Greenmantle by Charles De Lint Page A

the little gnome’s face.
    “I got that up at Andrew Dickson’s,” Valenti said from the doorway. “It’s a little craft place up in Pakenham. You been up there yet?”
    Frankie shook her head.
    “You should check it out sometime. They’ve got a gallery upstairs that showcases different artists and craftspeople every month.”
    “Once we get settled in and the last of Ali’s exams are over, we’ll be doing lots of exploring,” Frankie said. “Right now, everything’s still so hectic. But it’s starting to come together.”
    “Takes time.”
    “You’re not kidding. This is a lovely place you have here, Mr. Garonne.”
    “Tony.”
    “Tony,” Frankie repeated. “There are so many beautiful things.”
    “Well, I can’t do anything like that myself, but I like to support those who can. Sort of like a patrono , you know what I’m trying to say?”
    Frankie nodded. Actually, the house was almost like a gallery. It was so neat and tidy, and all the art was displayed in a professional manner, complete with the business card for the gnome. She also felt from Valenti’s enthusiasm that he really did appreciate what he had here. It wasn’t just for show. Or if it was for show, the show was for himself. With the money she had now, she could do as much herself. Though she’d have to be careful not to go too wild. The money wasn’t going to last forever.
    “So who’s ready for dinner?” Valenti asked.
     
    * * *
     
    The meal was a great success, consisting of antipasti, spaghetti with clam sauce and garlic bread, washed down with a white Italian wine. Frankie began to relax; their host didn’t seem inclined to pry. The conversation had been comfortably pleasant throughout the meal. In fact, Frankie realized later, while Tony hadn’t asked a lot of potentially awkward questions, he hadn’t offered much on his own background either. Maybe they all had skeletons in their closets, she thought. As far as she was concerned, they could just stay there.
    By the time they retired to the living room, she was on her third glass of wine and feeling a nice light buzz. Valenti shooed them away from the dishes. “They’ll give me something to do in the morning, you know?” Frankie and Ali commandeered one couch, leaving the other for Valenti, who paused as he walked by the stereo.
    “Maybe some music?” he asked.
    “Great,” Frankie said.
    Ali sat up. “I brought a tape,” she said as she reached for her mother’s purse. She rummaged around in it until she came up with the cassette, which she handed to Valenti.
    “What’s this?” he asked.
    “It’s a surprise. Something I taped up last night. Go ahead and put it on.”
    The sun had set and the room was lit only by one floor lamp over by the stereo. The night beyond the window was the black dark that only a country night can be. Nothing but tape hiss came from the speakers at first. Then slowly the sound of crickets and frogs, the whirr of a June bug could be heard.
    After a few moments, Frankie turned to her daughter. “Ali, what—”
    “Shhh. Listen.”
    And then it came, a low breath of sound that whispered from the speakers. Frankie regarded her daughter curiously, but Ali was watching Valenti. He stiffened with surprise at the first hint of the distant piping. Ali thought he was going to say something, but instead he leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes, hands behind his head.
    He knows something, Ali thought. She was eager to ask him about it right away—what was it, who was it, where was it coming from?—but she settled back as well, determined to be patient. They could talk when the cassette was over.
    Frankie was puzzled by both Tony’s and her own daughter’s reactions to this odd cassette that Ali had taped. It sounded like one of those “Environments” records that were so popular in the seventies. The sound of rain falling. Dusk on a lakeshore. Morning in the desert. Then she heard the music and that started to remind her of