaps you misunderstood what I wanted.”
“And Stuart,” said Margon, “what’s happening in your mind now?”
“Oh, the most wonderful things,” said Stuart, shaking his head and smiling. “Because if we can have such a great purpose, to synthesize, to bring together in ourselves a new truth, well, then, all the pain, the confusion, the regret, the shame …”
“The shame?” asked Laura.
Stuart erupted in laughter. “Yes, the shame!” he said. “You have no idea. Of course, the shame.”
“I understand,” said Reuben. “There is shame in the Wolf Gift. There has to be.”
“In those early generations there was only shame,” said Margon, “and sullen obdurate refusal to give up the power.”
“I can see it,” said Reuben.
“But this is a resplendent universe in which we live now,” said Margon softly, with wonder. “And in this universe we treasure all forms of energy and creative process.”
This thrilled Reuben.
Margon put up his hands. He shook his head.
“And we must now address the question none of you has asked,” said Margon.
“Which is what?” asked Stuart.
“Why is it that no scent alerts us to the presence of one another?”
“Oh, right,” whispered Stuart in amazement. “And there is no scent, not even the faintest—not from you, not from Reuben, not from Sergei when he was the Man Wolf!”
“Why?” asked Reuben. Why, indeed? In the struggle with Marrok, there had never been the scent of evil or malice. And when Sergei had destroyed the doctors before his very eyes, there had been no scent to the monster.
“It’s because you are neither good nor evil,” suggested Laura. “You are neither beast nor human.”
Margon, having elicited the answer he wanted, merely nodded. “Another part of the mystery,” he said simply.
“But we should pick up the pure scent of any Morphenkind just as we pick up the scent of humans or animals out there,” Reuben protested.
“But we do not,” said Thibault.
“That’s a crippling disability,” said Stuart. He looked at Reuben. “It’s why you had such a time finding me when I was lost.”
“Yes,” said Reuben. “But I did find you—and there must have been innumerable small signals—the sound of your crying, I heard that.”
Margon offered nothing further. He sat quiet in his own thoughts as Stuart and Reuben went over it. Reuben had picked up no scent from Felix in the law offices, or in this house when Felix and Margon had first appeared. No, no scent.
And this was a disability, Stuart was right. Because they would never know whether another Morphenkind was approaching.
“There must be more to it,” said Reuben.
“Enough,” Margon said. “I have told you enough for now.”
“But you’ve only begun,” cried Stuart. “Reuben, join me in this. You know you want the answers. Margon. How did you first pass the Chrism? What happened?”
“Well, now, perhaps you’ll learn those things from the person to whom I passed it,” said Margon with a mischievous smile.
“And who would that be?” Stuart turned to Felix and then to Thibault. Felix merely regarded him with one eyebrow raised, and Thibault laughed under his breath.
“Think on what you’ve learned so far,” said Felix.
“I do, I will,” vowed Stuart. He looked at Reuben, and Reuben nodded in assent. And why couldn’t Stuart realize, Reuben thought, that this was only one of many conversations, conversations without end in which answers would flow to questions yet unimagined?
“That we’re as old as humankind,” said Felix. “That’s what you know now, all three of you. That we’re a mystery just as all humankind is a mystery. That we are part of the cycle of this world, and how and why we must discover on our own.”
“Yes,” said Margon. “There are many of us on this earth and there have been at times many, many more. Immortality as we use this word is a grant of immunity from old age and illness; but not from violent annihilation. And so we live with mortality as do all others under the sun.”
“How many others are there?” asked Stuart. “Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he shot at Reuben. “You want to know these things, you know you do.”
“I do,” Reuben admitted. “When Margon wants us to know. Look, there’s an inevitability to the way this story unfolds.”
“I don’t know how many others there are,” said Margon with a little shrug. “How could I know? How could Felix or Thibault know? I do know this. The danger we face in today’s world is not from other Morphenkinder. It’s from men and women of science like Klopov and Jaska. And the greatest difficulties we face in day-to-day survival have to do with the advances in science—that we cannot now pass ourselves off as our own descendants to a world that requires DNA evidence of parentage or affinity. And that we must more than ever be clever as to where and how we hunt.”
“Can you father a child?” Laura asked.
“Yes,” said Margon, “but only with a female Morphenkind.”
She gasped. Reuben felt a sudden shock. Why had he been so certain he could not get Laura with child? And it was true. He could not. But this new little revelation was stunning.
“Then the female Morphenkind can bear, obviously,” said Laura.
“Yes,” said Margon. “And the offspring are Morphenkinder always, with very occasional exceptions. And sometimes … well, sometimes a litter. But I must say that fertile couplings are extremely rare.”
“A litter!” Laura whispered.
Margon nodded.
