Moonheart (2 page)

The two men were sharing a pipe— the Indian held it, smoke streaming upward in a long spiral, and was passing it to the red-haired man. It was probably a peacepipe, Sara decided. She searched for a signature, but could find nothing to identify the artist. Sighing, she laid it aside and had a look at the pouch that had shared the painting's package. Maybe something in it would give her a clue.

Untying the knot, she shook the pouch's contents onto the countertop. Curious, she thought, examining the objects that came to light. There was a curved claw, its pointed end too dull to be a cat's. More like a dog's... or a wolf's. She turned it over in her fingers and decided from its size that it had belonged to something smaller. Like a fox.

Next was a bundle of tiny brown feathers, tied together with leather. Then kernels of dried corn, ranging in color from a very dark brown through rust to yellow, that were threaded on another bit of leather. A rounded pebble, with thin layers of what looked like quartz running through it, followed. The last two objects were the strangest yet.

One was a flat disc made of bone. Holding it up to her eyes, she could make out a faint trace of design on either side. On one was a pair of stag's horns, each point carefully delineated, on the other a quarter moon. Around the edge of each side ran a design that was worn so much it was almost impossible to make out. She held it under the lamp that served to light her desk and squinted, then finally dug a magnifying glass out of a drawer and studied the disc properly. The designs jumped out under magnification. They were intertwining bands of Celtic ribbonwork.

She sat back and thought about that, laying both magnifying glass and disc on the counter in front of her. Now here was something to dream about if ever there was. The disc was about the size of a checker and well worn, rounded like a fat button. What had it been used for?

The last object was a small ball of hardened clay, about the size of the large marbles she used to play with in grade school. Poking experimentally at the clay, a piece flaked off to reveal a dull gleam like brassy metal. A little pinprick of excitement ran up Sara's spine as she carefully broke away the clay. When she was done, she held in her hand a tiny ring, about a quarter-inch wide, with, she discovered when she investigated it under the magnifying glass, the same spiraling ribbonwork that she'd found on the bone disc. Weird. She hefted the ring in her hand, decided it was made of gold and tried it on. It was a perfect fit for the ring finger of her left hand.

She admired it for a moment or two, then had a sudden vision of cursed rings that couldn't be removed and tugged it off. When it lay in her hand again, she laughed at her overactive imagination and set the ring down with the rest of the pouch's contents. What a strange find, she thought, smiling at her luck.

Sara was the sort of person who thought a lot about luck. "Find a penny, pick it up; all the day you'll have good luck." She always did, no matter how tarnished or grungy the coin was. She never walked under ladders, nor let a black cat cross her path, sometimes circling a whole block just to avoid that invisible trail of ill chance. She always sent all twenty copies of a chain letter on, for all that she was sure it was a con job. Walking along a streambed, she'd pick one smoothed pebble out of hundreds and keep it in her pocket for months. For luck.

And now there was this.

What it looked like was someone's collection of luck. The claw, the pebble, the feathers, corn and bone disc— they were the sorts of things you might expect to find in an Indian's medicine bag. Except Indians didn't use Celtic ribbonwork, nor did they have gold rings. At least not in those days.

This time she stopped and wondered why she assumed it was so old. There was really no way that she could put a date to either the painting or the pouch... but she
knew
they were old. She just did. The intensity of that knowing gave her a queer feeling. She glanced at the painting again. A shaman and a Celtic bard, she thought.

Looking away, she blinked rapidly a few times and took a deep breath. Okay, it was old. Time to move on to more practical things. Whatever else the pouch had offered, there hadn't been a clue to the identity of the artist. She looked at the side of the box to see if Jamie had bothered to note where they'd gotten the box. Printed in his neat handwriting, with a magic marker, was:

From the Estate of

Aled Evans. A Welshman, if the name was anything to go by. Sara tried to picture what he'd looked like. Sort of Albert Schweitzerish? She shrugged and studied the painting again, bending so close that her nose was just a few inches away from it.

