Memory and Dream n-5

by Charles de Lint

  “Please don’t take this wrong,” Izzy said. Her nervousness came back and made her mouth go dry.

  She had to swallow a couple of times before she went on. “But this is all a little hard to accept, you know?”

  “I thought exactly the same thing when it was explained to me.”

  “Well, good.”

  “But you have felt the spirit growing in some of your paintings, haven’t you?” he went on. “That sense of connecting with something beyond human scope, of reaching into some mysterious beyond—call it the Garden of the Muses, for convenience. I know you have felt yourself reaching into it and returning with something more in hand, some ... power independent of yourself or the painting on your easel.”

  “I’ve felt ... something,” Izzy said cautiously.

  “Then trust me in this. When I saw that spirit in the flesh, when I saw him accost you in the lane below this window, I knew immediately that he means you harm. How he will harm you, I can’t say. It might occur today, it might occur a year from now, but he means you ill. This I can guarantee.”

  “So what are you telling me?”

  “You must not allow him in your company.”

  “Just like that.”

  Rushkin nodded. “And we must destroy your painting. He will not die with it—not immediately—but it is all that ties him to this world. With the painting gone, he will be drawn back to wherever it was that he initially originated and no longer pose a threat.”

  Izzy stared at her mentor with openmouthed shock. She thought of her recent dream, the charred and bloodied limbs strewn in between the destruction of her paintings, and started to feel sick.

  “You ... you can’t be serious,” she said.

  “I am most deadly serious.”

  But Izzy was shaking her head. “Absolutely not,” she said. “No way. I will not destroy my work because of some crazy story.”

  She was so upset that she didn’t care if Rushkin’s own temper flared or not, but her mentor only nodded, accepting her reaction with a calmness that Izzy found a little eerie.

  “The choice is yours,” he said. “There is nothing I or anyone else can do. Only you can make the decision and only you can send the spirit back.”

  “Well, I’m glad we’re agreeing on that much, because if you think for one moment I’d—”

  “But the time will come when you will remember this conversation—just as I did when my own mentor explained it to me—and you will do what is necessary.”

  “This is not the kind of conversation I’m liable to forget,” Izzy told him.

  “Good. Now, I think we should perhaps forgo work for the remainder of this morning. It might do you good to be away from the studio to think upon what was said here today.”

  Izzy got up from the windowseat and regarded Rushkin cautiously. “I ... I’m taking my painting with me,” she said.

  “That is your decision,” Rushkin replied, his voice still mild. “I won’t stop you. You forget that I have been through all of this before: the joy of the creation, the covenant with a spirit from beyond, the disbelief in the true existence of that same spirit; and then finally understanding the danger some of these creatures represent to myself; and to this world which I love so dearly. I have had to destroy certain pieces of my work, so that the monsters they called up would be sent back. Each time, it broke my heart.

  The first time, I was almost too late and it was only by luck that the monster didn’t kill me before I cast it back into the beyond. I pray you will come to the proper realization before such a situation arises for you.”

  “Sure,” Izzy said. “Whatever.”

  “Please understand,” Rushkin said. “You are not at fault. No one can blame you for what your art brought across. It can happen to any of us, at any time. We have no control over the process. But we do have the ability, and the responsibility, to send these creatures back when we do inadvertently bring them over.”

  Izzy nodded—not in agreement, just to let him know that she’d heard him. She collected her coat and knapsack and put them both on. The Spirit Is Strong was still tacky, but she carefully collected the painting from her easel all the same and walked with it to the door.

  “Tomorrow will be business as usual,” Rushkin told her. “We won’t speak of these matters again until you are the one to bring them up.”

  Izzy only nodded again. The way she was feeling at the moment, she wasn’t so sure she’d ever be back—at least not without a couple of big guys to help her collect her canvases and, while they were at it, protect her from the seriously crazy man that she was beginning to suspect Rushkin really was.

  “Fine,” she said.

