“You’re looking peaked,” Jilly said as Wendy finally got out into the dining area.
Jilly Coppercorn and Wendy were almost a matched pair. Both women were small, with slender frames and attractive delicate features, though Jilly’s hair was a dark curly brown—the same as Wendy’s natural hair colour. They both moonlighted as waitresses, saving their true energy for creative pursuits: Jilly for her art, Wendy her poetry.
Neither had known the other until they began to work at the restaurant together, but they’d become fast friends from the very first shift they shared.
“I’m feeling confused,” Wendy said in response to Jilly’s comment.
“You’re confused? Check out table five—he’s changed his mind three times since he first ordered. I’m going to stand here and wait five minutes before I give Frank his latest order, just in case he decides he wants to change it again.”
Wendy smiled. “And then he’ll complain about slow service and won’t leave you much of a tip.”
“If he leaves one at all.”
Wendy laid a hand on Jilly’s arm. “Are you busy tonight?”
Jilly shook her head. “What’s up?”
“I need to talk to someone.”
“I’m yours to command,” Jilly said. She made a little curtsy that had Wendy quickly stifle a giggle, then shifted her gaze to table five. “Oh bother, he’s signaling me again.”
“Give me his order,” Wendy said. “I’ll take care of him.”
It was such a nice night that they just went around back of the restaurant when their shift was over. Walking the length of a short alley, they came out on a small strip of lawn and made their way down to the river. There they sat on a stone wall, dangling their feet above the sluggish water. The night felt still. Through some trick of the air, the traffic on nearby Battersfield Road was no more than a distant murmur, as though there was more of a sound baffle between where they sat and the busy street than just the building that housed their workplace.
“Remember that time we went camping?” Wendy said after they’d been sitting for a while in a companionable silence. “It was just me, you and LaDonna. We sat around the campfire telling ghost stories that first night.”
“Sure,” Jilly said with a smile in her voice. “You kept telling us ones by Robert Aickman and the like—they were all taken from books.”
“While you and LaDonna claimed that the ones you told were real and no matter how much I tried to get either of you to admit they weren’t, you wouldn’t.”
“But they were true,” Jilly said.
Wendy thought of LaDonna telling them that she’d seen Bigfoot in the Tombs and Jilly’s stories about a kind of earth spirit called a gemmin that she’d met in the same part of the city and of a race of goblin-like creatures living in the subterranean remains of the old city that lay beneath Newford’s subway system.
She turned from the river to regard her friend. “Do you really believe those things you told me?”
Jilly nodded. “Of course I do. They’re true.” She paused a moment, leaning closer to Wendy as though trying to read her features in the gloom. “Why? What’s happened, Wendy?”
“I think I just had my own close encounter of the weird kind this afternoon.”
When Jilly said nothing, Wendy went on to tell her of her meeting with the conjure man earlier in the day.
“I mean, I know why he’s called the conjure man,” she finished up. “I’ve seen him pulling flowers out of people’s ears and all those other stage tricks he does, but this was different. The whole time I was with him I kept feeling like there really was a kind of magic in the air, a real magic just sort of humming around him, and then when I saw the … I guess it was a vision of the tree … .
“Well, I don’t know what to think.”
She’d been looking across the river while she spoke, gaze fixed on the darkness of the far bank. Now she turned to Jilly.
“Who is he?” she asked. “Or maybe should I be asking what is he?”
“I’ve always thought of him as a kind of anima,” Jilly said. “A loose bit of myth that got left behind when all the others went on to wherever it is that myths go when we don’t believe in them anymore.”
“That’s sort of what he said. But what does it mean? What is he really?”
Jilly shrugged. “Maybe what he is isn’t so important as that he is.” At Wendy’s puzzled look, she added, “I can’t explain it any better. I … Look, it’s like it’s not so important that he is or isn’t what he says he is, but that he says it. That he believes it.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s just like he told you,” Jilly said. “People are losing touch with themselves and with each other. They need stories because they really are the only thing that brings us together. Gossip, anecdotes, jokes, stories—these are the things that we used to exchange with each other. It kept the lines of communication open, let us touch each other on a regular basis.
“That’s what art’s all about, too. My paintings and your poems, the books Christy writes, the music Geordie plays—they’re all lines of communication. But they’re harder to keep open now because it’s so much easier for most people to relate to a TV set than it is to another person. They get all this data fed into them, but they don’t know what to do with it anymore. When they talk to other people, it’s all surface. How ya doing, what about the weather. The only opinions they have are those that they’ve gotten from people on the TV. They think they’re informed, but all they’re doing is repeating the views of talk show hosts and news commentators.
“They don’t know how to listen to real people anymore.”
“I know all that,” Wendy said. “But what does any of it have to do with what the conjure man was showing me this afternoon?”
“I guess what I’m trying to say is that he validates an older kind of value, that’s all.”
“Okay, but what did he want from me?”
Jilly didn’t say anything for a long time. She looked out across the river, her gaze caught by the same darkness as Wendy’s had been earlier when she was relating her afternoon encounter. Twice Wendy started to ask Jilly what she was thinking, but both times she forbore. Then finally Jilly turned to her.
“Maybe he wants you to plant a new tree,” she said.
“But that’s silly. I wouldn’t know how to begin to go about something like that.” Wendy sighed. “I don’t even know if I believe in a Tree of Tales.”
But then she remembered the feeling that had risen in her when the conjure man spoke to her, that sense of familiarity, as though she was being reminded of something she already knew, rather than being told what she didn’t. And then there was the vision of the tree … .
She sighed again.
“Why me?” she asked.
Her words were directed almost to the night at large, rather than just her companion, but it was Jilly who replied. The night held its own counsel.
“I’m going to ask you something,” Jilly said, “and I don’t want you to think about the answer. Just tell me the first thing that comes to mind—okay?”
Wendy nodded uncertainly. “I guess.”
“If you could be granted one wish—anything at all, no limits—what would you ask for?”
With the state the world was in at the moment, Wendy had no hesitation in answering: “World peace.”
“Well, there you go,” Jilly told her.
“I don’t get it.”
“You were asking why the conjure man picked you and there’s your reason. Most people would have started out thinking of what they wanted for themselves. You know, tons of money, or to live forever—that kind of thing.”