The Wolves of Midwinter (27 page)

“You and I, we make a new covenant, don’t we?” he asked. “I mean we make a new covenant in this new world.”

“Yes,” she said. “And when I see you on Christmas Eve, I want you to know that I’m yours, I’m your bride in this world, if you’ll have me.”

“Have you? I can’t exist without you.” He meant it. No matter what fear he felt of her transforming into the she-wolf, he meant it. He would get past that fear. Love for her would carry him past it, and there was no doubt that he loved her. With every passing day of being without her, he knew that he loved her.

“I will be your spouse on Christmas Eve,” he said. “And you will be my bride, and yes, this will be the sealing of our covenant.”

This was the hardest parting from her yet. But finally, kissing her quickly on both cheeks, he slipped out of the Jeep and stood by the side of the road to watch her go.

It was two o’clock as she headed for the highway.

Reuben headed back to the Inn.

He ducked back into the private bedroom set aside for him and his
party long enough to use the bathroom and then he completed a quick little story on the festival for the
Observer
and e-mailed it to his editor, Billie Kale, with the note that he’d have more to add if she wanted it later on.

Billie had already left for the banquet, but he knew she’d hired a chauffeured car for herself and the staff so she could pass judgment on the story from the road.

Indeed the answer came back, “Yes, and yes,” as he was leaving the Inn again with Felix and the others under the first sunshine that had broken through all afternoon. She texted that his Christmas-traditions essay was now the most e-mailed story on the paper’s website. But she’d like to add a short paragraph to today’s story, about the Man Wolf being nowhere in sight during the village fair. “Yes,” Reuben said, and tapped out the paragraph just as she’d requested.

After greeting a group of television reporters, Reuben and Felix broke off from Stuart and Margon to inspect all of the booths in earnest, as Felix wanted to hear from the craftsmen and merchants as to how sales were for them and what he could do to make the fair better in coming years.

Reuben grew almost groggy as he moved from table to table, inspecting the highly glazed pottery, the unique bowls and mugs and plates, and then the dried-apple dolls, and the quilts again, always the quilts. There were leather craftsmen selling belts and purses, dealers in brass and pewter belt buckles, fine gold and silver jewelry, and the inevitable flea-market professionals marketing obvious machine-made goods, and even one merchant selling what might have been stolen hardcover best sellers at half price.

Felix took time with everybody, nodding again and again to this or that compliment or complaint. He had pockets filled with business cards. He accepted cups of mead and ale from the vendors but seldom drank more than a sip.

And through all of this Felix appeared deliriously happy, even a little manic, needing from time to time to escape to a back room or a restroom or a back alley, where he and Reuben found themselves in the company of the guilty outcast smokers who puffed on their verboten
cigarettes furtively and with apologies before going back to join the “saved.”

There were times when Reuben felt dizzy, but it was a beautiful kind of dizzy, what with the Christmas carols rising and falling in the general hubbub of voices, and the giant Christmas wreaths on door frames all around him, and the smell of pine needles, and the fresh, moist breeze.

Finally he lost Felix. He lost everybody.

But that was fine. He stopped now and then to jot notes for the next article, thumbs hammering on his iPhone, but mostly he drifted, soothed and fascinated by the movement and color, the squeals and laughter of the children, the slow hesitating yet incessant movement of shoppers that seemed at moments rather like dance.

Arcades and artisans were running together in his mind. He saw table after table of little fairy and elf Christmas ornaments and angels, and displays of fascinating handmade wooden toys. There were dealers in perfumed soaps and bath oils everywhere he looked, booths of buttons, dyed yarns, ribbons, and lace trim, and booths of fantasy hats. Or were those vintage hats? Somebody had recently been talking about hats, hats like those with big brims and flowers. He couldn’t quite remember. Hand-dipped Christmas candles were for sale every few feet it seemed, and so was incense, and handmade notepaper.

But here and there was the rare exceptional artisan presenting a display of unique wood-carved animals and figurines that didn’t resemble the more commercial big-eyed woodland critters at the next table, or the jewelry maker whose gold and silver brooches were truly spectacular creations, or the man who painted his silk and velvet scarves with entirely eccentric and original figures.

