The Wolves of Midwinter (32 page)

The inner silence, the engulfing song, seemed to go on forever, and gradually he felt a quiet peace.

All around him people seemed rapt in the music. Nearby to his left, Shelby stood with her son, Clifford, and her father. They were singing, as they gazed at the choir. And others crowded in whom he didn’t know.

The choir went on with the soft, beautiful hymn.

At some point he heard a tenor voice, a familiar voice, singing beside him, and when he opened his eyes, he saw it was Jim. Jim was with Susie, standing in front of him, Jim’s hands on her shoulders and beside Jim was Pastor Corrie George. It seemed an age had passed since he left them. Now they were all singing the hymn together, and Reuben sang along with them, too.

Gathered all round them were the volunteers from Jim’s parish soup kitchen whom Reuben knew from past meals there when he’d worked with them as he had last Christmas and the Christmas before. Jim stood still merely looking down at the white-marble Christ Child in the manger of real hay with a curious wondering expression on his face, one eyebrow raised, and an overall sadness pervading him—so like what Reuben felt.

Reuben didn’t talk. He caught a glass of sparkling water from a passing tray and sipped it quietly, and the choir started up again.
“What child is this who laid to rest in Mary’s arms is sleeping …”

One of the volunteer women was crying softly, and two others were singing along with the choir. Susie sang clearly and loudly, and so did Pastor George. People came and went around them, as if paying visits to the altar. Jim remained, and Susie and Pastor George remained, and then slowly Jim’s eyes moved up over the serene face of the angel on the pediment of the stable and over the trees massed behind it.

He turned and saw Reuben as if shaken out of a dream. He smiled and put his arm around Reuben and kissed Reuben’s forehead.

The tears sprang to Reuben’s eyes.

“I’m happy for you,” said Jim in an intimate voice under the sound of the choir. “I’m happy your son is coming. I’m happy you’re with your remarkable friends here. Maybe your new friends know things I don’t know. Maybe they know more things than I ever dreamed it was possible to know.”

“Jim, whatever happens,” said Reuben in a low confidential voice, “these are our years, our years to be brothers.” His voice broke and he couldn’t continue. He didn’t know what more to say anyway. “And about the little girl, I mean I know what you said about it being painful, painful to be around children, but I had to—.”

“Nonsense, not another word,” said Jim with a smile. “Understood.”

They both turned, allowing others to step between them and the crèche. Pastor George led Susie to a vacant pair of chairs at one of the tables, and Susie waved at Jim and at Reuben and, of course, they both smiled.

They stood together facing the huge pavilion. To their right the orchestra played the old “Greensleeves” melody beautifully and the voice of the choir was one voice.
“The King of Kings salvation brings; Let loving hearts enthrone Him.”

“They’re all so happy,” said Jim as he looked at the crowded little tables, at the waiters and waitresses weaving in and out with their trays of drinks. “All so happy.”

“Are you happy, Jim?” Reuben asked.

Jim suddenly broke into a smile. “When have I ever been happy, Reuben?” He laughed, and this was maybe the first time he’d laughed this way, in his old way, with Reuben since Reuben’s life had changed forever. “Look, there’s Dad. I think that man talking to him has him trapped. Time for a rescue.”

Did the man have Phil trapped? Reuben hadn’t seen this man before. He was tall with long full white hair down to his shoulders, much like Margon’s hair, something of a lion’s mane, and he was dressed in a worn belted suede jacket with dark leather patches on the elbows. He was nodding as Phil talked, and his dark eyes were coolly regarding Reuben. Beside him sat a lovely but rather muscular blond woman with slightly upturned eyes and severe cheekbones. Her straw-colored hair was free like that of the man, a small torrent, falling to her shoulders. She too was looking at Reuben. Her eyes appeared colorless.

“This is a world traveler, this man,” said Phil, after presenting his two sons. “He’s been regaling me with stories of Midwinter customs the world over—of ancient times and human sacrifice!” Reuben heard the man say his name, Hockan Crost, in a mellow deep voice, an arresting voice, but he heard the word
Morphenkind
.

