Free Ivory and the Horn by Charles De Lint Page B

smell of wood smoke in the air, not cloistered away in City Hall, surrounded by miles of concrete and steel.
    Really, he shouldn’t be here at all. What he should be doing was getting his affairs in order. Resigning from his job, getting in touch with his cousin Pete, who asked Dennison at least every three or four months if he wanted to go into business with him. Pete worked for a small shipping firm, but he wanted to start his own company. “I’ve got the know-how and the money,” he’d tell Dtennison, “but frankly, when it comes to dealing with people, I stink. That’s where you’d come in.”
    Dennison hesitated for a long moment, staring at the door and the sign affixed to its plain wooden surface. He knew what he should be doing, but he’d made that promise, so he knocked on the door. An old native woman answered as he was about to lift his hand to rap a second time.
    Her face was wrinkled, her complexion dark; her braided hair almost grey. She wore a long brown skirt, flat-soled shoes and a plain white blouse that was decorated with a tracing of brightly coloured beadwork on its collar points and buttoned placket. The gaze that looked up to meet his was friendly, the eyes such a dark brown that it was hard to differentiate between pupil and iris.
    “Hello,” she said and ushered him in.
    It was strange inside. He found himself standing in a conference room overlooking the parking garage behind City Hall. The walls were unadorned and there was no table, just thick wall-to-wall on the floor and a ring of chairs set in a wide circle, close to the walls. At the far side of the room, he spied a closed door that might lead into another room or a storage closet.
    “Uh…”
    Suddenly at a loss for words, he put his hand in his pocket, pulled out the package of cigarette tobacco that he’d bought on the way over and handed it to her.
    “Thank you,” the woman said. She steered him to a chair, then sat down beside him. “My name is Dorothy. How can I help you?”
    “Dorothy?” Dennison replied, unable to hide his surprise.
    The woman nodded. “Dorothy Born. You were expecting something more exotic such as Woman-Who-Speaks-With-One-Hand-Rising?”
    “I didn’t know what to expect.”
    “That was my mother’s name actually—in the old language. She was called that because she’d raise her hand as she spoke, ready to slap the head of those braves who wouldn’t listen to her advice.”
    “Oh.”
    She smiled. “That’s a joke. My mother’s name was Ruth.”
    “Uh…”
    What a great conversationalist he was proving to be today. Good thing Pete couldn’t hear him at this moment. But he just didn’t know where to begin.
    “Why don’t you just tell me why you’ve come,” Dorothy said.
    “Actually, I feel a little foolish.”
    Her smile broadened. “Good. That is the first step on the road to wisdom.” She put a hand on his knee, dark gaze locking with his. “What is your name?”
    “Chris—Chris Dennison.”
    “Speak to me, Chris. I am here to listen.”
    So Dennison told her about his job, about Ronnie Egan’s death, about getting drunk, about Debra Eisenstadt and how she’d come to send him here. Once he started, his awkwardness fled.
    “Nothing seems worth it anymore,” he said in conclusion.
    Dorothy nodded. “I understand. When the spirit despairs, it becomes difficult to see clearly. Your friend’s words require too much faith for you to accept them.”
    “I guess. I’m not sure I even understand them.”
    “Perhaps I can help you there.”
    She fell silent for a moment, her gaze still on him, but she no longer seemed to see him. It was as though she saw beyond him, or had turned to look inward.
    “The Kickaha way to see the world,” she finally said, “is to understand that everything is on a wheel: Day turns to night. The moon waxes and wanes. Summer turns to autumn. A man is born, he lives, he dies. But no wheel turns by itself. Each affects the other, so that when the