  Rushkin gave her a sad smile as she opened the studio door to leave. “Be careful, Isabelle,” he said.

  An eerie shiver went up Izzy’s spine as Rushkin’s words, echoing John’s earlier caution, went spinning through her mind. She looked at the small figure her mentor cut, still sitting there in the windowseat, and then down at the image she’d captured in the painting she held. Who to believe? Who did she need to be careful around? Well, John was mysterious, but he didn’t seem crazy. And Rushkin was the one who had beaten her.

  “I ... I will,” she told him, then closed the door behind her and made her way down the stairs, trying not to bump the still-wet oil painting on anything as she made her retreat.

  XIII

  Izzy thought that John had stood her up when she first arrived at Perry’s Diner that evening. A pang of disappointment shot through her until she spotted him sitting in a booth at the back. When he raised a hand and gave her a lazy wave, she made her way down to where he was sitting. He was wearing a well-worn, flannel-lined jean jacket that she wasn’t sure would do him all that much good when it got colder, but it was better than the short sleeves he’d been wearing to date. And he certainly did look good in it.

  “For a moment there, I didn’t think you’d come,” she said as she sat down across from him.

  “I always keep my promises,” he told her. “My word’s the only currency I’ve got that’s of any real worth. I don’t spend it lightly.”

  Izzy smiled. “Highly commendable, sir.”

  “It’s just the truth,” he said, but he returned her smile.

  Izzy slipped off her own jacket and bunched it up into a corner of the booth. When she turned back, John slid a ten-dollar bill across the table to her. “What’s this?” she asked.

  “Your money. I ran into a bit of work after I left you this morning and made enough to buy the jacket without having to use what you’d lent me.”

  “Good for you. Did you get a good deal on it?”

  “Is eight dollars a good deal?”

  “You’re kidding.”

  John shook his head. “I went to that store on Lee Street you told me about.”

  “I’d say it was a real bargain.”

  When John shrugged, she wasn’t sure if he really didn’t care about money, or if he just didn’t want to talk about it. Probably a bit of both, she decided. “So what’ll we have?” she asked, opening her menu.

  “Just black coffee for me,” John told her.

  She eyed him over her lowered menu. “Look, if you haven’t got enough left over, I really don’t mind—”

  “No, I’ve got the money. I had a late lunch, that’s all. I couldn’t eat if I wanted to.”

  “Well, if you’re sure ...”

  Izzy settled on the soup of the day—cream of cauliflower—and a side order of French fries. She also ordered a coffee, but she took hers with cream and sugar, adding John’s creamer along with her own to her mug since he wouldn’t be using it. Silence lay between them while they waited for Izzy’s meal to come, but it wasn’t anything like the comfortable silences she could share with Kathy or her other friends.

  There was still too much of the unknown between them for her to feel completely at ease, and the fact that he bore such an uncanny resemblance to a painting she’d done before she’d met him
continued to unnerve her.

  “So you’re an Indian,” she said finally, to fill up the silence.

  John smiled, amusement dancing in his dark eyes, and Izzy wished she’d never opened her mouth.

  What an inane thing to say. Of course he was an Indian.

  “I mean a Native American,” she corrected herself. When he continued to look amused, she added,

  “Well, what do you call yourself?”

  “Kickaha. It means ‘the people’ in our language. If I were to introduce myself to one of my own people I would say, I am Mizaun Kinnikinnik of the Mong tudem.”

  “You told me your name was John.”

  He shrugged. “John’s as good a name as any in this place.”

  “Is ‘Mizaun’ the Kickaha name for John?”

  “No. My name means Thistle in the Sweetgrass—I was a hard birth to my mother, but she told me I had cherubic features.”

  But not anymore, Izzy thought. There was nothing of the pretty boy about his rugged good looks.

  “And ‘Mong,’” she asked. “That’s your—what? Your totem?”

