Tapping the Dream Tree Read online

  Tapping the Dream Tree

  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 ONION GIRL

  SOMEPLACE TO BE FLYING

  SPIRITS IN THE WIRES

  SPIRITWALK

  SVAHA

  TAPPING THE DREAM TREE

  TRADER

  WIDDERSHINS

  THE WILD WOOD

  YARROW

  Tapping the

  Dream Tree

  Charles de Lint

  A Tom Doherty Associates Book

  New York

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

  Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in these stories are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

  TAPPING THE DREAM TREE

  Copyright © 2002 by Charles de Lint

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  Edited by Terri Windling

  A Tor Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  www.tor.com

  Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  ISBN 0-312-87401-4 (hc)

  ISBN 0-312-86840-5 (pbk)

  Printed in the United States of America

  0 9 8 7 6 5

  Copyright Acknowledgments

  “Ten for the Devil” first appeared in Battle

  Magic, edited by Martin H. Greenberg and Larry

  Segriff; DAW Books, 1998. Copyright © 1998 by

  Charles de Lint.

  “Wingless Angels” first appeared in Black Gate,

  Vol.1, N.1, Spring 2000. Copyright © 2000

  by Charles de Lint.

  “The Words That Remain” first appeared

  in Taps and Sighs, edited by Peter Crowther;

  Subterranean Press, 2000. Copyright © 2000

  by Charles de Lint.

  “Many Worlds Are Born Tonight” first appeared

  in Lisa Snelling’s Strange Attractions, edited by

  Edward E. Kramer; ShadowLands Press, 2000.

  Copyright © 2000 by Charles de Lint.

  “The Buffalo Man” first appeared as a limited

  edition chapbook published by Subterranean

  Press, 1999. Copyright © 1999 by Charles de

  Lint.

  “Second Chances” first appeared as a limited

  edition chapbook published by Triskell Press,

  1998. Copyright © 1998 by Charles de Lint.

  “Forest of Stone” first appeared in Merlin, edited

  by Martin H. Greenberg; DAW Books, 1999.

  Copyright © 1999 by Charles de Lint.

  “Embracing the Mystery” first appeared in Spell

  Fantastic, edited by Martin H. Greenberg and

  Larry Segriff; DAW Books, 2000. Copyright ©

  2000 by Charles de Lint.

  “Masking Indian” first appeared in Mardi Gras

  Madness, edited by Martin H. Greenberg and

  Russell Davis; Cumberland House, 2000.

  Copyright © 2000 by Charles de Lint.

  “Granny Weather” first appeared in Imagination

  Fully Dilated Volume II, edited by Elizabeth

  Engstorm; IFD Publishing, 2000. Copyright ©

  by 2000 Charles de Lint.

  “The Witching Hour” is original to this

  collection.

  “Pixel Pixies” first appeared as a limited edition

  chapbook published by Triskell Press, 1999.

  Copyright © 1999 by Charles de Lint.

  “Trading Hearts at the Half Kaffe Café” first

  appeared in Single White Vampire Seeks Same,

  edited by Martin H. Greenberg and Brittiany A.

  Koren; DAW Books, 2001. Copyright © 2001

  by Charles de Lint.

  “Making a Noise in This World” first appeared in

  Warrior Fantastic, edited by Martin H. Greenberg

  and John Heifers; DAW Books, 2000. Copyright ©

  2000 by Charles de Lint.

  “Freak” first appeared in The Mutant Files, edited

  by Martin H. Greenberg and John Heifers; DAW

  Books, 2001. Copyright © 2001 by Charles de

  Lint.

  “Big City Littles” first appeared as a limited

  edition chapbook published by Triskell Press,

  2000. Copyright © 2000 by Charles de Lint.

  “Sign Here” first appeared in Apprentice

  Fantastic, edited by Martin H. Greenberg and

  Russell Davis; DAW Books, 2002. Copyright

  © 2002 by Charles de Lint.

  “Seven Wild Sisters” first appeared as a limited

  edition book published by Subterranean Press,

  2002. Copyright © 2002 by Charles de Lint.

  To the memory

  of Jenna Felice

  You’ll be missed

  more than you could ever know.

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Ten for the Devil

  Wingless Angels

  The Words That Remain

  Many Worlds Are Born Tonight

  The Buffalo Man

  Second Chances

  Forest or Stone

  Embracing the Mystery

  Masking Indian

  Granny Weather

  The Witching Hour

  Pixel Pixies

  Trading Hearts at the Half Kaffe Café

  Making a Noise in This World

  Freak

  Big City Littles

  Sign Here

  Seven Wild Sisters

  Author’s Note

  When I sat down to write the first Newford story (that was “Timeskip,” and I didn’t know that’s what I was doing at the time), I never imagined that twelve years later I’d be sitting down to write an introduction for a fourth collection of these stories. Needless to say, I’m GRATEFUL that others enjoy visiting this place as much as I do, allowing me the indulgence of regularly checking in on the characters to catch up on the gossip and see who’s new in town.

