Forests of the Heart Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Charles De Lint
uncultivated, but recognizably the dimensions of the house’s gardens and lawn.
Bettina paused for a moment at the edge of the trees, both enchanted and mildly disoriented at how the familiar had been made strange. She could hear rustlings in the undergrowth—
los mitos chicos y los espíritus
scurrying about their secret business—but caught no more glimpses of any of them.
El lobo
took her to where, in her time, Salvador kept his carp pond. Here the neat masonry of its low walls had been replaced by a tumble of stones, piled haphazardly around the small pool water, but the hazel trees still leaned over the pool on one side. Lying on the grass along the edges of the pond was a clutter of curious objects. Shed antlers and posies of dried and fresh flowers. Shells and colored beads braided into leather bracelets and necklaces. Baskets woven from willow, grass, and reeds, filled with nuts and berries. On the stones themselves small carvings had been left, like bone and wood m
ilagros.
Votive offerings, but to whom? Or perhaps, rather, to what?
When they reached the edge of the pool, her companion pointed to something in the water. Bettina couldn’t make out what it was at first. Then she realized it was an enormous fish of some sort. Not one of Salvador’s carp, though she’d heard they could grow to this size.
The fish floated in the water, motionless. She had the urge to poke at it with one of the antlers, to see if it would move.
“Is … is it dead?” she asked.
“Sleeping.”
Bettina blinked. Did fish sleep? she wondered, then put the question aside. This was
la época del mito.
Here the world operated under a different set of natural laws.
“What sort of a fish is it?” she asked.
“A salmon.”
She glanced at him, hearing something expectant in his voice, as though its being a salmon should mean something to her.
“And so?” she said.
El lobo
smiled. “This is a part of the mystery you seek.”
“What do you know of me or what I might be looking for?”
“Of you, little enough. Of the other…” He shrugged. “Only that the older mysteries play at being salmon and such in order to keep their wisdoms hidden and safe.”
Bettina waited, but nothing more was forthcoming. Fine, she thought. Speak in riddles, but you’ll only be speaking to yourself. Ignoring him, she leaned closer to look at the sleeping fish. There seemed to be nothing remarkable about it, except for the size of it in such a small pool.
“If it were to wake,”
el lobo
went on. “If it were to speak, and you were to understand its words, it would change everything.
You
would be changed forever.”
“Changed how?”
“In what you were, what you are, what you will be. The mystery that you follow could well swallow you whole, then. Swallow you up and spit you out again as something unrecognizable because you would no longer be protected by your identity.”
Bettina lifted her gaze from the pool and its motionless occupant to look at him.
“Is this true?” she asked.
As if he would tell her the truth. But he surprised her and gave what seemed to be an honest answer.
“Not now, perhaps. Not at this very moment. But it could be, if you bide here too long. We should go—before
an bradán
wakes.”
An bradán.
She understood it to mean the salmon, but whatever enchantment had been translating their conversation passed over those two words. Perhaps because they named the fish as well as described it?
“Would that be so terrible?” she was about to ask.
For she found herself wanting to be here to see the salmon wake. To call it by name.
An bradán.
To watch its slow lazy movements through the water and hear it speak. To be changed.
But the question died stillborn as she turned back to the pool. On the far side of the water, a stranger was standing—a tall, older man, as dark-haired and dark-skinned as
el lobo,
but she knew immediately that he wasn’t one of her companion’s
compadres. Los lobos
were very male
Bettina paused for a moment at the edge of the trees, both enchanted and mildly disoriented at how the familiar had been made strange. She could hear rustlings in the undergrowth—
los mitos chicos y los espíritus
scurrying about their secret business—but caught no more glimpses of any of them.
El lobo
took her to where, in her time, Salvador kept his carp pond. Here the neat masonry of its low walls had been replaced by a tumble of stones, piled haphazardly around the small pool water, but the hazel trees still leaned over the pool on one side. Lying on the grass along the edges of the pond was a clutter of curious objects. Shed antlers and posies of dried and fresh flowers. Shells and colored beads braided into leather bracelets and necklaces. Baskets woven from willow, grass, and reeds, filled with nuts and berries. On the stones themselves small carvings had been left, like bone and wood m
ilagros.
Votive offerings, but to whom? Or perhaps, rather, to what?
When they reached the edge of the pool, her companion pointed to something in the water. Bettina couldn’t make out what it was at first. Then she realized it was an enormous fish of some sort. Not one of Salvador’s carp, though she’d heard they could grow to this size.
The fish floated in the water, motionless. She had the urge to poke at it with one of the antlers, to see if it would move.
“Is … is it dead?” she asked.
“Sleeping.”
Bettina blinked. Did fish sleep? she wondered, then put the question aside. This was
la época del mito.
Here the world operated under a different set of natural laws.
“What sort of a fish is it?” she asked.
“A salmon.”
She glanced at him, hearing something expectant in his voice, as though its being a salmon should mean something to her.
“And so?” she said.
El lobo
smiled. “This is a part of the mystery you seek.”
“What do you know of me or what I might be looking for?”
“Of you, little enough. Of the other…” He shrugged. “Only that the older mysteries play at being salmon and such in order to keep their wisdoms hidden and safe.”
Bettina waited, but nothing more was forthcoming. Fine, she thought. Speak in riddles, but you’ll only be speaking to yourself. Ignoring him, she leaned closer to look at the sleeping fish. There seemed to be nothing remarkable about it, except for the size of it in such a small pool.
“If it were to wake,”
el lobo
went on. “If it were to speak, and you were to understand its words, it would change everything.
You
would be changed forever.”
“Changed how?”
“In what you were, what you are, what you will be. The mystery that you follow could well swallow you whole, then. Swallow you up and spit you out again as something unrecognizable because you would no longer be protected by your identity.”
Bettina lifted her gaze from the pool and its motionless occupant to look at him.
“Is this true?” she asked.
As if he would tell her the truth. But he surprised her and gave what seemed to be an honest answer.
“Not now, perhaps. Not at this very moment. But it could be, if you bide here too long. We should go—before
an bradán
wakes.”
An bradán.
She understood it to mean the salmon, but whatever enchantment had been translating their conversation passed over those two words. Perhaps because they named the fish as well as described it?
“Would that be so terrible?” she was about to ask.
For she found herself wanting to be here to see the salmon wake. To call it by name.
An bradán.
To watch its slow lazy movements through the water and hear it speak. To be changed.
But the question died stillborn as she turned back to the pool. On the far side of the water, a stranger was standing—a tall, older man, as dark-haired and dark-skinned as
el lobo,
but she knew immediately that he wasn’t one of her companion’s
compadres. Los lobos
were very male