Moonheart

by Charles de Lint

  Sara shook her head. “You were never that. First and foremost, you’re a bard, and I could never picture you as anything else. Besides, you’ve already told me that your foster father Elphin was a prince.”

  “Elphin was a prince,” he said, “and the storytellers have made me out more than I am, but I am still no more than a man, who was washed to shore in a coracle and grew up to know the same hopes and fears that touch any man. If we are special, Sara, it is only in each other’s eyes.”

  Taliesin held her gaze steadily. Shyness lay between them for a long moment, then he put his long hands on her shoulders and drew her near. She lifted her face to his, felt the gentle brush of his lips grow fierce, and held him tight, letting herself go with the complex flow and depth of the emotions that filled her. The kiss was long and it left them breathless. A moment longer they regarded each other, the shyness forgotten now. Then hand in hand they entered the tower and made their way to the warm furs scattered in front of the hearth.

  The firelight lingered upon their skin, highlighting shoulderblades, arms and brows with a gleam like burnished copper. Their shadows danced on the walls behind them. As their bodies joined, all boundaries fled and, taw to taw, they shared the echoes of the oldest tune of all.

  For a long while after Taliesin left May’is’hyr’s Bearstone, the glade lay silent in the starlight. Gnarled rootmen passed nearby, chasing shadows. A winged shape drifted over from the forest, circled the stone, then banked sharply to disappear beyond the edge of the clifftop. In amongst the rustlings and stirrings and movements of the many spirits that were free to haunt this night, one small form pushed himself free from the clinging boughs of a thick stand of cedar.

  He could wear many shapes at will, but tonight Pukwudji wore his own. His owl-large eyes searched for a lingering trace of stag or bard. Not until he was certain that they were indeed gone did he creep into the clearing to stand under the tall stone. He had been nearby while they’d talked‌—drawn by the powerful presence of the stag, who was like the Forest Lords of this land, yet not like them. He had listened to them, heard their talk, and not for the first time. They had met before, stag and bard, and each time Pukwudji had listened to them. But tonight . . .

  “That was ill done,” he muttered, going over their conversation once more in his mind.

  He was given to mischief himself, but it was not a mean sort. What these two proposed held too much danger in it for the herok’a they wished to horn. A prank was one thing‌—especially when it was one of his own devising. But this . . . Ah, they were old and thought themselves wise because they’d grown into their craft through study and trial rather than being born to it. They thought those born to magic were wild, uncontrolled, somehow not deserving of the gifts that they had to work so hard for themselves. Somehow they considered themselves more ennobled for the striving it took them to master their craft.

  Bah! Pukwudji spat.

  What did it matter how one grew one’s horns, or how swiftly? It made him angry, this teaching through riddles and this taking two steps sideways for every one step forward. Tests and testing. What need was there for such? And bad enough it was that they did so in the first place, but worse, they did it to those they loved. What manner of craftteaching was that?

  A sly look came into Pukwudji’s eyes then, swallowing his anger. Not for nothing was he Pukwudji, as sly a trickster as his cousin the Coyote. He would show them, these Oh-so-wise wanderers from across the Great Water. He would show them how craft-teaching was done amongst those who followed Grandmother Toad’s sen’fer’sa‌—the something-in-movement. Openly, without secrets. Though he would keep his meddling secret from the bard and his unwordly companion. He would warn the herok’a maiden and let the rumor of what the bard and stag did reach Grandmother Toad herself. Hai! And then to see the faces of those two.

  Grinning, Pukwudji ran for the clifftop and launched himself into the air. In mid-leap he changed shape, his wide-spread arms becoming black wings to catch the updraft. He winged west along the cliff to where the old round tower of stone straddled the limestone heights. When he reached the glade, he nested in a tall spruce, waiting for sleep to claim the tower’s inhabitants.

  Ah, see, he thought, sensing Sara and Taliesin’s lovemaking. There is such love between you. Already you know her worth, bard, or why would you love her? What need to test her?

