Juniper Wiles, page 1
Juniper Wiles
Charles de Lint
TRISKELL PRESS
P.O. Box 9480
Ottawa, ON
Canada K1G 3V2
www.charlesdelint.com
Copyright © 2021 Charles de Lint
Cover design by MaryAnn Harris
“Fair Helena” by Arthur Rackham (1908)
Digital image licensed by Publitek, Inc., Fotosearch Stock Photography
eISBN 978-1-989741-02-3
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author or publisher except for the use of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, actual events or locales is purely coincidental.
for Julie, Kenny
and especially Nora
Introduction
Many urban-fantasy novels are told via a first-person narrative, and often feature mythological beings, romance, and female protagonists who are involved in law enforcement or vigilantism.
- Wikipedia
I might add, those protagonists are usually a witch, vampire, a kind of were-creature, or someone who hunts the same.
From time to time I’ve seen myself cited as the "father of urban fantasy," and while I may not quite agree, that's a conversation for another time. What strikes me as particularly odd about being described that way is how different today's urban fantasy is from my own work, especially my novels set in Newford.
Now, don't get me wrong: I really like some urban fantasy—Melissa F. Olson and Patricia Briggs being among my favourite authors, the sort that when a new book of theirs arrives it takes precedence over all other reading.
I just hadn’t written that kind of novel myself, but the novel you hold in your hands could loosely fit today's definition of urban fantasy. And it kind of snuck up on me, as stories tend to do.
After I finished The Wind in His Heart, I passed it over to MaryAnn to do her magic. Many of you know The Wind is a long book that took around seven years to write, and I knew it would take MaryAnn a while to do her edit. So, as always when I finish a project, I opened a fresh file and started writing something new. I got about a page and a half into it when I realized I was more interested in a little throwaway part of the story (the mention of a TV series called Nora Constantine) than the actual story itself, and that it might work as my take on a modern urban fantasy.
So I opened yet another file and, by the time a good year or so had gone by, and MaryAnn had finished her edit of The Wind in His Heart, I had three short novels about a character named Juniper Wiles who played Nora in the TV series. Since then I’ve written another one and a half, plus a new novel that MaryAnn is currently editing.
I wrote these for fun, with no idea whether they’d be entertaining for anybody else. That’s how I write all my fiction—to entertain myself during the first draft process. Rewriting and proofing the book in hand, I found myself still enjoying the antics of Juniper and her friends, so I've decided to send the tale out into the world.
This first Juniper Wiles story is set some fifteen years after the end of Widdershins (2006), which was the last time we visited with Jilly and her friends.
Ottawa, Spring 2021
Contents
1. Monday
2. Tuesday
3. Wednesday
4. Thursday
5. Friday
6. The Weekend
7. Monday
8. Tuesday
9. Wednesday
10. Thursday
11. Saturday
Mailing list
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by Charles de Lint
I believe in kindness.
Also in mischief.
—Mary Oliver
1
Monday
“Do you ever get tired of being famous?” I ask Jilly.
She looks away from her canvas and laughs. “I’m not famous.”
“Oh come on. Prints of your work are everywhere now. Not to mention the calendars, cards, mugs—”
“Okay. Maybe my work’s pretty well known these days, but not me, personally. I can walk down the street and nobody gives me a second glance, except to wonder how someone my age can still be gadding about looking so scruffy.”
When I first moved back to Newford I didn’t have a clue what I wanted to do with my life. I just knew it wasn’t going to involve TV, films, or even theatre. I’d taken on a number of film roles and TV guest spots after Nora Constantine ended, and had offers beyond appearances at conventions to reprise Nora for photo ops, but at some point it was like a switch got turned off in my head and I just couldn’t do it anymore. I liked the work. I just didn’t like everything that went with it. A-listers can afford a buffer between themselves and all that extraneous crap, but I was never even close to being an A-lister and still had a fair amount of the crap. I just didn’t want to play the game anymore.
Or maybe I just got sick of L.A.
All I knew at the time was that I had to get out. Leaving the West Coast to come home seemed like the perfect option. I’d been homesick for years. For one thing, Newford has actual weather.
Of course the old saying is true. You can’t really go home again, mostly because home isn’t there anymore. It resembles the nostalgic place in your head, but too many of the specifics have changed or disappeared.
But there are constants. Crowsea’s always going to be boho cool. My brother Tam will still be playing in a half-dozen popular local bands, with no great ambition to make it big outside the city. And Jilly Coppercorn will still be doing her faerie paintings, except now—instead of eking out a living—she’s famous for them.
I still remember going to one of her workshops at the Arts Court years ago, before I got “discovered” and the Nora gig drew me away. She reminded me of an elf with her crazy hair and those sapphire eyes. All she needed was the pointy ears. Tam and I used to hang out there all the time. He spent every chance he had learning any instrument he could get his hands on. I dabbled, trying everything. A little music, a little drama, a little writing. But I loved painting and drawing the most, so it’s kind of weird that I became an actor.
