Greenmantle (9 page)

“Hello, yourself,” he said, moving under the tree. “You’re up and about early today.”

She dropped lightly from the branches to stand beside him. She looked smaller, thinner, in the daylight, but no less mysterious. The brim of her hat was pulled down low and he couldn’t see her eyes until she tilted her head up to look at him.

“I like the night,” she said, “but I’m not bound to it. You know that.”

As she spoke she edged toward his woodpile. A few quick moves later and she was perched upon it, legs dangling down. Lewis followed her, moving more slowly, and fetched up his chopping block to sit on.

“I saw you dancing last night,” he said.

“I saw you too, only you weren’t dancing.”

“I’m too old now.”

“Doesn’t stop Lily.”

“She’s twenty years younger than me. It makes a difference.”

The slanted green eyes studied him for a moment, then looked away. “Maybe,” she said. Her gaze returned to him, a serious look in her eyes. “You shouldn’t have let him run so far last night, Lewis.”

“He belongs to everyone, not just New Wolding. I couldn’t stop him anyway.”

She nodded. “But there’s no room for him out there anymore. If he runs too far, he’ll be gone, too. A mystery like him wouldn’t last long out there.”

“It’s Tommy’s music,” Lewis said. “He’s the one who pipes the tune.”

“Tommy won’t listen to me.”

“What makes you think he’d listen to me? Anyway, he’s not just Tommy when he’s piping. He’s part of the mystery then.”

She sighed. “I know. There’s just not enough of you here anymore. If there were more of you, Tommy wouldn’t pipe so wild a tune. He’s calling, Lewis, because he knows you need more people, and he’s sending the mystery out farther and farther. One night the mystery won’t come back. You’ve got to bring some people in.”

“They don’t listen anymore,” Lewis said. “I’ve been out there. People’ve got too much else going on in their heads to hear properly anymore. The music’s just not strong enough for them.”

“But there’s some that would hear it the way it should be heard,” she said. “There has to be. If you could reach them… When’s the Gypsy due?”

Lewis shrugged. “A week, maybe two. They keep time like you do—as it comes.”

“Ask him,” she said. “There’s people out there who
will
listen. Ask him to find some for you. Otherwise things’ll change and the changes won’t be good. The music’s going out to the wrong people. When the echoes come back, they’re…they’re not always good. Maybe you should move again, Lewis—like you did when you came here.”

Lewis shook his head. “Where would we go?”

“Deeper.”

“Deeper
where
?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, Lewis. Nothing changes for me. I’ve got the moon and that’s all I need.” She smiled without humor. “Maybe that’s what you should do, Lewis. Drink down the moon and let him run free.”

Before he could reply, she jumped down from the woodpile and moved behind him. He felt the light touch of her hand on his head as she tousled his thin hair. By the time he turned around, she was gone.

Lewis sat there for a long time, thinking over what she’d said. Out there beyond this little pocket of the wild, they
did
hear the music differently, and whether they saw the mystery as a stag or a man or something in between, they understood even less about him than Lewis did. The mystery was their enemy. He was something you had to approach with your heart, but all they had in them was reason. The few folk that still searched for him—not even knowing what they were looking for—probably wouldn’t recognize him if they did find him.

I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, he thought.

* * *

That evening wasn’t a gather-up night so only the youngsters went up to the stone when Tommy began to play. Lily was visiting Lewis and together they sat outside his cabin, listening to the soft piping that drifted down from Wold Hill. They sat without speaking, though earlier Lewis had repeated the warnings of his small morning visitor with her green eyes and narrow fox’s face.

They both thought about the world losing another of its mysteries. It gave the night a bittersweet air. There were so few mysteries left. The world couldn’t spare the loss of even one of them now.

9

On Saturday afternoon, Frankie sat down on the edge of her bed still wearing no more than her bra and panties. She’d spent a fruitless twenty minutes trying on various skirts, blouses and dresses, and was no closer to deciding on what to wear for the evening than she had been when she’d come upstairs to take a shower in the first place.

You’d think I was Ali’s age, she thought, getting ready for my first date. Except Ali was already dressed and waiting for her downstairs.

She didn’t know why choosing what to wear seemed so important tonight. From all Ali had told her, Tony Garonne was a pretty casual fellow. And Frankie certainly wasn’t trying to wow him. But she hadn’t been out anywhere for a long time, and even if this was just dinner at a neighbor’s, it was a chance to get dressed up in something a little more becoming than the usual jeans and work shirt.

She combed her damp hair with her fingers, twisting it into curls so that they would dry in ringlets. I should have gone over to meet him this week, she thought. Then I wouldn’t be feeling this jittery.

But the usual one hundred and one things had come up—there was a
lot
that still needed doing around the house alone—and almost before she’d known it, it was late Saturday afternoon and time to get ready to go. What if he asked her what she was going to do now that she didn’t have to work eight-to-four in the government anymore?

She didn’t know herself, but it always sounded awkward and somehow self-indulgent when she tried to explain that she was going to use the time that the Wintario money had given her to find out just what it was that she wanted to do with her life. Finding oneself had so many weird connotations in the eighties. It sounded so…Woodstock. Never mind that she
was
part of that whole Woodstock generation.

She sighed. And of course that might make things awkward as well. According to Ali, he was about ten years older than her. What if he made a pass? What if they couldn’t find anything in common? What if—

“Mom, what’re you doing?”

She looked up to find her daughter standing in the doorway, arms akimbo. Frankie smiled ruefully, feeling like a kid with her hand in the cookie jar.

Ali shook her head. “What’re you so nervous about? He’s just a regular guy.”

“Who says I’m nervous?”

“I do. Look at you. Are you going like that?”

Frankie stood up and did a little pirouette. “What do you think?”

