Moonheart

by Charles de Lint

  But Ha’kan’ta’s taw was as poised and ready as Tep’fyl’in’s spear. Her power was a golden spark of magefire held in check by her closed fist. She opened her hand to loose it, to blast the War Chief’s weapon from his hands, but Pukwudji threw himself against her, spoiling her aim. Magefire seared the night air, shooting harmlessly into the sky. Unbalanced, Ha’kan’ta and the honochen’o’keh tumbled to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

  “No!” Sins’amin cried in a voice like thunder.

  She knew she was too late. The spectators, quin’on’a and rathe’wen’a alike, leaned forward.

  Tep’fyl’in brought his spear down. But before it could taste Kieran’s flesh, the weapon twisted to one side of its own volition and sank deep into the packed earth. Tep’fyl’in cried out in surprise and pain as the haft of the spear burst into flames, searing his hands.

  “Who dares?” he roared, turning to view the spectators.

  Through a red blaze of anger he saw only stunned looks on each face, from Sins’amin and his own people, to the rathe’wen’a and Ha’kan’ta and Pukwudji who were struggling to their feet. His gaze settled on Kieran, who was beginning to rise. Tep’fyl’in’s anger snapped the last vestiges of his sanity. He reached down and caught Kieran by the throat, dragging him up in a powerful grip. His fingers tightened on the pale throat.

  So complete was his rage, he did not hear the murmur that ran through those who watched, did not hear the rumble of deep drumming that suddenly filled the air. He saw only Kieran’s bulging eyes, felt the weak blows of Kieran’s fists against his chest and forearms. Then to his horror, his hands began to open of their own accord. He fought to control them. Muscles jumped out in knots on his arms and shoulders, but slowly his fingers were pried apart as though a hand of iron pulled them from about Kieran’s throat. When Kieran fell gasping for air in the dirt, Tep’fyl’in no longer saw him. For the first time he was aware of what the others saw.

  A tall figure stood across the circle from him. It had the body of a man, with a wolfs head, raven’s feathers that streamed down his neck and shoulders like a mane, and a stag’s antlers thrusting above the lupine features. Dangling from the horns were more feathers, entwined with thin strips of braided leather and beads. About his loins was a pelt of foxskin.

  “You have forsaken your honor, Red-Spear-of-the-Wind,” the apparition said. His voice boomed above the solemn drumming that filled the air. His eyes were gold and merciless. “So you have forsaken your right to live.”

  Tep’fyl’in’s gaze darted left and right, but he could find no sympathy‌—from his own people or the rathe’wen’a. Only Sins’amin’s face held pity for him. From her he turned away.

  “He is not of our people, Father,” he said.

  “He is more my son this night than you are.”

  “No!” Tep’fyl’in cried. “He cannot be your son! The stink of evil flows through his veins. He runs with the hare. His acceptance into our Way is a mockery of all we hold true. Because of him and his people, the tribes are gone and we dwindle, forsaken by them. Will you have us wither away into memories?”

  “I would have you accept a new Way. Truth wears many faces, Red-Spear. Many paths lead to one destination. It is the spirit that will not accept change that will dwindle and be lost.”

  “We dwindle because of change,” Tep’fyl’in said bitterly. “We must return to the old ways if we are to grow strong again. You of all of us must know that best, Father. See yourself. See how the Forest Lords themselves have withered. How many were you once? How many are you now? Like the quin’on’a, you have learned to die.”

  The Forest Lord shook his head. “There can be no return to the old ways. Life goes on, as the wind crosses the plains, as the forests that grow to die and in dying are reborn. If it were otherwise, life would be stagnant. Would you grow rank and sour like a marsh? Is that what you wish for your people, Red-Spear?”

  “It will not end so,” Tep’fyl’in said. “It cannot end so. We must remain true, if no other will. If even the Forest Lords allow the white-skinned hornless strangers to force them from the true Way, it is time that they go themselves to drum in the Dreaming Thunder.”

  He moved suddenly, snatching up Kieran’s fallen spear and flinging it in one smooth motion. The weapon flew true, striking the Forest Lord in his deep chest. But the strange figure simply stood, the spear thrusting from him like an extra appendage. The drumming never faltered. Then slowly he lifted a hand and pulled it free. Blood, dark and green as the needles of the surrounding spruce, flowed from the wound, coagulated, clotted. The wound closed.

