The Wolf Gift (57 page)

“But is that true of us?” Margon asked. “Do we truly draw on both states for a transcendent power to feel compassion? I don’t know that we do. I don’t know that our immortality is anything other than incidental, as much of an evolutionary accident as consciousness itself.”

Felix appeared deeply affected by what Margon was saying, and eager to interrupt.

“Don’t go on with this now,” he pleaded gently. “You’re traveling into your darkest memories, darkest disappointments. This is not the time or the place.”

Margon appeared to agree.

“I want others to have the dream,” he said, looking again to Laura, and then at Stuart and Reuben. “I want there to be such a dream of transcendent witnesses. But I don’t know if I believe in it, or ever really, truly, did.”

He seemed personally hurt by his own confession. Suddenly and obviously broken. Felix was visibly protective and concerned. Thibault appeared fearful, and faintly sad.

“I believe it,” said Felix gently, but not reprovingly. “I believe in the tribe of witnesses. I always have. Where we go, what we do—it’s not written. But I believe we are to survive as the tribe of those who have the Chrism.”

“I don’t know,” Margon responded, “that our witness will ever matter, or that our synthesis of powers will ever have other witnesses—.”

“I understand,” said Felix, “and I accept that. I take my place among the hybrids, those who continue, those who see the spiritual world and the brutal world in a unique way, those who look to both as a source of truth.”

“Ah, that’s it, of course,” said Margon. “We always come back to that—that both the brutal world and the spiritual world are sources of truth, that the truth resides in the viscera of all those who struggle as well as in the souls of those who would transcend the struggle.”

The viscera of all those who struggle. Reuben drifted, caught again in that chapel of the forest canopy gazing up at the stars. And in the viscera is the pulse of God.

“Yes, we do always come back to that,” said Felix. “Is there a maker hopelessly beyond this world we know of cells and breath, or is He holding all this within Himself?”

Margon shook his head, glancing sadly at Felix, and then he looked away.

The expression on Stuart’s face was beautiful to behold. He had something of what he had wanted, and he was no longer asking anything. He was gazing off, clearly mounting up and up through all the lofty thoughts that were being inspired in him, keeping company now with possibilities that hadn’t occurred to him before.

And Laura was engrossed, and turning inwards. Maybe she too had what she wanted.

And if only I could describe what I see now, Reuben thought, that my soul is opening, that my soul is breathing and I am penetrating ever deeper into the mystery, the mystery that includes the viscera … but it was more than he could express.

Something immense had been attempted. And now it seemed all backed off from the peak that had been conquered.

“And you, Margon,” Laura asked, in the same respecting but probing manner. “Can you die, as Marrok died? Or Reynolds Wagner?”

“Yes. I am sure that I can. I have no reason to believe I am in any way different from any other of the tribe. But I don’t know. I don’t know if there are in the universe gods who cursed me for stealing this elemental power, and cursed those to whom I’ve passed it with my teeth. I don’t know. What does it explain, any of it? We are all an enigma. And that will be our only truth—as long as we know only how and when … and not the why of anything.”

“You don’t believe in such a curse, surely,” said Felix reprovingly. “Why do you say these things now? And that is hardly our only truth, by the way, that we are an enigma. You know that too.”

“Oh, perhaps he does believe these things,” said Thibault, “more than he’s ever cared to admit.”

“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.”