I tried to keep up with my visual art when I first got to L.A., but life became too busy and I didn’t find enough subject matter to hold my interest. I like the sun and surf, and even L.A.’s seedy streets as much as anybody—hello, Venice Beach—and managed to fill a couple of sketchbooks. But one day I set them aside and never picked them up again.
I wanted to paint seasons. I wanted Crowsea’s streets, the Old Market, the oaks on Stanton Street. I wanted the characters that people Newford’s streets in all their varied eccentricities.
The Arts Court was the first place I went after I left my bags at the house I shared with Tam. I didn’t know if Jilly’d still be volunteering there. She was lively and vibrant back in the day, if a bit of a raggedy old hippie to my teenage eyes. Over thirty? Might as well move into the retirement home. But when I found her in a side room off the main court surrounded by a gaggle of kids, she was still full of life and enthusiasm.
In fact, she seemed exactly the same, which didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Doing the math, I figured she should be at least twice my age, but she looked like she only had a few years on me, as though she had my family’s youthful genes on turbo charge.
“You don’t look remotely old,” I told her once. “What’s your secret?”
“I spend a lot of time in Faerieland. It keeps me young.”
At the time I thought she was kidding.
She leans closer to her canvas to study some detail, then looks over at me again.
“What’s got you talking about fame?” she asks.
I shrug. “Just some random guy in the coffee shop who insisted I was the real Nora Constantine.”
Jilly smiles. “The famous kick-ass detective.”
I groan. “I played her years ago. And it’s not funny.”
“Come on, now. It’s cute, and a little sweet. It means your work touched him.”
“He wanted me to take on a case.”
“Really? What sort of a case?”
“I didn’t ask and I shut him down before he could tell me.”
She still seems to be smiling, but there’s a quizzical look on her brow, so I know she’s not happy with my answer.
“What?” I say.
“You catch more bees with honey than with vinegar.”
“Except I wasn’t trying to catch anything.”
She nods as if she agrees, but says, “Creating art also creates an obligation. Our private lives should be private, but we should also make room to accept the appreciation of people who love and support our work. Without them, we’d still create, but most of our days would be spent scrabbling to make a living.”
“I understand that. Nora and her fans let me live a modest life without having to work, and I totally appreciate it. It’s just the fervour of some of them that makes me uncomfortable—you know, the ones that can’t separate the real me from the work.”
“Yes, well,” Jilly says. “I know I’m a constant disappointment to the faerie community because I’m nothing like the elegant faerie princess they envision. They expect gowns, tiaras and long flowing hair. Instead they ge t me.”
“You’re everything I’d want you to be.”
She laughs. “You’re too kind,” she says, putting on an airy voice as she waves away my comment. Unfortunately she uses the hand holding her paintbrush, and a small constellation of cerulean blue paint sprays out across the studio floor. Fortunately, it just blends in with the older dried spills and splatters, and misses the two of us.
We’re in the Grumbling Greenhouse Studio, a glassed-in structure set against the rear of her house, which they all refer to as Bramleyhaugh, after its original owner. The space had once been an actual greenhouse, subsequently transformed into an artist’s studio back when Jilly and her friend Sophie were first attending Butler U. A few years ago the property had been left to the pair of them by their old art professor Bramley Dapple. Once they moved in, the house underwent a transformation from a professor’s residence, which seemed to be more a library with a bit of living space, to an artists’ colony full of painters, writers and musicians.
On several occasions Jilly’s said there’s plenty of room for Tam and me to move in, but as much as I like the people living there, and spend a fair amount of time with them, neither Tam nor I can do the commune thing. That’s how we grew up. It’s why we have hippie names like Juniper and Tamarack. But it’s a great place to hang out, and I love working in the studio with Jilly and Sophie and whatever other artists happen to drop by.
This afternoon it’s just the two of us, but I’m sure the studio will be crowded come evening. FaerieFest, the summer festival that celebrates all things mythic and musical, is less than a week away and everybody is helping Jilly with her final preparations, if not working on their own magical art. I’m doing things like framing paintings and organizing prints, while Jilly puts the finishing touches on various paintings.
I’ve been trying to get her to sign prints all afternoon, but she insists she has to work on the paintings. The truth is, she doesn’t like signing prints and I don’t feel like arguing with her. The only people who can get Jilly to do something she doesn’t want are her husband Geordie or Sophie, and they’ll both be here tonight.
FaerieFest is the reason for Jilly’s current popularity. No, scratch that. Her art’s the reason, but the festival is what brought her the attention of her legion of fans who’ve embraced not only her and her art, but also the work of that core group of friends Jilly calls her family of choice. They enthusiastically support Sophie’s painting, Wendy and Saskia’s poetry, Mona’s comics, Geordie’s music, and especially her brother-in-law Christy’s writing.