And then there was the painter who put out nothing but his original and fascinating canvases, with no apology or explanation whatsoever, or the woman who assembled huge baroque decoupage ornaments out of bits of lace and gold braid and brightly colored figures clipped from old Victorian prints. There were wooden flutes for sale, Tibetan brass bells and singing bowls, zithers and drums. There was one dealer who sold old sheet music, and another with a table of tattered and broken
vintage children’s books. And a woman who’d made beautiful napkin rings and bracelets from old sterling spoons.

The sky was white overhead, and the wind had died down.

People were buying, said the merchants. Some of the food vendors had sold out. One potter confessed she wished she brought all of her new mugs and bowls, as she was now left with almost nothing to sell.

There was at least one dealer doing a great business in handmade leather shoes.

Finally Reuben rested against a storefront, and through a break in the crowd tried to gain perspective on the mood of the festival. Were people really enjoying themselves as much as they seemed? Yes, undoubtedly. Balloon artists were doing a brisk business with the little kids. Cotton candy was being sold, and even saltwater taffy. And there were face paint artists for the children too.

To his right sat a tarot card reader at her velvet-draped card table, and a few feet beyond a palm reader who had a client opposite in a folding chair.

One whole shop across from him was selling Renaissance costumes, and people were laughing with delight at the lace-trimmed shirts that were selling for “great prices.” And beside the shop was a used-book vendor presiding over tables of books about California and its history and the history of the redwoods and the geology of the coast.

Reuben felt drowsy and comfortable, unnoticed for the moment, and almost ready to close his eyes. Then he made out two familiar figures in the shadowy open door of the Renaissance shop. One figure was most definitely the tall raw-boned Elthram in his familiar beige chamois shirt and pants, his black hair long and bushy and even tangled with bits of dried leaf; and the other figure, the slender and graceful woman who stood right beside him, groomed and seemingly poised, was Marchent.

For a moment he could not believe it, but then he knew that this was exactly true. Nothing distinguished them from those around them except what would have distinguished them had they been alive.

Elthram towered over Marchent, his large eyes glittering as he smiled, whispering to her, it seemed, whispering with moist smiling
lips, with his right arm tightly around her, and she, turned just slightly towards Elthram, her hair neatly combed, was looking straight at Reuben as she nodded her head.

The world went silent. It seemed to empty except for the two of them, Elthram now casting a slow glance at Reuben, and Marchent’s eyes holding him steady as she continued to listen, to nod.

The crowd shifted, moved, closed the gap through which Reuben had seen them. The noise around him was deafening suddenly. Reuben hurried out into the middle of the street. There they were, the two of them, solid and vivid down to the tiniest details, but they turned their backs now, and they appeared to be walking into the enveloping darkness of the shop.

The sights and sounds of the fair went dim again. Someone bumped into Reuben, and he yielded without thinking or responding, barely conscious of a hand on his arm. There was a stab in his intestines, and a heat rising in him threatening to be pain.

Someone else had come up close beside him. But he only stared off into the inevitable gloom of the shop, searching for them, waiting for them, his heart pounding as it always did when he saw Marchent, and he tried to reconstruct the details of what he’d seen. There had been no clear indication that Marchent had really seen him; perhaps she’d only been looking forward. Her face had been calm, thoughtful, passive. He couldn’t know.

Suddenly he did feel a hand on his arm and he heard a very familiar voice say, “Well, that’s one very interesting-looking man.”

He woke as if from a dream.

It was his dad standing beside him. It was Phil, and Phil was staring into the shop.

“There are a lot of really interesting people here,” said Phil in the same half murmur. Reuben stood dazed as out of the shadows the two figures emerged once more, Elthram still smiling, his arm fastened as tightly as before to Marchent, and Marchent looking so delicate in her brown wool dress and brown boots, such a thin frail figure, in the very long soft dress she’d worn the day she died. This time her pale eyes
fastened on Reuben and she offered the faintest acknowledging smile. Such a winsome distant smile.

And then they were gone.

Simply gone. Subtracted from the shifting world around them, subtracted as though they’d never been there at all.

