Free Ivory and the Horn by Charles De Lint Page A

scrap of paper she’d handed him. “Elders’ Council” was written in ballpoint. The address given was City Hall’s.
    “Who are they?”
    “Elders from the Kickaha Reservation.”
    “They’ve got an office at City Hall?”
    Debra nodded. “It’s part’ of a program to integrate alternative methods of dealing with problems with the ones we would traditionally use.”
    “What? People go to these old guys and ask them for advice?”
    “They’re not just men,” she said. “In fact, among the Kickaha—as with many native peoples—there ate more women than men sitting on an elders’ council. They’re the grandmothers of the tribe who hold and remember all the wisdoms. The Kickaha call them ‘the Aunts.’ “
    Dennison started to shake his head. “I know you mean well, Debra, but—”
    “Just go talk to them—please? Before you make your decision.”
    “But nothing they say is going to—”
    “Promise me you will. You asked me why I helped you last night, well, let’s say this is what I want in return: for you just to talk to them.”
    The last thing Dennison wanted was to involve himself with some nut-case situation like this, but he liked the woman, despite her flaky beliefs, and he did owe her something. He remembered throwing up last night and her catching the vomit in his garbage can. How many people would do that for a stranger?
    “Okay,” he said. “I promise.”
    The smile that she gave him seemed to make her whole face glow.
    “Good,” she said. “Make sure you bring a present. A package of tobacco would be good.”
    “Tobacco.”
    She nodded. “I’ve got to go now,” she added. She stood up and shook his hand. “I’m really glad I got the chance to meet you.”
    “Wait a minute,” Dennison said as she left the kitchen.
    He followed her into the living room where she was putting on her jacket.
    “Am I going to see you again?” he asked.
    “I hope so.”
    “What’s your number?”
    “Do you have a pen?”
    He went back into the kitchen and returned with a pencil and the scrap of paper she’d given him. She took it from him and quickly scribbled a phone number and address on it. She handed it back to him, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, and then she was out the door and gone.
    Dennison stood staring at the door after it had closed behind her. The apartment had never seemed so empty before.
    Definitely flaky, he thought as he returned to the kitchen. But he thought maybe he’d fallen in love with her, if that was something you were allowed to do with angels.
    He finished his coffee and cleaned up the dishes, dawdling over the job. He didn’t know anything about the Kickaha except for those that he saw in his office, applying for welfare, and what he’d seen on the news a couple of years ago when the more militant braves from the reservation had blockaded Highway 14 to protest logging on their land. So he had only two images of them: down and out, or dressed in khaki, carrying an assault rifle. Wait, make that three. There were also the pictures in the history books of them standing around in ceremonial garb.
    He didn’t want to go to this Elders’ Council. Nothing they could tell him was going to make him look at the world any differently, so why bother? But finally he put on a lightweight sportsjacket and went out to flag a cab to take him to City Hall, because whatever else he believed or didn’t believe, the one thing he’d never done yet was break a promise.
    He wasn’t about to start now—especially with a promise made to an angel.

    Dennison left the elevator and walked down a carpeted hallway on the third floor of City Hall. He stopped at the door with the neatly lettered sign that read ELDERS’ COUNCIL . He felt surreal, as though he’d taken a misstep somewhere along the way yesterday and had ended up in a Fellini film. Being here was odd enough, in and of itself. But if he was going to meet a native elder, he felt it should be under pine trees with the