“This is why female Morphenkinder often form their own packs,” said Felix, “and men tend to club together. Well, it’s one of the reasons, anyway.”
“But in all fairness,” said Thibault, “tell them it seldom happens. I haven’t known five born Morphenkinder in all my years.”
“And what are these creatures like?” asked Stuart.
“The change manifests in early adolescence,” said Margon, “and they are in all other respects very much like us. When they reach physical maturity, they cease to age, just as we have ceased to age. If you give the Chrism to a young child, you will see the same thing happen: the change will come with early adolescence. The child will mature, and then become fixed.”
“So I’m likely to keep growing for a while yet,” said Stuart.
“You will,” said Margon with a sarcastic smile and a roll of his eyes. Felix and Thibault also laughed.
“Yes, it would be very considerate and gentlemanly of you if you were to stop growing,” said Felix. “I find it disconcerting looking up into your big baby blue eyes.”
Stuart was obviously exultant.
“You’ll mature,” said Margon, “and then you will not age.”
Laura sighed. “One couldn’t hope for anything
much better than that.”
“No, I don’t suppose so,” said Reuben, but it was only just hitting him, the obvious truth that he would never father normal human children, that if he fathered a child, that child would likely be what he was now.
“And this matter of others out there,” said Felix. “In time these boys should come to know what we know about them, don’t you think?”
“What,” asked Margon, “that they’re secretive, often unfriendly? That they seldom if ever let themselves be seen by other Morphenkinder? What more is there to say?” He opened his hands.
“Well, there’s a great deal more to say and you know it,” Felix said softly.
Margon ignored him. “We are all too like wolves. We travel in packs. What do we care about another pack as long as it doesn’t come into our forest or our fields?”
“Then they’re no threat to us basically,” said Stuart. “That’s what you’re saying. There are no wars for territory or anything like that? No one seeks to gain power over the rest?”
“I told you,” said Margon, “the worst threat to you is from human beings.”
Stuart was pondering. “We can’t shed innocent blood,” he volunteered. “So how could we fight each other for power? But has there never been a Morphenkind who went rogue, or started slaughtering the innocent, who went mad perhaps?”
Margon considered for a long moment. “Strange things have happened,” he conceded, “but not that.”
“Are you contemplating being the first rogue?” asked Thibault with a deep mocking drawl to his words. “A juvenile delinquent Morphenkind, so to speak?”
“No,” said Stuart. “I just wanna know.”
Margon only shook his head.
“The need to annihilate evil can be a curse,” Thibault said.
“Well, then why couldn’t we breed a race of Morphenkinder who would annihilate every bit of evil?” Stuart asked.
“Oh, the young and their dreams,” said Thibault.
“And what is our definition of evil?” asked Margon. “What have we come to settle for, we Morphenkinder? People we recognize as our own are under assault, isn’t that it? But what is the actual root of evil, may I ask?”
“I don’t know what the root of it is,” said Felix. “But I know that evil comes into the world anew every time a child is born.”
“Amen,” said Margon.
Thibault spoke up, looking directly at Laura, “As we were discussing last night,” he said, “evil is a matter of context. That is unavoidable. I am no relativist. I believe in the objective and true existence of good and of evil. But context is inevitable when a fallible human being speaks of evil. This we all must accept.”
“I think we argue over the words we use,” said Laura. “Not much else.”
“But wait, you’re saying the scent of evil for each of us is contextual?” Reuben asked. “That is what you’re saying, isn’t it?”
“It has to be,” said Laura.
“No, that really is not quite it,” said Margon, but then he seemed frustrated. He looked to Felix who seemed reluctant as well to continue with this same train of thought.
There’re many things they are not saying, Reuben thought. They cannot say it all. Not now. He had a strong sense suddenly of how very much they were not explaining, but he knew better than to ask.
“The Chrism—the question of individual variation, strength,” asked Stuart. “How does this work?”
“There are huge differences in receptivity and in development,” said Felix, “and in the end result. But we don’t always know why. There are certainly very strong Morphenkinder and very weak Morphenkinder, but again, we do not know why. A born Morphenkind can be quite impressive, or a shrinking and timid individual, not at all receptive to his or her fate. But then it’s the same with those who are bitten, unless they ask for the Chrism, of course.”
Margon drew himself up and gestured emphatically with his hands, palms down, as if to say he was bringing this to a close.
“What’s important now is for you to remain here,” he said, “both of you, and Laura of course as well. For you to live here with us now, with Felix, with Thibault, and with the others of our small and select company when you meet them, which you soon will. What’s important is that you learn to control the transformation, and to resist the voices when you must. And above all, for now, to withdraw from the world until all chatter about the notorious California Man Wolf finally dies away.”
Stuart nodded. “I understand that, I accept that. I want to be here. I’ll do anything you say! But there’s so much more.”