  This time out, as in Forests of the Heart and The Onion Girl, a few of the stories take us a little farther afield from New-ford’s familiar streets to the hills north of the city. It’s not that there aren’t stories left to tell in the city itself, it’s just that some took me down more rural roads.

  For those of you interested in chronology, these stories all take place before the events in The Onion Girl.

  I realize that in each of these short story collections I’ve thanked a number of people (often the same ones from book to book) and some of you might
be getting tired of reading the list of names. But their contributions are important, so please acknowledge them with me. I would like to especially thank:

  My wife, MaryAnn, who came up with the title for this collection. She has a gift for fine-tuning and asking the right questions, both of which help to keep the creative juices flowing;

  My long-time editors Terri Windling and Patrick Nielsen Hayden, and all the wonderful folks at Tor Books and at my Canadian distributor H. B. Fenn, with a special thanks to Irene Gallo, who has done such a fabulous job with her design work on my books at Tor, and to Tom Doherty, who continues to support these short story collections of mine;

  My friends Rodger Turner, Charles Vess and Karen Shaffer (without whom there’d be no seven sisters, wild or otherwise), Pat and Jon Caven, Andrew and Alice Vachss, Anna “Many Names” Young and Julie Bartel (who will always be Her Julieness), Charles Saunders, Paul “Possum” Brandon and Julie Hinchliffe, Glenn Elder (he really is older, I don’t care what the birth certificates say) and Lorraine Stuart, Joanne (“wine and chocolat”) Harris, John Adcox, Lisa (“I could be a crow girl”) Wilkins, and Jane Yolen (for many things, but here it’s for introducing me to the work of her poet Joshua Stanhold);

  The individual editors who first commissioned these stories: Larry Segriff, Peter Crowther, Lisa Snelling (thanks for letting me play on your Ferris wheel), Martin H. Greenberg, Bill Schafer, Russell Davis, Alan Clark, Liz Engstrom, Steve Savile, and John Heifer;

  And of course you, my readers, steadfast in your support, which is much appreciated.

  Lastly, some notes on a couple of the stories. In “Big City Littles,” Sheri’s story of the Traveling Littles is adapted from an Appalachian story detailing the origin of Gypsies; I found my version in Virginia Folk Legends, edited by Thomas E. Barden. Thanks to Charles Vess for introducing me to this delightful book. And in its initial publication, Seven Wild Sisters was dedicated to the red rock girls, Anna Annabelle and Her Julieness, and it still is.

  If any of you are on the Internet, come visit my home page at www.charlesdelint.com.

  —Charles de Lint

  Ottawa, Autumn 2001

  Ten for the Devil

  “Are you sure you want off here?”

  “Here” was in the middle of nowhere, on a dirt county road somewhere between Tyson and Highway 14. Driving along this twisty back road, Butch Crickman’s pickup hadn’t passed a single house for the last mile and a half. If he kept on going, he wouldn’t pass another one for at least a mile or so, except for the ruin of the old Lindy farm and that didn’t count, seeing as how no one had lived there since the place burned down ten years ago.

  Staley smiled. “Don’t you worry yourself, Butch.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  Opening the passenger door, she jumped down onto the dirt, then leaned back inside to grab her fiddle case.

  “This is perfect,” she told him. “Really.”

  “I don’t know. Kate’s not going to be happy when she finds out I didn’t take you all the way home.”

  Staley took a deep breath of the clean night air. On her side of the road it was all Kickaha land. She could smell the raspberry bushes choking the ditches close at hand, the weeds and scrub trees out in the field, the dark rich scent of the forest beyond it. Up above, the stars seemed so close you’d think they were leaning down to listen to her conversation with Butch. Somewhere off in the distance, she heard a long, mournful howl. Wolf. Maybe coyote.

  “This is home,” she said. Closing the door, she added through the window, “Thanks for the ride.”

  Butch hesitated a moment longer, then sighed and gave her a nod. Staley stepped back from the pickup. She waited until he’d turned the vehicle around and started back, waited until all she could see was the red glimmer of his taillights through a thinning cloud of dust, before she knelt down and took out her fiddle and bow. She slung the case over her shoulder by its strap so that it hung across her back. Hoisting the fiddle and bow up above her shoulders, she pushed her way through the raspberry bushes, moving slowly and patiently so that the thorns didn’t snag on her denim overalls.

  Once she got through the bushes, the field opened up before her, ghostly in the starlight. The weeds were waist high, but she liked the brush of stem and long leaf against her legs, and though the mosquitoes quickly found her, they didn’t bite. She and the bugs had an understanding—something she’d learned from her grandmother. Like her music.

