The kindling caught but the paper burned too fast. Jerry quickly crumpled and twisted three more “sticks”, tighter than the first ones, and carefully slid them into the centre of the tepee. The flames found them and grew, this time slowly enough to grab hold of the kindling and consume them gently with a flickering embrace. The kindling crackled and popped as the fire heated the dry sap within, then the flames expanded enough to caress the thicker logs leaning on the tepee, and the whole, contained structure became involved. Fuel was consumed, heat was generated, and his new home was warmed immeasurably.
THERE WAS AN odd change to the tone of the black abyss. The near constant vibration faded away and there was a new radiant warmth like she hadn’t felt since another lifetime. It offered a gentle reassurance she now clung to as the blackness tried to crowd back in. Thoughts of the young man interrupted her reverie, though, and she was heartened to think she might dream of him again soon.
Chapter Five
@TheTaoOfJerr: “Music in the soul can be heard by the universe.”
JERRY EVENTUALLY MOVED from the ottoman to the couch where he tumbled into a nearly dreamless sleep for two hours. He didn’t exactly dream, but there were hints of the young woman in black drifting at the edge of his mind. When he finally awoke, her fleeting images wafted away like mist in the sun. The fire was too low to generate much heat but still had plenty of energy to ignite the fresh log Jerry put on before wandering off to splash cold water on his face and relieve himself.
Back at the couch, he checked his phone for messages then logged onto his browser to check his email account. There were two messages from Isis, his own copy of his pre-written and weekly-scheduled photography blog, and a reply from his insurance broker, Mostafah. On this one thing, he’d already been ahead of Manny. He’d emailed Mostafah as soon as he knew the new address and the move-in date.
Not yet awake enough to deal with Isis, and not needing to read his own blog, Jerry opened Mostafah’s message confirming the change of address and recommending that he get an appraisal done on the little box of antiquities Mavis had bestowed upon him. An attachment listed three antique shops Mostafah’s Victoria counterparts recommended. The note pointed out that one of them was only a few blocks away from Jerry’s new home address.
IN SPITE OF the gradual shift from driving through the various time zones between St. Marys and Victoria, Jerry’s body was still on Eastern Time, so he was up at five, scrambling a half-dozen eggs, chopping vegetables, and grating a small brick of cheese for a monster-sized omelette. He would have loved ham in it or bacon on the side, but since the headaches had started, the menu held no meat with nitrates for this sick puppy. He missed ham and bacon a bit, but what he really missed from the nitrate-rich, no-go-list was corned beef. There were days he nearly cried out for a Shopsy’s of Toronto corned beef stacked on rye with Dijon mustard and Swiss cheese. With luck, maybe he could find a place in Victoria that did for seafood what Shopsy’s did for deli dining. He just might be able to get used to the idea of fresh scallops, salmon, and a dill cream sauce instead of corned beef on rye. Maybe.
He slipped the finished culinary masterpiece onto a plate, sprinkled the last of the cheddar and dill on top, then ground fresh pepper generously over the whole works. He used as little salt as possible, but loved his fresh-ground Telecherry pepper. He would have liked to relax and chill out, but he also hated sitting still when there was so much to do. He looked up Ipatiev Antiques online and found that they were three blocks away and opened at nine. He didn’t have to be at the station until noon—though he would arrive early as always—so including a walk to the antique store, he had plenty of time to unpack and get the place looking more like a home and less like a storage locker.
He ate at the kitchen counter, high atop an oak stool, re-establishing his oldest tradition of reading while eating. It used to drive Haley crazy, so he’d stopped, at least when she was home. Today he was deep into the last chapter of D. B. Jackson’s historical fantasy, Thieftaker: Dead Man’s Reach—Jackson’s best to date, and Jerry had been hooked on the series since discovering that his own family was from pre-revolutionary Boston, where the Thieftaker series was set. He ate and read in silence, kept company by Sushi, whose flexed and fanned fins indicated that he was happy to be back in his own tank and on a solid countertop rather than in a sloshing, unadorned bowl in a box bouncing in the back seat and not feeling like eating much at all. Jerry grinned at his sturdy companion, dropped a pinch of food into the bowl, and went back to savouring both the book and the omelette.
HAVING USED GOOGLE Street View to find the antique store, he knew exactly what to look for when he rounded the corner and looked up at a small shop with fine gold and black lettering on the windows indicating he’d found Ipatiev Antiques & Fine Furniture. The storefront was only fifteen feet or so wide, with the inset door bracketed by the two bay windows. Whereas some of the shops sharing the street were showing a little bit of wear and tear, the front of Ipatiev Antiques was in impeccable condition. There wasn’t a chip in the paint or a spot of rust on the iron fittings. The brass door knob and plate were gleaming and the windows all looked like they’d been hand-polished to invisibility. Jerry was impressed.
The display in the left window featured a variety of small European pieces on a solidly carved dining table. The antiques in the other window were all of an Asian origin, from Indian brass to Chinese jade. Jerry had no idea how old or valuable any of it was, but he was definitely impressed by the spotless selection spread out before him. Oh, to have a job that could allow him to purchase such luxuries, he thought. Someday, he supposed.
He checked his watch to confirm that it was after nine, then entered the shop with the old Kodak camera and the book of Blake’s poems wrapped in left-over bubble wrap in a cloth grocery bag. A pair of delicate brass bells announced his arrival as the door bumped their spring hanger and set them to ringing. Inside, the shop was as dust-free as the window displays, yet the area was full of pieces of all sizes, from French armoires to Fabergé-type jewelled eggs in a strong, stunningly lit display case. A gentle voice with the soft rasp of a lifetime smoker and a decidedly Russian accent addressed him.
“Good morning, sir. Welcome to Ipatiev Antiques. How can I be of service? I am Ivan Petrov.”
Jerry turned to find a diminutive man about seventy-five years old, dressed like an old-school banker in tailored, navy blue, wool trousers and vest, with a jeweller’s loupe hanging from a chain around his neck. “Doing a little Christmas shopping, sir?”
“Sorry, but no. You’ve got some gorgeous stuff, but right now I’m hoping you can do a rough appraisal on a couple of things I’ve inherited. I just moved here and my insurance agent wants to know their value as soon as possible, so he can include them in the coverage. You were recommended by one of his Victoria associates.”
“Of course, sir. I am honoured by the recommendation. If you have the items with you, I would be pleased to take a look.” He moved behind the display case, reached behind it, and came up with a rubber-backed, dark green velvet matt. He flicked a switch on the back of the display case and the lights inside it were replaced by a crisp halogen lamp from above.