  It must be some strange custom from across the Great Water, he decided. Some ritual passage like that of the young warriors of the tribesmen that lived in these forests. They were fools. All of them. Pukwudji’s eyes sparkled with humor. But he would show them. Soft and subtle. He would go to the herok’a in her dreams.

  Sara lay awake for a long while, listening to Taliesin’s breathing, savoring the lean length of his body lying against hers.

  When she fell asleep at last, the last thing she expected to do was dream. . . .

  She stood in front of The Merry Dancers, the shop dark and silent before her, Bank Street devoid of traffic. A great stillness hung over the city and she felt like the ghost Taliesin had said she’d be if she returned to her own time. When she put a hand to the doorknob, the door swung silently open. She hesitated for only a moment, testing the air like some hunting animal, before she crossed the threshold and stood in amongst the familiar odds and ends that still cluttered the shop from wall to wall.

  She moved slowly through the shop, touching a vase here, a book there. Books. Lying beside her typewriter was the novel she’d been working on what seemed like ages ago. She picked it up and leafed through the manuscript. It was like someone else had been writing it. With what she knew now, with her own experiences to draw on, she could really write something. A fantasy novel to outshine Tolkien and all the others, because it would be written with the authority of actual experience, except . . . She dropped the manuscript back in place. Why write about it when she could live it instead?

  It’s funny, she thought, moving across the store again. It was as though she was really here. It was hard to tell now what was real and what wasn’t. Maybe she should just walk up to the House. Would she meet herself, fast asleep in her bed? Or Jamie? Would he even be able to see her, or was she really a ghost?

  A creepy feeling came over her, and she suddenly knew that she was being watched. Visions of Kieran’s demon washed over her and the shiver froze into a chill. Slowly she turned, only to see a familiar figure perched on a high-backed chair, curious features reflected in the glow of the streetlights that spilled in through the front window.

  “Pukwudji!” she cried happily, her fear turning into relief.

  The little man regarded her strangely. How did she know his name? he thought. He had never met her before. But then from her mind came images of his future self, of the two of them playing by Pinta’wa Lake, and later talking on a hilltop. He shook his head. There was something odd involved here. He had told her to go back in time to meet himself?

  “Pukwudji?” Sara repeated, a little uncertainly this time.

  “That’s me,” he agreed, nodding.

  He’d channeled her dream to grow in a place familiar to her so that she would be more at ease with him when he appeared, more likely to listen to what he had to say. But she already knew him. She was already willing to listen to him, to see what he had to show her. And why not? His future self had given her advice before and things had worked out well for her.

  He shook his head, aware that he must speak quickly before it all went awry. Dreams were difficult to shape. They tended to stray as though blown by a wind unless they were kept firmly in hand. Then, more to fill an awkward moment, he grinned and whistled a few bars of a nonsense tune to her.

  She smiled back.

  “It’s funny to see you here,” she said. “You don’t seem to fit somehow. But then, I don’t suppose I really do any more either.”

  “Do you love him?” Pukwudji asked suddenly. “The bard?”

  “I . . . I’m not sure. It’s strange. When I’m with him
, I don’t have any reservations. But when I’m not‌—like now‌—it all seems a little hard to believe. I know he’s very special. I know he says he loves me, but I don’t know why. He could have anybody, so why settle for me?”

  “Oh, he loves you,” Pukwudji began, then paused.

  He was suddenly unsure of the wisdom of his meddling. She was not of his world, her Way might not be the same as his. The stag was an Old One‌—kin to the Forest Lords and Grandmother Toad. He was Pukwudji . . . clever, yes, but only a little mystery. Who was he to meddle in the affairs of Forest Lords and similar beings?

  “What’s the matter?” Sara asked. “You look so serious. I hope you don’t have any more evil omens for me.”

  Pukwudji sighed. He saw his future self showing her the tragg’a and knew that their threat was real. But faced with the uncertainties that had just come to him, and the sweet presence of the herok’a who stood before him, he was at a loss as to what he should do.

  “I worry for you,” he said at last.

  “Why?”

  It was a fair question. Pukwudji decided to ignore it. “Among your bard’s tribe, amongst his people, they have certain trials,” he said instead.

