Charles de Lint - Forests of the Heart

He didn’t know what he’d have said to her if she had come tonight. They hadn’t talked in weeks now. After she’d moved out he’d called her a couple of times at her parents’ place where she’d been staying. Later, when she’d gotten a place of her own, leaving instructions with her parents that he wasn’t to have her new phone number, he tried her at the office, but he only did that once because it was all too apparent there was nothing left to say.

“Get on with your life, Hunter,” she’d told him that day. “That’s all we can do now. Just get on with our lives.”

What life? Hunter had wanted to ask her, because without her, there suddenly didn’t seem to be any. But he’d only said goodbye and hung up. Took the Christmas present he’d bought her and stuck it away on a shelf in the back room of the store.

Leaning against the wall by the front door of the community center, he found himself thinking about all of that now. Maybe everything hadn’t ended when Ria walked out the door. He just had to put some meaning back into his life, some import that didn’t depend on anyone else for its worth. Easier said than done, he knew, but at least it was something to shoot for. And it sure beat the idea of wallowing in self-pity as he’d been doing for the past few weeks.

Donal and Ellie and a few of the others were going out to a coffee shop, now that the cleanup was done. When Miki asked if he was coming, he decided he might as well tag along. Not because Miki was going, because something might work out between them. And not even because of Ellie, who was gorgeous and smart and seemed to like him; he’d been in her company for most of the evening now and found that he’d quite enjoyed being there. He was going along with them for himself.

So he was waiting for the last of the musicians’ gear to be packed away, errant scarves and jackets, parkas and snow boots to be tracked down, final swallows of beer to be finished before the cans went into the recycling bins in the kitchen.

Dancing tonight, he’d used more muscles than he remembered having. It had been a long time since he’d let himself relax enough to become one of what Jilly called the “mad, ballyhooing bohos” that she claimed the band needed to carry the music up to new heights. Polkas were obviously the general favorites—not the German beer garden variety, but the Irish ones that seemed to require twice the energy and steps of a reel. Or at least they did with this crew. Tomorrow he’d definitely be feeling each and every one of those unused muscles. He knew, because he could already feel them aching. He appreciated this moment to catch his breath, to be alone for a few moments before he was plunged back into the pleasant maelstrom of their infectious camaraderie. When the door opened beside him, he barely registered the man who stepped through until he stood directly in front of him.

It was one of Donal’s hard men.

Up close like this, Hunter decided the appellation was a good one. The man had intense eyes, cold and dark, and a slit of a mouth that one could easily imagine had never attempted a smile. His suit smelled of old cigarette smoke and something else Hunter couldn’t quite identify. It wasn’t until much later that he remembered the last time he’d experienced that odor. It had been at the zoo. A musky, wild dog scent that had hung around the wolves’ enclosure.

“An dealbhóir,” the man said. His voice was thickly accented. “The sculptor.”

The only sculptor here was Ellie, Hunter thought.

“What about her?” he asked.

“She’s not for you,” the man said, his dark gaze boring into Hunter. “Do you understand?”

Hunter shook his head. He was feeling somewhat nervous now, not to mention slightly tipsy and definitely out of his league.

“She has other work to do,” the man told him.

Hunter swallowed thickly, cleared his throat. “And this is somehow your business—?”

The man gave him a quick, sucker punch to the kidneys. It happened so fast, Hunter never saw the blow. He gasped at the sudden pain and had to lean against the wall to stop from keeling right over. Hand on his side, he stared incredulously at his attacker.

“What—?”

“Careful now,” the hard man said. “You don’t want to fuck with us, you little shite.” He grabbed a handful of hair and pulled Hunter’s head up, bent his own dark face close. “Keep sniffing around her, and I’ll have to have another little chat with you and it’s my thought you’ll be enjoying it even less than the one we’ve had tonight.”

“But—”

The man jerked Hunter’s hair. “Might we have an understanding now, do you think?”

“Hey!”

Hunter recognized Donal’s voice, but it seemed to come from far away. Beside him, the hard man glanced over, then gripped Hunter by the shoulders and held him upright.

“Your man here seems to be feeling ill,” the hard man told Donal. “Can’t hold the drink.”

He gave Hunter a little push in Donal’s direction. While Donal was busy trying to keep Hunter from falling, the hard man did a quick fade out the door and was gone.

“Are you all right?” Donal asked.

Hunter nodded, feeling anything but. He straightened up, taking his weight from Donal’s support, and backed up until he could lean against the table that stood by the door. Earlier, a couple of members of the Newford Traditional Music Society had been sitting behind it, collecting money and stamping the backs of people’s hands once they’d paid. Now, in place of the cashbox and flyers describing the society’s upcoming concerts, there were only a few jackets piled on the table, along with somebody’s knapsack. Without the table to help hold up his weight, Hunter was sure he’d have fallen down.

Donal’s gaze went to the door where the hard man had made his quick exit, then returned to Hunter.

“What happened?” he asked. “Are you really feeling sick?”

It was odd, Hunter found himself thinking. One could see far worse fights on a TV show or in a movie. But where in those choreographed brawls the participants were back on their feet in moments, all he felt like doing was curling up on the floor. He wasn’t sure which was worse: the adrenaline crash, now that the moment of danger was past, or the sharp pain in his side.

“Was your man there giving you some trouble?” Donal said.

“He was… warning me away,” Hunter finally managed. “From Ellie.”

“From Ellie?”

Hunter nodded. “And then he… hit me.”

Donal’s gaze dropped to where Hunter was holding his side. He gave Hunter a sympathetic look.

“Jaysus and Mary,” he said. “You’re going to be pissing blood for a few days.”

“Lovely.”

“It could’ve been worse. The lot of them could have waited and jumped you outside.”

Hunter nodded. Donal was right, though it didn’t make him feel all that much better.

“What do you suppose he wanted with Ellie?” Donal asked.

“I have no idea.” Hunter thought for a moment, playing the conversation back in his head. “He didn’t exactly mention her by name—he just said ‘the sculptor’—but I knew who he meant.”

“There’s a half-dozen sculptors here tonight,” Donal told him.

“Maybe. Only I wasn’t talking to any of them except for her.”

Donal nodded, a frown furrowing his brow.

“Look,” he said. “Do us a favor and don’t mention this to Ellie, would you? There’s no point in upsetting her until we know more.”

“And how are we supposed to do that?”

“I don’t know yet, but I’ll think of something.” Donal gave him a critical once-over. “You still up for the cafe?”

Hunter shook his head.

“I didn’t think so,” Donal said. “I’ll make some excuses for you—might as well use the hard man’s line and tell them you’ve come down with a lager flu.”