“They treat us like superstars,” Wendy told me the first time I went with them. “You’ll see. We’re like paragons for the three days of the festival. It’s so weird.”
Jilly wears what she always does—jeans and a baggy shirt, or maybe she’ll switch it around with a T-shirt and some kind of baggy pants—but Wendy, Mona, Saskia and I always dress up. Sophie doesn’t have to. She always looks like she just stepped out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting, so it doesn’t matter what she’s wearing, she fits right in.
The guys make a half-assed attempt with their leather vests and pirate shirts with puffy sleeves, but you wouldn’t catch any of them with a pair of elf ears or wings. Personally, I like having pointy ears and especially the decorative wings. They make me feel like I can fly. Only Mona’s boyfriend, Lyle, makes a real effort, matching his outfit to hers. If she goes as a mermaid, he’s Poseidon. If she’s Titania, he’s Oberon. If she’s a May Queen, he’s a Green Man. You get the picture.
“I wonder,” Jilly says as we wipe up the worst of her paint spill, “what sort of a case your—excuse me—Nora’s admirer had in mind.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re still fixating on that?”
“I’m not fixating. I just find it intriguing.”
“Well, we could always go back to the Half Kaffe Café and see if he’s still there. Then you could ask him yourself.”
Jilly grins. “What a brilliant idea.”
“No, it’s not. The FaerieFest is in less than a week and there’s still a ton of stuff to do.”
Jilly stands up. Walking over to her easel, she drops her brush into a glass jar full of muddied turpentine and lays a piece of plastic wrap over her palette. There’s some paint on her hands, which she wipes off on her jeans where it fits right in with a half dozen other smears.
“Faeries spend too much money,” she says. “The less we bring, the more they’ll save. Now come on. Doesn’t a latte sound tempting?”
She heads for the door, knowing full well that I’ll follow.
Sophie’s going to kill me.
A light rain starts up halfway along our walk from Stanton Street to the Half Kaffe Café. When we step inside, Jilly shakes her head like a dog, water spraying from her curly hair. Luckily, we’re not near any customers, but I have to wipe my face.
“Whoops,” Jilly says with a giggle. “Sorry about that.” She looks around, eyes bright with interest. “Is he here?”
I shake my head.
“Go claim a table,” she says, “and I’ll grab us our coffees.” She catches my arm as I start to go and presses a crumpled ball of paper and a pencil into my hand. “You should do a sketch of the boy.”
“I wouldn’t know where to start. He looked like anybody.”
“Oh pish. You’ll be surprised what you can remember if you put your mind to it.”
“But—”
“Just do the best you can,” she says and sails off to the end of the line at the counter.
I sit at a table by the window. Smoothing the paper out, I stare down at its creased lines without a clue how to begin.
Jilly returns, lattes in hand, and eyes the blank paper in front of me. “Nothing?”
I shrug.
She sits across from me and pushes one of the tall mugs over to me.
She takes a long sip of her coffee, then licks the foam off her upper lip. “Yum, I’m so glad you suggested this.”
I’m mid-sip myself and almost spit it out as I choke back a laugh.
“Okay, start with the obvious,” Jilly says with a grin. “Did he have a face?”
“What kind of a question is that? Of course he had a face.”
“Here,” she says.
She plucks the pencil from my hand and sketches an oval on the paper. With a few deft lines she adds the suggestion of eyes, nose, mouth, ears. She turns it around so that I can see what she’s done.
“Now we’ve got a face,” she says.
“Which is completely nondescript.”
“True. So think of a detail.”
“I’m honestly coming up blank. I was annoyed.” Then I remember locking eyes with him and I remember his features a little more.
“Okay.” She scoots her chair around so that we can both look at her sketch. “Were his eyebrows thin?” She adds a fine set of eyebrows above the suggestion of the eyes. “Or thick?”
She starts to darken them. I stop her before she does much more.
“They were a little like that. Maybe.”
“That’s good. Now how about his nose? Slender? Wide? A bird’s beak? Ski slope?”
As she continues to coach me, I find myself remembering more and more detail. Sometimes I take the pencil and make a little change, but mostly it’s her drawing and asking questions. After about half an hour I stop her.
“Holy crap,” I say. “That looks exactly like him.” I give her a suspicious look. “How’d you do that?”
“Oh, it’s just this gift I have.”
“No, seriously.”
“Magic?”
I give her a hard stare and she pats my hand.
“Okay,” she says. “The truth is, I used to have this fascination with police sketch artists—you know, the way they can often get a pretty accurate representation of someone they’ve never actually seen. So I used to get my friends to take a picture of somebody at a bus stop or something, and then they’d sit with me and describe the person while I tried to draw what I could from their descriptions and corrections. At some point they’d be satisfied and we’d compare my drawing with the picture they took.”
