Moonheart (7 page)

Kieran hid his surprise. Castaneda's books were vague at best, alluding to mysteries rather than revealing them. So much so that Kieran had wondered while he read them if Castaneda really knew anything about the Yaqui Way. He preferred the Wilson book he'd sent Jean-Paul the previous year, but hadn't really expected his friend to read any of them. Jean-Paul hadn't spoken of the books in his letters except to thank Kieran for them.

"You believe in such things?" he asked, regarding Jean-Paul in a new light.

"A little." Jean-Paul shrugged. "There is much in the world for which there is no explanation,
n'est-cepas?
I do not say that such things exist, but I am willing to be convinced.
Mais, ça ne fait rien.
We spoke of Thomas Hengwr, not of sorcery."

"The two are, perhaps, more entwined than you might imagine, my friend."

Jean-Paul settled back into his chair and regarded Kieran steadily.

"Then it seems," he said, "that the time has come for me to be convinced."

Kieran sighed. He knew, from his own experience, that there was only one way to convince someone and that was by showing them. Only the thought of doing so made him uneasy. From across a span of years, it seemed he could hear the old man scolding him.

"You want to impress people with tricks?" Tom had demanded. "Then take up juggling oranges or something. A mage has no time for conjuring and parlor tricks. Let me tell you what happens when you piss away your powers on them: First you lose respect for your skills and that debilitates them. And then, when a time comes that you really need them, you lose control and there's hell to pay. And let me tell you one more thing: secrecy in itself is a source of power."

"But what's the point of it all, then?" Kieran had asked.

"What you really want to know is why can't you use these powers to lift yourself to great heights in the eyes of the world, isn't it?" The old man spat and stared out across the Gatineau Mountains for a long moment, green eyes glittering with anger. Then he sighed. "You follow the Way to ennoble yourself so that you can do some good in the world, Kier. The powers are secondary— more defense than anything else. For as you come into contact with benevolent forces, so you come into contact with malevolent ones as well. Your powers are to protect you against the latter— not to make your journey any easier. Does that make any sense to you?"

"I think so," he'd replied, not really understanding then.

But in the years that followed, the old man's little speech stayed with him, clearer in his memory than many other incidents that had, at the time of their occurrence, seemed of far greater import. And in the end he
had
come to understand. Following the Way was a responsibility, not only to himself, but to the harmony he strove to create in his relationship with the world.

Weighty words, he thought, looking up to find Jean-Paul still regarding him curiously, but filled with truth all the same. In light of them, perhaps he'd been too harsh on Castaneda. If Castaneda knew the secrets, he hid them well, in between the lines of his books. Just as Kieran knew he had to hide them in between the lines of what he said to Jean-Paul now. There were times when truth was too dangerous— especially to the uninitiated. For they had no defense.

He stubbed out his cigarette and rolled another.

"I guess I was exaggerating," he said as he lit the cigarette.

"Oh?"

"There was a bond between us," Kieran explained, not wanting to lie to his friend, but not wanting to touch on matters best left unspoken either. "It was... mystical. No matter how far apart we'd be, I'd always know that he was... all right, I suppose. It was like we were in constant contact. You know what they say about twins? Tom and I were like twins, despite the age difference between us. I'd never met anyone like him before."

"You speak of him in the past tense," Jean-Paul said.

There was an intent look hidden behind the Frenchman's casual attitude, but Kieran was too caught up in what he was saying to notice it.

"I was working on a boat in Fox Point," he said. "That's a little village on St. Margaret's Bay. I knew Tom was in Ottawa— there was that bond between us, you see. Then two days ago... nothing. It was like he'd vanished from the face of the earth or... or..."

"That he'd died?"

"He can't be dead. I'd
know
if he was dead."

Jean-Paul shook his head. He pointed to the phone on the kitchen wall.

"You could call him,
non?
"

"He doesn't have a phone. I don't even know where he was staying. He was never one to have a home or to own things..."

"You two sound much the same," Jean-Paul said. "What was he doing here in Ottawa?"

