Charles de Lint - Greenmantle

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You open a de Lint story, and like the interior of a very genial

Pandora's box, the atmosphere is suddenly full of deep woods

and quaint city streets and a magic that's nowhere near so far

removed as Middle Earth'

Jarncs P. Blaylock

~Mr de Lint's handling of ancient folklore to weave into an

entirely new pattern has never, to iby knowledge, bees

equalled'

Andre Norron

'Charles de Lint is a fol}singer as well as a writer and it is that

voice we hear . . . both old ard r~ew, Iyric, longing, touched

by magic'

Jane Yolen

'De Lint's touch is deft asd clean'

Paric Godwin

' . . . knows his folklore insido out'

fianrasy Review

P}aisc for Cbarles de Lint's Moonheart

'MoonAcarr is a deeply drawn book in which the fantastical

forces of warmth and cold meet and fight, rather like OppOSiDg

elements or tides. De Lint's poetic prose focuses on more than

the umplistic battle between good and evil. It investigates the

emotional nature of evil and shows how it can suborn the most

powerful of creatures . . . reaches to the very heart of

bumaniq . . . Moonhcarr is powerful stuff'

Fear Magazine

'De Lint is one of those rare wnters who can blend traditional

fantasy with an atmosphere of terror and suspense'

S.F. Chronicle

'An eclectic romp ot a book . . . excellent . . . read it!'

Intenone

'Compelling . . . well worth savouring'

Srarbursr

Also by Charles de Lint

in Pan Books

Moonheart

Charles de Lint

GREENMANTLE

PAN BOOKS

Leadoa. Svdue7 aud Auchland

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Frst published 1988 by Ace Bool~s, a divis~oa of the

Berkley Publishing Group, New York

First published in Great Britain 1991 by Pan Books Ltd.

This edinon first published 1992 by Pan Books Ltd.,

Caveyo Place, London SWIO 9PG

1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2

Charles de Lint 1982

ISBN 0 330 31111 5

Printed in England by Clays Ltd, St Ives p~

This book is sold subject to the condfition that it shaD not,

by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out,

or othenvise circulated without the publisher's prior consent

ia any form of binding or cover other than that in ~vEich

it is published and without a dmilar condition including thi.

condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

Grateful acknowledgment is made to:

Tar,jth Lee, for the use of the quote from her short story 'Brood-Mantle'

~rhich first appeared in Isaac Asimov's Scicnce Fiaion Magazinc,

Nov. 1985, copyright @) 1985 by Tanith Lee.

Jane Yolen, who introduced me to the poetry of Joshua Stanhold

in her book about his daughter and their relationship, Thc Stone Silazus

(PhilomellThe Putnam Pubbshing Group), copyright 62)1984 by Jane

Yolen.

Robisr WiDiamson for permission to use a portion of 'Song of Mabon'

from Seketed Wntings 1.øU~83, copyright (~1984 by Robin

WiDi~on, For ftuther infatmation on Robin WiDiamson write: Pig's

Whisker Muric Press, P.O. Box 27522, Los Angeles, CA 90027; or Pie's

Whisker Music Press, BCM 4797, Londoa, WC1N 3XX, England.

for

Joanne & John Hams

CONTENTS

...............PROLOGUE ; 1

..............................PART ONE: The Riddles of Evening 13

..............................PART TWO: The Huntsman's Guile 113

..............................PART THREE: A Fire of Bones 247

..............................EPILOGUE 323

..............................AUTHOR'S NOTE 328

...................................

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. _

PROLOGUE

Io Pan! lo Pan!

Come over the sea

From Sici1y andfrom Arcady

-Aleister Crowley,

from "Hymm to Pan"

Pan? Pan is dead. Or is that a

pun-Pan-du pain-bread-

peine-pain-the body of Christ?

