Charles De Lint - Memory and Dream

“Too true.”

“So Alan wanted me to ask you if we could use one of the paintings that’s hanging at the Foundation for the cover of the East Street Press edition. He wants to use La Liseuse. The paperback sale hasn’t gone through yet, and he can’t guarantee anything, but he’ll try to get them to use the cover for it as well.”

Isabelle looked uncomfortable.

“What’s the matter?” Kathy asked. “I thought you’d love the idea.”

“I do—sort of. But it makes me worried.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“Those are numena paintings,” Isabelle explained. “I can’t help but be afraid of putting them in the public eye like that.”

“I’m not about to sell them to Rushkin,” Kathy said. “Give me that much credit.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. But Rushkin doesn’t even know they exist. I’m afraid if he did, he’d find a way to get at them.”

“But—”

“One of the things I hate about being away from the island is that I’m always afraid he’s going to sneak into the farmhouse while I’m gone and steal the ones I have there.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about that,” Kathy said. “Except for Paddyjack hanging in the kitchen, you’d have to be very determined to find the rest of them.”

There were storage spaces behind the eaves in the attic, between the drywall and the outer walls, and Isabelle had hidden the numena paintings in them, enfolding them in protective wrappings and then covering them over with old insulation and boards. Kathy was the only person Isabelle had ever shown them to.

“I know. But still ...”

“Actually,” Kathy said, “I don’t think you have to worry so much about Rushkin anymore. Didn’t you hear? According to Nora, he’s got himself a new protege.”

“Anybody we know?”

Kathy shook her head. “Her name’s Barbara Nichols and apparently she’s just a young thing—still in art school.”

“That sounds familiar.”

“You seem pretty blase about it.”

Isabelle laughed. “Why do you say that? Did you think I’d be jealous?”

“No. but I was thinking that maybe she should be warned—you know. About Rushkin and the numena and what he does to them.”

“I don’t think so,” Isabelle said. “If he hasn’t already told her about them, she’d think I was nuts—or at least jealous. And if he has taught her how to bring them over, nothing anyone might have to say would stop her from continuing to paint them. Trust me on this. I know.”

Or at least she hoped she did. She hoped she was saying this for the reasons she was giving to Kathy and not for a more selfish reason. But she had to admit the thought had crossed her mind that if Rushkin had found another artist to provide him with the numena he needed, then it would mean that her own would be safe.

“Have you seen her work yet?” she added.

“No,” Kathy said, “but Jilly has. She says it’s stunning.”

The poor girl, Isabelle thought.

“So anyway,” Kathy went on. “Don’t you think that puts the threat of Rushkin out of the picture?”

Isabelle hated to disappoint Kathy, but she had to shake her head. Unless she could be absolutely sure, she couldn’t take the risk.

“I know you must think I’m paranoid,” she began, but Kathy dismissed her explanation with a wave of her hand.

“Don’t even worry about trying to explain,” she said. “I understand. But you have to promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“That one day you’ll illustrate one of my books.”

“I ...” Isabelle hesitated.

“Oh, come on. One day Rushkin will be dead and gone and you’ll be able to do it with a complete peace of mind.”

“All right,” Isabelle said. “One day I’ll do it.”

“I’ll hold you to it,” Kathy assured her, then changed the subject. “So when does your new show open?”

“In October. I just have a couple more pieces to finish for it.”

“I think it’s going to do great. The island just seems to flow through your paintbrush onto the canvas.”

“I’ve always loved painting on it.”

“And you are going to stay with me for the week of the opening?”

“Try to keep me away.”

XXV

Wren Island, Beltane Eve, 1980

“What a great idea this was,” Kathy said. She adjusted the folded blanket she was sitting on and leaned back against a rock with her feet near the fire.

Isabelle nodded contentedly from beside her. It was still jacket weather once the sun went down, but they’d lucked into a perfect day for their Beltane Eve party. After the morning mists rising from the lake had been burned away, the skies had remained clear for the rest of the day. It was too early in the year for mosquitoes or blackflies and for once the reason you couldn’t see any no-see-urns was because they weren’t about yet either.

The bonfire was on the beach of a small cove on the east side of the island—a towering blaze of salvaged driftwood that was tended by whoever happened to be near enough to toss another few logs in when the fire got low. Isabelle had lost count of how many people had arrived by now. The dirt road on the mainland leading from the highway to her pier was crowded with parked cars, and her little rowboat and two others she’d rented from the marina had been ferrying people back and forth from the island all afternoon and well into the evening. The field up behind the cove was dotted with tents. Those who hadn’t brought tents had laid out their sleeping bags in the big barn. A hardy few planned to sleep under the stars—easily the best choice, Isabelle had decided once the sun finally set, for it was one of those nights when the sky went on forever, the stars seeming to flicker a handsbreadth away from your face.

With the potluck dinner finally over, music had started up on the far side of the fire. A dozen or so musicians jammed on a mix of folk songs, old hit-parade favorites and Celtic dance music. From where she sat with Kathy, Isabelle could see Christy’s brother Geordie among them, playing his fiddle, and Amy Scallan with her pipes, the two of them happily playing along on both Beatles’ songs and Irish reels.

Sitting near the musicians with their more traditional instruments was a whole contingent of people keeping rhythm by tapping sticks against each other or drumming them on rocks. On the stretch of sand between the lake and the fire a growing crowd was dancing, singing along when they knew the words.

Wine and beer continued to flow abundantly and the air was redolent with the smell of the fire, the lake and the pinewoods behind them, all mingled together with a sweet underlying scent of marijuana.

When a joint came their way Isabelle shook her head but Kathy took a long toke before passing it on.

Isabelle had a couple of glasses of some mystery punch that no one was quite sure who’d brought and, she decided from the slightly woozy way she was feeling, it must have been spiked stronger than she’d thought at first. She wasn’t exactly drunk; it was more that she was unusually focused. Everything she looked at or concentrated on for any length of time seemed inordinately interesting.

Kathy turned to look at her, the firelight making her hennaed hair seem to glow with its own inner lights.

“I’m having the best time,” she said.

Isabelle nodded. “I didn’t think so many people’d show up, it being a Thursday and all.”

“What, are you kidding? I don’t think one of our friends has a regular job.”

“But still.”

Kathy smiled. “I know. It’s like one of the old Waterhouse Street open houses, isn’t it?”

That was a perfect description, Isabelle decided, because just as at those parties, she only recognized about half the people here. But by all indications, as small groups got together, broke up and then re-formed into new configurations, everyone was still connected to someone she knew.