Other costumed men and women were passing out cups of mulled wine; and a tall white-haired St. Nicholas figure, or a Father Christmas, in streaming green velvet robes, moved about, handing out little wooden toys to the children. These appeared to be little wooden boats and horses and locomotives, small enough to go in a parent’s pocket. But from his big green velvet sack, he also took tiny little books, and little porcelain dolls with flopping arms and legs. The children were charmed and delighted as they crowded around him, and the adults were clearly pleased as well. There was that blond woman he’d glimpsed in the village, with all her crowd of youngsters, but she no longer wore her pretty green flowered hat. Could that be Jim’s Lorraine? Reuben was not about to ask. He’d never find Jim in time to ask anyway. There must have been a thousand people milling around the house and the woods.
Reuben didn’t have long to gobble his food, which was what he was doing. Several old friends from Berkeley had found him and were full of questions about this house and what in the world had happened to him. They talked around the Man Wolf as best they could without ever directly mentioning him. Reuben was vague, reassuring but not very forthcoming.
He led the gang back to the table, this time for more roast goose, roast partridge, and big sweet yams, and kept eating no matter who said what. Actually he was glad to see his friends, and to see them having such a great time, and it wasn’t hard at all to deflect their questions by asking questions of his own.
At one point, he heard Frank at his side, and Frank whispered, “Don’t forget to look around, Wonder Pup. Don’t forget to enjoy it.” He himself seemed marvelously alive, as though he’d been born for events such as this. Surely he was the twentieth-century Morphenkind; but then Thibault had described himself as the neophyte, hadn’t he? Ah, it was impossible to figure them all out. And he had plenty of time to do it, that was the strange thing. He had not yet begun to think of time as something that would extend beyond a normal life span.
But speaking of time, was he taking the time to enjoy what was happening all around him?
He had been looking down the long length of the massive table dazzled by the array of sauced vegetables, and the big boar’s head in the center. Again and again the caterers refilled dishes of cream peas, Brussels sprouts, sweet potatoes, mounded rice and bread-crumb dressings, and platters of freshly carved turkey, beef, pork. There were steaming bowls of red and golden fruit sauce, and even fresh orange slices sparkling on lettuce, and an egregious whipped-cream ambrosia filled with all manner of chopped fruit. Every kind of rice dish imaginable was offered, and heaps of raw carrots, broccoli, and tomatoes, which the health conscious were eagerly piling on their plates.
The masked mummers were now in the house, winding through the dining room, in fact, and Reuben put out his hand for one of the golden coins they were distributing. He could see now that the wolf skin and bear skin were clever fakes, and that the demon was the German Christmas devil, Krampurs, with his wild goat’s horns. They weren’t singing now, merely playing their little drums and tambourines, and taking special delight in amusing the children. There were so many children.
The gold coin was of course not gold at all, but a large imitation of a coin, light, and inscribed in old-fashioned scrollwork with the words YULETIDE AT NIDECK POINT on one side, and an impressive image of the house on the other with the date beneath it. Where had Reuben seen trinkets like this before? He couldn’t think, but it was a marvelous souvenir. Surely Felix had thought of everything.
Off to one side stood Jean Pierre, of all people, explaining to a small group that in Old Europe people has often “donned the skins of wild beasts” at Yuletide.
To the left, Reuben’s mother and Dr. Cutler were talking tête-à-tête, and just beyond them he could see Celeste, her condition beautifully disguised in her flowing black dress, in fast conversation with one of the Sacramento politicians. Quite suddenly, Grace’s brother, Tim, appeared with his new Brazilian wife, Helen.
Grace burst into tears. Reuben went at once to greet his uncle. It was always a bit unnerving to see Tim because Tim seemed the twin of his mother, with the very same red hair and the same rather fierce blue eyes. It was like seeing his mother in a man’s body, and he didn’t entirely like it but he could never look away from it, either, and Tim was also a doctor and a surgeon and he had that same hard and direct stare that Grace had, and this fascinated and repelled Reuben at the same time. Tim had a way of demanding, “What are you doing with your life?” But this time he did not. All he talked about was the house. “And I have heard all those crazy stories,” he confided. “But this is no time for that. Look at this place.” His Brazilian wife, Helen, was petite and sparkling with generous enthusiasm. Reuben had never seen her before. Yes, he’d seen Shelby and Clifford, said Tim, and yes, they were staying in Hillsborough with the family there through Christmas.
Mort commandeered Reuben to tell him in anxious whispers how happy he was for him with the baby coming, but his face said he was anxious, and Reuben told him that everybody would do everything possible between heaven and earth to make Celeste comfortable.
“Well, she says she can’t wait to hand over that baby to Grace, but I just don’t know if she’s being realistic,” Mort said, “but I can tell you, this is a great place for that little boy to grow up, just a great place.”
Again, those exceptional women caught Reuben’s eye. A pair of them—ravishing in their exquisitely draped dresses—were embracing Margon, who had a rather cold cynical smile on his face, and another, olive-skinned woman with jet-black hair and enormous br**sts was still with Thibault, who had greeted her when she arrived.
The woman’s eyes were large and black and almost tender. She smiled generously at Reuben, and when Thibault turned to glance at Reuben, he blushed and moved away.
Well, of course the Distinguished Gentlemen had women friends, did they not? But were they Morphenkinder? The very idea gave him chills. He didn’t want to stare, but then everyone was more or less looking them over. They were robust, extremely well shaped, and were elaborately dressed and decked with jewels precisely to draw admiration. So why not?
Margon beckoned to Reuben and quickly presented him to his mysterious companions—Catrin and Fiona.
Up close, they were perfumed and provocative—no scent but the usual human scent smothered in artificial sweetness. Reuben tried not to stare at their half-naked br**sts but it was difficult. Their skimpy dresses were glorified nightgowns.