  The fiddle went up, under her chin. Tightening the frog on the bow, she pulled it across the strings and woke a sweet melody.

  Butch and Kate Crickman owned the roadhouse back out on the highway where Staley sat in with the house band from time to time, easily falling into whatever style they were playing that night. Honky-tonk. Western swing. Old-timey. Bluegrass. The Crickmans treated her like an errant daughter, always worried about how she was doing, and she let them fuss over her some. But she played coy when it came to her living accommodations. They wouldn’t understand. Most people didn’t.

  Home was an old trailer that used to belong to her grandmother. After Grandma died, Staley had gotten a few of the boys from up on the rez to move it from her parents’ property on the outskirts of Tyson down here where it was hidden away in the deep woods. Strictly speaking, it was parked on Indian land, but the Kickaha didn’t mind either it or her being here. They had some understanding with her grandmother that went way back—Staley didn’t know the details.

  So it was a couple of the Creek boys and one of their cousins who transported the trailer for her that winter, hauling it in from the road on a makeshift sled across the snowy fields, then weaving in between the older growth, flattening saplings that would spring back upright by the time spring came around again. There were no trails leading to it now except for the one narrow path Staley had walked over the years, and forget about a road. Privacy was absolute. The area was too far off the beaten track for hikers or other weekend explorers, and come hunting season anyone with an ounce of sense stayed out of the rez. Those boys were partial to keeping their deer, partridge, ducks and the like to themselves, and weren’t shy about explaining the way things were to trespassers.

  Round about hunting season Staley closed up the trailer and headed south herself. She only summered in the deep woods. The other half of the year she was a traveling musician, a city girl, making do with what work her music could bring her, sometimes a desert girl, if she traveled far enough south.

  But tonight the city and traveling was far from her mind. She drank in the tall night sky and meandered her way through the fields, fiddling herself home with a music she only played here, when she was on her own. Grandma called it a calling-on music, said it was the fiddle sending spirit tunes back into the otherworld from which it had first come. Staley didn’t know from spirit music and otherworlds; she just fancied a good tune played from the heart, and if the fiddle called up anything here, it was that. Heart music.

  When she got in under the trees, the music changed some, took on an older, more resonant sound, long low notes that spoke of hemlock roots growing deep in the earth, or needled boughs cathedraling between the earth and the stars. It changed again when she got near the bottle tree, harmonizing with the soft clink of the glass bottles hanging from its branches by leather thongs. Grandma taught her about the bottle tree.

  “I don’t rightly know that it keeps unwelcome spirits at bay,” she said, “but it surely does discourage uninvited visitors.”

  Up in these hills everybody knew that only witches kept a bottle tree.

  A little farther on Staley finally reached the meadow that held her trailer. The trailer itself was half hidden in a tangle of vines, bookended on either side by a pair of rain barrels that caught spill-off from the eaves. The grass and weeds were kept trimmed here, not quite short enough to be a lawn, but not wild like the fields along the county road.

  Stepping out from under the relative darkness cast by the trees, the starlight seemed bright in contrast.
Staley curtsied to the scarecrow keeping watch over her little vegetable patch, a tall, raggedy shape that sometimes seemed to dance to her music when the wind was right. She’d had it four years now, made it herself from apple boughs and old clothes. The second summer she’d noticed buds on what were supposed to be dead limbs. This spring, the boughs had actually blossomed and now bore small, tart fruit.

  She stood in front of it for a long moment, tying off her tune with a complicated knot of sliding notes, and that was when she sensed the boy.

  He’d made himself a nest in the underbrush that crowded close up against the north side of her clearing—a goosey, nervous presence where none should be. Staley walked over to her trailer to lay fiddle and bow on the steps, then carefully approached the boy’s hiding place. She hummed under her breath, a soothing old modal tune that had first been born somewhere deeper in the hills than this clearing. When she got to the very edge of her meadow, she eased down until she was kneeling in the grass, then peered under the bush.

  “Hey, there,” she said. “Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

  Only it wasn’t a boy crouching there under the bushes.

  She blinked at the gangly hare her gaze found. It was undernourished, one ear chewed up from a losing encounter with some predator, limbs trembling, big brown eyes wide with fear.

  “Well, now,” Staley said, sitting back on her haunches.

  She studied the animal for a long moment before reaching carefully under the branches of the bush. The rabbit was too scared or worn out—probably both—to do much more than shake in her arms when she picked it up. Standing, she cradled the little animal against her breast.

  Now what did she do with it?

  It was round about then she realized that she and the rabbit weren’t alone, here in the clearing. Calling-on music, she thought and looked around. Called up the rabbit, and then something else, though what, she couldn’t say. All she got was the sense that it was something old. And dangerous. And it was hungry for the trembling bundle of fur and bone she held cradled in her arms.