Moonheart

by Charles de Lint

  At length the twilight came and the moon, floating high above the pines as darkness fell, turned westward and dipped below the trees. The combination of fasting and the strange resonance of the music that he could still hear inside him worked a spell on Kieran so that he felt light-headed and very aware of his surroundings.

  Ha’kan’ta stood. She seemed to float to her feet.

  “It is time,” she said.

  Taking Kieran by the hand, she led him into the forest.

  The night skies above Ha’kan’ta’s Glade of Study were moonless and grew darker as a spread of cloud cover moved across the stars. A wind touched the boughs of the encircling pines and made a low mournful sound.

  “Amongst the rathe’wen’a,” Ha’kan’ta explained, “each of us has their own cha’hen’ta‌—Glade of Study. This is mine. I have named it S’ha’vho’sa‌—Where-the-Moon-Meets-the-Pines‌—and it is here, and only here, that I may pass on my knowledge to another. Craftknowledge, such as the Beardance.”

  Kieran nodded. They were sitting cross-legged, directly opposite each other and so close that he could have reached out and touched her shoulders.

  “What exactly is a Beardance?” he asked, remembering their conversation the previous night about how each of them viewed a bear’s movement. He was a little uncertain of what was going to be expected of him. Would they daub paint on themselves and dance?

  “A Beardance is the ability of shaping one’s spirit as a bear’s spirit is shaped.”

  “Shapeshifting?”

  A mild sense of alarm touched Kieran. He saw clearly in his mind’s eye the man that he’d had to kill in Patty’s Place‌—what? A hundred years ago?

  “It is a shapeshifting,” Ha’kan’ta said, “but not of the body. Think of the something-in-movement‌—your taw. You know it as a silence‌—shapeless, without boundaries. With my people it has the rhythm of a drum and takes on the properties of our totem. With the Beardance, you will learn how to take on the shape of a bear’s taw. You will be strong as a bear‌—stronger than you have ever been. As strong as Taliesin. Strong enough that together we may defeat Mal’ek’a.”

  “Just like that?”

  Ha’kan’ta smiled and shook her head. She had brought a leather bag with her and her ceremonial drum. She set the bag between them and took from it a necklace of bearclaws and a shallow bowl of carved wood. Next she withdrew what looked like dried mushrooms and a small watersack. She put the mushrooms into the bowl and, using the back of her thumbnail, ground them as with a mortar and pestle. When she was satisfied with the fineness of the powdered fungus, she added water and stirred the mixture with her finger until it became like a paste.

  “You must lie down now,” she said.

  “But. . . .”

  “Do not be alarmed. I will be your guide. What we must do now is allow you to meet my totem. But because she is a totem, she is not of this world, nor of any world that can be reached by physical means. She dwells in the world of my heart‌—deep within. She dwells in Ha’hot’rathe‌—Where-Walk-the-Bears.”

  “I’m not alarmed,” Kieran said. “I just want to know what to expect.”

  Ha’kan’ta shook her head. “You must free yourself of all expectations, save this: that you are in my care and that I will keep you from harm, no matter where you go. I will protect your body; my totem will protect your soul.”

  He lay down, twitched when he felt Ha’kan’ta’s finger on first his right, then his left eyelid, but otherwise managed to keep his body still and his mind receptive to what might come.

  “That you may see true,” Ha’kan’ta said as she daubed the mixture in place.

  She followed this by applying it to his ears, his nostrils, on either side of his throat, in the center of his chest, the insides of his wrists and ankles, and lastly on his tongue. It tasted bitter, but by that time the mixture had already begun to affect him as it was absorbed into his skin and entered his bloodstream.

  Ha’kan’ta repeated the process on herself, then positioned herself at his head, facing down his body, sitting on bent legs so that either knee touched his temples. Taking up the necklace of bearclaws, she laid it across his chest. Then she took up the drum and began to brush it lightly with the pads of her fingers.