-Tanith Lee,

from "Blood-Mantle"

M'91TA, August 1983

By the time Eddie "the Squeeze" Pinelli was five hours dead,

Valenti was on a Boeing 747 halfway across the Atlantic. He

sipped~the beer that the steward had brought him and stared out

the window into the darkness. He usually felt an honest regret

that thirgs had to get as far as they did before he was called in,

but not this time. Pinelli had been a capo in the New York City

Cerone Family, one of Don Cerone's special boys, but now the

sonovabitch was dead and the only thing special about him was

that those famous fingers of his weren't going to put the squeeze

on anyone anymore. That suited Valenti just fine.

Don Magaddino had called the hit-Valenti's own boss. "It's

pewnal," he'd told Valenti. '4That's why I called you, capito?

It's between you and me, Tony. Okay? I want that pezzo di merdc

dead and then we don't talk about this no more."

Eddie had got a little itchy and a lot crazy and put the squeeze

on one of the girls the Don kept on the side. Valenti understood.

It had been personal for him, too. Not so long ago, Eddie had

tried to malce a little time with Valenti's woman, Beverly Grant.

Only Bev wasn't going to get up and walk away like the Don's

girlfriend had when Valenti had walked in on her and Eddie earlier

tonight. Bev had taken a twelve-story drop and what was leR

of her you wouldn't want to see walk away.

Valenti had wanted to take Eddie down so hard then that it

hurt, but the Don wouldn't give him the word and a soldier didn't

take down a capo without an okay from way up. Cosifan tuni-

that was the way of the world. But Valenti was patient. He'd

known that soor;er or later Eddie, being the asshole he was,

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would lose it. All Valenti'd had to do was wait.

After the sweltering oven that was a New York City summer,

the Maltese weather was glorious. The air was so clear that he

could see for miles across the low hills with their tiered fields

being ~eadied for the fall harvest. He had the taxi d~op him off at

a4 Charles de Lint

the end of the fare and walked the rest of the way to the villa,

taking his time. When he reached the door, he took off his

sunglasses and brushed his thick dark hair with his fingers.

Then he knocked. Mario opened the door himself.

"lesus, Tony," he said, his gaze darting nervously behind

Valenti then back to his friend's dark features. 'What the hell

are you doing here?"

Valenti smiled. "Ciao. Mario. That's some welcome. Drop by

anytime, you tell me, so here I am and-"

"You're a dead man," Mario cut in. "You know thatT'

? Whattre you talking about? The sun down here driving

you a little crazyT'

Mario grabbed his arm and propelled him into the house,

slamming the door behind them. "I got a woman here,?? he said.

'Y got kids. They come looking for you here, what's going to

happen to them, 'eyT'

"You got some problem, MarioT'

"The only problem I got, Tony, is you." He stood back and

studied Valenti's face. "You don't know, do youT'

Valenti frowned. "All I know is I came a long way to see

you, but you don't look too happy to see me.'?

"Yw know the Squeeze is dead?" Mario asked.

"Sure I know that. I'm the one that hit hirn."

"Madonna nua! You are ctazy."

"But not that crazy," Valenti said. "Magaddino called the

hit.'?

"Oh, yeah? And who called the hit on himT'

"WhatT'

"Your padrone is dead, Tony, and the word is you hit h~n.

You hit him, you hit that girlfriend of his-the one with tbe red

hair-and you hit the Squeeze. And let me tell you, a lot of

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people, they're not too happy about it, capito? They want your

balls, Tony. They called me. I'm retired-what? Five years now?

But still they called me, asking if l'*e~seen you. Asking if I want

to make a little money. You know what I'm talking aboutT'

Valenti stepped away from the door and moved slowly into

the villa's spacious living room. He sank into a canvass chair

and regarded his friend.

Mario Papale was fifty-eight now, but he wore his years wdl.

His hair was a silvery grey-had been since he was thirty-his

dark skin even darker than Valenti remembered, tanned from the

Mediterranean sun. He was wearing a pair of white cotton

trousers and a short-sleeved shirt that was unbuttoned.

Watching

GREENM~

the way he wallted across the room, Valenti Icnew that the old

Fox hadn't lost a thing, retired or not. Maybe you never lost it.

