The Little Country by Charles de Lint
“What do you mean?” Janey asked.
“It’s all got to do with magic,” Goninan explained.
“Magic?”
Janey wanted to roll her eyes again, but stopped herself in time.
“Oh, not spells and incantations and that sort of thing. More like the beliefs of, say, George Gurdjieff—the Russian philosopher.”
Clare nodded. “I know him,” she said. “Well, not personally,” she added when Janey shot her a curious look, “but I know his work. We’ve carried his books in the shop—Beelzebub’s Tales to His Grandson and things like that.”
Now it was Goninan’s turn for curiosity.
“Shop?” he asked.
“I work at The Penzance Bookshop on Chapel Street.”
“Ah, yes. That new one. Your people have acquired a text or two for me.”
Clare glanced at where Helen was getting the tea ready.
“That’s where I’ve seen Helen before,” she said.
Goninan nodded. “Yes, she’s usually kind enough to fetch the books for me. I don’t get into town much anymore.”
“You were talking about magic,” Janey said.
“No, I was talking about Gurdjieff. He says that there are three levels of consciousness. There is sleeping”—he counted them off on his fingers—“there is sleeping wakefulness; and then there is awareness. Sleeping is just that. Sleeping wakefulness is when you walk around—” He suddenly pointed at Janey’s hand where it was tap-tapping against her knee. “You didn’t even realize you were doing that just now, did you?”
Janey looked down at her hand, which now lay still, and shook her head.
“That is sleeping wakefulness. We all walk through the world barely aware of what our bodies do, or what goes on around us. Awareness is when you are informed—utterly aware—of it all. Yourself and your environment. It’s akin to being an avatar—the sort of awareness of a Christ or a Buddha.
“For most of us, those moments of true awareness are very rare. They come at high points in our lives, such as the moment before one pronounces one’s wedding vows, or just before death—brief moments of complete awareness that encapsulate everything that we are in relation to, everything that is. Do you understand what I mean?”
Janey and Clare nodded slowly.
“Now imagine that you are always in such a state. To constantly recognize everything for what it truly is, and then to have such absolute control over your will that you aren’t capable so much of transforming your surroundings or the wills of those around you, but you can influence them to such extent that it might as well be considered magic.
“We humans have so much untapped potential that it literally boggles the mind. Consider the amazing things of which we are already capable in moments of need or duress—such as the woman whose child has been run over by a car and she goes over and lifts that immense weight so that the child can escape.
“People will explain this away as being the result of adrenaline, or psychic phenomena, or some such thing. What they don’t say is that the basic underlying truth of any such incident is the fact that in our moments of utter awareness, we are capable of things that defy our understanding of our accepted range of capabilities.
“We can literally do anything.”
“That. . .” Janey began. “That’s what the people of this Order are like?”
“No—but it is what they strive for; it is their magic. And many of them are, if not fully aware all of the time, at least in such a state far more than the rest of the world’s population. They have acquired great talents—woken gifts that are inherently present in each one of us—but they have twisted them to dark uses. Selfish uses.”
“And . . . this thing they’re looking for?” Janey asked. “The thing that they think we’ve got?”
“It will be a talisman of some sort. A catalyst. For see: Although we are all capable of waking from the sleep through which we live our lives—through perseverance and study and much practice and labour—there have always been objects of power that will facilitate the waking. In the Western tradition they center around relics such as the Spear that pierced Christ’s side, or the Fisher King’s Grail; there are others less familiar and also less powerful, though no less effective. The trouble with taking such a route is that one acquires the ‘magic,’ but not the wisdom to use it with any moral enlightenment. Following such a practice—the left-hand path, if you will—results in amorality.”
“And this thing we have—is it one of those artifacts?”
“I would have to see it to make that judgment.”
“Ah . . .”
Right, Janey thought. All sorts of weird people had been after the Dunthorn book for years, and they were supposed to simply bring it by to show it to Goninan as though it were some old ring that they wanted appraised. She had that done with a piece of jewelry once and the old lady in the shop had tut-tutted over the piece, telling her, “I’m afraid it’s not gold, love. More like pinchbeck—what the poor people used in place of gold in Victorian times. It was invented by a Mr. Pinchbeck, but the secret died with him.”
So they could pop by with the book and Goninan would pooh-pooh its value and offer to take it off their hands for a tiny sum—as the old shoplady had done—and then later they’d find out that it had been worth a fortune—as her pinchbeck pendant had been.
Not bloody likely she’d fall for that a second time.
Except Goninan surprised her again.
“But I don’t think that I have to see it,” he said. “Not to know what it is.”
Janey just looked at him, feeling nervous all over again.
“What do you mean?” Clare asked.
“I knew Bill Dunthorn as well as Tom Little ever did—in some respects better, for we shared a common interest that”—he glanced at Janey—“your grandfather never did.”
