Muse and Reverie
Muse and Reverie
By Charles de Lint from Tom Doherty Associates
ANGEL OF DARKNESS
DREAMS UNDERFOOT
THE FAIR IN EMAIN MACHA
FORESTS OF THE HEART
FROM A WHISPER TO A SCREAM
GREENMANTLE
I’LL BE WATCHING YOU
INTO THE GREEN
THE IVORY AND THE HORN
JACK OF KINROWAN
THE LITTLE COUNTRY
MEMORY AND DREAM
MOONHEART
MOONLIGHT AND VINES
MULENGRO
THE MYSTERY OF GRACE
THE ONION GIRL
SOMEPLACE TO BE FLYING
SPIRITS IN THE WIRES
SPIRITWALK
SVAHA
TAPPING THE DREAM TREE
TRADER
WIDDERSHINS
THE WILD WOOD
YARROW
Muse and Reverie
Charles de Lint
A Tom Doherty Associates Book
New York
The city, characters, and events to be found in these pages are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
MUSE AND REVERIE
Copyright © 2009 by Charles de Lint
All rights reserved.
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
De Lint, Charles, 1951–
Muse and reverie / Charles de Lint. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
“A Tom Doherty Associates book.”
ISBN 978-0-7653-2340-8
1. Newford (Imaginary place)—Fiction. 2. City and town life—Fiction. 3. Fantasy fiction, Canadian. I. Title.
PR9199.3. D357M87 2009
813'.54—dc22
2009034713
First Edition: December 2009
Printed in the United States of America
0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Copyright Acknowledgments
“Somewhere in My Mind There Is a Painting Box” first appeared in The Green Man: Tales from the Mythic Forest, edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling; Viking Books, 2002. Copyright © 2002 by Charles de Lint.
“Refinerytown” first appeared as a limited edition chapbook published by Triskell Press, 2001. Copyright © 2001 by Charles de Lint.
“A Crow Girls’ Christmas” first appeared online at www.charlesdelint.com, 2001. Copyright © 2001 by Charles de Lint and MaryAnn Harris.
“Dark Eyes, Faith, and Devotion” first appeared in Magic Tails, edited by Martin H. Greenberg and Janet Pack; DAW Books, 2005. Copyright © 2005 by Charles de Lint.
“Riding Shotgun” first appeared in Flights, edited by Al Sarrantonio; Roc Books, 2003. Copyright © 2003 by Charles de Lint.
“Sweet Forget-Me-Not” first appeared as a limited edition chapbook published by Triskell Press, 2002. Copyright © 2002 by Charles de Lint.
“That Was Radio Clash” first appeared in Taverns of the Dead, edited by Kealan Patrick Burke; Cemetery Dance, 2004. Copyright © 2004 by Charles de Lint.
“The Butter Spirit’s Tithe” first appeared in Emerald Magic: Great Tales of Irish Fantasy, edited by Andrew M. Greeley; Tor, 2004. Copyright © 2004 by Charles de Lint.
“Da Slockit Light” first appeared as a limited edition chapbook published by Triskell Press, 2003. Copyright © 2003 by Charles de Lint.
“The Hour Before Dawn” first appeared in The Hour Before Dawn and Two Other Stories from Newford; Subterranean Press, 2005. Copyright © 2005 by Charles de Lint.
“Newford Spook Squad” first appeared in Hellboy: Odder Jobs, edited by Christopher Golden; Dark Horse Comics, 2004. Copyright © 2004 by Charles de Lint. Hellboy characters created by Mike Mignola and used by permission.
“In Sight” first appeared in Maiden, Matron, Crone, edited by Kerrie Hughes and Martin H. Greenberg; DAW Books, 2005. Copyright © 2005 by Charles de Lint.
“The World in a Box” first appeared as a limited edition chapbook published by Triskell Press, 2004. Copyright © 2004 by Charles de Lint.
This volume of stories
goes out to the late
Johnny Cash & Joe Strummer,
two musicians who are much missed
but whose music
continues to enrich my life.
Contents
Author’s Note
Somewhere in My Mind There Is a Painting Box
Refinerytown
A Crow Girls’ Christmas
Dark Eyes, Faith, and Devotion
Riding Shotgun
Sweet Forget-Me-Not
That Was Radio Clash
The Butter Spirit’s Tithe
Da Slockit Light
The Hour Before Dawn
Newford Spook Squad
In Sight
The World in a Box
Author’s Note
Five collections in now, I’m at a bit of a loss as to what to say about these stories set in Newford because I’m sure I’ve said all there is to say in previous introductions. But one thing I can do is thank you, the readers, for your continued support over the years.
I’m sure the fact that the previous four collections are all still in print is not unique to me (there must be collections by other authors with long shelf lives), but it does owe everything to your going out and buying them, and talking them up to your friends. As does the fact that in these trying economic times Tor is publishing yet another one—for which I thank Patrick Nielsen Hayden and Tom Doherty, my editor and publisher, respectively. And I would certainly be remiss if I didn’t send a shout-out to all the bookstores that carry them.
