Dreams Underfoot n-1

by Charles de Lint

  With the coming of winter, there were less and less of the street people to be found. They were indoors, if they had such an option, or perhaps they migrated to warmer climes like the swallows. But Wendy still spied the more regular ones in their usual haunts. Paperjack had gone, but the pigeon lady still fed her charges every day, the German cowboy continued his bombastic monologues—though mostly on the subway platforms now. She saw the conjure man, too, but he was never near enough for her to get a chance to talk to him.

  By the springtime, the sprig of green in the flowerpot grew into a sapling that stood almost a foot high. On warmer days, Wendy put the pot out on the backporch steps, where it could taste the air and catch the growing warmth of the afternoon sun. She still wasn’t sure what she was going to do with it once it outgrew its pot.

  But she had some ideas. There was a part of Fitzhenry Park called the Silenus Gardens that was dedicated to the poet Joshua Stanhold. She thought it might be appropriate to plant the sapling there.

  One day in late April, she was leaning on the handlebars of her tenspeed in front of the public library in Lower Crowsea, admiring the yellow splash the daffodils made against the building’s grey stone walls, when she sensed, more than saw, a red bicycle pull up onto the sidewalk behind her. She turned around to find herself looking into the conjure man’s merry features.

  “It’s spring, isn’t it just,” the conjure man said. “A time to finally forget the cold and bluster and think of summer. John can feel the leaf buds stir, the flowers blossoming. There’s a grand smile in the air for all the growing.”

  Wendy gave Ginger a pat, before letting her gaze meet the blue shock of his eyes.

  “What about a Tree of Tales?” she asked. “Can you feel her growing?”

  The conjure man gave her a wide smile. “Especially her.” He paused to adjust the brim of his hat, then gave her a sly look. “Your man Stanhold,” he added. “Now there was a fine poet—and a fine storyteller.”

  Wendy didn’t bother to ask how he knew of her plan. She just returned the conjure man’s smile and then asked, “Do you have a story to tell me?”

  The conjure man polished one of the buttons of his bright blue jacket.

  “I believe I do,” he said. He patted the brown satchel that rode on his back carrier. “John has a thermos filled with the very best tea, right here in his bag. Why don’t we find ourselves a comfortable place to sit and he’ll tell you how he got this bicycle of his over a hot cuppa.”

  He started to pedal of down the street, without waiting for her response. Wendy stared after him, her gaze catching the little terrier, sitting erect in her basket and looking back at her.

  There seemed to be a humming in the air that woke a kind of singing feeling in her chest. The wind rose up and caught her hair, pushing it playfully into her eyes. As she swept it back from her face with her hand, she thought of the sapling sitting in its pot on her back steps, thought of the wind, and knew that stories were already being harvested without the necessity of her having to pass them on.

  But she wanted to hear them all the same.

  Getting on her tenspeed, she hurried to catch up with the conjure man.

  Small Deaths

  What unites us universally is our emotions, our feelings in the face of experience, and not necessarily the actual experiences themselves.

  —Anais Nin

  “I feel like I should know you.”

  Zoe Brill looked up. The line was familiar, but it usually came only after she’d spoken—that was the down side of being an allnight DJ in a city with too many people awake and having nothing to do between midnight and dawn. Everybody felt they knew you, everybody was your friend. Most of the time that suited her fine, since she genuinely liked people, but as her mother used to tell her, every family has its black sheep. Sometimes it seemed that every one of them tended to gravitate to her at one point or another in their lives.

  The man who’d paused by the cafe railing to speak to Zoe this evening reminded her of a fox. He had lean, pointy features, dark eyes, the corners of his lips constantly lifted in a sly smile, hair as red as her own, if not as long. Unlike her, he had a dark complexion, as though swimming somewhere back in the gene pool of his forebears was an Italian, an Arab, or a Native American. His selfassurance radiated a touch too shrill for Zoe’s taste, but he seemed basically harmless. Just your average single male yuppie on the prowl, heading out for an evening in clubland—she could almost hear the Full Force—produced dance number kick up as a soundtrack to the moment. Move your body all night long.