  To Kieran, the drum sound was like soft distant thunder, slow and dreamy. It centered his attention on his taw, tightening his focus on that place of inner quiet until his spirit felt free, as though it was sailing out of his body.

  He blinked, remembering where he’d been, then saw that he was no longer in Ha’kan’ta’s glade, but rather walking in a place of low-lying mists. No. They were clouds. He was walking on clouds and there, through a rift, he could see the land far below him. Somewhere in that forest his body lay. Somewhere in amongst all those trees it was hidden from him, kept from him. Without his soul to guide it, it would die. He knew that. But how could he return?

  “Be calm,” a voice said beside him and he saw that he was no longer alone.

  Ha’kan’ta, her face shifting from her own features to those that were more ursine, then back again, stepped lightly at his side. Only her eyes remained unchanged. Deep and blue. They steadied him, turned his panic in on itself until it burned away and the ashes fluttered groundward. He was calm now. At peace. And then he remembered why he was here, walking on clouds, high over the land. He was supposed to meet someone.

  “Come,” the woman/bear at his side said.

  She took his hand and led him on.

  He could still hear the drumming. Now it was a familiar friend, reminding him of the pulse of his blood through his body where it lay far below, reminding him of it, but without the earlier panicking fear. He sensed other beings moving around them, only none of them were as solid as Ha’kan’ta. Solid? he asked. How can that be? We’re walking across the sky. Still he felt her hand in his own and it was flesh to the touch.

  She led him, swiftly and surely. The land unwound below them, now marsh and cedar, now lakes, now a mountain.

  “Do you know this place?” Ha’kan’ta asked him once.

  They had paused over a lake and Kieran saw a female figure on its shore. She looked up and he saw that the woman wore a stag mask. No. She had the head of a stag.

  “Hoth’ans,” he said softly. It was the Creator of the quin’on’a.

  “She is dreaming,” Ha’kan’ta said. “See?”

  He saw himself facing the quin’on’a elder. A swan dropped from the sky above and grasped him by the shoulders, bearing him aloft. In one hand he held a small bird, in the other a drum. Before he could see which he chose in this dream of Hoth’ans, Ha’kan’ta led him on once more, further away still, to where a great range of mountains rose to cut the sky.

  “We are almost there,” Ha’kan’ta said.

  The drum’s beat continued, steady and comforting as a healthy pulse. They stepped down from the clouds, sank like feathers to the snow-capped peaks, arrived on one. Kieran’s every sense tingled as though an electric current was being fed through them. He saw with sharp-edged clarity, with a deepsight deeper than any he’d known before. The black stone against the stark white snowdrifts. Every hair on Ha’kan’ta’s head, each individual strand standing alone. And her eyes. . . . Caught by her eyes, he shivered.

  There was a musky scent in the air and he could taste the cold on his tongue, though he wasn’t chilled. He could feel the blood run through the veins of Ha’kan’ta’s hand where their skin touched. The wind that raced across the mountains sped through him, leaving behind a hundred memories of where it had been and what it had seen/smelled/tasted/heard/sensed there.

  Letting go of Ha’kan’ta’s hand, he turned around and around, marvelling at how the world came ever sharper into focus. When at last he faced his companion again, her gaze caught his once more and she smiled.

  “She comes,” Ha’kan’ta said.

  “She . . . ?”

  “My totem,” Ha’kan’ta said.

  She pointed
westward and he followed the direction she’d indicated with his gaze, seeing a golden thread flow from her finger, a bright glitter against the black and grey stones and the stark white snow. He might have become lost, following that thread, except that he then became aware that there was something there.

  It was enormous. A great black shape with a wingspread so wide it could not be measured except that it seemed to fill the entire sky. Central in that spread of dark feathers were two watchful eyes, blacker still and glittering. The monstrous shape neither approached nor threatened. It merely regarded him unmovingly, spearing him with that intense gaze until Kieran could feel himself withering under it and panic set in once again.

  Fear cut through him, sharp as a blade of ice, and just as cold. Where before each delightful sensation had been a magical discovery, now he was gripped by a terror that multiplied a hundredfold and more, and would not let him go. He felt a scream tear from his throat.