  John shook his head. “Not exactly. In Kickaha tudem means clan, but I suppose it could also mean totem in the sense that you’re using the word. My clan is sacred to the loon.”

  Izzy tried, but couldn’t suppress a giggle.

  “I know,” John said, smiling with her. “Everyone believes that our totem should only be eagles and wolves and bears, but there’s good in all creatures and one can take pride in belonging to the clans looked over by the black duck or the frog as well. Or the loon.”

  “It’s a beautiful bird, really,” Izzy said, remembering them from when she used to live on the farm on Wren Island. “And ‘Mong’ is a better name for it—it doesn’t sound quite so, you know, silly.”

  “The loon represents fidelity to my people,” John said, “so it’s anything but a silly bird. Of course, I’m biased.”

  “Would you prefer me to call you John or Mizaun?”

  “Oh, John’ll be just fine.”

  “Your Kickaha name is really beautiful.”

  “So is Isabelle.”

  Izzy blushed. “But it doesn’t mean anything.”

  “That’s not true. It comes from Elizabeth, which means ‘consecrated to God.’”

  Izzy pulled a face.

  “Well,” John said, “if you’re not religious, just think of it as meaning you are sacred to the great spirit that oversees the world. You can’t find fault with that.

  Izzy shook her head.

  “And Isabelle,” he went on, “is also related to the name Isa, which means ‘iron-willed.’”

  “Oh great,” Izzy said. “An iron will’s about the last thing I’ve got.” But speaking of names reminded her of something. “How did you know my name this morning?”

  “I asked someone—I don’t remember who.”

  Well, of course that made sense. The waitress brought her order then and they went on to talk of other things. Izzy felt a little odd, eating while John was having nothing, but he assured her again that he had no appetite, so she fell to. She was starving. All she’d had to eat all day was a muffin she’d grabbed on the way to her afternoon class.

  “What did you mean last night,” John asked when she was finished with her meal, “about that being a bad time, or rather a bad way, to approach you?” Izzy gave him a long look. “You really don’t know, do you?”

  When he shook his head, she told him about what had happened to Rochelle.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it,” she said. “It was in all the papers and everybody’s been talking about it.”

  “I wasn’t in the city that night,” John said.

  “Isn’t it just awful what they did to her? And that’s why you spooked me when you stood there talking to me from the shadows. I couldn’t see your face at all, so I didn’t know what to think.”

  “That was wrong,” he said. At first Izzy thought he was talking about last night, but before she could tell him that she knew now it had simply been bad timing, he went on. “The worst thing you can do is take away a person’s right to make a decision for him or herself. Without free will, we’re nothing. Slaves.

  Objects. Nothing more.”

  “I agree,” Izzy said. “I mean, who wouldn’t? But ...” Her voice trailed off. “But what?”

  “Well, what about hunting and trapping? That’s what your culture’s based on, isn’t it? Those animals didn’t decide to die.”

  John smiled. “No. But long ago we made a pact with the wild things of the forest. We take only what we need, no more. And we do it with respect. We have no fear of facing the spirits of our victims when we all meet together in Epanggishimuk.”

  “When you meet where?”

  “The spirit land in the west—where we go when our wheel upon this world has made its final turn.”

  The amusement returned to his eyes, but this time it held a hint of mockery. “You know: those famous ‘happy hunting grounds.’”

  Izzy nodded. “I guess you must get tired of everybody having something to say about your culture, and none of them knowing anything about it.”

  “Not really. We don’t have a particular monopoly on spiritual enlightenment and many of our people don’t follow the old beliefs themselves, but I still think our relationship with the natural world has much to offer as a kind of touchstone for others to form their own pacts with the earth. They should only remember that we’re not perfect ourselves. Our people fit no more tidily into boxes as a whole than might any race. We were not the murdering heathens we were made out to be when the Europeans first took our land, nor were we noble savages. We were just people, with our own ways, our own beliefs—nothing more, but nothing less.”

