Forests of the Heart (29 page)

The whole thing reminded Bettina of a desert sunset. Homesickness thickened in her throat and made her chest feel too tight. It wasn’t so much the desert she was missing as Janette’s growing up, day by day, so far away from where Bettina was making her home. Living here, Bettina was missing it all.

“That’s lovely,” Nuala said, coming over to the table to look at the painting.

“My niece painted it for me.”

“She seems to have as much talent as her mother.”

Bettina nodded. With the painting removed from the top of the package, she could see a small bundled piece of cotton cloth that had been tied closed with a piece of twine. She picked it up. Through the cloth she could feel what seemed to be beads. A necklace, perhaps, she thought, but undoing the knot in the twine, she folded the corners of the cloth back to find a rosary.

This could only be from Mama.

While her first thought was that it was yet another attempt of Mama to play on her guilt, when Bettina studied the rosary more closely, she realized it was anything but. The beads were made from various sacred beans and seeds that had been collected in the desert, the crucifix carved from dried cholla spines. Combined they evoked two potent
brujeríos:
that of the Virgin, and that of the desert. This was something Abuela might have given her, or Papa. To have it come from her mother felt… confusing, she supposed.

Looking up, she found Nuala’s gaze riveted upon the rosary as well. The older woman reached out a hand, fingers brushing the air above the threaded beans and seeds.

“This is very powerful,” she said.

“It’s from my mother.”

“She is a wise woman.”

For a moment Bettina thought how incongruous the idea was. Of all of them, Mama would have the least to do with Abuela’s medicines and
brujería,
or Papá’s
Indios
mysteries. But then she considered how Mama had kept them all together, fed and clothed them, tended to their bodies and their spirits.

“Sí,”
she said, nodding slowly. She closed her hand around the rosary and felt it grow warm between her palm and fingers, felt it tingle against her skin the way the air did before a thunderstorm. ‘“In her own way, she is very wise.”

She carefully stowed the rosary in the pocket of her vest and returned to the package, taking out Adelita’s gift. Nuala chuckled as Bettina set the small wooden dog carvings on the table by her coffee mug. There were five in all, Mexican folk art dogs painted in a rainbow palette of pinks, blues, lime greens, and bright yellows. Two stood on their hind legs, one seemed to be trying to sniff its own genitals, the remaining two were posed like coyotes made for the
turistas,
snouts pointing at the sky.

Truly
los cadejos,
Bettina thought.

“What fun,” Nuala said. “Your niece could have painted them.”

Bettina smiled. The freedom of color was similar, though the carvings were much more garish, almost fluorescent.

“They were born in a volcano,” she said.

Nuala gave her a puzzled look.

Bettina smiled. “Once upon a time,” she said, laying the palm of her hand between her breasts, “they lived inside me.”

The good humor left Nuala’s features.

“Think of this,” she said. “What do you call a wolf that pretends to be your friend?”

Bettina shrugged.
“No lo s
é—I don’t know.”

“A dog.”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” Bettina said.

But she remembered something her father had told her once, about dogs and wolves.

A dog is never simply what we think we see. He keeps us safe from the wolf and coyote, but deep in his heart, he
is
a wolf, a coyote. He is the one that
…

“They walk between the worlds,” Bettina said.

Nuala nodded. “And
between
is an ancient and potent piece of magic. It always has been, in all its shapes and guises. From the bridge that spans the gorge, or connects one side of the river with the other, to that moment that lies between waking and sleeping. From the gray mystery that lies at the junction of night and day to those twilight places where mingle and meet all the languages and cultures of the world, all the stories and landscapes and arts.”

Bettina nodded, the memory of her father’s voice growing stronger in her mind.
All dogs are spirits. They carry potent
brujería
so we must always be careful in our dealings with them.

“And in those places,” Nuala said, “you will always find him waiting: the dog, the wolf, the fox, the coyote. In some guise or other. And no matter what he promises you, death is the secret he keeps hidden in his eyes. In the end, there is always death, and it isn’t his.”

Bettina shivered. But her father had spoken of that as well.