"Looking for something. An answer to an old riddle."

Jean-Paul's eyebrows lifted quizzically.

"I know. It doesn't make much sense. I just don't know how to explain it. I said he didn't own things, only he did. He collected information in here." Kieran tapped his temple. "That was his wealth. I don't know exactly what he was looking for in Ottawa— not specifically. But whatever it was, he knew it was here."

Jean-Paul sighed. "I don't pretend to understand,
mon ami.
It all sounds too fantastic. This bond between you. Some mysterious quest. Your friend's disappearance. I would help you if I could,
n'est-ce pas?
But I don't know what help I can give."

Kieran looked around the kitchen.

"This is help enough," he said. "If I could stay here while I look for him..."

"
Bien sûr!
That is little enough for me to do. But what will you do? Where will you begin? It seems to me that you have set an impossible task for yourself. If all you have to go on is this— what? A broken bond?"

"I'll start by asking around. He had other friends in town."

"From what I remember of him, he knew many people, but had few friends,
non?
"

"There's that," Kieran agreed, but he remembered something else the old man'd told him once.

"I have enemies," Tom had said. "Not many, but the few I have are powerful. It's a regrettable thing, but when you follow the Way..." He shrugged. "The deeper you delve, the more chance there is that you'll make enemies. Not all mages seek the same knowledges, nor do we all wish to share what we've found with each other. Where there is light, there is also darkness. As it is in the souls of mankind, so it is in the soul of a mage. For are we not all men and women as well?

"You frown, Kier, but you will see. I wish you didn't have to, but you will see. I only hope you have the needed strength of purpose when the time of your challenge comes."

Kieran stubbed out his cigarette. A sense of bleakness rose up inside him. Was this his time? Lord dying Jesus, he wished it didn't have to be so.

"You seem tired,
mon ami,
" Jean-Paul said. "We should retire. The night grows late. I must be up early tomorrow and you have had a long trip. You must be weary,
non?
"

"Oui."

Jean-Paul took their plates to the sink and stacked them beside the frying pan. As he reached to flick off the light above the sink, Kieran spoke softly.

"Jean-Paul?"

"Oui?"

"Have you seen or heard anything of the old man lately?"

Jean-Paul paused a moment before replying. He turned and leaned against the sink to face Kieran.

"Not since the days of The Celt's Room— above that restaurant."

"The Lido," Kieran said.

Jean-Paul nodded. "That was it. They call it Christopher's now. It has become a McDonald's for the smarter set,
n'est-ce pas?
They still have a liquor license, only now they sell their hamburgers for four ninety-five. I think Thomas Hengwr would be as out of place in such a place as I was when you played in The Celt's Room."

He's lying, Kieran knew with sudden insight. He felt a pang of guilt at the unfair thought. Why should Jean-Paul lie to him? What could he have to hide? They were friends.

Friends, yes, he answered himself, but four years is a long time. Much can happen in four years. People change. And whatever the reasons, whether he had changed or not, Kieran knew Jean-Paul was lying.

He began to roll another cigarette to cover his confusion. As his fingers twisted the paper around the tobacco, his features remained calm. But anger and sorrow fought in his mind.

Nom de tout!
he wanted to shout. Why are you doing this? Why do you lie? How can you be the enemy?

As though in response to the sudden turmoil in his guest, Jean-Paul said: "You must remember, Kieran. Thomas Hengwr and I were never friends,
n'est-ce pas?
He would have no reason to contact me."

Kieran nodded, fighting down his anger and the need to know why Jean-Paul was dissembling. He studied his friend and saw, with that sixth sense that the old man had awoken in him, the telltale nervousness that he hadn't noticed before, the tightening around the corners of Jean-Paul's eyes, the very wavering in the air between them that said so much more than the words they spoke.

But knowing did nothing towards helping him understand. Nor did it ease the pain. And most confusing of all, he could still sense Jean-Paul's honest affection for him.