“Gramps always says that Billy was a practical kind of a bloke,” Janey said. “He didn’t belong to any mystical orders.”
“Absolutely. But he did seek after hidden knowledge. And he found it.”
The line from that letter that Janey had found in Dunthorn’s The Little Country returned to her.
That famous Mad Bill Dunthorn Gypsy prescience . . .
“Magic?” Janey said slowly. “Is that what you’re saying he found?”
Goninan nodded. “Though I think he would have preferred to describe it as a kind of enchantment. He found it and put it in a book. Not the books he had published, but a special book of which only one copy has ever existed. And that, I believe, is what the Order of the Grey Dove seeks from you.”
“You know about the book?”
“Of course. Bill and I talked about it a great deal.”
“Then how come you never wanted it for yourself?” she asked.
“There are as many different paths to enlightenment as there are people in this world. The path Bill took wasn’t mine. I already knew my path. I had, and have, no interest in following another.”
“And your path is . . . talking to bird spirits?”
“That is one way of putting it, yes.”
“What does the book do?” Clare asked.
“You might call it a gate to knowledge. To understanding. To the invisible world of the spirits.”
“Well, how does it work?” Janey asked.
“And where does it take you?” Clare added.
“To both questions, I must reply: I don’t know. It was Bill’s path, not mine, and though we spoke of our studies to each other, there are always elements to such work that cannot be understood without first being experienced. I had no wish to dilute my own work by testing another’s and Bill felt the same way about my studies. We compared results—not tangible results, but spiritual ones.”
Janey sighed. “This is making my head hurt,” she said.
Helen came over with a tray at that moment, laden with mugs of tea, a plate of scones, and s
“We’ll break for tea,” he said, “and give your subconscious minds a chance to assimilate what I’ve told you. After we’ve eaten, I’ll tell you about John Madden.”
“Who’s he?”
“The leader of the Order of the Grey Dove and a very dangerous man.”
Janey thought of how Clare had been attacked and Felix had been drugged and nodded.
“I’ll say he is.”
A somber look touched Goninan’s features.
“I hesitate to say this, for fear of spoiling your appetites,” he said, “but I must warn you that whatever unpleasantness has already fallen your way, I’m afraid that things will only get worse.”
“Don’t say that,” Janey groaned.
“Why?” Clare asked Goninan.
“Because you’ve opened the book. I’ve felt its enchantment working these past few days. And if I can feel it, then you can rest assured that Madden feels it as well. He’s been searching for that book for the better part of his life.”
“But there’s nothing magical in it,” Janey protested. “It’s just a story. There’s no secret knowledge—at least there isn’t so far. I’m not quite done reading it yet.”
Goninan indicated the tray again. “Drink,” he said. “Eat. We’ll talk again later. But this time we’ll talk outside.”
“Why outside?” Janey wanted to know.
But Goninan only smiled and helped himself to a scone.
4.
When the knock came at Jim Gazo’s door, Lena started to rise from her chair until Gazo waved her back to her seat. He took a small revolver from his pocket and, holding it at his side, out of sight, stood to one side of the door.
“Come on in,” he said.
The door swung open and Willie Keel stepped inside.
“Miss Grant,” he began when he saw Lena. “I’ve just come ’round to—”
Gazo stepped from the side of the door. He closed the door with his foot and lifted the revolver until the muzzle was touching the back of Willie’s neck. The small man froze.
“Th-there’s no need for this,” he said.
“How did you know to find Ms. Grant in here?” Gazo demanded.
“That’s all right, Jim,” Lena said. “You can put away the gun.”
Willie relaxed visibly when the muzzle was removed from his skin. Gazo replaced the revolver in his pocket and leaned against the wall.
“I still want to know how you knew,” Gazo said.
“Do you mind if I sit?”
Willie directed the question to Lena who nodded in acquiescence.
“I’d like to know, too, Willie,” she said.
“Well, now,” Willie said once he was seated. “The game of strangers you two played this morning didn’t wash with me, so when there was no reply at the door to your room, I just came down here to the room your friend went into this morning.”
Lena nodded. That seemed reasonable enough.
“What did you want, Willie?” she asked.
“It’s about my money. . . .”
“I told you we’d get it to you tomorrow. Don’t you trust me?”
Though why he should, Lena didn’t know.
“It’s not that,” Willie assured her. “It’s just that things have changed.” He glanced at Gazo, who still stood by the door, arms folded across his chest. “Your other, ah, associate—the one I met at the station for you?”
Lena nodded.
“Well, he was by my flat this morning. Threatened to kill me unless I told him who it was that stopped him from hurting the Mabley woman last night.”
“And you just told him?” Gazo asked.
Willie tugged his shirt from his trousers and pulled it up so that they both could see the welter of blue-black bruises that covered his sides and chest. Lena’s eyes widened.