  “We are the Dreaming Thunder,” the Forest Lord said softly.

  The drumming that pulsed through the night air fell silent.

  “Farewell, my son,” he said. “Remember this lesson when you are born again. Remember, or be doomed to live it all again. Remember, or you will never drum in the Place of Dreaming Thunder.”

  Tep’fyl’in howled like a wolf as the power arced between the Forest Lord’s eyes and his own. As he fell to his knees, he heard his furred brothers answer in the distance. They paused in their hunting to lift greyed muzzles skyward, keening with sorrow. Only two wolves remained silent. Silver-furred, they stood watching, attention divided between the dying War Chief and the honochen’o’keh who had dared to attack their drum-sister.

  Tep’fyl’in’s life leaked from him. He howled, not in pain, but in sorrow. Then in anger. His head grew too heavy to hold up. Lowering it, his dark eyes looked into Kieran’s. The hatred in the quin’on’a’s eyes struck Kieran like a physical blow.

  “I . . . I curse . . .” Tep’fyl’in began, but died before he could complete the thought.

  He sprawled face down into the dirt and then it was over. The cries of the distant wolves faded and silence returned. Sins’amin regarded the Forest Lord. She saw him as a she-bear, tall and amber-eyed, fur grizzled and brown. She shaped words in her mind but could not connect them to express what lay inside her.

  I understand, the bear’s low voice rumbled in her mind. No shame has been brought to your lodge.

  He meant no ill.

  The bear shook her head. Yet he brought great ill with his actions.

  Sins’amin bowed her head, accepting her totem’s gentle rebuke. When the bear spoke of Red-Spear, Sins’amin knew that she spoke for her as well.

  Kieran saw the Forest Lord as a raven.

  Again you acted without first considering, the raven said to him. What had you hoped to gain with this madness? Was it for love that you accepted this challenge?

  Kieran shook his head. No, he replied slowly. It was for pride.

  The Forest Lord’s unblinking gaze weighed Kieran’s words against what his soul held.

  If you can admit that much, the raven said at length, perhaps there is still hope for you.

  Why did you help me? Kieran asked.

  I did not aid you. I came to aid Tep’fyl’in. He broke from our Way, forsook his honor. Left to his own, he would have set as much sorrow into motion as your Mal’ek’a has. Worse, he would have done so with the best of intentions. There is nothing so pitiable as a misguided soul.

  Still, I thank you.

  As you will. What will you do now?

  Kieran said nothing.

  I ask you this, little brother, the raven said. Remember the quiet wonders. The world has more need of them than it has for warriors. And this I will tell you as well: One cannot seek to uphold honor in a being that has none. In seeking Mal’ek’a you will bring only sorrow to yourself. There is a price for every action. Regard what Tep’fyl’in has paid.

  But Mal’ek’a is evil, Kieran said. And Tep’fyl’in was right, it was my people that loosed him in the world. Mal’ek’a came from across the Great Water, did he not?

  He did. Do what you must do, the raven replied. Farewell, my son. I will look for you again when you seek peace, not war. Turning, the Forest Lord stepped in amongst the trees and was gone.

  Kier
an lifted himself painfully from the dirt. He put a hand up to his throat, and winced from the pain. It was difficult to breathe. Looking about himself, he saw that the quin’on’a had departed as silently as his totem. Only Ha’kan’ta and her people remained. And one other: Pukwudji.

  “You knew he would come,” Ha’kan’ta said to Pukwudji. “That is why you stopped me from interfering.”

  The honochen’o’keh had not known. All he had known was that if Ha’kan’ta or any of her people had interfered, the quin’on’a would not have stood idly by. One death was in the wind. Kieran or Tep’fyl’in would die. He had come to stop others from dying. But that a Forest Lord would come. . . . He shrugged, not bothering to reply. Let her read her own meaning into what had transpired tonight.

  Ha’kan’ta crossed the circle and knelt by her lover, smiling down into his face. She touched his brow with feather-light fingers.

  “Now we can know peace,” she said. “The quin’on’a no longer have a hold on our lives.”

