The Little Country

by Charles de Lint

  He preferred that old term‌—based on the techniques and theories of Franz Mesmer, which, in turn, had interested Jean Charcot and his peers in the possibilities of “animal magnetism”‌—to the more contemporary perceptions of hypnotism. For Bett’s use of his will was a form of animal magnetism, utilizing the same unspoken domination that an alpha wolf held over its pack, the same hypnotic control a snake practiced upon its prey. The difference lay in the fact that Bett’s victims were never aware of the control he held over them.

  Take Janey Little.

  Yes, perhaps he would. But not now. Not yet. Not until she’d given him what he’d come for.

  She was a perfect example. Headstrong and bright, she would never dream that she was being manipulated. She was the sort who dominated a group by the sheer exuberance and vitality of her personality, yet by approaching her as he had‌—offering her a chance at fame, concentrating on her music, feigning a wistful, unspoken attraction for her, in short, giving her what she wanted‌—she was as easy for Bett to manage as would be the most simpleminded of Madden’s sheep.

  Given time, he would have her doing anything he told her to do.

  Anything.

  His will‌—his “magic,” as Madden would put it‌—was simply that strong.

  She would not reveal Dunthorn’s secret today. But reveal it to him she would. It was inevitable.

  He let her take him to the newsagent’s where he bought a paperback edition of The Lost Music, then she took him to a bed and breakfast on the east edge of the village. When they’d determined that there was a room for him, he followed her back to the front door where she gave him her easy smile.

  “Well, I’m off then,” she said.

  “Thanks for everything,” he told her. “You’ve been just great. If you‌—no, never mind.”

  “If I what?” she had to know.

  “I was just going to say, if you do get a session together tonight, or even if you just find you have nothing to do, I’d . . . you know. Love to hear from you.”

  “I’ll see about the session, but I’ve got‌—”

  “Your friend staying with you. Right. I forgot. Well, maybe the two of you . . . ?”

  She laughed. “We’ll see. But don’t hold your breath. Felix and I have a lot of catching up to do.”

  “I understand. Well, thanks again for everything.”

  He saw her off, then went inside to use the phone. When he was connected with Lena’s room, a man answered.

  “Hello?”

  Bett hung up without replying and stared at the receiver.

  He’d told her to stay in, but he hadn’t told her not to have anyone in, now had he? The stupid cow. Did he have to spell everything out for her?

  He needed her now, to get Felix Gavin out of the way. Not to be having a little tete-a-tete with some busboy in her room. He considered calling Willie Keel to have him go around and straighten things out, but then realized it was probably Keel who had set her up with someone in the first place.

  He’d just have to do it himself.

  5.

  North of Mousehole, about halfway between the village and neighbouring Newlyn, is the old Penlee Quarry. Though not nearly so busy as it was in its heyday, the quarry’s silos still stored the blue alvin stone that was once shipped out in great quantities to many ports, but now only went to Germany. As Felix approached the quarry by the road, he was a little taken aback‌—as he always was‌—by the faulted land that presented itself on his left. In picturesque Penwith, with its pleasant winding lanes and hedges and its magnificent sweeps of cliff and moor, the heaps of raw dirt and old scars of the quarry seemed much too out of place.

  He stood in the shadow of the silos that loomed over him on the seaside of the road, and looked at the quarry. There was no activity at the moment. Just an old Land Rover parked by a decrepit building, the ruins of other buildings beyond it, and the scarred land. Behind him, enormous disused storage pits were housed beside the silos, stonewalled and metal-roofed, their broad entrances fenced off from the road. Above him, the skies were smudged with grey, promising rain.

  It was the perfect place for a murder, Felix thought.

  He wasn’t in a good mood.

  He wasn’t angry with anyone‌—except for himself. Though he loved this part of England, and had a number of friends in and about Mousehole that he’d met through Janey, he hadn’t been back since they’d broken up a few years ago. At this moment he wished he hadn’t returned.