  He was welldressed, as all Lotharios should be, casual, but with flair; she doubted there was a single item in his wardrobe worth under two hundred dollars. Maybe the socks.

  “I think I’d remember if we’d met before,” she said.

  He ignored the wryness in her voice and took what she’d said as a compliment.

  “Most people do,” he agreed.

  “Lucky them.”

  It was one of those rare, supernaturally perfect November evenings, warm with a light breeze, wedged in between a week of subzero temperatures with similar weather to follow. All up and down Lee Street, from one end of the Market to the other, the restaurants and cafes had opened their patios for one last outdoor fling.

  “No, no,” the man said, finally picking up on her lack of interest. “it’s not like what you’re thinking.”

  Zoe tapped a long finger lightly against the page of the opened book that lay on her table beside a glass of red wine.

  “I’m kind of busy,” she said. “Maybe some other time.”

  He leaned closer to read the running head at the top of the book’s lefthand page: Disappearing Through the Skylight.

  “That’s by 0. B. Hardison, isn’t it?” he asked. “Didn’t he also write Entering the Maze?”

  Zoe gave a reluctant nod and upgraded her opinion of him. Fine. So he was a wellread single male yuppie on the prowl, but she still wasn’t interested.

  “Technology,” he said, “is a perfect example of evolution, don’t you think? Take the camera. If you compare present models to the best they had just thirty years ago, you can see—”

  “Look,” Zoe said. “This is all very interesting, and I don’t mean to sound rude, but why don’t you go hit on someone else? If I’d wanted company, I would’ve gone out with a friend.”

  He shook his head. “No, no. I told you, I’m not trying to pick you up.” He put out his hand. “My name’s Gordon Wolfe.”

  He gave her his name with the simple assurance inherent in his voice that it was impossible that she wouldn’t recognize it.

  Zoe ignored the hand. As an attractive woman living on her own in a city the size of Newford, she’d long ago acquired a highly developed sense of radar, a kind of mental dahdum, dahdum straight out of Jaws, that kicked in whenever that sixth sense hiding somewhere in her subconscious decided that the situation carried too much of a possibility of turning weird, or a little too intense.

  Gordon Wolfe had done nothing yet, but the warning bell was sounding faintly in her mind.

  “Then what do you want?” she asked.

  He lifted his hand and ran it through his hair, the movement so casual it was as though he’d never been rebuffed. “I’m just trying to figure out why I feel like I should know you.”

  So they were back to that again.

  “The world’s full of mysteries,” Zoe told him. “I guess that’s just going to be another one.”

  She turned back to her book, but he didn’t leave the railing. Looking up, she tried to catch the eye of the waiter, to let him know that she was being bothered, but naturally neither he nor the two waitresses were anywhere in sight. The patio held only the usual bohemian mix of Lower Crowsea’s inhabitants and hangerson—a wellstirred stew of actors, poets, artists, musicians and those who aspired, through their clothing or attitude, to be counted in that number. Sometimes it was all just a little too trendy.

  She turned back to her u
nwelcome visitor who still stood on the other side of the cafe’s railing.

  “It’s nothing personal,” she began. “I just don’t—”

  “You shouldn’t mock me,” he said, cutting in. “I’m the bringer of small deaths.” His dark eyes flashed. “Remember me the next time you die a little.”

  Then he turned and walked away, losing himself in among the crowd of pedestrians that filled the sidewalk on either side of Lee Street.

  Zoe sighed. Why were they always drawn to her? The weird and the wacky. Why not the wonderful for a change? When was the last time a nice normal guy had tried to chat her up?

  It wasn’t as though she looked particularly exotic: skin a little too pale, perhaps, due to the same genes that had given her her shoulderlength red hair and green eyes, but certainly not the extreme vampiric pallor affected by so many fans of the various British Gothic bands that jostled for position on the album charts of college radio and independent record stores; clothing less thriftshop than most of those with whom she shared the patio this evening: anklehigh black laceup boots, dark stockings, a black dress that was somewhat tight and a little short, a faded jean jacket that was a couple of sizes too big.