  Kieran shook his head. “There’s still Mal’ek’a to deal with.”

  “No.”

  “Nom de tout, Kanta!”

  But now their roles had been reversed and it was she who would have no more to do with it.

  “It is ended,” she said. “For us it is ended. Let others deal with the dread one. He was never ours to pursue.”

  And your father? Kieran thought, but he left it unsaid. It was unfair to throw that at her. If she had come to grips with that debt, it was not his right to place her in its grip once more. But he . . . he still had a debt to repay. Mal’ek’a came from the same lands across the Great Water as his own ancestors had; it was by their immigration to these shores that Mal’ek’a had gained a foothold, riding the tall-masted sailing ships like an ill wind.

  Those ancestors no longer lived, so it was up to him to make good their debt.

  “I have to go after him,” Kieran said.

  Ha’kan’ta said nothing for a long moment, then shook her head. “We share one future,” she said. “If you go, so must I.”

  “There is another reason we must act,” Ur’wen’ta said. Neither of them had heard him approach.

  “I never thanked you for coming,” Ha’kan’ta said.

  “Thanks are not required. There was just cause. You summoned us, we came. You could have done no less. There was little enough for us to do, though if the Forest Lord had not intervened. . . .”

  “What’s the other reason?” Kieran wanted to know.

  Ur’wen’ta drew a pouch from his belt and took out a handful of small bone discs.

  “Do you know the man that these belong to?” he asked Ha’kan’ta.

  But it was Kieran who replied. “Those are Tom’s bones! Where did you get them?”

  “I found them in a glade, in the part of the Otherworld that lies closest to the World Beyond. They lay scattered in the grass. And there was blood.”

  “Mother of God!” Kieran passed a hand across his eyes. His chest constricted. “Is he . . . he’s not . . . ?”

  “Dead? No. But Mal’ek’a has finally trapped him. He is in a Great Lodge in the forests near my hunting grounds‌—sorely hurt. He has companions with him, but Mal’ek’a’s tragg’a have encircled the place and soon they will strike.”

  Kieran got to his feet, tested his leg to see if it would hold his weight. It would do. “We’ve got to go to him,” he said.

  “You must rest,” Ha’kan’ta protested.

  Ur’wen’ta shook his head. “If you take time to rest, there will be nothing left of our drum-brother to give aid to.”

  “I’ll manage, Kanta. I have to. It’s Tom we’re talking about.”

  Ha’kan’ta nodded, remembering her own craftfather who had been both father of her flesh as well as the teacher of her spirit.

  “How many tragg’a does he have with him?”

  Ur’wen’ta sighed. “How many branches has the pine? They are many. But we are rathe’wen’a. We have fourteen drums. Fourteen drummers. It is Mal’ek’a we must fear‌—not the packs of the devil-bear’s offspring that run with him.”

  “How fast can we get there?” Kieran asked.

  “Too swiftly for what we must face.”

  Kieran was stunned. He stood with the rathe’wen’a and Pukwudji amongst the trees that bordered the fields surrounding the Great Lodge.

  “Tamson House,” he said. “Lord dying Jesus! It’s Tamson House!”

  “You know the place?” Ur’wen’ta asked.

  Kieran nodded numbly. What was it doing here? “That’s where Sara lives,” he said to Ha’kan’ta. “In my world. How can it be here?”

  At the mention of Sara’s name, Pukwudji pushed forward. He stared at the strange lodge, reached out with his mind and found her.

  “That lodge borders more worlds than one,” the honochen’o’keh said. “It has a soul of its own. I have spoken to it‌—but not here. Not in these forests.”

  “How is it possible?” Kieran murmured.

  The familiar peaks and gables of Ottawa’s most curious structure didn’t fit into this setting. He looked around, half expecting the concrete and lights of the Nation’s capital. But the dense bushland remained.

  “The tragg’a have breached the lodge,” one of the rathe’wen’a said, a tall woman of middle age, cheeks painted with white lines.

  “Then we are too late,” another said.

  “No!” Pukwudji cried. He shifted shape. Eagle wings cut the air as he raced toward the House. When he reached it, he banked in a long sloping glide, seeking entrance. He came to the hole torn in the wall of Gramarye’s Clover. The opening was blocked with tragg’a. The eagle hesitated, then it dove for the opening, talons and beak slashing left and right as it broke through the creatures. Once inside, its wing size hampered its movement. A tragg’a raked the air with its claws, came away with a fistful of feathers. Pukwudji shifted shape again.