For a moment everything wavered around her. She had the decidedly weird sensation that the store had vanished, to be replaced by the forest in the painting. The feeling came over her with a razor-sharp acuteness— so suddenly that it took her breath away. She could sense the gnarled cedar thickets and the thick grass of the glade, the tall pines sweeping skyward on every side of her, their dark green points stabbing the clouds. The rich pungent odor of dark loam filled her nostrils.

Startled, she looked up, half expecting the image to remain and the store to be gone. But the shop was still there, as cluttered as ever. Outside, the afternoon drizzle continued to mist down, slicking the streets and spraying the windows with a million tiny droplets. Silly Wizard were just finishing off a selection of jaunty reels. Nothing had changed. Except maybe in her, for to her eyes the store seemed vague, lacking the clear definition of the forest she'd just seen, felt, smelled...

Her pulse beat a quick tattoo. She glanced at the painting again, expecting the sensation to return, but the painting remained what it was— an image of ink lines and watercolor in a wooden frame. Strange. She pushed the pouch's contents around with a finger and shook her head. Just for a moment there, it'd seemed that she'd really been someplace else. Maybe she was coming down with the flu.

At that moment the tiny bell above the front door jingled and the real world intruded on her speculations in the unmistakable shape of Geraldine Hathaway. She stood in the doorway with her back to Sara, shaking out her umbrella, then closing it up with a snap. Sara stifled a groan.

"Well, Ms. Kendell," Miss Hathaway said. Her glasses clouded up with condensation and she took them off, rummaged in her purse for a handkerchief, and wiped them before continuing. "How is business today?"

"Quiet," Sara said. Or at least it had been.

"Ah, well. The weather, you know." The glasses returned to her nose and the handkerchief to its purse. "I see," she added, studying the litter on the countertop, "that you have some new stock. Anything that might be of interest to me?"

"Hard to say," Sara replied. "It's mostly junk."

"Well, you know what they say. What's junk to some..." Her voice trailed off as she neared the counter.

Sara stifled another groan. She'd yet to figure out what made Geraldine Hathaway tick. The only time she ever seemed to want to purchase something was when it was being held for someone else. Then she'd wave her checkbook about and argue until Sara felt like wringing her neck.

"Oh, I say. What's this?" Miss Hathaway picked up the gold ring that had come from the medicine bag. "How much is this?"

"Its not for sale," Sara said and braced herself for the worst.

"Nonsense. Everything is for sale in an establishment such as this. There's no need to play coy with me. I'll give you a good price for it. Say fifteen dollars?"

I'm not angry, Sara told herself, and I won't get angry. The customer's always' right. It pays to be polite. God, what rubbish! If she never saw Miss Hathaway again it'd be too soon.

"Well?" Miss Hathaway demanded. "Don't grit your teeth, girl. It's an irritating habit. Have you got a box for it?"

"I'm afraid it's not for sale," Sara replied evenly. "First off, it's solid gold—"

"Why so it is! Twenty dollars then, and not a penny more."

"And secondly, it's mine, and I don't want to sell it."

"That's hardly a very businesslike attitude."

One, two, three. Deep breath. "Look," Sara tried. "I don't want to sell it."

"Well then, you shouldn't have it on display in your store."

"It wasn't on display. I was sitting at the counter here while I was—" She shook her head. "It doesn't matter what I was doing with it. I'm not selling it and that's final."

Miss Hathaway glared at her. "Well, that's a fine way to talk. I've got a good mind to report you to the Better Business Bureau. First you have merchandise offered for sale and you refuse to sell it. Then—"

"That's my right!" Sara cried, her voice rising with her temper. "If I don't want to sell something, I don't have to. I don't care if you go to Parliament Hill and get a bill passed saying I've got to sell it. You still won't get it."

"And then," Miss Hathaway continued, "you're extremely rude in the bargain."

"Rude?
Me?
"

Sara put a sudden clamp on her temper. She breathed slowly to steady herself and began again.

"Miss Hathaway," she said as politely as she could, "I'm not going to sell this ring and there's no point in arguing about it." She pried the ring from the woman's hands. "Thank you. And now in future, perhaps you'd care to do your shopping someplace else? I really don't need this sort of aggravation."