“This will be harder than you think,” said Margon. “You’ve tasted the voices. You will grow restless and miserable when you don’t hear them. You’ll want to seek them out.”
“But we are with you now, all three of you,” said Felix. “We came together a long time ago. We chose our last names in the modern age, as you guessed, from the werewolf literature of earlier decades. And we did this, not to signal our identity or common bond to anyone else, but for those names to serve as markers for ourselves and those few friends outside of our group who knew who we were. Names become a problem for people who don’t die. Just as does property and inheritance, and the matter of legality within a nation. We sought a simple and somewhat poetic solution to one of those problems with our names. And we continue to seek solutions to the other problems by a variety of means.
“But what I mean to say is, we are a group, and we are now opening our group to you.”
Stuart, Reuben, and Laura all nodded and expressed their warm acceptance. Stuart was beginning to cry. He could hardly remain seated. Finally he got up and began to pace right in back of his chair.
“This is your house and your land, Felix,” said Reuben.
“Our house and our land,” said Felix graciously, with that warm beaming smile.
Margon rose to his feet.
“Your lives, little wolves, have just begun.”
The meeting was at an end. All were scattering.
But there was one burning matter which Reuben could not leave unresolved.
There was something he had to know, and he had to know it now.
He followed Felix, to whom he felt closest, into the library and caught up with him as he was lighting the fire.
“What is it, little brother?” asked Felix. “You look troubled. I thought the meeting went well.”
“But Laura,” Reuben whispered. “What about Laura? Will you give the Chrism to Laura? Must I ask you, or ask Margon or—.”
“She’s worthy,” said Felix. “That was decided immediately. I didn’t know there was the slightest doubt. She knows this. There have been no secrets kept from Laura. When she’s ready, she has but to ask.”
Reuben’s heart had started to skip. He couldn’t meet Felix’s gaze. He felt Felix clasp his shoulder. He felt the strong fingers on his arm.
“And if she wants it,” asked Reuben, “you will do it? You?”
“Yes. If she wants it. Margon or I. We will.”
Why was this so painful? Wasn’t this exactly what he’d wanted to know?
He saw her again in his mind’s eye, as he’d first seen her that night on the edge of Muir Woods, when he’d come singing into the grassy clearing behind her house, and she had appeared to him, as if out of nowhere, standing on the back porch of her little house, in her long white flannel gown.
“I must be the most selfish man in all creation,” he whispered.
“No, you’re not,” said Felix. “But it is her decision.”
“I don’t understand myself,” he said.
“I understand you,” said Felix.
Moments passed.
Felix struck the long fireplace match and ignited the kindling. There came that familiar roar as the kindling caught and the flames danced up the bricks.
Felix stood there patiently, waiting. Then he said softly, “You are such remarkable children. I envy you your brand-new world. I don’t know that I wo
uld have the courage for it if you were not here with me.”
40
IT WAS THE FORTNIGHT of many things.
Margon drove Stuart down to pick up his car in Santa Rosa, an old Jaguar convertible that had once belonged to his father. And they visited Stuart’s mother who was in a psychiatric facility but “bored to death” and “sick of all the crummy magazines” and ready to get a whole new wardrobe to help her cope. Her agent had called from Hollywood to say she was hot again. Well, that was an overstatement. But they had work for her if she could get herself on a plane. Maybe she’d go shopping on Rodeo Drive.
Grace, anointed as the most articulate and significant of the witnesses to the Man Wolf’s latest attack in Mendocino County, made the rounds of the talk shows, convincing the world in reasonable terms of her theory that this unfortunate creature was the victim of a congenital condition or a subsequent illness that had left it physically deformed and mentally challenged, but that it would soon blunder into the hands of authorities and get the confinement and treatment which it required.
Over and over again the investigators from the attorney general’s office, and from the FBI, and from the San Francisco Police Department came back to interview Stuart and Reuben, as they had been the mysterious focus of more than one Man Wolf attack.
This was difficult for Stuart and for Reuben, as neither was a skilled liar, but they soon learned the trick of minimal answers, murmurs, and mumbles as they went the distance and were finally left alone.
Reuben wrote a long comprehensive piece for the San Francisco Observer which essentially synthesized his earlier pieces, spiked with his own vivid descriptions of the Man Wolf attack, “the first” he’d seen with his own eyes. His conclusions were predictable. It was no superhero, and the adulation and fan worship should come to an end. Yet it had left us with many questions. Why had it been so easy for so many to embrace a creature so uncompromisingly cruel? Was the Man Wolf a throwback to a time when we had all been cruel and happy to be so?
Meanwhile the beast had made one last spectacular appearance deep in Mexico, slaying a murderer in Acapulco, and passed for the moment into oblivion.