“Helena,” said the woman extending her hand. “Such a lovely party.” Obvious Slavic accent, and the smile very sweet, but there was something faintly grotesque about her, about her strong proportions, and the very large bones of her beautifully painted face, and her long throat and firm shoulders. Her sleeveless dress was crusted with sequins and beads. It looked heavy, like a carapace.

Morphenkinder, both of them
.

Maybe there was a scent to his own kind, male and female, that his
body recognized even when his mind didn’t acknowledge it. The man regarded Jim and Reuben almost coldly from beneath heavy black eyebrows. He had a hard-cut face but it wasn’t ugly. He looked weathered, with colorless lips and massive shoulders.

He and the lady rose, bowed, slipped away.

“Some fascinating people here tonight,” said Phil. “And why they keep introducing themselves to me I have no idea. I sat here to listen to the music. But this is a lot of fun, Reuben. I have to hand it to your friends, and the food is spectacular. That Crost is a remarkable man. Not many people claim to sympathetically understand Midwinter human sacrifice.” Phil laughed. “He’s quite a philosopher.”

Dessert service began, and people were heading for the big dining room once more, the air filled with aroma of coffee and the freshly baked mince and pumpkin pies. The waiters brought trays of plum pudding, “humble pie,” and mince pies in the shape of the Christmas crib to those who remained in the pavilion. Phil loved the pecan pie with the real whipping cream. Reuben had never had “humble pie” and he loved it.

At the next table little Susie was eating ice cream and Pastor George gave Reuben a secretive reassuring nod and smile.

More and more people were slipping away. Felix came through the tables urging everyone please to wait for the closing music. Some clearly could not. There was talk of the long drive to here and to there, and how it had been worth it. People flashed the commemorative gold coins with thanks, saying they’d be saving them. People so loved “this house.”

The caterers were now giving out small white candles, each cradled in a little paper holder, and directing everyone to the pavilion for the “closing music.”

What was happening? The “closing music”? Reuben had no idea.

The pavilion was suddenly packed. People in the main room of the house were crowded against the open windows looking into the pavilion, and the double doors to the conservatory were wide open with many crowded there as well.

The overhead floods were being turned off, reducing the light
throughout to a beautiful gloom. Candles were being lighted everywhere, with people offering their candles to one another. Soon Reuben’s small candle was lighted and he was shielding it with his hand.

He rose and pressed towards the orchestra again, and finally found a comfortable place opposite against the stone wall of the house itself just below the far-right front-room window. Susie and Pastor George moved closer to the crèche and orchestra, too.

Felix was at a microphone to one side of the crèche, and in a soft rolling genial voice he said that the orchestra and the adult choir and the boys’ choir would now be singing “the most loved Christmas carols in our tradition” and everybody was most welcome to join in.

Reuben understood. There had been many lovely old hymns and songs heard up until now, and some grand church music, but not the great lusty heavy hitters. And when the orchestra and the choirs burst forth with “Joy to the World” in high vigor, he was thrilled.

Everywhere around him, people were singing, even the most unlikely people, like Celeste, and even his dad. In fact, he could hardly believe that Phil was standing there with a small lighted candle singing in a loud clear voice, and so was Grace. His mother was actually singing. Even his uncle Tim was singing, along with his wife Helen, and Shelby and Clifford. And Aunt Josie in her wheelchair was singing. Of course Susie was singing, and so was Pastor George. And so were Thibault and all the Distinguished Gentlemen whom he could see. Even Stuart was singing, along with his friends.

Something communal was happening that he could never have anticipated, never thought possible, not here in this place or this time. He’d thought the emotional temperature of his world far too cool for such a thing.

The orchestra and choirs went right into “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” with the same vigor and after that “God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen.” A whole string of English carols followed, each one more exuberant than the other. There was a jubilant authority to the music, and a spirit that seemed to engulf all present.