  “I wish there were more people like you,” Izzy said. “If there were, then maybe something like what happened to Rochelle would never have taken place.”

  “The ones who hurt her will receive their just reward,” John said. “This I can promise you.”

  Something about him changed as he spoke. His features were stern and there was such a grim tone to his voice that it scared Izzy a little, enough so that she could barely suppress a shiver. When she looked into his face, he didn’t seem to see her. Instead it was as if he was staring off into some far unseen distance where that terrible vengeance was taking place.

  “By their very actions,” he said, “they have stepped onto a wheel where retribution will play a principal role.”

  Izzy wished he’d come back from wherever it was he had gone. She didn’t like this dark side to his personality that had suddenly been revealed. In the back of her head she heard Rushkin’s voice telling her that John was evil, for her to be careful. But just as she started to get really spooked, John’s gaze focused back on her and he offered her a weak smile.

  “Or at least that’s what my people believe,” he said.

  Izzy was surprised at how relieved she felt to have him back. “Speaking of beliefs,” she said,

  “Rushkin—the guy I’m studying under—he thinks I made you up.”

  She thought it was kind of funny, and brought it up to clear the air and maybe bring a real smile back to her companion’s features. But John didn’t laugh. All he did was cock an eyebrow questioningly.

  “He told me that I brought you to life through that painting I did,” Izzy explained. “No. How did he put it? That I gave you passage from some nebulous otherworld to here by painting you. You’re supposed to have watched me work and when you agreed on how I made you look, you crossed over.”

  John laughed and all Izzy could do was think, Way to go. She’d succeeded in changing the mood, but only at the cost of making herself sound like a fool.

  “He was pulling your leg, right?” John said.

  Izzy shook her head. “No. He seemed quite serious.” She hesitated a moment, then decided to plunge on ahead. “He even warned me against you. He told me you were evil and I should destroy the painting and send y
ou back.”

  A frown took the humor from John’s features. “He should talk.”

  Izzy blinked in surprise. “You know Rushkin?”

  “I know his kind. They don’t live in the world, but they’ll sit in judgment of those who do and take what they want from it and from us.”

  “No, you’ve got him all wrong,” Izzy said. “He’s a brilliant artist.”

  “I don’t think so. True artists live in the world from which they take their inspiration. The two are inseparable—the subjects and those who render them. They return to the world as much—more—than what they take away.”

  “He goes out,” Izzy said, thinking of how she’d first met her mentor.

  “Oh yes,” John replied. “To observe. To take back what he’s found and capture it in his art. But not to partake of life. What does he give back?”

  Me, Izzy thought, because that was all she knew Rushkin gave back. He teaches me. But he didn’t show anymore, and he’d told her often enough that he didn’t like to go out, didn’t like to talk to people.

  “Can’t think of anything?” John asked.

  “He’s just a little reclusive, that’s all,” Izzy replied. “But he’s inspired any number of people to enter the arts, so you can’t say he’s never given anything back. I can’t tell you how many people I know who got involved in the arts in one way or another because of him.”

  John shrugged. “Any good a man such as he might do, is inadvertent.”

  His reaction had been so strong to what Izzy had hoped would just be an amusing anecdote that she felt depressed. It was beginning to look as though they weren’t going to agree on anything. And what was worse, she couldn’t stop herself from thinking about what Rushkin had told her. She realized that for the past twenty minutes or so she’d been really studying John, almost as if she were trying to find the brushstrokes.

  Suddenly she leaned across the table to get a closer look. John returned her scrutiny with a mild curiosity, but he didn’t say anything.

  “Are you real?” Izzy found herself asking him, more than a little half-serious.

  John leaned forward as well. He put his hand behind her head and gently pulled her toward him and then he kissed her in a way Izzy had never been kissed before. There was tenderness in the soft brush of his lips, but urgency as well; he was utterly focused upon the act, putting all of his attention on her and the contact of their lips until Izzy felt she was swimming through thickened air.