Charles de Lint - Forests of the Heart

“What can I do now?” Hunter asked.

They’d spent the last half-hour working on the red clay, finally getting it into a consistency that satisfied Ellie. Hunter had gone to refill the water bottle. When he returned, Ellie was in the exact same position she’d been in before he’d left, hands palm-down on the clay, fingers spread out, a small frown furrowing her brow as she looked off into some distance that only she could see. She blinked when he spoke and gave him a brief smile.

“Nothing,” she said. “I need to be alone.”

Hunter nodded and began to turn away, pausing when she added, “That sounded harsher than I meant it. It’s just that I have to concentrate.”

“It’s okay. I understand. There’s a lot riding on this.”

Thanks for reminding me, Ellie thought, but she only gave him another quick smile then returned her attention to the task at hand. She knew he hadn’t said that to add to the pressure she was feeling, but it hadn’t helped.

She watched him go, walking over to where Miki sat. When he put a hand on Miki’s shoulder, she looked up and Ellie felt her heart would break. She’d never seen Miki looking so disconsolate. The worst of it was, no matter what the outcome of what they were trying to do today, Miki had still lost her brother. And she’d still lost her friend.

Oh, Donal, Ellie thought. How could you do this to us? How could you have become such a stranger? Or had they ever really known him at all?

It was so depressing. She knew she shouldn’t be dwelling on it because it would only make her task that much harder—how do you create positive art when you feel like shit?—but it was impossible not to.

Donal’s gloomy moodiness had driven her as crazy as it had everybody else, but she’d always believed that it was more a schtick than something based in reality, as though he’d decided that the way to set himself apart from all the other artists struggling to make a name for themselves was to become the Eey-ore of the art world, gloomy, but almost good-humored about it. Half the time he’d actually pulled it off. They’d even been able to joke about it. But now… now she didn’t know anymore. Now it seemed that under the act had been a real darkness, a streak of cruelty and meanness that she still found difficult to reconcile with the Donal she’d always known. But she knew Miki wouldn’t lie about something like that.

Her gaze drifted from where Hunter was comforting Miki to the creature itself, guarded by Bettina’s brightly colored, fierce little dogs. Was Donal still somewhere inside that Glasduine, or had his spirit already traveled on?

Stop it, she told herself. Just stop it right now. Concentrate on what you’re supposed to be doing.

It was easier said than done, but she made the effort once more, laying her hands on the clay, feeling its texture, cool and damp, the smoothness pocked with tiny pieces of grit. A tabula rasa waiting for her to pull shape and sense out of its raw state. She searched for the spirit of the clay, listening for it, feeling for it, and considered her options.

At first she turned to her memories of the sketches of the original mask she’d done the other day, the changes she’d envisioned, the decorative leaf-work she’d planned to enhance the feel of the forest in it. Twinings of ivy, clusters of nuts, a bark-like texture in place. But that no longer worked for her. Anything to do with such forests just reminded her of Kellygnow and Donal, and started the spiral down to depression once more. She needed something entirely new.

Her gaze lifted to the giant cacti that grew here and there along the sides of the canyon and stood guard on the top edges, like Indian scouts. She would begin with them, she decided.

She rolled the clay out on the flat stone Hunter had found for her, working it until she had a flat circle perhaps a half-inch thick on the stone. Regarding it for a long moment, she wet it down, then went over to the side of the canyon, climbing up the loose stone and dirt to where the closest of the saguaro was growing. She ran her fingers along the smooth surface in between the spines that grew along the edges of its ribs. The top of this giant which reared some twenty feet above her was different from all the others she’d seen, sporting a gnarled, fan-shaped comblike shape that was almost five feet wide. It looked awkward and strange and startlingly beautiful, all at the same time.

These cacti already made her smile because of the way their arms appeared to be waving hello to her, wherever she looked. They gave off an inherent sense of calm and well-being, like kings and queens of the desert. The crown of this one only enhanced its regal air. That was what she’d aim for, she decided, half-sliding, half-stepping back down the uneven surface of the slope. She’d make the mask to mimic this stately crown with its spiraling, almost Pre-Raphaelite pattern of rib spines. She couldn’t think of anything that reminded her less of the forests north of Newford, of dark-haired Gentry wolves and Donal.

With the decision made, she was able to work quickly, concentrating on the overall impression, forgoing unnecessary detail. She wasn’t making a true representation here. She was creating a feeling, an impression, a connection to all the good things that the saguaro seemed to stand for: the warmth, sunshine, growth and growing, their royal heights and whimsical arms. But most of all, their great spirit.

By the time she had something that satisfied her, she was surprised to find that hours had gone by. She sat up straight, stretching out her back, and looked around. Bettina had returned, obviously successful in her hunt, for Tommy appeared to be sleeping peacefully, his head still resting on his aunt’s lap. Bettina sat close by them, her hands resting on Tommy’s chest as though in benediction. Her wolf sat a few yards away, eyes closed, resting.

Looking the other way, she found Hunter still comforting Miki. He had his arm around her shoulder and she leaned against him, looking smaller and more frail than Ellie had ever seen her. Past them, the Glasduine appeared to be docile, until she realized that all seven of the little, brightly colored dogs were keeping it in place. The arm that one of them had torn off lay abandoned. Ellie shivered when she saw that it was still twitching.

“I’m done,” she said, turning back to Bettina, since Bettina seemed to have taken on the responsibility of leadership. Even Aunt Nancy deferred to her.

Bettina looked up, her eyes hollow, her features drawn with weariness. But she managed a smile.

“Está bueno,” she said. “Los cadejos are beginning to have trouble keeping the Glasduine restrained.”

She stood up, stretching as Ellie had. Aunt Nancy caught her arm before she could walk over to where the sculptor sat with the finished mask.

“You are a true healer,” the older woman said. “You know this, don’t you? You don’t need the plants and herbs to do your work for you. The medicine lies inside you, in your hands, in your heart.”

Bettina gave a slow nod. She had felt it herself when she’d worked on Tommy, realized for the first time that the brujería was rising up from inside her, rather than coming from the plants she’d been able to gather. She glanced at her wolf. She wondered if this was part of what he’d meant about her needing to heal herself—a greater understanding of who she was.

“I’m in your debt,” Aunt Nancy said, “for what you have done here for my nephew.”

Bettina nodded, too tired to argue that helping someone as she had just done with Tommy, had nothing to do with debts or payments. It was what a healer did. She gave Aunt Nancy a distracted smile, then joined Ellie, her wolf trailing along behind her. They looked down on the mask. Ellie felt too close to the piece to be able to judge it herself. She hoped she’d managed to capture the essence of the giant cactus in the clay. With the Glasduine growing steadily more powerful, they were only going to get the one chance, so it had to be right.