"They caL3ed youT' he asked. "That quickT'

"What did you think, TonyT' Mario replied as he sat down

in front of him. '`This is a cane Grosso-a big shot we're talking

about. Not just a soldier like you or me."

"I didn't hit him. Eddie-yeah. But it wasn't pewnal. No

matter how I felt, I had orders."

"We're talking a padronc is dead here, Tony. Your orders

don't mean shit now because Magaddino's dead and you're

buying the rap for the hit."

"I've been set up."

Mario didn't say anything for a long moment. He studied

Valenti, telcing his time about it, then slowly nodded, "Chi lo

sa?" he said finally. Who knows? "But I believe you. You

never could lie to me, Tony. So what're you gonna do? You

need anything? You need money? A pieceT'

Valenti shoolc his head. "I've got a place in Canada-a safe

place. Clean. No one knows who I am."

"Too close," Mario said. "These bastardi'll smell you out

line dogs after a bitch in heat. You got to go someplace where

when you say you're a soldato they ask what anny, not what

family, capito?"

"This place I set up years ago, Mario-just like you told me

to, remember? Even in the fratcilanza a man needs a place

where he doesn't have to worry about his family. I've got

money there. And guns."

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"They're never gonna stop hunting you down."

Valenti shrugged. "I was getting tired anyway."

"Bullshit."

"Okay. So it's bullshit. You think I should turn myself over

to Ricca's justiceT' Ricca Magaddino was the Don's oldest son

and Rood to inherit his empire.

Mario laughed humorlessly. "This afternoon you're staying

with me," he said. "Tonight I drive you to the coast and

smuggle you off the island. I know people with a boat. You

need papersT'

Valenti shook his head. "These men with the boat. . . T'

"They're friends-not cousins."

"Okay. Grazie, Mario. I wouldn't have brought this down on

you if I'd known."

"You think I don't know that? Now let's forget this shit.

Come vai, 'ey? It's been a couple of years. Talk to me, Tony.

Maybe we don't meet again, so we take what time we got,

okayT'

Ch~ de Lh*

* * *

Mario's wife was half his age, a shy, dark-haired won~n

named Maria who spoke only Maltese. Mario had grianed when

introducing her to Valenti. ..Mario and Maria-how you like

that, 'ey?" She and the children were staying with ha sister in

nearby Marsalcala when the two men made ready to leave the

villa.

"The nightstre quiet hae," Mario said. "And dark. Just follow

me and don't get lost, capito?"

He went into his bedroom and unlocked a chest from which he

took a p~ur of American .38 calibre handguns. Valenti acceptod

one and nodded his thanks as he thrust it in his belt.

"I hope we don't need these," he said as they went down the

hall.

Mario nodded. "My car's got no shocks and the road's tho

shits," he said, "so maybe you better watch the family jewels,

'eyr'

"Sure," Valend said with a grin.

Mario hit the lights, throwing the hallway into darkness. Valenti

opened the door and the night explodbd with sound. The

first shot hit Valenti in the shouldbr and spun him around. The

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second and third spat into the doorjamb, showering bdh men

with splinters. A fourth bullet took Valenti's right bg from under

him and he fell to the floor.

"Bastard`!" Mario roared: He got off a couple of shots,

then slammed ~he door shut and bolted it. "We're in deep

now," he muttered as he glanced down at his friend. Thrustin

his gun into his belt, he hoisted Valenti up in a fireman's lift

and headed for the back of tbe house. By the time the soldan

broke in the front, the only thing left in the hallway was V~

butt's blood.

"Check out baclc!" one of the dark-suited men ordered, but

they already had men out there and he knew no one was going to

get through them. ~

The intruders fanned out through the villa, shooting into

closets, then ripping the doors open, kicking apart the beds,

checking any place whae a man might hide. But they didn't find

a thing. Then word came from the back of the villa that both

limmy Civella and Happy Manzi were dead and did Fucceri want

them to check the fields?

"Sure, sure," Louie Fucceri said. They didn't call Papale the

Silver Fox just because of his hair. It wouldn't surprise Fuccai if

they were halfway to Milan by now. He found a phone that bis

GREEpMANIIE

men had mercifully left intact and put a call in to his capo to

report their failure.