  “Be calm,” Ha’kan’ta said, her voice coming as though from a great distance. “Learn her shape. Let your taw dance the Beardance.”

  But this was no bear, he wanted to tell her. How could he learn the shape of her bear totem, when it hadn’t come? He wanted to turn to her, but those enormous eyes pinned him to the rocks. He wanted to tell her that something else had come in her totem’s place, something dark and filled with . . . menace. . . .

  His knees gave way suddenly and he would have fallen, except that a long black feathered wing whispered through the air and broke his fall. At that touch, his fear dissolved. Understanding leapt in him and he was ashamed that he’d been afraid.

  There is no shame in knowing fear, a deep resonating voice said in his mind. All know fear when first they meet with me.

  Ha’kan’ta, Kieran began, replying in kind, thought to thought. She sees you as . . .

  Her own totem. And you?

  A raven, Kieran said softly. I see you as a raven.

  As he sent those words, the great bulk of shadows took on a clearer shape. Kieran shivered, but no longer with fear. He looked up into those dark orbs, saw the horns gracing the giant bird’s brow, creamy white against the black feathers, and he shivered again.

  Learn my shape, his totem said. Lift your arms.

  Kieran did. He looked down and saw them shortening, his fingers elongating, long and slender, skin webbed between them, feathers forming, row on row. His back hunched, chin disappearing as his nose and mouth became a beak. His eyes shifted to the sides of his head. The feathering started as a cloud of down on his chest and back, then thickened into rich dark feathers. He tottered on new thin legs until his tail feathers returned his balance. And all the while, a strange song pulsed inside him‌—drum music that spoke with a melody more than a rhythm, almost with words.

  Come, his totem said. Travel with me awhile.

  I. . .

  Ride the winds, the raven said.

  It had lifted its great wings to fill the sky above them. Winds, set in motion by the movement of that enormous spread opening tugged and pulled at Kieran until he stumbled, put out his arms to catch his balance, only to remember they were gone, replaced by wings. The feathers spread, caught the wind, and he was lifted into the air.

  Come, his totem said. Learn the use of a Ravendance.

  Kieran looked down. Nom de tout! He was airborne! Flying! Lord dying Jesus. He looked for Ha’kan’ta, but the mountaintop was bare. He cried her name aloud, but the sound issued forth as a harsh caw that was lost in the wind.

  Ha’kan’ta? he asked his totem.

  A long wing pointed to the slopes that ran down from the crest of the mountain where Kieran’s transformation had taken place. There he saw two bears playing in the snow, frolicking like a couple of young cubs.

  Come, the raven said once again.

  This time it dipped its wings and the wind bore it away. Copying its lead, Kieran banked his own wings, felt the powerful muscles in his shoulders work against the air’s resistance, the rush of the wind through his feathers, and knew a wild peace. His totem cawed, a sound like thunder, and the two of them sped off, dipping and gliding, riding the air currents.

  Expect nothing, Ha’kan’ta had told him. What she should have said, Kieran decided, was expect anything. Or everything.

  He lifted his own harsh voice and heard the wind shred its echoes against the faces of the mountains. He had never known an experience such as this. Beyond the change in his body, beyond the new shape it wore, he sensed the forming of a mystical bond between himself and the great raven he followed. Now he knew what Ha’kan’ta had meant when she said her totem dwelled in the world of her heart. Deep within. He would never be alone again.

  They flew as far and wide as the sky would take them. When they landed at last, on a high craggy tor the sides of which were too steep and wild to climb, but easy enough to reach by flight, Kieran regained his own shape and his totem took manshape as well. He stood tall and proud, with black feathers woven into his dark braids.

  “You have been troubled,” his totem said. “For some time now.”

  Memories returned in a flood and Kieran stumbled to sit on a rock before his legs gave way under him.

  “I . . . killed a man,” he said. “An innocent man.”