  For a moment he wore the furred body of Ha’kan’ta’s totem. He barreled through the tragg’a with the sheer power of the shape’s bulk. Then a lynx charged down the hallway, heading for the northwest tower.

  Kieran followed the eagle’s flight with the farseeing of his taw, then sent his thoughts ahead. The House was filled with a torrent of anger/bloodlust/fear/determination. He sifted through the minds he touched, searching for Tom. His taw touched a familiar presence that struck him like a dagger blow. A sense of darkness washed over him, reminiscent of that thing he’d sensed in the back of the pub in Ottawa when he’d been forced to kill an innocent horseman.

  “He’s in there,” Kieran said. “Mal’ek’a.” His soul twisted at the dread one’s touch. How could he ever have believed this to be Taliesin? The soul that had left its memory on the whistle he carried in his belt and this thing of evil were poles apart. The one stood for life. The other was the antithesis of life.

  “The tragg’a are many,” Ha’kan’ta said.

  Ur’wen’ta nodded. “But still we must try.”

  One by one they set off through the calf-high grass. They were fourteen drummers and one drum-brother, and with them ran two silver wolves. Few enough to pit against Mal’ek’a and his devil-bear offspring. Tom’s bag of Weirdin bones slapped against Kieran’s thigh as he ran. Forgotten were the aches in his leg and temple; at that moment, it seemed that his whole life had been in preparation for this final conflict.

  The sound of drumming followed their passage across the field and he let its rhythm fill him. He had thought himself a peaceful man, one who sought harmony in place of battle. But tonight he was a warrior, a huntsman, and evil was his prey. Who could say what path the service of peace might take? Tonight the drumming was the sound of war, and he was one with its sounding.

  Part Four – Grandmother Toad’s Circle

  Had we known in the beginning,

  the tune would twist our fingers so

  and drive our feet across the borders

  the way the north wind drives the snow

>   . . . all that’s been has led us hither,

  all that’s here must lead us on.

  ‌—ROBIN WILLIAMSON

  Chapter One

  “What’s she talking about?” Tucker demanded.

  Blue shook his head, his gaze on the door. That sucker was going to give way any minute. He tried to listen like Sara had asked him to, but all he could hear was the tragg’a. Clawing at the door. The thud of their bodies as they threw themselves against it. The howls and snarling.

  “Sara?” he asked.

  Her eyes were unfocused, looking beyond him, beyond the room. “Drumming,” she said. “Can’t you hear it?”

  “Drumming?” Then he remembered Ur’wen’ta, and the old shaman’s drum. Blue couldn’t hear anything, but if Sara heard it, that meant Ur’wen’ta was on his way back.

  “That’s the way the quin’on’a work their magics,” Sara was explaining. “They use their drumming to call up their‌—” Her eyes went wide, her face paled, as she felt the touch of a familiar mind. “Pukwudji!” she cried.

  She ran for the door. The little honochen’o’keh was approaching fast, sending his thoughts on ahead to her. She put her shoulder against the dresser that Blue had pushed against it and tried to move it.

  “Sara!” Blue cried. “Are you nuts?”

  He tugged at her arm, but she shrugged it off, returning to her task.

  “Pukwudji’s out there. My friend’s out there, Blue!”

  “Get a hold of yourself, Sara. There’s nothing but monsters out there.”

  He pulled her away from the dresser and she turned on him. The rifle fell from his grasp and hit the floor. Tucker started towards them, when Blue suddenly leaped aside. Sparks flickered weakly from Sara’s hands. Blue slapped at his chest. Burn holes smoldered in his T-shirt. Before either of them could get a hold of her, Sara grabbed the dresser again and heaved. The wood smoked where she touched it, but the dresser shifted enough for her to get at the door.

  As she opened it, a sudden turmoil sounded outside in the hall. Mixed with the howls of the tragg’a was the screech of a wild cat, then a hissing and spitting. Tragg’a howls turned to cries of pain. The cat screams deepened into a roar like a giant grizzly bear’s.