LANARK COUNTY, Febn~ary 1985

The tire blew on Lance Ma~well's pickup about a half mile past

the DarlingLavant township line. The truck skidded in the slush

as Lance brought it to a halt on the side of the dirt road. He got

out to check the damage, cursing under his breath.

"Stay, Dooker," he told the big German shepherd that was on

the passenger's seat.

He hunkered down for a look, then stood, hitching up his

pants. Christ on a cross! You'd think the sucker'd hold out for

just a couple more miles till he got home.

"Okay, Dooker," he called to the dog. "Come on down, boy."

The German shepherd jumped down from the cab of the pickup

and pushed his nose into Lance's hand. "Yeah, yeah. Okay. Go

catch yourself a squirrel or something. I got work to do."

He fetched the spare from the back of the pickup, leaned it up

against the side panel, then dug out his jack and tire iron from

under a mess of cord, tools and canvass. Glancing to see where

the dog had got to, he spied Dooker sniffing along the side of the

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road, back toward the turn-off that led up to French Line. The

blow-out had stranded him in front of the old Treasure place.

Frank Clayton's weather-beaten "For Sale" sign was still out on

the snow-covered lawn. Sure, Frank, he thought. The day somebody

buys this craphole from you's the day I stand you for a case

of two-four.

Dooker returned to see what he was doing as he got the jack

under the back of the truck and started to hoist the vehicle up.

"Get outta the way," he told the dog when it got too close.

He hadn't been the one to find old man Treasure-that joy'd

been reserved for Fred Gamble, who'd driven up to collect on a

grocery bill but had trooped right into the place along with everybody

else after the cops had hauled the body away. You never

saw such a thing. Buddy Treasure mustn't have thrown out a

ùewspaper since before the war.

They were piled ceiling-high along the walls of every room

"d hallway. Thousands of the suckers, all yellowed and stinking

aCh~ de L"

the way newspaper does when it gets wet. There were magazines too.

Old copies of the Star Week~y-he hadn't seen them for some time.

Life. MacLeans. Time Magazines going back to when most of the cover

was just a red border. All kinds. But thst wasn't the worst.

It seemed that in the last year Buddy'd decided to stop throwing

out his garbage or using the upstairs can when he had to go for a crap.

The kitchen had more refuse in it than the town dump. There was

mold and shit you didn't even want to think about growing over

everything. And talking about shit-Buddy'd tsken to dropping a load

in the corner of the living room snd wiping his sss with a piece of old

yellowed newspaper.

Weird fucker-no doubt about that. No wonder the missus took up

the kids and beelined out of there without a word to nobody.

That was nine, ten years~ago now, Lsnce thought as he removed

the blown tire. Longer since the missus took off. Willie Fuller had

bought the place from the bank snd tried to fix it up but he just

couldn't get the stink out of it. He sold it to some out-of-towner who

had stsrted to take down the wales, really getting ready to give the

place a good going over. But he quit halfway through the job and the

place'd been up for grabs ever since, Usted with Frank's agency. And

the day Frsuk sold the sucker. . .

"Shit," he muttered as he studied his spare. The tresd was worn as

smooth as a baby's sss. Well, it~d get him home. He finished up in a

hurry, tossed the old rim with the flaps of tin hanging from it into the

back of the truck. The jack and tire iron followed it with a clatter.

"Dook!" he called, looking around for the big shepherd. "Hey.

Dooker! Get your ass back here-double-time."

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He spotted the dog over in the field behind the Treasure place.

Dooker had his head lifted high li~e he was listening to something, his

broad head tilted to one side as he studied the woods beyond. Lance

started to call out again, but then he heard it, too. A quiet sort of

piping sound, low and breathy. It made him feel a little strange-hot,

like the way you get when the weather warms up and springtime grabs

you by the balls, telling you it's time to make babies.