Remember, they bring the little deaths, too: sleep, dreams, change, the step from this world into
la época del mito.
You don’t need to be afraid of them, but you should respect them.

Bettina touched one of the colorful carvings that she’d placed on the table before her.

“I’m not afraid of them,” she said.

“No,” Nuala told her. “The innocent never are.”

Bettina frowned, but Nuala was already turning away, back to the counter where she had been chopping vegetables for a stew. Gathering up the carvings, Bettina returned the colorful dogs to their box, along with Janette’s painting and her sister’s letter. She stood up from the table, the box in one hand, her coffee in the other.

“What?” Nuala asked, the steady rhythm of her chopping falling silent for a moment, speaking now as though their earlier conversation had been about nothing more profound than the weather. “Won’t you have some breakfast?”

“No, gracias,”
Bettina said and returned to her room where she set out
los cadejos
around the base of
la Virgen.

She regarded them thoughtfully, sitting on the end of her bed, finishing her coffee. If death was the secret in a dog’s eyes—and Bettina knew that Nuala had really been speaking about
los lobos
—then what was the secret in Nuala’s eyes?

Setting the empty mug down on the floor, she took the rosary Mama had sent from the pocket of her vest. She fingered the beads, saying a decade of Hail Marys before she even realized what she was doing. A smile touched her lips when she was done. It had been a while, but the comfort she’d once gained from the simple act could still affect her. She started to lay the rosary at the base of the statue, making room for it among the carvings, but then replaced it in the pocket of her vest.

It was time to go. She was supposed to sit for Chantal this morning. But first she made the sign of the cross before the statue, lowering her gaze respectfully. She would have to phone Mama and thank her for the rosary.

Chantal de Vega had a studio on the ground floor, on the other side of the house from Lisette’s. She was a sculptor, a tall, square-shouldered woman with a long blonde braid, a healthy ruddy complexion, and a penchant for loose-fitting clothes. Bettina always thought of her as an incarnation of Gaia, a statuesque earth mother, larger than life and generous to a fault. She had the easy good nature that Bettina remembered from her father’s amicable, if somewhat laconic,
Indios
cousins, and the most beautiful hands, large and strong, capable of easily lifting fifty-pound bags of clay, or pulling the finest detail from a sculpture. Bettina didn’t think she’d ever seen her in a bad mood and today was no exception, although she was apparently packing up her studio when Bettina arrived for her sitting.

“¿Y bien?”
Bettina said, her unhappiness plain in her voice. “What are you doing?”

Chantal gave her a cheerful smile. “Got handed my walking papers this morning.”

“But how can that be possible? You’ve only been here a few months.”

And of all Kellygnow’s residents, Chantal would be the last person to be asked to leave because she didn’t get along or fit in.

Chantal shrugged. “Well, it’s sooner than I thought it’d be, but it’s not like it’s some big surprise or anything. Everybody who comes here knows it has to end sooner or later.”

Bettina crossed the room to where Chantal stood, filling a line of cardboard boxes with the materials she’d brought to outfit the studio last autumn. She knew that this residency had meant a lot to Chantal, allowing her a comfort zone to explore a new direction with her art.

“I loved what I was doing,” she’d explained to Bettina once. “But I needed something more. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those people who draw a strict boundary line between craft and fine art, but I’d been a potter for too long, and frankly, I’d been too successful at it as well. I was always in that enviable position—at least from a business point of view—of getting more orders than I could fill. It’s pretty amazing in this day and age to work at something like I was doing and have to turn away commissions.

“But for all that I love making art you can use—you know, teapots and mugs and vases and bowls and the like—I’ve always wanted to do more fine art. More sculpture. Not just a piece here and there where I could fit in the time, but to really devote myself to doing it full time. The trouble is, it was a real struggle turning my back on the cash flow just to find the time to see if I could do it. If I even really
wanted
to do it. That’s what Kellygnow’s giving me. The opportunity to find out who I want to be.”

“And will you give up your pottery if you find you do like being a sculptor more?” Bettina had asked.