  As the sky so surely promised rain, so his return had seemed to promise something as well. But now he’d found that Janey had never sent the letter that had brought him here. It was all too plain that while she was happy to see him, she had her own life to lead now‌—one that didn’t include him‌—and he wondered how he could ever have been so stupid as to think it would be otherwise.

  It didn’t matter who the man was that she’d accompanied to Pamela’s Pantry. He could be a boyfriend, an agent, her bloody solicitor‌—it made no difference. Seeing her with someone else just brought home the undeniable fact that no matter what he wanted, no matter what Clare said, things hadn’t changed. And wouldn’t change. Why should they? Janey owed him nothing. She had a right to her own life. Just because a mistake had brought him here, didn’t mean she had to drop everything and try to take things up again with him.

  She fancied him‌—but as a friend. So grow up, he told himself. Accept her on the same terms and stop mooning about like some lovesick teenager.

  You have to tell her, he could hear Clare saying.

  But what was the point when he already knew the answer? Why make things uncomfortable? It was better to just spend a couple of days in the village. Better to hang about with her, play some tunes, see Clare again‌—but not alone, or she’d nag him‌—maybe go up to the farm and visit with Dinny and his family. . . . Make no waves. Just try to have a pleasant time, and then go.

  Say nothing, and just go.

  You have to tell her how you feel.

  No he didn’t. He had his own life to live as well. And if he chose to live it without Janey‌—well that’d be his choice, wouldn’t it?

  Without her.

  With only that ghostly memory of her to talk to at night on the rolling deck of some freighter going from who-cares to what-does-it-matter. Killing time on the ocean.

  God, he hated this side of himself.

  In most matters he was the sort of person who knew what he wanted to do and then went and did it. He got things done. He didn’t have problems with indecision or soul-searching.

  Except when it came to Janey.

  He picked up a stone by the roadside and flung it into the fenced-off storage pits beside the silos. Time to head back, he thought, irritated with himself for the way his stomach tightened at the idea. Maybe he should go down into Newlyn and find a pub where he could get something to eat before he returned. Except he didn’t feel like eating.

  Looking down the road, his attention was caught by the figure of an unsteady bicyclist making her way up the graded hill towards the quarry. She wobbled on the narrow shoulder of the road, visibly flinching when a car went rushing by.

  A late-season tourist, Felix thought. Not used to these roads. He wondered if she’d been on any of the B-roads yet, because compared to those narrow little lanes, this road was like a four-lane highway.

  He started to turn away, but then another car went by the cyclist. Her unsteadiness grew more pronounced in the wake of that car and he could see her wheel catch a stone and the bicycle start to fall almost before it happened. She landed badly, twisting her leg under her. Felix jogged towards her.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” she was saying when he reached her side.

  “Don’t try to move yet,” Felix told her.

  She looked up. Tears made her eye shadow run and her mouth twisted with pain, but neither hid the fact that she was a very attractive woman. Her hair was short and swept back. The leather of her bomber’s jacket was scuff
ed and there was a tear in one knee of her jeans, but the latter appeared to be more a matter of style than caused by her fall. From the MIT T-shirt she was wearing, Felix knew she was an American even before her accent registered.

  “Where does it hurt?” he asked.

  “My‌—my ankle. . . .”

  “Okay. Just take it easy now.”

  Gently he helped her disentangle herself from the bike. Once he’d set the bike aside, he helped her up.

  “Can you put any weight on it?” he asked.

  She gave it a try.

  “I think‌—no!”

  She jerked from the sudden pain, trembling as she leaned against him. Felix helped her sit down, then studied her ankle. It was swelling a bit, but was it sprained or broken? He couldn’t tell. Lying on the ground nearby was a watch, the links of its bracelet broken.

  “Is this yours?” he asked, picking it up.

  She put a hand to her wrist, then nodded. As Felix handed it over he noticed what he first took to be a smudge of dirt on her wrist. Then he realized, just before she tugged down the sleeve of her jacket, that it was a tattoo of a small grey bird.