"Aggravation? Why!" For one blessed second Miss Hathaway was speechless. Then: "I demand to see the manager."

"I am the manager."

"The owner then."

"I'm the owner as well," Sara lied.

She could just imagine Jamie being confronted with an enraged Geraldine Hathaway. He wouldn't speak to her for a week. "Then... then..."

Sara came around from behind the counter and, taking the woman by the arm, steered her towards the door.

"We're just closing," she said.

"It's only two o'clock!"

"For lunch. Goodbye, Miss Hathaway."

They got as far as the door before the woman made her final stand.

"I demand to be treated with some respect!" she cried.

Sara couldn't hold back any longer. "Out, out, out!" she shouted, opening the door and almost bodily shoving Miss Hathaway through it.

On the sidewalk, Miss Hathaway opened her umbrella with an angry snap and glared at Sara. "You won't see me in here again," she said loudly, hoping to attract the attention of a passerby. Unfortunately, the drizzle was keeping most people off the streets and the sidewalk was empty.

"Well, thank God for that," Sara replied and slammed the door shut.

She locked it, turned the "Open" sign around so that it read "Closed" from outside and stomped back to her stool. She sat there fuming for long moments until the whole scene had repeated itself in her mind. Then she began to giggle. Well! She never thought she'd have the nerve to do that. Wait'll she told Jamie.

She opened her hand and looked down at the ring that had caused the whole fuss. It
was
hers, she decided. That was one of the nice things about operating The Merry Dancers. Her rooms at home were as cluttered as the store, filled with odd things that'd caught her fancy. The painting and the pouch's contents would be right at home there. She ran a finger along the frame of the painting. Who
had
the artist been? She looked at the side of the box once more.

"Dr. Aled Evans," she murmured, and decided to give Jamie a call to see if he remembered where he'd gotten the box or if he knew who Dr. Evans had been.

She remembered Jamie saying something this morning about
having
to get that damned article for
International Wildlife
finished, so he'd probably be at his desk in the Postman's Room. She dug the phone out from the shelf it shared with her coffee thermos and a stack of old historicals that she'd meant to give away ages ago, but never quite got around to. Setting the phone down on the countertop, she dialed the number and started to put the pouch's Contents back as she waited for Jamie to answer.

"Mmm?" he said, seven rings later.

"Hi, Jamie. Finished that article yet?"

"Oh, hello, Sairey. Almost. I'm having trouble summing up. How the hell do you sum up mushrooms?"

"You have them for dinner."

"Fun-nee."

"Guess who I threw out of the store today."

Jamie laughed. "David Lindsay, the well-known Australian explorer?"

"Nope. Geraldine Hathaway."

"You didn't."

"I did."

"Good for you!" he said.

"
And
I've been working hard all afternoon— cleaning out the storerooms."

"For this you interrupt a genius at his labor?"

"A genius would know how to sum up an article on mushrooms."

"Keep it up and we'll have you for dinner, you little wretch." Sara laughed. She rolled the ring back and forth in the palm of her hand and, checking the side of the box to make sure she had the name right, asked:

"Jamie, do you know a Dr. Aled Evans? That's A-L-E-D."

"I knew a Dr. Evans. He was a history professor at Carleton who died a few years ago. In '76. Why do you ask?"

"Well, one of the boxes that I'm going through has 'From the Estate of Dr. Aled Evans' written on its side. Was he Welsh?"

"Born in Wales, but he grew up in Toronto. He moved up here when the university offered him a position in '63."

"How come we've got a box of his effects in the back of the store?"

"Ah, well. I got to know Aled quite well, as it happens. When he died he left me everything he had. He didn't have any close family, except for some distant cousins in Wales, and he didn't want to leave a lifetime's treasures with total strangers. Most of it— the furniture and books and the like— are scattered through the House, but there were a few boxes of junk that I just stored in the back of the shop.

"I'd planned to sell them, but I didn't have the heart to go through them. I'd forgotten they were even there. I haven't thought of Aled in a long time. Funny you should mention him. He used to love mushrooms."