  “What sort of trials?” she asked. “What do you mean?”

  Suddenly Pukwudji was afraid. Again he sensed that he meddled in affairs that were not his concern. He pictured the stag discovering his meddling and grew more fearful still. If Taliesin’s grandsire could be as grim as his own Forest Lords . . .

  “Ask him,” he said. “Ask the bard. And then we’ll talk again.”

  He clenched his hands at his side and began to unravel the threads of the dream. Sara wavered in his sight. The bizarre surroundings that her dream had drawn them into misted and smoked.

  “Pukwudji?” Sara’s voice came from far away.

  The little man ignored her. He opened his hands with an abrupt motion and the whole scene dissolved. He was back on the limb of a spruce overlooking the tower’s glade, wearing a crow shape once more. In a cloud of feathers, he exploded from his perch and sought the safety of distance, his wings cutting the night air with swift strokes. Behind him, he left Sara to‌—

  ‌—awake in a cold sweat.

  She sat bolt upright, heart pounding from the disorientation of waking suddenly in a strange place. Then she felt Taliesin beside her, sensed the quiet that filled the tower, the peace that Taliesin and May’is’hyr had woven into its stones with their magics, and lay back down again.

  Just a dream, she told herself and drew closer to Taliesin’s warm side. He shifted in his sleep and enclosed her in the safety of his embrace. Just a dream.

  In a shirt borrowed from Hagan that hung down past her knees, Sara met the morning humming. The sun was already high as, arms loaded up with her jeans and sweatshirt, she made her way down to the spring-fed pool that May’is’hyr had told her doubled as their bath and laundry basin. Taliesin was still asleep in front of the hearth, sprawled amongst the furs and blankets.

  Hoyw followed her down to the pool, flopping down at the edge of the rocks when they arrived. He watched her tentative testing of the water with what could only be amusement. The water was cold. Tugging off Hagan’s shirt, she dumped her own clothes in the water. With her teeth gritted in anticipation, she followed them in. The cold water hit her, and it was far worse than she’d imagined. Teeth chattering, she pounded her clothes against a smooth rock and stayed in until she was sure she was turning blue. The soap of white wood ash and fat that May’is’hyr had given her stung her eyes and was hard to wash out of her hair. When she could stand the cold no longer, she clambered out, threw on the shirt and jumped about until the sun and movement warmed her enough to finish with her washing.

  May’is’hyr arrived as she was wringing out her clothes. The tall Indian woman wore a simple shift of dark buckskin this morning, her hair pulled back in one long braid that hung down her back. “How is the water?” she asked.

  Sara grimaced. “Too cold.”

  “In the winter,” May’is’hyr said, “we fill the tub up by the tower with warm water. And with those two it’s best to be first unless you enjoy washing in swamp water. As Mother Bear is my witness, I swear the dirt hides in the snowdrifts just waiting to pounce on them.”

  She helped Sara wring her jeans dry, then sat back on a rock as Sara dug around in the one big pocket of Hagan’s shirt for her tobacco and Kieran’s lighter. She looked up to find May’is’hyr studying her. She finished rolling her cigarette, lit it, and offered May’is’hyr a puff. May’is’hyr inclined her head seriously and took the cigarette delicately between finger and thumb. Lifting it in a salute to Sara, she inhaled deeply, then returned it.

  First they shared music, the Indian woman thought, now the smoke sacred to Mother Bear. Would they share blood next? She regarded this stranger to her land with open curiosity. Hornless, she still conducted herself with more assurance than the women of the tribes. There was a deepness in her that bore the unmistakable touch of Mother Bear’s something-in-movement, but it appeared to move at cross purposes in her. Mayis knew Taliesin’s heart‌—by the First Bear’s dark eye, he’d opened it to her often enough. But what of this woman? Who was she, and what did she seek?

  “Do you ever have trouble,” Sara asked suddenly, “figuring out what’s real and what’s not?”

  May’is’hyr blinked slowly. “How so?”

  “Well, you’re a shaman too, aren’t you?”