  Just your basic semihip working girl, relaxing over a glass of wine and a book before she had to head over to the studio. So where were all the nice semihip guys for her to meet?

  She took a sip of her wine and went back to her book, but found herself unable to concentrate on what she was reading. Gordon Wolfe’s parting shot kept intruding on the words that filled the page before her.

  Remember me the next time you die a little.

  She couldn’t suppress the small shiver that slithered up her spine. Congratulations, she thought to her nowabsent irritant. You’ve succeeded in screwing up my evening anyway.

  Paying her bill, she decided to go home and walk Rupert, then head in to work early. An electronic score with lots of deep, low bass notes echoed in her head as she went home, Tangerine Dream crossed with Bmovie horror themes. She kept thinking Wolfe was lurking about, following her home, although whenever she turned, there was no one there. She hated this mild anxiety he’d bestowed upon her like some spiteful parting gift.

  Her relief at finally getting home to where Rupert waited for her far outweighed the dog’s slobbery enthusiasm at the thought of going out for their evening ramble earlier than usual. Zoe took a long roundabout way to the station, letting Rupert’s ingenuous affection work its magic. With the big galoot at her side, it was easy to put the bad taste of her encounter with Wolfe to rest.

  An old Lovin’ Spoonful song provided backdrop to the walk, bouncing and cheerful. It wasn’t summer yet, but it was warmer than usual and Newford had always been a hot town.

  The phone call came in during the fourth hour of her show, “Nightnoise.” As usual, the music was an eclectic mix. An Italian aria by Kiri Te Kanawa was segueing into a cut by the New Age Celtic group from which the show had gotten its name, with Steve Earle’s “The Hard Way” cued up next, when the yellow light on the studio’s phone began to blink with an incoming call.

  “Nightnoise,” she said into the receiver. “Zoe B. here.”

  “Are we on the air?”

  It was a man’s voice—an unfamiliar voice, warm and friendly with just the vaguest undercurrent of tension.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “We don’t take callins after three.” From one to three A.M. she took onair calls for requests, commentaries, sometimes just to chat; during that time period she also conducted interviews, if she had any slated. Experience had proven that the real fruitcakes didn’t come out of the woodwork until the show was into its fourth hour, creeping up on dawn.

  “That’s all right,” her caller said. “It’s you I wanted to talk to.”

  Zoe cradled the receiver between her shoulder and ear and checked the studio clock. As the instrumental she was playing ended, she brought up the beginning of the Steve Earle cut and began to cue up her next choice, Concrete Blonde’s cover of a Leonard Cohen song from the Pump Up the Volume soundtrack.

  “So talk,” she said, shifting the receiver back to her hand.

  She could almost feel the caller’s hesitation. It happened a lot. They got up the nerve to make the call, but once they were connected, their mouths went dry and all their words turned to sand.

  “What’s your name?” she added, trying to make it easier on him.

  “Bob.”

  “Not the one from Twin Peaks I hope.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  Obviously not a David Lynch fan, Zoe thought.

  “Nothing,” she said. “What can I do for you tonight, Bob?” Maybe she’d make an exception, she thought, and added: “Did you have a special song you wanted me to play for you?”

  “No, I ... It’s about Gordon.”

  Zoe went blank for a moment. The first Gordon that came to mind was Gordon Waller from the old UK band, Peter & Gordon, rapidly followed by rockabilly great Robert Gordon and then Jim Gordon, the drummer who’d played with everybody from Baez to Clapton, including a short stint with Bread.

  “Gordon Wolfe,” Bob said, filling in the blank for her. “You were talking to him earlier tonight on the patio of The Rusty Lion.”

  Zoe shivered. From his blanket beside the studio door, Rupert lifted his head and gave an anxious whine, sensing her distress.

  “You ..” she began. “How could you know? What were you doing, following me?”