“Lord, no,” Chantal told her. “I couldn’t ever give up the feel of the clay between my hands when it’s turning on the wheel. I just don’t want to
have
to do it.” She grinned. “I want the luxury of doing whatever I damn well feel like doing and have somebody out there willing to pay me for the results.”

Now what was she going to do? Bettina thought.

“It’s a little early to say,” Chantal replied when Bettina asked. “I still have some money in the bank, but you know how quick that can disappear in the real world. Except for what I’ve got here, most of my stuff’s in storage. Truth is, I’m tempted to put it all in storage and just take off for a while.”

“It doesn’t seem fair,” Bettina said.

“Well, I won’t deny that I wish I could have finished that piece I was doing of you.”

“Just tell me when you’ve set up a new studio and I’ll come sit for you.”

Chantal smiled. “You’re okay, Bettina. I appreciate that.”

“De nada.
Don’t worry about it.” She sat down on the windowsill, feet dangling. “But I still don’t understand why they want you to leave.”

“That’s simple. They need the space for someone else.”

“I wonder who.”

With perfect timing, Nuala appeared in the doorway carrying a suitcase in one hand, a small bundle wrapped in cloth in the other. Entering the room behind her with a cardboard box in her arms was the woman Bettina had met yesterday. Ellie Jones. Various art supplies poked out of the top of the box she was carrying, sculpting tools, books, sketchpads.

¡Mierda!
Bettina thought. This was all her fault. If she hadn’t helped Ellie out yesterday, Chantal wouldn’t have lost her residency.

“Hello,” Nuala said, greeting them, her voice mild, guileless. “Lovely morning, isn’t it?” She set down the suitcase and placed the cloth bundle on a nearby table. Turning to Ellie, she added, “I’ll leave you all to get acquainted then, shall I? You remember where I said your bedroom will be?”

“Yes. Only—”

But Nuala was already out the door, as suddenly as though she’d been carried away on a sudden gust of wind, and an awkward silence rose up to fill the space she’d left behind.

“They’re like fallen angels,” Miki said.

She held her tea mug cupped between her palms, as though needing the porcelain’s warmth to get her through this. Hunter nodded encouragingly when she fell silent. He’d considered taking her to Kathryn’s Café, out on Battersfield Road, but she hadn’t been up for either a long trek in this cold weather, or for taking public transport, so they’d settled on Rose &
Al’s Diner, just around the corner from her apartment. The atmosphere wasn’t as warm and relaxing as Kathryn’s, but it had its own charm, being an odd hybrid of an English tearoom and an old-fashioned all-night diner, complete with booths, a curving counter and padded stools, chrome and red jukebox in the corner.

The couple who ran it were from Somerset, England, and couldn’t make a decent cup of coffee if their life depended on it, but they served their tea by the pot, baked their own biscuits and crumpets, and it was one of the only places in Newford that served real Devon cream. Some places offered all-day breakfasts; at Rose
&
Al’s you could get an English tea with scones, jam, and that Devon cream, from opening until closing.

“These… uh, Gentry,” Hunter said, prompting Miki when she didn’t continue. “You say they’re like fallen angels.”

She nodded. Shaking a cigarette free from her pack, she lit it and exhaled a stream of blue-gray smoke away from their table.

“Think of them as—what’s that Latin term?” It took her a moment before she found it.
“Genii loci.”

Hunter gave her a blank look.

“You know,” she went on. “Spirits normally tied to some specific place. A valley, a well, a grove of trees. These—the ones I’m talking about—are ones who’ve strayed too far from their normal haunts. Without that connection to their native soil, they’ve all gone a little mad—the way the angels who sided with Lucifer did when they lost their connection to heaven.”

“Okay.”

Miki gave him a sad smile. “Christ, I know how this all sounds, and I don’t half believe it myself. But that’s not the point. They believe it, and so, apparently, does Donal.”

“But what exactly is it that they believe?”

Miki sighed and took a sip of her tea. Hunter had already finished his first cup and was working on his second. Eleven o’clock on a Monday morning, they pretty much had the place to themselves. Which was probably a good thing, considering where this conversation was going.