Immortal Lycanthropes

VII. The Conference in the Fortress of the Id

This is a great and terrible world. I never knew there were so many men alive in it.

Rudyard Kipling, Kim


chapter 1.

It is an open question, how much impact one has on one’s own fate. Reasonable philosophers seem to argue for some. Certainly Myron Horowitz may often appear as a pawn, buffeted will-I nill-I by the hand of an unseen player, or by a cat that leaps on the board. But his was a restless soul, happy only on the move, that could never be satisfied with life at the top of Rapunzel’s tower, however pleasant the palace itself. So I ask you: to what extent did he orchestrate his own expulsion from paradise, or, if not paradise, from a warm bed, fine food, and a tastefully selected library? The chain of events that climaxed in him fleeing alone into the dark forests at night—did he wind it around himself?

I was relaxing over a cup of tea in my Boston brownstone. Alice would not get off the phone, demanding to know what I had learned so far. Somewhere in the inaudible distance a lion must have been roaring ominously, plotting how to get to his prey. At the fortress, in the backyard, the snow was melting away, with odd piles lingering around the fringes, by the woods. It was still cold out, but Myron had a new winter coat and a long, soft scarf; when the militiamen were at mess, he and Oliver would play around on the obstacle course. There were guards posted, and the guards had guns, and harpoon guns, inexplicably, too, but they turned a blind eye as Myron and Oliver swung on ropes and climbed on tires and failed to scale the wall they were too short to jump up to.

One morning the obstacle course was unexpectedly empty, and the boys had it to themselves for a long time. They had brought Myron’s compound bow out and were practicing firing sticks from it, as they had no arrows. After a while, Florence came out and joined them. She was, as always, a battery of nervous energy, and climbed up and down some knotted ropes to show the world how it was done.

“That’s what we need,” said Oliver. “We need special training. Flossie, you should be making us punch bags of rice or stand under a waterfall.”

Florence waved the suggestion away, and climbed up and down some more things, but Oliver pressed. He wanted to have a contest between him and Myron, and he wanted Florence to judge. Whoever won the contest would get a prize. “We could run the obstacle course, and then we could have a race, and then we could get in the boxing ring.”

“I really don’t want to do this,” Myron said.

Florence was sitting on top of the tall wooden crosspiece from which the ropes depended. She was looking down, but it was not clear that she was listening.

Oliver picked a pair of boxing gloves off the ground, where they’d been dropped, and tossed them over to Myron. “Come on, put these on.”

Myron refused. Oliver had in the meantime slid gloves on his own fists. He couldn’t lace them up, of course, and they were far too large for him. They flopped back and forth loosely on his wrists.

“Put up your dukes, Myron!” Oliver cried. He began to dance around Myron, bobbing and weaving.

“This is not a legal match,” Myron said. “We’re not even in the ring.”

“Ding,” said Oliver, and he went in. He started tentatively, with a little light bodywork, his jabs barely touching Myron, who was endeavoring to squirm out of the way; but as he went on, and noticed that Florence was hardly even looking at him, he began to punch more in earnest.

“Quit it,” Myron said, his bare hands up shielding his face.

“The champ is on the ropes,” Oliver said. “How long can he stand up to this punishment?” The blows that landed were hardly solid, the gloves too limp and floppy to allow much force, but they stung nevertheless.

“Looks like the new kid from Vancouver is ready to claim the belt.”

“Stop it, I mean it.”

“The crowd is going wild!”

Myron felt tears welling up in his eyes. He’d been hurt much worse than this before, of course, but there was something galling about the way this would not stop. It just kept going and would not stop. Stepping backwards, he tripped on the gloves he’d refused to put on and fell over. In a moment, Oliver was on top of him, his legs pinning Myron’s arms. He was pounding ineffectually, with the underside of the glove, like a masseur, but he was pounding directly on Myron’s face. Myron began to scream.

“Florence!” A loud voice carried clearly from up above, and Oliver stopped. He turned his head. From a second-story window Mignon Emanuel was leaning. “Florence, could you bring Myron to my office?”

Suddenly noticing what was going on, Florence scampered down the rope. She pulled Myron to his feet. Oliver was standing nearby, his face downcast.

Mignon Emanuel called down, “And Oliver. That’s three days without, and five hours KP. Do you understand?”

Oliver stomped his foot and let out a long glottal-fricative sigh.

From the window: “I said, do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Oliver at a volume perfectly pitched just barely to reach the second floor.

Florence took Myron to a washroom, cleaned his face up a bit, gently, and then brought him to the office.

“What were you thinking?” was the first thing Mignon Emanuel said as they entered.

“I’m not very good at boxing,” Myron said.

Mignon Emanuel ignored him. “What if he had panicked and changed, in front of the guards and everyone?”

“I wasn’t paying attention,” Florence said.

“We’re three days away from the conference, and your not paying attention could ruin everything.”

Florence glared right back. “I’ve already said I’m sorry,” she said, which Myron noted wasn’t strictly true. “It won’t happen again. What more do you want from me?”

Mignon Emanuel did not look happy, but she turned her attention to Myron. “You’ve had a scare,” she said. “Would you like to go lie down, or would you be able to help me with something?”

“I could help,” said Myron.

And so Florence took Myron to Mrs. Wangenstein’s room, and Mrs. Wangenstein measured him with a tape measure. She wrote all the numbers down on a little pad with a golf pencil she liked to lick.

“Was that all?” Myron asked as Mrs. Wangenstein scurried off with the pad.

“That was all.”

“What’s going to happen to Oliver?” Myron asked. He didn’t really like Oliver, but he couldn’t get over the thought of the experiment he had gone through. Also, where the heck were his parents?

