The Wolves of Midwinter Read Online Free PDF Page A

roaming about, but naturally the boys’ choir and the orchestra will be on the front terrace along with the crèche and the bulk of the tables and chairs. Oh, this will be too splendid.” He pointed to the rough diagram he’d drawn on the butcher paper. “Of course the banquet proper will be served in this room, continuously from dark until ten p.m. But there’ll be stations properly positioned at all key points for the mulled wine, the mead, the drinks, food, whatever people want, and then all the house flung wide open so every soul in the neighborhood can see the public rooms and bedrooms of mysterious Nideck Point once and for all. No secrets anymore as to the ‘old place’ where the Man Wolf recently ran rampant. No, we’ll show the world. ‘Welcome, judges, congressmen, police officers, teachers, bankers … good people of Northern California! It was through that front room that the notorious Man Wolf rampaged, and out that library window that he vaulted into the night.’ Say the word, young master. Shall all this be done?”
    “He means to feed the entire coast,” said Margon solemnly, “from south San Francisco to the Oregon border.”
    “Felix, this is your house,” said Reuben. “It sounds marvelous!” And really it did. It also sounded impossible. He had to laugh.
    A fleeting memory came back to Reuben of Marchent describing so happily how “Uncle Felix” had loved to entertain, and he was almost tempted to share it with Felix.
    “I know this is soon after my niece’s death,” said Felix, his voice reflecting a sudden shift in mood. “I’m well aware of that. But I cannot see our being dark for this, our first Christmas. My beloved Marchent would never have wanted that.”
    “People in California don’t mourn, Felix,” said Reuben. “Not that I’ve ever seen anyway. And I can’t imagine Marchent being disturbed by this either.”
    “I think she’d heartily approve of the whole thing,” said Margon. “And there’s a great wisdom to letting the press troop through this house at their leisure as well.”
    “Oh, I’m not doing it merely for that,” said Felix. “I want a great celebration, a fete. This house must have new life in it. It must be a shining lamp once again.”
    “But surely this crèche—you’re talking about Jesus and Mary and Joseph, right?—but you don’t believe in the Christian God, do you?” asked Stuart.
    “No, certainly not,” said Felix, “but this is the way these people in this time celebrate Midwinter.”
    “But isn’t it all a lie?” Stuart demanded. “I mean aren’t we supposed to free ourselves from lies and superstition? Isn’t that the obligation of intelligent beings? And that is what we are.”
    “No, it’s not all lies,” said Felix. He lowered his voice for emphasis, as if gently imploring Stuart to consider things differently. “Traditions are seldom lies; traditions reflect people’s deepest beliefs and customs. They have their own truth, don’t they, by their very nature?”
    Stuart was staring askance at him with skeptical blue eyes, his freckles and boyish face as usual making him look like a rebellious cherub.
    “I think the Christmas myth is eloquent,” Felix continued. “Always has been. Think of it. The Christ Child was from the first a brilliant symbol of the eternal return. And that’s what we’ve always celebrated at Midwinter.” His voice was reverent. “The glorious birth of the god on the darkest night of the year—that’s the essence of it.”
    “Hmmm,” said Stuart with a little mockery. “Well, you do make it sound like more than Christmas wreaths in malls and canned carols in department stores.”
    “It’s always been more than that,” said Margon. “Even the most commercial trappings of the malls today reflect the old pagan ways and the Christian ways woven together.”
    “There’s something nauseatingly optimistic about you guys,” said Stuart seriously.
    “Why,” asked Margon.