The Wolves of Midwinter

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 hear 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.