  “I am a rathe’wen’a‌—a drummer-of-the-bear‌—yes.”

  Sara sighed. “It’s hard to explain. It’s just that I seem to have trouble working out what’s really happening and what’s a dream. Dreams become real, or cause things to happen in the real world, but I’m not even sure what the real world is anymore.”

  “There is only one reality that I know of,” May’is’hyr said thoughtfully, “and that is what lies in one’s heart. The harmony between oneself and sen’fer’sa. Dreams have their root in reality, but they are important only in how they affect your drumming. We speak to the spirits through our drumming, and that is the final measure of our reality. Do we proceed upon our Way, in our growing close to Mother Bear, then we are real.”

  “That sounds . . . sort of dogmatic.”

  May’is’hyr smiled. “Mother Bear is not something dire to be feared. She reflects our joys as well as our sorrows. Yestereve, when we four joined our music, we were close to her. This morning, with her smoke between us and our words questing for truth, we are close to her as well. It need not be dry and serious, Sara. Only true.”

  “And dreams? They’re real too if you . . . learn something from them?”

  “They can guide you.” May’is’hyr studied her for a moment, then added, “Have you been troubled by dreams?”

  Sara nodded. “Only I’m not sure if they actually are dreams. The first time I met Taliesin I thought I was dreaming. But then he turned out to be real. And then there’s . . .” She motioned vaguely about them. “I’m not sure about anything anymore.”

  “Tell me what troubles you,” May’is’hyr said. “Perhaps I can help.”

  So Sara did, starting with the day she found the ring and going straight through, leaving nothing out. And the more she talked, the more convoluted the whole mess seemed to her. It was like a ball of yarn made up of a hundred different colors, with odd bits of twigs and straw and dirt caught up in it. You picked up one strand and tried to follow it, but it changed color, got mixed up with two, three, four others, until it was hard to remember which one you’d started with.

  “Two things I can tell you,” May’is’hyr said when Sara was done. “The first is that, whatever else Taliesin might be, he is still a man and has a man’s heart. Who can say what it is that joins a man to a woman? Mother Bear alone can tell us and she remains curiously silent on that subject. This I know: You have been in Taliesin’s thoughts since the day you met him on the shore. It is as though he was led astray by one of the honochen’o’keh, so ensp
elled has he been.”

  “And the second thing?” Sara asked.

  May’is’hyr sighed. “Pukwudji. He is a prankster, that one, cousin to Old Man Coyote. He wears a hundred faces and knows a thousand tricks.”

  Sara knew a measure of relief. “So I shouldn’t take him too seriously?”

  “That is more difficult to say. He is like a still pool in that he reflects your heart. If you are mean and small-minded, he will treat with you accordingly. If you are gentle and caring‌—then he will care for you, be gentle with you.”

  “So you never can know, can you?”

  “In here,” May’is’hyr said, touching her breast. “You know in here. For it is your heart he reflects.”

  “I guess I should ask Taliesin then . . . about these trials.”

  “I think that would be wise. Taliesin is a strange man‌—strange to me at least; the Way he follows is different from the Way my own people follow. His people hold great store in an individual’s private struggles. It is not so with our Way. With us the knowledge is secret‌—but only until one asks. We have totems. His people have themselves.”

  “Oh, boy.”

  May’is’hyr laid her hand on Sara’s arm and smiled. “Don’t be afraid. Your tale fills me with forebodings, but know this: You are among friends. We will help you however we can.” She stood up and looked at Sara. “Your clothes will be wet for awhile yet. Shall we see if we can find you something more becoming to wear than one of Hagan’s old shirts?”

  The shift in subject brought a shift in mood.

  “I kind of like this shirt,” Sara said.

  May’is’hyr frowned. “It makes you look fat as a beaver,” she pronounced. She puffed out her cheeks and pretended to waddle about. “I saw you more as an otter,” she added. “However, you know best. . . .”

  Sara laughed. “Okay, okay. What did you have in mind?”

  “Something comfortable, I assure you. I have a dress for you. We need only take up the hem a little.”