“Take a look at this, mate,” Willie said to Gazo. “Your friend doesn’t have much patience, and I wasn’t getting enough money to risk my life, I’ll tell you that straight up and no word of a lie. The man would’ve killed me”—he turned back to look at Lena—“I could see it in his eyes.”
He tucked his shirt back in, wincing as he brushed against a bruise. Lena grimaced in sympathy.
“You did the right thing,” she said. “Did you warn your friend?”
Willie shook his head. “There was no answer at Davie’s place—both he and his mum were out.”
Lena indicated the telephone. “Do you want to try him again?”
“No time. I’ve got a ride waiting for me outside. This time tomorrow I’ll be so far from the West Country that your friend will never find me. And it’s there I’m staying until he’s gone.”
“So you want the rest of your money,” Lena said.
“If you have any you can give me.”
He started to reach into his pocket, stopping when Gazo stepped away from the wall.
“I’m just getting a wee slip of paper with an address on it,” he said. His gaze went to Lena. “Is that all right?”
When she nodded, he extracted a folded piece of paper and handed it over to her.
“That’s where you can send what you owe me,” he said. “I won’t be there, and the lad whose address it is doesn’t know where I’ll be either, but you can leave the money or a message with him and be sure I’ll get them.”
“I’m sorry about this,” Lena said. “Jim, do you have any money?”
“Only traveler’s cheques.”
“Will you sign some over to Willie?”
Gazo nodded, obviously unhappy about the situation, but not willing to argue with his employer—especially not in front of a third party.
“There . . . there’s one more thing,” Willie said when Gazo had signed over the cheques.
Willie stood by the door, ready to go.
“What’s that?” Lena asked.
“He also made me tell him who’d hired us to protect Clare Mabley—‘confirm’ was the word he used. He wanted it confirmed. I’m sorry, Miss Grant.”
Before either she or Gazo could move, he slipped out the door and was gone.
“That little weasel,” Gazo muttered.
He started for the door, pausing at Lena’s call.
“At least he came by and warned us,” she said. “He didn’t have to do that.”
“He just wanted his money.”
“I suppose.”
Why hadn’t she thought of that? Lena wondered. Normally, cynic that she was, it would have been her first thought.
“Bett was going to find out anyway,” she added. “One way or another.”
“No denying that.”
Lena glanced at the clock. The afternoon was winding down.
“Daddy’ll be here soon. He’ll get Madden to call off Bett.”
Gazo had crossed the room and was looking out the window, watching Willie Keel’s car pull away from in front of the hotel. Once the car was gone, his gaze shifted to the bay where the afternoon sun was gleaming on the water.
“I wouldn’t mind dealing with Bett before either of them arrive,” he said.
Lena shook her head. “Only if he comes here.”
“I know. I was just wishing aloud.”
You and me both, Lena thought, but she knew enough not to try to take on Bett—even with Gazo at her side. That was a last resort, because the trouble with Bett was that he was crazy. She could see that now. And how did you deal with a madman?
“What really makes me feel bad,” she said, “is thinking about that friend of Willie’s that Bett’s gone after.”
Gazo gave her a curious glance, caught what he was doing, and quickly looked away again. But Lena knew what he’d been thinking.
The Ice Queen was getting a heart.
And it was true. Felix had opened the gap in her walls and now she couldn’t seem to close it up again. She fou
There was no stopping it, no matter how much she tried.
And oddly enough, she wasn’t even sure that she wanted to try.
It hurt. And she didn’t like the pain. But she did find herself wondering why she would want to build up those walls again. She couldn’t deny the aching, deep hurt that she felt at the moment. It cut so deeply through her that it felt as though it would never go away again. But there was something else as well. Something unfamiliar.
It was what people called compassion.
And she found that it gave her hope. That caring for what happened to others actually made her feel better about herself. It went against everything that the Order had taught her, it might prove to be only a false promise, a momentary aberration in her character, but she found herself growing more and more determined to not go back to being the kind of person she’d been before.
It wouldn’t help her with Felix.
But it might bring her peace—something that she’d never even realized she was looking for until she’d tasted it in Felix’s company.
“Can people change?” she asked Gazo.
He turned with a puzzled look.
“I mean, can they really change,” she said. “Not just their appearance, or the face they turn to the world, but in here”—she touched her chest—“where it really counts?”
Gazo looked uncomfortable. “I don’t think I’m sure what you mean. . . .”
“Just be honest,” Lena said. “Forget the employer/employee business for just a few minutes and tell me what you think.”
Gazo didn’t say anything for a long moment, but then finally he nodded.
“It depends on how big a change it is that we’re talking about,” he began. He was couching it in vague terms, but they both knew he was talking about her. “But if it was a big one—a major change in someone’s personality—well, I don’t think it’d be easy, and it’d take time and a lot of patience, but I think people can do anything they want—so long as they really set their minds to it.”