But mostly it’s because of you.
That said, I do want to add individual thanks to my wife, MaryAnn, who came up with the title for this collection, as she has for so many of my books. She continues to make astute suggestions, both before and after the stories are written, and busy as her life is with her own work and art, she still finds the time to handle so much of the business side of my career, which lets me concentrate on the writing. This year she gets an added thanks for her persistence in visiting the Humane Society, which netted us the most recent addition to our family, our pup Johnny Cash. His boundless energy is a perfect counterpoint to our cat Clare’s regal calm.
Thanks as well to Rodger Turner, who makes me look good on the Web with the site he maintains for me (check out his review/info site at www.sfsite.com), and my agent, Russ Galen, who takes such good care of me in the big world of business.
And of course my appreciation goes out to the individual editors who first commissioned some of these stories: Ellen Datlow, Terri Windling, Martin H. Greenberg, Janet Pack, Al Sarrantonio, Kealan Patrick Burke, Andrew M. Greeley, Christopher Golden, Mike Mignola, and Kerrie Hughes.
I’m taking a break from Newford, but it’s nice to know that the characters can go on about their business in this collection while I move on to other things. And there are enough completed short stories on file for one more collection, so I might well be writing another of these introductions in a year or two.
Until then, take care of each other.
Lastly, some notes on a couple of the stories.
With “Refinerytown” I’ve gone and broken a long-held rule for my writing and put a couple of real people in the story as actual characters. Sharyn November is my Young Adult editor at Viking, a magnificent woman who really does have chicken puppets, though I’ve yet to see them. Nina Kiriki Hoffman is my good pal, a wonderful writer, a talented m
usician, and a fellow lover of silly things and toys.
They’re here because “Refinerytown” started as a joke at a convention. We kept trying to convince Sharyn to buy the idea as a series of picture books, and the more serious we appeared to be, the more horrified she became. There were others involved in the creation of “Refinerytown,” most prominently Charles Vess. He didn’t make it in because the story already has a comic book artist in it, but he does get a mention. I don’t even get that.
And you can blame MaryAnn for telling me I should actually write the story. I think she meant the real “Refinerytown,” but I’m leaving that in Mona’s and Nina’s capable hands.
In “Newford Spook Squad”: Special thanks to my pals Dave Russell and Mark Finn for vetting this.
If any of you are on the Internet, come visit my home page at www.charlesdelint.com. I’m also at MySpace, Facebook, and Twitter, so you can drop in and say hello to me there as well.
CHARLES DE LINT
Ottawa, Winter 2009
Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams;
Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round.
—W. B. Yeats, from “Fergus and the Druid”
Muse and Reverie
Somewhere in My Mind
There Is a Painting Box
Such a thing to find, so deep in the forest: a painter’s box nested in ferns and a tangle of sprucey-pine roots, almost buried by the leaves and pine needles drifted up against the trunk of the tree. Later, Lily would learn that it was called a pochade box, but for now she sat bouncing lightly on her ankles admiring her find.
It was impossible to say how long the box had been hidden here. The wood panels weren’t rotting, but the hasps were rusted shut and it took her awhile to get them open. She lifted the lid and then, and then . . .
Treasure.
Stored in the lid, held apart from each other by slots, were three 8×10 wooden panels, each with a painting on it. For all their quick and loose rendering, she had no trouble recognizing the subjects. There was something familiar about them, too—beyond the subject matter that she easily recognized.
The first was of the staircase waterfall where the creek took a sudden tumble before continuing on again at a more level pace. She had to fill in detail from her own memory and imagination, but she knew it was that place.
The second was of a long-deserted homestead up a side valley of the hollow, the tin roof sagging, the rotting walls falling inward. It was nothing like Aunt’s cabin on its sunny slopes, surrounded by wild roses, old beehives, and an apple orchard that she and Aunt were slowly reclaiming from the wild. This was a place that would only get sun from midmorning through the early afternoon, a dark and damp hollow, where the dew never had a chance to burn off completely.
The last one could have been painted anywhere in this forest, but she imagined it had been done down by the creek, looking up a slope into a view of yellow birches, beech and sprucey-pines growing dense and thick as the stars overhead, with a burst of light coming through a break in the canopy.
Lily studied each painting, then carefully set them aside on the ground beside her. There was the hint of another picture on the inside lid itself, but she couldn’t make out what it was supposed to be. Perhaps it was just the artist testing his colours. Looking at it made her feel funny, as though the ground under her had gotten spongy, and she started to sway. She blinked. When she turned her attention to the rest of the box, the feeling went away.
The palette was covered in dried paint that, like the inside lid, almost had the look of a painting itself, and when lifted from the box revealed a compartment underneath. In the bottom of the box were tubes of oil paint, brushes and a palette knife, a small bottle of turpentine, and a rag stained with all the colours the artist had been using.