Phil sighed.

Reuben turned to Phil, glaring at him, unable to say what he wanted to say. Phil was still looking at the door of the shop. Phil had to have seen them disappear.

But Phil said nothing to Reuben. Phil just stood there in his heavy gray tweed jacket, gray scarf around his neck, his hair blowing slightly in the breeze—looking at the open shop as before.

The pain in Reuben’s guts was sharpened, and his heart ached. If only he could tell his father everything, absolutely everything, if only he could bring his father into the world in which he, Reuben, was struggling, if only he could access the wisdom that had always been there for him, and which he’d wasted too often in his life.

But how could he even begin? And half measures were as intolerable as this silence.

A dream flared in his heart. Phil would eventually move to the guesthouse at Nideck Point. They’d certainly talked of his visiting often enough.

And after Phil moved to the guesthouse, and surely Phil would, they would sit together and Reuben would, with the blessing of the Distinguished Gentlemen, pour out the whole tale. They’d sit in candlelight with the sea banging on the cliffs below, and talk and talk and talk.

But as the dream flared, an awesome and horrifying vista opened for him on the coming years. The divide could only become greater and greater between him and his father. His loneliness felt like a shell in which he was suffocating. A great sadness filled him. He felt a lump in his throat.

He looked away, more into his thoughts than at anything particular, and as his eyes moved over the street, he now saw them everywhere,
the shaggy-haired, leather-clad figures of the Forest Gentry, some in dark green, others in varying shades of brown, some even in bright colors, but all distinct in that soft chamois cloth, with their abundant hair, their windblown tangled hair. Their skin was radiant and their eyes sparkled. They exuded happiness and excitement. It was so easy to see them as they passed, as they walked among the human beings, so easy to know who they were. He recognized here and there women and children he had glimpsed in that eerie moment in the dining room when they had all crowded in on the table before vanishing into the night.

And they were observing him, too, weren’t they? They were nodding to him. One woman with long red hair made him a little curtsey quickly before disappearing behind a crowd of others. And they were looking at Phil.

Phil stood as passive and silent as before, his hands in his coat pockets just watching the great parade go by. “Look at that woman,” he said airily, “in that beautiful old hat. Such a beautiful old hat.”

Reuben glanced in that direction and caught a glimpse of her, a fellow human being, not one of the Forest Gentry, a slender figure with her arms out, guiding a whole troop of youngsters through the crowd. And it was a gorgeous hat, made of green felt with crushed silk flowers. Something about hats. Why, of course. How could he have forgotten? Lorraine, and Jim’s dreadful story of pain and suffering with Lorraine. Lorraine had loved vintage hats. The woman was gone now with her flock of children. Could that have been Lorraine? Probably not.

The rain began to spatter down.

At first people ignored it, but then they began to home to the covered porches and the little arcades. The sky darkened, and more lights flashed on in the shops and windows, and the streetlamps, the quaint old black-iron streetlamps, went on.

Within moments a new air of festivity had swept through the fair, and it seemed the noise of the crowd was louder than ever. The strings of colored lights above the street shone with a new brightness.

Stuart and Margon appeared suddenly, and said it was almost four o’clock, that they ought to head back to the house to change.

“It’s black tie tonight for us all, as we’re hosting,” said Margon.

“Black tie?” Reuben all but stammered.

“Oh, not to worry. Lisa’s laid out everything for us. But we should go home now to be ready when the first people start leaving the fair.”

Felix waved at Reuben from down the street, but then was blocked inevitably by more greetings and more thanks, though he kept moving.

Finally, they were all together. Phil headed off to get his car, as he’d driven up alone ahead of the rest of the family.

Reuben took one last look at the fair before he turned to go. The carolers were singing clearly and beautifully in front of the Inn as if the darkness had excited them and urged them to come together again, and this time there was a fiddler there with them, and a young boy playing a wooden flute. He stared at the distant figure of that boy, long-haired, clad all in brown chamois leather, playing that wooden flute. And far to the right in the shadows, he saw Elthram with Marchent, her head almost touching Elthram’s shoulder, their eyes fixed on the same young musician.