  Curious, he thought. When she was wearing the watch, it would be completely hidden. So what was the point of it?

  Sitting back, he found her regarding him.

  “Hi,” she said.

  He smiled. “Hi, yourself.”

  She seemed to be recovering somewhat, now that her weight was off the ankle again and the initial shock of her fall had faded.

  “Guess that was a pretty stupid thing to do,” she said.

  “Accidents happen. Where are you staying?”

  “In Penzance. My name’s Lena.”

  She held out her hand.

  “Felix Gavin,” Felix said as he took her hand to shake.

  Lena laughed. “God, we must look silly.”

  Felix smiled. She gave his hand a quick squeeze, then let go‌—reluctantly, it seemed.

  “Thanks for coming to the rescue,” she said.

  “You should get that looked after,” Felix said, nodding to her ankle. “There was a Land Rover parked back at the quarry. Do you want me to see if they’ll give you a lift to the hospital?”

  “Oh, it just needs some ice, I think.”

  “Okay. I’ll see about that lift.”

  She caught his arm as he was about to stand.

  “I don’t want a big fuss made over me,” she said. “Maybe you could just wheel me on the bike? It’s mostly downhill.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I feel dumb enough as it is without having a bunch of strangers all gawking at me.”

  “And we’re not strangers?”

  “Not anymore‌—we introduced ourselves, remember?”

  Felix couldn’t help but return her smile.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll give it a go. But if it hurts too much, just let me know.”

  He retrieved the bike and brought it near to where she was sitting, then leaning it against himself, he reached down and gave her a hand up so that she didn’t put any weight on her ankle. It was a man’s bike, so he lifted her up onto the crossbar, then wheeled the bike over to the road.

  “You sure you’ll be all right?” he asked as she grimaced.

  She nodded.

  When Felix got on the bike, she turned towards him, steadying herself with her arms around his waist, and leaned against him. Feeling awkward, but resigned, Felix started the bike freewheeling down towards Newlyn. The traffic was light and he didn’t have to start pedaling until he was down by the harbour, crossing the boundary between Newlyn and Penzance.

  6.

  The Gaffer and Chalkie were having lunch in the Smuggler’s Restaurant in Newlyn, after taking a break from the wall mending that they hadn’t actually got around to starting yet. They had stood about in Chalkie’s backyard in their wellies, studying the broken-down wall from a number of different angles, but then Chalkie had announced that he was hungry and insisted they eat out, his treat.

  “Why dirty dishes, when someone else can do your cooking for you?” he asked the Gaffer.

  The truth was, Chalkie always ate out. The highest his culinary skills aimed for was to make the odd bit of porridge or toast for himself in the mornings. And didn’t he brew a mean cup of tea?

  So they were sitting at a window table in the restaurant at the time that Felix rode by on the bicycle with Lena snuggled against his chest. The Gaffer had to look twice, to make sure he was really seeing what he was seeing. The pair went by so quickly that he could almost doubt who they were‌—almost, but not enough. He’d recognized them both and it gave him a knotty feeling in the center of his chest.

  Poor Janey, he thought.

  “Does my heart good to see that,” Chalkie said. “A couple out on a single bike like that. Remember when we used to go sparking with our bikes, up Kerris way? What were the names of those sisters again?”

  The Gaffer gave him a blank look, then nodded.

  “Feena and April,” he said.

  Chalkie grinned. “That’s right. And Feena rode with me on my bike, but April”‌—his grin grew broader‌—“she had her own, didn’t she just? Had her own bike and you were the loser.”

  “Wasn’t I just,” the Gaffer said.

  And he was the loser again, he and Janey both. For that woman he’d seen in Felix’s arms was the same one who’d come by the house demanding Billy’s unpublished writings not four days ago. He would never have thought it of Felix, but now it made sense, his showing up the way he had with that letter of his. Of course Janey hadn’t written it‌—he’d written it himself.

  When he thought of how much he’d always liked Felix‌—he’d been the best of any lad Janey brought home‌—it made his heart break.