  “No. I was following him.”

  “Oh.”

  Recovering her equilibrium, Zoe glanced at the studio clock and cued up the first cut from her next set in the CD player, her fingers going through the procedure on automatic.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Because he’s dangerous.”

  He’d given her the creeps, Zoe remembered, but she hadn’t really thought of him as dangerous—at least not until his parting shot. Remember me the next time you die a little.

  “Who is he?” she asked. “Better yet, who are you? Why are you following this Wolfe guy around?”

  “That’s not his real name,” Bob said.

  “Then what is?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Not won’t,” Bob said quickly. “Can’t. I don’t know it myself. All I know is he’s dangerous and you shouldn’t have gotten him mad at you.”

  “Jesus,” Zoe said. “I really need this.” Her gaze flicked back to the studio clock; the Steve Earle cut was heading into its fadeout. “Hang on a sec, Bob. I’ve got to run some commercials.”

  She put him on hold and brought up the volume on her mike.

  “That was Steve Earle,” she said, “with the title cut from his latest album, and you’re listening to Nightnoise on WKPN. Zoe B. here, spinning the tunes for all you night birds and birdettes. Coming up we’ve got a hot and heavy metal set, starting off with the classic ‘Ace of Spades’ by Motorhead. These are not new kids on the block, my friends. But first, oh yes, even at this time of night, a word from some sponsors.”

  She punched up the cassette with its minute of ads for this half hour and brought the volume down off her mike again. But when she turned back to the phone, the online light was dead. She tried it anyway, but Bob had hung up.

  “Shit,” she said. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  Rupert looked up again, then got up from his blanket and padded across the floor to press his wet nose up against her hand. He was a cross between a golden lab and a German shepherd, seventy pounds of bighearted mush.

  “No, not you,” she told him, taking his head in both of her hands and rubbing her nose against the tip of his muzzle. “You’re Zoe’s big baby, aren’t you?”

  The ads cassette ran its course and she brought up Motorhead. As she cued up the rest of the pieces for this set, she kept looking at the phone, but the online light stayed dead.

  “Weird,” Hilary Carlisle agreed. She brushed a stray lock of hair away from her fac
e and gave Zoe a quick smile. “But par for the course, don’t you think?”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “I didn’t say you egged them on, but it seems to be the story of your life: put you in a roomful of strangers and you can almost guarantee that the most oddball guy there will be standing beside you within ten minutes. It’s—” she grinned “—just a gift you have.”

  “Well, this guy’s really given me a case of the creeps.”

  “Which one—Gordon or Bob?”

  “Both of them, if you want the truth.”

  Hilary’s smile faded. “This is really getting to you, isn’t it?”

  “I could’ve just forgotten my delightful encounter at The Rusty Lion if it hadn’t been for the followup call.”

  “You think it’s connected?”

  “Well, of course it’s connected.”

  “No, not like that,” Hilary said. “I mean, do you think the two of them have worked this thing up together?”

  That was just what Zoe had been thinking. She didn’t really believe in coincidence. To her mind, there was always connections; they just weren’t always that easy to work out.

  “But what would be the point?” she asked.

  “You’ve got me,” Hilary said. “You can stay here with me for a few days if you like,” she added.

  They were sitting in the front room of Hilary’s downstairs apartment which was in the front half of one of the old Tudor buildings on the south side of Stanton Street facing the estates. Hilary in this room always reminded Zoe of Mendelssohn’s “Concerto in E Minor,” a perfect dialogue between soloist and orchestra. Paintings, curtains, carpet and furniture all reflected Hilary’s slightly askew worldview so that Impressionists hung sideby-side with paintings that seemed more the work of a camera; an antique sideboard housed a stateof-theart stereo, glass shelves held old books; the curtains were dark antique flower prints, with sheers trimmed in lace, the carpet a riot of symmetrical designs and primary colors.

  The recamier on which Hilary was lounging had a glory of leaf and scrollwork in its wood; Zoe’s club chair looked as though a bear had been hibernating in it.