“Well, you’re certainly going to make an impression.” Ali ducked as her mother grabbed a pillow from the bed and threw it at her. “You want me to help you pick something out?” she asked, sticking her head back in.

“Why not?”

Ali went to the closet and rummaged through the hangers until she came up with a dress. “How about this?”

It was a black evening dress, mid-calf and snug in the bust, with shoestring straps. Frankie shook her head. “Oh, I don’t know…” she said.

“C’mon. It looks great on you. You can wear that Sarah Clothes jacket of yours over top if you’re feeling modest.” She handed her mother the shift and went to the dresser looking for a slip and pantyhose. “Do you still have that rhinestone choker with the single pearl?” she asked.

“Are you matchmaking?” Frankie asked.

“Jeez. Get serious, mom.”

Frankie shrugged and studied herself in the mirror. She looked good. A little dressy, perhaps, but it was fun after being such a scruff, especially these past few weeks.

“Shoes,” she said.

“I’ll get them. Maybe you should wear your walking shoes up, though. The road’s not exactly a sidewalk.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

It was sort of fun having someone else make the decisions, Frankie decided. She gave herself a last quick once-over in the mirror, then hurried after Ali who was impatiently waiting for her in the hall.

“You’re looking nice yourself,” she said as she followed Ali down the stairs.

“Yeah, well, it’s a dinner, you know? I don’t want Tony to think I can’t look like a lady when I want to.”

“Oh, I doubt he’ll think that after tonight.”

Ali was wearing a loose print dress that was gathered at the waist. Over her shoulders she had a pale rose shawl that matched the flowers on her dress. She looked very nice, Frankie thought, and then a motherly worry arose. Oh, I hope she’s not getting a crush on this fellow.

“Mom? Are you coming?”

“I’m halfway there already—what’s keeping you?”

Ali grinned. “Do you have room for this in your purse?” She held up a cassette.

“Sure. What is it?”

“Just some music that I wanted to play for Tony tonight.”

Frankie stashed it away in her purse. “Well, Ms. Treasure,” she said. “Are you ready?”

Ali rolled her eyes and led the way outside.

* * *

Tony Garonne was nothing like Frankie had expected. There was a sense of Old World charm about him that was vaguely at odds with the easy familiarity of his speech patterns. He was wearing a tailored suit, which made Frankie relieved that she’d worn the black evening dress, and smiled broadly as he opened the door.

“Ladies,” he said. “You look sensational. C’mon in and make yourselves at home.”

Now it was Ali’s turn to feel shy. Frankie held out her hand. “Frankie Treasure,” she said. “Ali’s told me a lot about you.”

“Nothing good, I’ll bet,” he replied as he took her hand. “Tony Garonne. How’d you like a little tour of the place before we eat?”

“I’d love it. This is a beautiful house.”

“Yeah, well it’s what I’ve got, you know, so I do what I can with it. Hey, what’s the matter, Ali? You got no hello for me today?”

Ali nodded. “Hello, Tony.”

Valenti gave Frankie a wink and ushered them inside. The first floor was mostly all one room. A tall stone hearth took up one wall, on another a picture window overlooked the front yard. The furnishings were simple, but expensive. Two couches faced the front window at angles, a coffee table between them. Rugs that appeared to be Navajo weavings gleamed on the hardwood floors. A third wall was taken up with a stereo console and a wall-mounted television. The cabinet under the stereo was filled with LPs and video cassettes. A long counter divided the kitchen from the rest of the room. Beside it was a small nook with a table and four chairs.

“There’s my bedroom, a guest room and the washroom upstairs,” Valenti said. “Go take a look if you like. I just got a couple of things to finish up in the kitchen.”

“This is beautiful,” Frankie said. She crossed the room to look at a watercolor that hung over the stereo. It showed a county road overhung with trees, heavily boughed and green. Very much a Lanark County scene. Frankie fell in love with it on the spot.

“That’s by this guy named David Armstrong,” Valenti explained. “I got it at a gallery in Ottawa. Local guy, apparently. And this”—he pointed to another watercolor, this time a winter landscape—“is by a lady that lives just up the road toward Calabogie—name of Tomilyn Douglas.”

“It’s lovely.”

“Yeah. I got a couple more of hers upstairs. Check ’em out while I get the last of this cheese sliced.”

Frankie glanced at Ali, who was entranced by the size of Valenti’s television screen.

“Look at the size of it,” Ali said. “It’d be just like watching something in a movie theatre.”

“We could watch something later if you like,” Valenti called from the kitchen area.

“That’d be great,” Ali said, her sudden shyness wearing away. “C’mon, Mom. Let’s go look at the upstairs.”

More motherly concerns, she supposed as she followed Ali up the stairs. There was a Richard Gill clay sculpture of a tree in the hall going up, as well as another Douglas watercolor—a barnyard scene in muted browns, grays and greens. The two upstairs rooms were both large and, again, tastefully furnished. But no books, Frankie thought. Lots of magazines lying around.
People, Life, Newsweek
.

“Some place, huh, mom? Wow. Look at this.”

Frankie turned away from a Bateman print to look at the little soft-sculptured gnome that was standing on the dresser in the guest room. There was a dusty-rose business card beside it that said “Fabric Art by MaryAnn Harris.” Frankie smiled at the expression on the little gnome’s face.

“I got that up at Andrew Dickson’s,” Valenti said from the doorway. “It’s a little craft place up in Pakenham. You been up there yet?”

Frankie shook her head.

“You should check it out sometime. They’ve got a gallery upstairs that showcases different artists and craftspeople every month.”

“Once we get settled in and the last of Ali’s exams are over, we’ll be doing lots of exploring,” Frankie said. “Right now, everything’s still so hectic. But it’s starting to come together.”