“He’ll be peeling potatoes for a while.” And Myron was left alone. Everyone was busy, and he had nothing to do. He sat on his bed and groused, because all of this was supposed to be for him.

In the evening, Myron was called, as he often was, from his room to dinner by a complicated code of bells. Mignon Emanuel and Florence were already there when he arrived, and he was about to ask them about the conference, about what his role, his leadership role, would be in the new world they were working toward. But before he could, a very old man in a doorman’s coat with lace coming out the sleeves entered.

“Who?” said Myron.

“Bonjour,” said the old man. “I am Dr. Aluys.” He swept his arm around in a great arc and bowed. And Mrs. Wangenstein came scurrying in. The main course was pheasant, with a side of salmon, and as usual no one talked.

Myron tried to catch Mignon Emanuel’s attention with his eyes, to ask about Dr. Aluys, but she was looking resolutely at her plate, or into the distance. He caught Florence’s eye and raised an inquiring eyebrow, as he’d seen her do once, but just then Oliver came in and, perceiving everything instantly, sat down and kicked Myron repeatedly under the table until Myron drew his feet up and sat on his knees. He then kicked Myron several times in the knees, but this was more difficult for him to do, so at last he stopped. Nevertheless, Myron was getting annoyed.

Perhaps it was for this reason that when Oliver asked if he could pour himself some wine, and Mignon Emanuel assented, Myron waited until he was halfway through the task before uttering, loudly, the ancient words he had learned from Spenser: “Pax sax sarax . . .”

Oliver dropped the bottle, which shattered on the white tablecloth. Red wine shot out sideways, leaving a splatter pattern like a beheading’s. Mrs. Wangenstein, for her part, began to vomit everywhere, which was curious as she had had nothing to drink yet. Oliver half fell out of his chair before he caught himself. Whatever Myron expected to happen, this was something quite extraordinary. Mignon Emanuel’s eyes narrowed.

“Perhaps you had better not repeat that,” she said, for it had been a 1990 La Tâche Burgundy.

And from the far side of the table, the old man, Dr. Aluys, began to laugh and laugh.

Mrs. Wangenstein went back to her room. By dessert, Oliver was making light of the incident. Primeval words of power did not impress him, he insisted. “It’s a simple parlor trick; that’s all. Like when psychics bend spoons with their mind. Big deal! If I concentrated that hard, I could do it, too! It’s just not worth it.” Oliver then proceeded to demonstrate how easily he could bend spoons using brute strength and the principle of leverage. He’d done two before Mignon Emanuel reminded him that he was in enough trouble already. At that he jumped out of his chair so fast that the chair tipped over, and on the way out he bumped Myron with his shoulder.

Mignon Emanuel still bore an accusatory look, when she looked at Myron. “You said there were no rules!” Myron said.

“This is the land of do-as-you-please, and there are no rules. But even in the land of do-as-you-please there are repercussions for your actions. I do not dictate, but I suggest, that you avoid trotting out whatever ancient lore you have acquired. At the very least, it makes dinner more awkward, and robs us of the pleasure of a fine Burgundy. Furthermore, it might make people doubt you are as young as you are.”

“I learned it from Spenser, I’d never heard anything like it before that.”

“Doubtless. Florence and I have spoken such tongues at certain points in our lives—dark, twisted tongues from forgotten times, as well. But your proficiency in one, I hope you understand, could engender suspicion. Again, I am merely here to suggest ramifications. The responsibility of decision is your own.”

Myron felt embarrassed by what he’d done, and the reasonableness with which Mignon Emanuel was accepting it only made it worse. But he was tired of living a life of constant suspicion. The terrible adventure had begun to wear him down. He wanted to trust Mignon Emanuel, he wanted to believe that he could relax his guard. But his guard was still up, and his nerves were frayed.

“What about him?” Myron said, pointing at Dr. Aluys. “He’s just a guy, isn’t he, a human? How come he’s not affected by the forgotten speech?”

“One’s humanity has nothing to do with this,” Mignon Emanuel said. “It’s merely a question of getting used to it.”

Myron looked over at the old man. How did he get used to it?

With a pleasant nod, he answered: “Mon chéri, I have seen so many things your young eyes would not believe. If your eyes, they are truly young.”

“Hmm,” said Myron.

Mignon Emanuel went on, “I know it’s been difficult for you, Myron, but in three days we have the conference, and we’ll need to be at our best.”

“That’s what I don’t even know anything about! What’s the deal with the conference?”

“Haven’t you been paying attention, Myron? Please, it’s very important that you pay attention. You should already know all about the conference, and I’m not about to review matters you should have mastered long ago. You’ll be presented at last as the chosen one, the first to be born in millennia.”

“But what will I do? You said there’d be people coming. Why won’t there be any immortal lycanthropes?”

“It’s nigh impossible to get any of us to do anything organized. That’s why we’re starting with other people, people with contacts, who can get the word out and generate interest.”

“I’m supposed to be in charge, don’t I get to decide who to invite? The Nine Unknown Men won’t even be there!”

“The Nine Unknown Men have sent their regrets, and the Rosicrucians are too scared to stir from their West Coast sanctuary. But there will be a great many influential people in attendance. If you don’t mind saying a few words, I’ll gladly take the liberty of having some apposite remarks typed up.”

If Myron had been thinking straight, he would have been terrified by the idea, but he was angry, and distracted by the mention of the Rosicrucians. “Who are they? Why does everyone talk about them?” he demanded.

“Hardly anyone perspicacious ever talks about them anymore,” said Mignon Emanuel, ending the discussion.

After dinner he walked past the room again, the room that had made him dizzy, and there was nothing there, no feeling. The door was still locked. He went up to his tower in a great funk, and Oliver was there and hit him across the head with a two by four.