When a single soprano led the magnificent “O Holy Night,” people actually began to cry. So powerful was her voice, and so lustrous and
beautiful the song itself, that the tears came to Reuben’s eyes. Susie leaned against Pastor George, who held her close and tight. Jim was beside Pastor George.

Stuart had come up to stand beside Reuben, and he too was singing as the orchestra moved into a solemn and urgent “O Come, All Ye Faithful” with the choir soaring over the rapturous strings and the deep throbbing French horns.

A silence fell with the rustling of the little paper candleholders and a few coughs and sneezes as one might hear in a packed church.

A thickly accented German voice spoke through the microphone. “And now I give the baton to our host, Felix Nideck, with pleasure.”

Felix took the baton and held it high.

Then the orchestra struck up the first famous notes of Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus,” and people seated throughout the giant pavilion rose to their feet. Even those slightly confused by this were rising on account of the others. Aunt Josie struggled to rise with the help of her nurse.

When the chorus broke forth with the first “Hallelujah” it was like the blast of a trumpet, and on and on the voices went rising, falling, and rising again, declaring with the orchestra surging beneath them the gorgeous anthems of the chorus.

All around Reuben people were singing, falling in and out of riffs of lyrics that they knew and humming with those they didn’t know. On the voices roared:
“And he shall reign forever and ever!”

Reuben pushed forward. He moved closer and closer towards the overwhelming sounds, until he stood close to Felix between the orchestra and the chorus, vigorously conducting with his right hand, the baton in his left.

“King of kings. Forever and ever!”

On and on in frenzy the music coursed towards its inevitable climax until there came the last great: “Ha Le Lu Jah!”

Felix’s arms dropped to his sides, and he bowed his head.

The pavilion roared with applause. Voices broke out everywhere in a delirium of convivial thanks and praise.

Felix straightened and turned, his face positively glowing as he
smiled. At once he broke and rushed to embrace the conductor, the choirmasters, and the concertmaster and then all the players and singers. On and on came the applause as they took their bows.

Reuben pushed his way towards him. When their eyes met, Felix held him closely. “Dear boy, for you, this Christmas, your first at Nideck Point,” Felix whispered in his ear.

Others were reaching for Felix, calling his name.

Thibault took Reuben by the arm. “Easiest thing now is to stand by the door, or they’ll all be stumbling around trying to find you to say good-bye.”

And he was right.

They all took up their positions by the main entrance, including Felix. The medieval mummers and the tall gaunt St. Nicholas were also there, reaching into green sacks for coins and toys to give everyone.

For the next forty-five minutes people filed out, voicing their exuberant thanks. Some of the kids wanted to kiss St. Nicholas and feel his natural white mustache and beard, and he gladly obliged, offering his toys to the adults when there were no more children.

All the musicians and singers were soon gone, some declaring this the best Christmas festival they’d ever played for or attended. The night was filled with the rattle and throb of diesel buses pulling away.

Stuart’s mother, Buffy Longstreet, was crying. She wanted Stuart to come with her back down to Los Angeles. Stuart was comforting her and explaining gently that he just couldn’t do this as he walked her out to her car.

The exceptional women came to say their farewells together, and with the singular man, Hockan Crost, and that cinched it. Morphenkinder, had to be. Another, a dark-haired woman whom Reuben hadn’t met before, confided her name to be Clarice as she took Reuben’s hand, and told him how much she’d enjoyed the entire festival. She was his height in flat evening slippers, and wore a decidedly politically incorrect white fox-fur coat.

“You thrive in the public eye, don’t you?” she said, her speech so very heavily accented that he found himself leaning forward, the better
to hear her. “I am Russian,” she explained, sensing the difficulty. “I am always learning English but never mastering it. This is all so innocent, so normal!” She made a soft scoffing sound. “Who would ever dream this was Yule?” The others were waiting a bit impatiently to say their good-byes, it seemed, and sensing it, she gave a petulant shrug and embraced Felix tightly, confiding something to him under her breath that made him smile a little tightly as he released her.