Charles de Lint - Forests of the Heart

There were people who might disagree and point to ghosts as their proof, but ghosts were not spirits straying from la tierra de los muertos. They were those who had yet to move on from this world.

Eh, bueno. She would not let Nuala’s prejudices sour the day. The crisp, cold air, so different from that of the dry Sonoran Desert she’d called home, filled her with a heady sense of well-being. It was all still so new to her. The winter, lying thick and deep all around them. The snowy fields. The wind and the cold. The locals could complain, but it made the blood sing in her veins and she refused to lose the feeling of being so alive.

When Nuala returned for another load, Bettina acted as though the conversation the housekeeper had walked away from had never occurred. Instead, she chatted happily about the windswept lawn and the snow piled deep in drifts, Chantal’s offer to take her cross-country skiing and did Nuala think it would snow again tonight? Nuala gave her a considering look, eyes dark with la brujería, then shrugged, her gaze turning mild once more. As they continued to work, their differences fell silent between them, if not forgotten.

Later, Nuala went inside to begin dinner for the residents of Kellygnow. Salvador and Bettina finished stacking the rest of the wood, Salvador teasing her the whole time. He no longer wished to run away with her himself; instead, now he was trying to decide which of his nephews she should marry. Bettina laughed and shook her head at every suggestion he made. She followed him around to the side of the house where his old pickup truck was parked.

“Vamos a mi casa,” Salvador said. “You can eat with us. You know Maria Elena—she always makes too much.”

Bettina was tempted, but she shook her head. “I don’t want to impose.”

“Impose? How can you impose? You are like family.”

Bettina had no plans, except to read for a while, perhaps go for a walk later. Then she remembered how walking on the grounds had turned out for her last Saturday night. She was in no hurry for a repeat visit with el lobo.

“Entonces, gracias,” she said. “But only if you’ll stop at the market on the way so I can bring something.”

“What can you buy that Maria Elena hasn’t already made?”

Bettina shrugged. “A salad. Some fruit for desert.”

“Bueno. Only don’t buy too much.” Salvador patted his stomach, which was as flat as patio tile, and probably as hard. “I can’t afford to put on any extra weight.”

Bettina nodded solemnly. “I see what you mean.”

Salvador gave her a shocked look. He put his hands on his stomach, and stood straighter than he normally did, if that was even possible.

“¿ Cómo ?” he asked. “What do you see?”

“Nada,” she assured him. “Do I have time for a quick shower?”

When Salvador dropped her off at the house later that night, Bettina walked around back to the kitchen door, carrying the leftovers that Maria Elena had sent home with her. In one plastic margarine container was a leftover chile relleno and some refried beans. A smaller container held a serving of albóndigas —Maria Elena’s famous meatball soup. She wanted to put them in the fridge on her way to her room and it was quicker to simply go around the house, coming in by way of the kitchen, than to navigate her way through the warren of halls from the front door.

The sky was clear and riddled with stars. Snow crunched underfoot and the wind blew cold air up under her parka, making her shiver. She paused by the door. With her breath frosting in the air, she looked to the woods, wondering if any of los lobos were nearby. She could sense neither man nor spirit. Studying the shadows between the trees, her gaze was drawn to the light that spilled from the windows of the Recluse’s cottage, called to it as surely as the moths that fluttered against the screens in summer were drawn to the windows by the interior lights. Now that she had seen its inhabitant, it was impossible to ignore the witchy flavor her presence lent the building.

She should ask the woman if she had a brother, Bettina thought. A brother who was a priest.

Though what was more likely was that it had been the Recluse herself that Bettina had seen by the salmon pool. The Recluse, dressed as a priest. Or perhaps she’d only been wearing a collarless white shirt that had seemed like a priest’s garb in the dark. Pero, Bettina decided. The priest’s identity wasn’t the real question at the moment. She was more curious about what the priest had been doing in la epoca del mito in the first place, and why hadn’t el lobo been able to see him. Or rather, why he’d pretended he hadn’t seen him.

She turned back to the kitchen door.

It wasn’t something she was ready to pursue at this time of night. It probably wasn’t even any of her business, but it nagged at her all the same, the way mysteries always did. Because there was something in the way the priest had looked at her that night—if only in passing—before his gaze continued down to the pool where that enormous salmon lay sleeping… the creature that el lobo had called an bradán.

Perhaps she should have asked Nuala what an braddn meant, while the housekeeper had been willing to talk this afternoon.

Bettina shook her head. Oh, yes. Bueno idea. And receive yet another lecture. No gracias.

Nuala meant well, Bettina thought as she opened the door and stepped into the warm kitchen, but a mystery lay thick around her, too. Of course, that was none of Bettina’s business either, though she’d never let that stop her before. Her sense of curiosity was too strong to let any puzzle remain unchallenged for too long.

“Ah, chica, chica,” her abuela used to say. “If only you were as diligent with what I am trying to teach you as you are with your curiosity for everything else.”

Bettina closed the door behind her and leaned for a moment with her back against its wooden panels. She could almost hear her grandmother’s voice.

iPresta atencion!

Pay attention to this, to what is before you, not to every little whim and wonder the wind might blow your way.

“Teecho de menos, abuela,” she said softly. “I miss you so very much.”

Ellie wasn’t exactly thrilled about having to spend Saturday morning with Henry Patterson, a businessman who’d commissioned a bust of himself from her as a gift to his wife, but she didn’t see that she had much choice. Not if she wanted to keep him happy and collect her money. He was such a control freak—an exaggerated caricature of the sort of client she disliked the most. She supposed his type of person was useful in an office environment, get the job done and all that, though she certainly wouldn’t want to be an employee in that office.

Here, in her studio, his abrasive manner went beyond simple irritation.

He needed to be involved in every step of the process, overseeing all the various aspects as if he knew the first thing about sculpture, which of course he didn’t. The early stages when she was first building up a bust had been the worst. Yes, she’d told him. I need you here for this part of the process. I know there’s no likeness yet, but these things take time. If you’ll just be patient, I’m sure you’ll be more than pleased with the final results.

But patience, apparently, wasn’t one of Patterson’s virtues, if he had any, which Ellie had come to doubt. By his fifth sitting she found herself wondering why he was still alive. He was in his late fifties—surely someone would have strangled him by now?