  “I know. And for all that it might seem that you were not directly responsible for that deed, you must still bear the shame of it. Life is precious‌—all life. But your troubling goes back further still.”

  Numbly, Kieran nodded. “When the old man disappeared.”

  “Further back still.” His totem smiled sadly. “You chose the wrong path. You have wasted many precious years. The bard’s Way was never yours.”

  Kieran drew a few quick breaths to steady the drum of his heartbeat.

  “What do you mean?” he asked. “I love music. . . .”

  “Music, yes. But it was not your Way, for all that you have accomplished with it. Your Way was the Way of the shaman. The magician’s Way, though not its mage’s aspect. Intuition, rather than ritual. Do you see?”

  Kieran shook his head. There was no use in arguing. He knew enough about the Way’s various aspects to know that only a shaman could have a totem.

  “You are very strong,” his totem said. “You could attain great heights and do much good. For others, as well as for yourself.”

  “By . . . defeating Mal’ek’a?”

  “What will another death gain you?”

  Slowly, Kieran nodded. The shock of killing one man already lay heavy on him.

  “Nothing,” he said softly.

  “Just so.”

  “But what will I do?” Kieran asked.

  “Grow.”

  “And Tom? What of him? And Sara?”

  “Teach them how to protect themselves from themselves.”

  Kieran nodded again. His vision wavered with the motion of his head and he gripped the stone under him with a tight fist.

  “It is time you returned,” his totem said. “Do you know how to reach me now, should the need arise?”

  “The Ravendance. I have to shape my taw to your dance.”

  “Just so.”

  The dark eyes glittered in the old man’s face his totem wore.

  “Tell my daughter, Ha’kan’ta,” he said, “tell her that anger ill becomes her. As it ill becomes you, my son. Replenish the world with quiet wonder, not sorceries.”

  “And Mal’ek’a? What of him?”

  “Those whose concern he is will deal with him.”

  “But what if . . . what if I can’t stop myself or Ha’kan’ta from going after him?”

  “You will do what you must,” his totem replied. “But think before you hunt. You have killed one being. Will you be responsible for the deaths of more?”

  “No,” Kieran said. “But I’ve learned to defend myself.”

  His totem smiled bitterly. “Perhaps you learned that lesson too well. You struck like a thunderbolt. Acting with great speed on the strength of intuition, rather than thought. That is
the warrior’s Way, my son.”

  “But you said I should follow my intuition.”

  “Just so. But consider before you act.”

  “But . . .”

  “Now it is time for you to go.”

  The man bowed over him, spreading his arms. As they enfolded Kieran, they became great wings, black-feathered and strong. Kieran knew a sense of dislocation as though the mountain under him had shifted out of sync with his body.

  Visit with me again, a voice in his mind whispered, now that you know the way. There is much I have to show you and always so little time. Always there is so little time. . . .

  The whisper echoed in the deepest recesses of Kieran’s mind, as close to him as his own heartbeat. He heard again the sound of Ha’kan’ta’s drum. He opened his eyes and looked up into hers. Residues of the drug that had sent him skywalking still remained, casting a magical aura around Ha’kan’ta’s features.

  “You journeyed far,” she said and her voice sounded like soft bells.

  Kieran’s throat was dry and when he answered, his voice sounded scratchy.

  “What did you give me?”

  “A shaman’s aid,” Ha’kan’ta said, “to set you on your journey.”

  “The mushrooms. They were magic mushrooms?”

  Ha’kan’ta nodded. Her hands came away from the drum and a sudden silence filled the glade. She cupped his face, tracing the lines of his cheekbones with soft fingers.

  “I saw you fly,” she said. “High above me while my totem and I played in the snow.”

  “You said I’d learn the Beardance.”

  “I thought you would. I was wrong. Your craftfather was wrong. You have your own totem, my warrior.”

  “I’m not a warrior. He . . . the raven told me that we should no longer hunt Mal’ek’a.”

  “I know. She told me as well. Yet we can still be both‌—shaman and warrior.”