He took a couple of steps in the direction that the sound was

coming from and started to get all sweaty. He was getting hard, his

penis pushing up against his jeans. Lanark County, like most of

Ontario, was in the middle of one of those February thaws that come

up for a few days, then buggers off with a laugh, but that

GREENMANnE 9

was no reason for him to be feeling the way he was. His penis was so

hard it hurt. His chest was all tight and it was hard to breathe. His ears

buzzzed with the piping sound that came drifting across the

fields-not loud, but it pierced him all the same.

He thought maybe he was going to come right there, right in his

pants on the side of the road, but then as suddenly as he'd become

aware of the sound, it left him. He staggered to lean weakly against the

side of the pickup.

Christ, he thought. That's it. My first honest-to-Jesus besrt attack.

He was still weak. It took all of his energy to lift his head and look

across the field. He could see Dooker, still listening, still watching the

woods though there was nothing there that Lance could see. Then

suddenly the biB shepherd shook himself, looked around and came

bounding back across the snow toward the truck. By the time Dooker

was pushing his nose up against Lance's hand, Lance was breathing

easier again.

Gotta see the doe, he told himself. No more farting around. He

says diet, I'm dieting this time. Jesus.

He called Dooker into the cab, slowly settled in the driver's seat

and started the caginc up. Giving the fields behind the Treasure piece a

final considering look, he put the truck into gear and pulled away.

TORONTO, March 1985

The music was contemporary Europop, but the dancer's moves were

pure bump-and-grind. The MC had announced her as Tandy Hots:

"And Tandy's always randy, boys-you know what I meaar' Sitting

at his table, nursing a beer, Howie Peale figured he knew just what the

MC meant.

She couldn't be more than seventeen tops, and that body. Oh, she

had the moves down all right. Teasing little moves that made him want

to shout along with some of the other guys in the joint, but he held

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bsck because he didn't want to look like an asshole to his new friend.

Earl Shaw wasn't even watching the show. He was just sining there,

his bull-neck hunched over the table as he leafed through a day~ld

Toronto Star. He was drinking whiskey -straight, with a beer chaser.

Charles de Llnt

Howie'd met Earl in the can-they were both in the Don fail

on drunk and disorderly charges at the time. Right off, Howie

knew Earl was his man. Howie wasn't too big and he wasn't too

smart. He had survived the street scene by latching onto someone

who was both. He'd run errands, do a little of whatever, just to

Iceep on the good side of whoever was his main man at the time.

Right now that man was Earl.

Earl was the kind of guy you could really respect. Smart and

tough and he didn't take shit from nobody. Even the screws in the

can had been a little leery of him. Frst night they were out, he

and Earl hit a gas bar and made off with a clean $243 plus change

just by sticking a gun in some pimply-faced kid's nose. Earl'd

even split fifty-fifty. No way he was letting go of this gig, Howie

thought.

Tandy Hots was down to her G-string and pasties now, moving

slowly across the stage until she was right in front of their

table.

"They really get off on being up there, huh, EarlT' Howie

said. He licked his lips, looking up into the dancer's crotch.

Earl grunted and glanced at her. "Who gives a fuck what they

lilce," he said. "lust so's they do what they're told."

Howie nodded. The dancer moved further down the stage and

he tried to imagine a woman-like that being his, doing just what

he told her to. If they were in a hotel or someplace, just the two

of them, instead of this strip joint on Yonge Street . . . His dreamy

mood !eft him as he sensed Earl stiffen across the table.

"Loolc at this," Earl said.

He turned the paper around so that Howie could see. There

was a photograph of a good-looking woman accepting a checlc

from a Wintario official. She wasn't built like Tandy Hots,

Howie thought, but she wasn't bad at all.

- He read the caption. Her nan* ,was Frances Treasure and

she'd just won two hundred grand in the lottery. He shook his

head slowly. Iesus. Two hundred grand! And all she was planning

to do with it was buy back the place where she'd grown up

and fu: it up.

"I tell you, Howie," Earl said, "somebody's looking after

me."

"What do you mean?"

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Charles de Lint - Greenmantle

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