"Go to bed,
mon ami,
" Jean-Paul said. Kieran heard his voice as though from a great distance. "You remember the room? Second on the right from the top of the stairs. We will speak again in the morning when we are both more rested,
non? Bonsoir.
"

"Bonsoir,"
Kieran murmured and watched him go.

He listened to the creak of Jean-Paul's footsteps on the stairs and wanted to run after him and shake the truth from him. But now was not the time. First he needed some other answers, then he would confront Jean-Paul. Where was the old man? What part, if any, had Jean-Paul played in his disappearance?

Kieran knew he couldn't go off half cocked like some fisherman with one too many tots of rum in him. Taking a last drag from his cigarette, he butted it out and went to find his room.

It was the one he had always used when he stayed with Jean-Paul. Not a thing in it had changed. There was the double bed against one wall. It had a dark green quilt on it that hung over each side to brush the floor. His pack lay on the foot of the bed, his guitar on the floor beside. The room made Kieran sad, for it reminded him of better times when there'd been no suspicion between them.

Is this what you mean, Tom? he asked the empty room. That I should suspect my oldest friend of duplicity?

The sense of urgency that had sent him from Fox Point to catch the train in Halifax returned. Tom was gone. Not dead, but gone. But everything he'd ever taught Kieran remained. Light and dark. Black and white. Were things ever so clear cut? He saw himself in shades of grey. Jean-Paul... might he not be lying for some reason or other, but still not be an enemy? Kieran eyed his reflection in the mirror on top of the dresser and frowned. He turned to the window.

Kieran remembered hanging the flower print curtains that still hung across the window. Tugging them open, he looked out on Powell Avenue for long moments. It was a stately street— all old houses, brick and wood, with dormer windows and enclosed verandas, gardens and well kept lawns, tall elms and maples. It was the sort of area that was home to lawyers and architects and Assistant Deputy Ministers like Jean-Paul. Those that owned the houses. But, like any facade, many of these old mansions hid the fact that they'd been divided into apartments and housed everybody from prim old ladies to the odd whole-earth person who could afford the exorbitant rents.

The street filled Kieran's vision but could do nothing to lull his mind. Was he overreacting? Seeing conspiracies where none existed? He had nothing to go on but that extra sense the old man had taught him how to use.

"Think of it as a... a deep sight," Tom'd told him. "It's good for many things— stripping illusions and going to the heart of a matter. When you're dealing with people, it can act as a lie detector of sorts. And, when properly cultivated, it's far more efficient than any machine devised by man. We've got it all in here," he said, tapping his skull. "All we've got to do is learn how to use it."

Kieran sighed and turned from the window. He stretched out on the bed, not bothering to take off his clothes or unpack. It was possible that he was misjudging Jean-Paul, but things had changed. While it might not be dangerous for him to stay here, he couldn't take the chance that it might turn out to be so. With the old man missing and no one to find him except for Kieran... He'd wait until Jean-Paul was sleeping. Then he'd go. If he was wrong, he could always apologize later.

He set a mental alarm clock to wake himself an hour later, closed his eyes and slept.

Sixty-three minutes later, Kieran was drifting ghostlike down the stairs, as soft-footed as any smuggler making landfall on Scotia's rocky coasts. His pack was on his back, his guitar case in hand.

He paused at the front door, holding the moment of leaving in his mind with sadness, then slipped out into the night, easing the door closed behind him. It shut with a barely audible click. Standing on the stoop, he surveyed the street with deepsight more than his tangible senses. So it was that he discovered the man watching from a car before he was spotted himself.

He melted back into the shadows by the house. The man's car was across the street and three houses down. A black humor settled on him as he regarded what could only be a confirmation of his hitherto unproven fears. Had he needed tangible proof of Jean-Paul's duplicity, here it was, big as life. He felt no sense of triumph in being right.

He had two choices. He could make his way through Jean-Paul's backyard to Clemow and possible safety— temporary safety at any rate— or he could confront the watcher now and perhaps learn something of what was going down.

"There are times to retreat from danger," Tom would have said, "and times it must be faced head on. If you choose to face it— go boldly. Remember that no matter how strong your enemy might be, you too have power."