  “Have you gone deaf?”

  The Gaffer lifted his head to find Chalkie looking at him, a puzzled look creasing his brow. He hadn’t heard a word that Chalkie had said.

  “What’s that, my beauty?” he asked.

  “I said, have you gone deaf?” Chalkie repeated. “Garm, you were lost at sea just now, you.”

  The Gaffer sighed. “I was thinking.”

  “Bad thoughts?”

  “Well, they weren’t good ones,” the Gaffer said.

  “Comes from getting old,” Chalkie assured him. “Always think of the good times, Tom. Makes it easier.”

  “I suppose.”

  The good times. Lost times. No, they weren’t good to dwell upon. But what did you do when you found out that some of them were lies?

  Oh, how was he going to tell Janey?

  7.

  Everything works out in the end, Lena thought, and she hadn’t even needed Willie’s directions. She had a sprained ankle, and that wasn’t fun, but she couldn’t have found a better way to meet Felix Gavin than if she’d planned that tumble from the bike herself.

  He’d actually carried her upstairs to her room, then seen about getting a pack of ice, which he was now applying to her foot, which was propped up on the bed before her. While he’d gone down to the lobby to get the ice, she’d changed into a big floppy sweatshirt that covered her to her knees. The strained white look on her face from the pain that the change in clothing had cost her hadn’t been put on. Just that small effort had almost completely worn her out. And kind-hearted hunk that he was, her rescuer had immediately insisted that she lie down when he returned.

  He was an interesting man‌—strong and gentle and she could easily understand what the Little girl had seen in him. What she couldn’t understand was why Janey Little had dumped him.

  Oh, well, Lena thought philosophically. Her loss, my gain.

  She was on her best behavior with him, utilizing everything she’d ever learned in her acting classes. The image she projected was a rather appealing mix, even if she did say so herself.

  Demure, but not naive. Hurting, but being brave about it. Open and friendly, a bit lonely, but no hard come on. In short, she was charming the pants
off him, without coming off as a tart.

  And she could tell that it was working. It wasn’t in anything he said or did‌—he was being the complete gentleman, which rather surprised her, considering his background‌—but she could tell she was having an effect upon him all the same. It was the way he studied her without really looking. The way he was having an increasingly hard time making ordinary conversation.

  “Boy,” she said, wriggling a bit as she adjusted her position against the headboard. “What a dumb thing to have done. You’d think I’d never ridden a bike before.”

  “Do you do a lot of cycling?” Felix asked.

  She nodded. “I love it. But I’m not used to these roads and the crossbar on the bike made me feel a bit weird, too. Why do they have those things on men’s bikes, anyway? You’d think it’d make guys even more nervous.”

  Whoops, she thought as he raised an eyebrow. Tone it down. You don’t want to scare him off.

  “Anyway,” she added quickly, “I was lucky to have you be so close to give me a hand. You’ve been a real angel.”

  “It was no big deal.”

  “Not to you maybe.”

  Felix shrugged and looked about the room.

  “Are you here on holiday?” he asked.

  A wry smile touched Lena’s lips. “You don’t really want to hear the whole sorry story of what I’m doing here on my own, do you?”

  “I’m a good listener.”

  I’ll just bet you are, Lena thought. And since she wanted to keep him around for as long as possible, she spun out a story of how she was a secretary in Boston, with aspirations to be an actress, and how she’d come here on a sort of business holiday with her new boyfriend‌—“ex-boyfriend, let me tell you”‌—who’d claimed he was a film director checking out some locations and did she want to come along just for the fun of it?

  “So like a dummy, I agreed,” she finished up, “and we’re here one day and he dumps me because I wouldn’t, you know. Show him a good time.”

  “What was the film supposed to be about?” Felix asked.

  “What film? Everything about it was a big secret before we left and now I know why: There was no film. What I can’t figure out is why he brought me all the way over here with him if all he wanted from me was sex, you know? Seems to me that there’s cheaper ways to get yourself a girl.”