Lily turned the palette over and there she found what she’d been looking for. An identifying mark. She ran a finger over the letters that spelled out an impossible name.
Milo Johnson.
Treasure.
“Milo Johnson,” Aunt repeated, trying to understand Lily’s excitement. “Should I know that name?”
Lily gave her a “you never pay attention, do you?” look and went to get a book from her bookshelf. She didn’t have many, but those she did have had been read over and over again. The one she brought back to the kitchen table was called The Newford Naturalists: Redefining the Landscape. Opening it to the first artist profiled, she underlined his name with her finger.
Aunt read silently along with her, mouthing the words, then studied the black-and-white photo of Johnson that accompanied the profile.
“I remember seeing him a time or two,” she said. “Tramping through the woods with an old canvas knapsack on his back. But that was a long time ago.”
“It would have to have been.”
Aunt read a little more, then looked up.
“So he’s famous then,” she asked.
“Very. He went painting all through these hills and he’s got pictures in galleries all over the world.”
“Imagine that. And you reckon this is his box?”
Lily nodded.
“Well, we’d better see about returning it to him.”
“We can’t,” Lily told her. “He’s dead. Or at least they say he’s dead. He and Frank Spain went out into the hills on a painting expedition and were never heard from again.”
She flipped towards the back of the book until she came to the smaller section devoted to Spain’s work. Johnson had been the giant among the Newford Naturalists, his bold, dynamic style instantly recognizable, even to those who might not know him by name, while Spain had been one of a group of younger artists that Johnson and his fellow Naturalists had been mentoring. He wasn’t as well known as Johnson or the others, but he’d already been showing the potential to become a leader in his own right before he and Johnson had taken that last fateful trip.
It was all in the book which Lily had practically memorized by now, she’d read it so often.
Ever since Harlene Welch had given it to her a few years ago, Lily had wanted to grow up to be like the Naturalists—especially Johnson. Not to paint exactly the way they did, necessarily, but to have her own individual vision the way that they did. To be able to take the world of her beloved hills and forest and portray it in such a way that others would see it through her eyes, that they would see it in a new way and so understand her love for it and would want to protect it the way that she did.
Aunt considered her endless forays into the woods with pencil and paper in hand a tall step up from her earlier childhood ambition, which was simply to find the fairies she was convinced lived in the woods around them. Lily had pursued them with the same singular focus that she now devoted to her drawings of trees and stones, hillsides and hollows, and the birds and animals that made their homes in the forest.
“That was twenty years ago,” she said, “and their bodies weren’t ever recovered.”
Twenty years ago. Imagine. The box had been lying lost in the woods for all that time. She must have passed by it on a hundred occasions, never noticing it until today when pure chance had it poke a corner up out of its burrow of leaves just as she was coming by.
“Never thought of painting pictures as being something dangerous,” Aunt said.
“Anything can be dangerous,” Lily replied. “That’s what Beau says.”
Aunt nodded. She reached across the table to turn the box towards her.
“So you plan on keeping it?” she asked.
“I guess.”
“He must have kin. Don’t you think it should go to them?”
Lily shook her head. “He was an orphan—just like me. The only people we could give it to would be in the museum, and they’d just stick it away in some drawer somewheres.”
“Even the pictures?”
“Well, probably not them. But the painting box for sure . . .”
Lily hungered to try the paints and brushes she’d found in the box. There
was never enough money for her to think of being able to buy either. They lived on whatever they could grow or gather from the woods around them, augmented by the small checks that Aunt’s ex-husband sent every other month or so. So Lily made her brushes with wild grasses, or by crimping locks of her own hair with bits of tin and pliers, attaching them to the end of hardwood sticks. For colour she used anything that came to hand—old coffee grounds and teabags, berries, fine red mud, the hulls of nuts, and onion skins. Some, like the berries, she used as she found them. Others she’d boil up to get their colour. But their faint washes lent only a ghost of colour to her drawings. These paints she’d found would be like going from the gloom of dusk into the bright light of day.
“Well,” Aunt said. “You found it, so I guess you get to decide what you do with it.”
“I guess.”
Finder’s keepers, after all. But she couldn’t help feeling that she was being greedy. That this find of hers—especially the paintings—belonged to everyone, not just some gangly backwoods girl who happened to come upon them while out on a ramble.
“I’ll have to think on it,” she added.
Aunt nodded, then got up to put on the kettle.
The next morning Lily went about her chores. She fed the chickens, sparing a few handfuls of feed for the sparrows and other birds that were waiting expectantly in the trees nearby. She milked the cow and when she was done poured some milk into a saucer for the cats that came out of the woods, purring and winding in between her legs until she set the saucer down. By the time she’d finished weeding the garden and filling the woodbox, it was midmorning.
She packed herself a lunch and stowed it in her shoulder satchel along with some carpenter’s pencils and a pad of sketching paper made from cutting up brown grocery bags and tying them together on one side to make a book.