Charles De Lint - Memory and Dream

“The loon represents fidelity to my people,” John said, “so it’s anything but a silly bird. Of course, I’m biased.”

“Would you prefer me to call you John or Mizaun?”

“Oh, John’ll be just fine.”

“Your Kickaha name is really beautiful.”

“So is Isabelle.”

Izzy blushed. “But it doesn’t mean anything.”

“That’s not true. It comes from Elizabeth, which means ‘consecrated to God.’”

Izzy pulled a face.

“Well,” John said, “if you’re not religious, just think of it as meaning you are sacred to the great spirit that oversees the world. You can’t find fault with that.

Izzy shook her head.

“And Isabelle,” he went on, “is also related to the name Isa, which means ‘iron-willed.’”

“Oh great,” Izzy said. “An iron will’s about the last thing I’ve got.” But speaking of names reminded her of something. “How did you know my name this morning?”

“I asked someone—I don’t remember who.”

Well, of course that made sense. The waitress brought her order then and they went on to talk of other things. Izzy felt a little odd, eating while John was having nothing, but he assured her again that he had no appetite, so she fell to. She was starving. All she’d had to eat all day was a muffin she’d grabbed on the way to her afternoon class.

“What did you mean last night,” John asked when she was finished with her meal, “about that being a bad time, or rather a bad way, to approach you?” Izzy gave him a long look. “You really don’t know, do you?”

When he shook his head, she told him about what had happened to Rochelle.

“I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it,” she said. “It was in all the papers and everybody’s been talking about it.”

“I wasn’t in the city that night,” John said.

“Isn’t it just awful what they did to her? And that’s why you spooked me when you stood there talking to me from the shadows. I couldn’t see your face at all, so I didn’t know what to think.”

“That was wrong,” he said. At first Izzy thought he was talking about last night, but before she could tell him that she knew now it had simply been bad timing, he went on. “The worst thing you can do is take away a person’s right to make a decision for him or herself. Without free will, we’re nothing. Slaves.

Objects. Nothing more.”

“I agree,” Izzy said. “I mean, who wouldn’t? But ...” Her voice trailed off. “But what?”

“Well, what about hunting and trapping? That’s what your culture’s based on, isn’t it? Those animals didn’t decide to die.”

John smiled. “No. But long ago we made a pact with the wild things of the forest. We take only what we need, no more. And we do it with respect. We have no fear of facing the spirits of our victims when we all meet together in Epanggishimuk.”

“When you meet where?”

“The spirit land in the west—where we go when our wheel upon this world has made its final turn.”

The amusement returned to his eyes, but this time it held a hint of mockery. “You know: those famous ‘happy hunting grounds.’”

Izzy nodded. “I guess you must get tired of everybody having something to say about your culture, and none of them knowing anything about it.”

“Not really. We don’t have a particular monopoly on spiritual enlightenment and many of our people don’t follow the old beliefs themselves, but I still think our relationship with the natural world has much to offer as a kind of touchstone for others to form their own pacts with the earth. They should only remember that we’re not perfect ourselves. Our people fit no more tidily into boxes as a whole than might any race. We were not the murdering heathens we were made out to be when the Europeans first took our land, nor were we noble savages. We were just people, with our own ways, our own beliefs—nothing more, but nothing less.”

“I wish there were more people like you,” Izzy said. “If there were, then maybe something like what happened to Rochelle would never have taken place.”

“The ones who hurt her will receive their just reward,” John said. “This I can promise you.”

Something about him changed as he spoke. His features were stern and there was such a grim tone to his voice that it scared Izzy a little, enough so that she could barely suppress a shiver. When she looked into his face, he didn’t seem to see her. Instead it was as if he was staring off into some far unseen distance where that terrible vengeance was taking place.

“By their very actions,” he said, “they have stepped onto a wheel where retribution will play a principal role.”

Izzy wished he’d come back from wherever it was he had gone. She didn’t like this dark side to his personality that had suddenly been revealed. In the back of her head she heard Rushkin’s voice telling her that John was evil, for her to be careful. But just as she started to get really spooked, John’s gaze focused back on her and he offered her a weak smile.

“Or at least that’s what my people believe,” he said.

Izzy was surprised at how relieved she felt to have him back. “Speaking of beliefs,” she said,

“Rushkin—the guy I’m studying under—he thinks I made you up.”

She thought it was kind of funny, and brought it up to clear the air and maybe bring a real smile back to her companion’s features. But John didn’t laugh. All he did was cock an eyebrow questioningly.

“He told me that I brought you to life through that painting I did,” Izzy explained. “No. How did he put it? That I gave you passage from some nebulous otherworld to here by painting you. You’re supposed to have watched me work and when you agreed on how I made you look, you crossed over.”

John laughed and all Izzy could do was think, Way to go. She’d succeeded in changing the mood, but only at the cost of making herself sound like a fool.

“He was pulling your leg, right?” John said.

Izzy shook her head. “No. He seemed quite serious.” She hesitated a moment, then decided to plunge on ahead. “He even warned me against you. He told me you were evil and I should destroy the painting and send you back.”

A frown took the humor from John’s features. “He should talk.”

Izzy blinked in surprise. “You know Rushkin?”

“I know his kind. They don’t live in the world, but they’ll sit in judgment of those who do and take what they want from it and from us.”

“No, you’ve got him all wrong,” Izzy said. “He’s a brilliant artist.”

“I don’t think so. True artists live in the world from which they take their inspiration. The two are inseparable—the subjects and those who render them. They return to the world as much—more—than what they take away.”

“He goes out,” Izzy said, thinking of how she’d first met her mentor.

“Oh yes,” John replied. “To observe. To take back what he’s found and capture it in his art. But not to partake of life. What does he give back?”

Me, Izzy thought, because that was all she knew Rushkin gave back. He teaches me. But he didn’t show anymore, and he’d told her often enough that he didn’t like to go out, didn’t like to talk to people.

“Can’t think of anything?” John asked.

“He’s just a little reclusive, that’s all,” Izzy replied. “But he’s inspired any number of people to enter the arts, so you can’t say he’s never given anything back. I can’t tell you how many people I know who got involved in the arts in one way or another because of him.”

John shrugged. “Any good a man such as he might do, is inadvertent.”

His reaction had been so strong to what Izzy had hoped would just be an amusing anecdote that she felt depressed. It was beginning to look as though they weren’t going to agree on anything. And what was worse, she couldn’t stop herself from thinking about what Rushkin had told her. She realized that for the past twenty minutes or so she’d been really studying John, almost as if she were trying to find the brushstrokes.