Free Moonheart by Charles De Lint Page B

"Mr. Bojangles" to traditional Celtic music, weekends up in the Gatineau with the old man, learning the Way.
    He hadn't planned on coming back. At least not so soon, and not like this. But, he supposed, he should have expected it. Nothing lasted forever.
    When he and the old man'd moved to Nova Scotia, Kieran had felt he was home for the first time in his life. There was something about those rocky seascapes and rolling farmlands that struck a chord in him. He had a room in Billy Field's farmhouse near Peggy's Cove, southwest of Halifax, and spent his time wandering around, taking the odd job on a fishing boat when they were short-handed, gigging with Billy's group The Islanders or on his own. He'd been content. Even after the old man left. He'd missed Tom, but they'd kept in touch. With the bond that lay between they were never far from each other.
    That bond was important— not just for the affection between them. Kieran had a long way to go still, following the Way, and the old man was his mentor. He smiled, thinking of him.
    "Hengwr" literally meant "old man" in some language or other— or so Tom insisted. Tom looked like a gremlin out of a fairy tale, standing a head shorter than Kieran's five-eleven, with a hooked nose, grizzled beard and hair, and bird-bright eyes that protruded alarmingly, like the British comedian Marty Feldman's.
    But for all his comical appearance, accentuated by his penchant for floppy hats and baggy overcoats, the old man surely knew his stuff.
    That had become apparent from their first meeting across a table in the visiting rooms of St. Vincent de Paul Penitentiary outside of Montreal. The old man had been the visitor.
    It was in late '69 and Kieran was Serving two years for B&E and another two years for possession of cannabis with intent to traffic. The sentences ran concurrently. In real time, he'd do sixteen months. He had two left to go, having been passed over in his parole review.
    He met the old man in the middle of three days of solitary confine-merit— having been sent there for talking out of turn with a guard. The detention cell, called the hole, was six feet by ten, with a pallet on the floor, an enamel sink and potty, and little else. They took away all your clothes except for your underwear and gave you a pair of white overalls. Then, when they locked the big iron door that took up almost the whole of one wall of your cell, you sat there for however long a term you'd pulled. He'd been surprised when the guard came for him. Naturally the guard hadn't told him anything; just as naturally, Kieran hadn't asked where they were going. He changed from overalls to grey pants and shirt, put on his jacket and boots, and silently preceded the guard across the compound to the buildings that housed the prison's offices. It wasn't until they were inside that the guard finally spoke.
    "You've got a visitor, Foy. Go on through."
    A visitor? You didn't get visitors when you were in the hole. You lost all your privileges. He opened his mouth to ask what was going on, then thought better of it. What the hell. A visitor? He couldn't think of who it might be, but went on down the hall, stopped to be frisked by another guard before going into the visitors' room, then went in and saw Thomas Hengwr for the first time.
    That first view made him reconsider his earlier thought of, well, whatever was going on, at least it was a break in the monotony. He'd never seen such a weird-looking individual before, but what stopped him from laughing outright, or even smiling at the old man's appearance, was the uncomfortable sense of... In retrospect years later, he realized it was the sense of power that hung over the old man that'd kept him from laughing. He learned later that few people saw Tom in that light.
    "Kieran Foy?" were the old man's first words. "Come in, come in. Have a seat. I'm very pleased to meet you."
    Kieran stayed by the door.
    "Who're you?" he demanded.
    "Thomas Hengwr," the old man replied,