Charles de Lint: Forests of the Heart

“Sure.”

She tried to place his accent as she led the way back to the van, but couldn’t. His voice had a husky quality—like someone unused to speaking, or uncomfortable with the language. She also got the impression that he was well-educated, though she couldn’t have said why. But it would have been some time ago, she decided, when the overcoat was still new.

After drawing him a coffee from the urn, she started to fill a second cup for herself, then quickly changed her mind. She didn’t much care for black coffee, but the thought of adding milk to it made her feel nauseous again.

“Here,” the man said. “Have a nip of this.”

He took a silver flask from the inside pocket of his jacket and held it out to her. Just what she needed with the way she was feeling—a shot of cheap whiskey. But the peppermint she’d been sucking on earlier had lost its effect and anything would be better than this sour taste in her mouth and throat.

“Thanks.”

She took a sip, bracing herself, but the liquid went down smooth as silk, with the full body of a fine brandy. Not until it had settled in her stomach did she realize the kick it had. She gasped and her eyes began to tear. But a fluttering warmth spread through her and the sour taste was finally gone. The liqueur held a faint bouquet of honey and herbs, of a field of wildflowers. It was like drinking a piece of summer and for a moment she almost thought she could hear the buzz of bees, feel the heat of a hot summer’s day.

“Wow,” she said and peered into the mouth of the flask. She caught a glimpse of a light, yellowish-amber liquid. “What is this stuff?”

“Metheglin,” the man told her. “A kind of Welsh whiskey made from hops and honey. Have some more,” he added when she started to hand the flask back.

Ellie did, this time rolling the liquid around in her mouth before finally swallowing it. She looked down at the flask, noting the fine filigree worked into the metal before her eyes teared up again. She drew in a sharp breath, savoring the bite of the cold as it hit the roof of her mouth.

“So where would you find it in a liquor store?” she asked. “Under whiskeys or… you said it was made from hops. That’s like beer, right?”

Except she’d never tasted either a whiskey or a beer that was this good.

The man shook his head. “Can’t be bought, I’m afraid. A friend of mine makes it and gives me the odd bottle.”

“Nice friend to have.”

“All friends are good to have.”

“Well, sure… I just meant…”

“I understand,” he said as her voice trailed off. “Sometimes I am too literal for my own good.”

Ellie handed him the flask and watched it vanish back under his coat. He took a sip of his coffee and smiled at her over the top of the brim. Amiable and not in the least threatening, but there was something odd about him all the same, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

What was his story? She didn’t think he was a street person, but he didn’t really fit in this neighborhood either. It was something in how he stood, in the cut of his clothes—neither belonged in the cheap apartments to be found around here. His coat was obviously tailor-made—old and worn, it was true, but it hadn’t come off a rack. It fit him too well. And that flask was quality sil-verwork, an antique, probably, and worth a small fortune. It wasn’t something a street person would be carrying around.

But then you met all kinds on the street and who was to say what kind of bad luck had come his way? She’d served coffee to men who had been worth millions as well as to those who’d never had more than a few dollars to their name in their whole lives. Some were still proud; some pretended they’d chosen this life. Some had given up all pretense, or simply didn’t care anymore. Which was he?

She was about to break one of Angel’s cardinal rules and ask what had happened to put him on the street when Tommy joined them.

“The police want to ask you a couple of things,” he said.

She gave him a questioning look.

“Nothing serious,” he told her. “They just need a few more details to finish their report—if you’re up for it.”

“Sure.”

She tossed a wave to the man and he gave her a grave nod in return. That was another thing, she thought as she walked away. He didn’t act like a street person either. He didn’t act like he even belonged in this century, though where that idea had come from, she couldn’t say. But she’d met people like that before, men and women who seemed displaced in time. Or not to belong to any time. She remembered a boy in art school who’d been completely oblivious to the twentieth century. Walked everywhere, didn’t watch TV, didn’t even have a radio. He’d been amazed by the very idea of acrylic paints. And photocopying. And computers.

Only that wasn’t really it either. Something about the man with the silver flask simply niggled at the back of her mind, the way a familiar face or forgotten name will. Not that she’d ever seen him before. It was just… something.

When she returned from the police cruiser, the stranger had left and there was only Tommy, sitting inside the van, waiting for her. She got in on the passenger’s side and put her gloved hands up to the heat vent. Right now the vaguely warm air felt as strong as the heat put out by a woodstove. Somehow she’d forgotten all about the cold—at least she had until she’d walked from the police cruiser back to the van and the harsh winds made a point of reminding her with a fierceness that almost blew her off her feet again.

“Who was your friend?” Tommy asked.

Ellie shrugged. “He didn’t say.”

Tommy gave her an odd look, then shrugged.

“I haven’t seen him around before,” he said.

“Me, either. I’m not even all that sure he’s a street person.”

Tommy smiled. “Not everybody out at this time of night is.”

“I know. It’s just… he was strange.”

Tommy raised his eyebrows.

“Have you ever heard of metheglin?” Ellie asked.

“Nope. What is it—some new kind of drug?”

Ellie shook her head. “No, it’s more like a liqueur. He said it was Welsh, that it was made from honey and…”

Her voice trailed off as her gaze alit on a small business card lying on the dashboard in front of her. She took off a glove and picked it up. The card read:

MUSGRAVE WOOD

17 Handfast Road

“Where did this come from?” she asked, passing it over.

Tommy shook his head. “I’ve no idea.”

“That man—was he in the van?”

“Not while I was here.”

Tommy turned the card over in his hand. There was nothing on the reverse.

“Handfast Road,” he said. “That’s in the Beaches, isn’t it? Up on the hill?”

“I think so.”

“Where all the fat cats live.”

Ellie nodded and took the card back. She pointed at the words “Musgrave Wood.”

“So is that a person or a place?” she asked.

“I’d say person.”

“But what kind of a given name is Musgrave?”

“Good point,” Tommy said. “Maybe it’s a business. Though I’ve got an aunt named Juniper Creek.”

“Really?”

“Would I lie to you?”

“Yes.”

Tommy’s family seemed to include a veritable mob of aunts. They all had unusual names, dispensed folk wisdoms at the drop of a hat, and Ellie had never met a single one of them. Sometimes she suspected Tommy hadn’t either. She looked at the card again.

“What’s that little design?” she asked. “It seems familiar.”

Tommy leaned over to have another look, then shrugged. “I don’t know. Judging from the ribbonwork, I’d say it’s something Celtic. I think I saw something like it on one of those Celtic harp albums Megan’s playing all the time.”