The Wood Wife Terri Windling (best novels to read to improve english txt) đ
- Author: Terri Windling
Book online «The Wood Wife Terri Windling (best novels to read to improve english txt) đ». Author Terri Windling
Fox smiled. âYou reckon, do you?â
Maggie picked up another handful of cassettes. âBeau de Soleilâa Cajun band. Hereâs Peter Rowanâs latest. Two Estampie tapes, one Gothic Voices. June Tabor. A harp duo from Scotlandâand this is interesting, the price tag on it is in sterling. Hmmm, hereâs some European folk music and the tapes were clearly bought over there. Either youâre well traveled, Fox, or you have nice friends who send you things.â
âA little bit of both,â he admitted.
âSo youâve been to Europe by the looks of this. And Mexico, no big surprise. And, whoa, Africa?â
âAfrica,â he confirmed.
âBut not Asia. Or else you donât like Asian music.â
âI do. I havenât gotten there yet.â
âYou see?â said Maggie smugly. âThatâs more than I knew about you before.â
âYouâre right,â he conceded with amusement. âSomeday youâll have to show me your collection. Now how about choosing a tape to listen to?â
She looked through the box again. âWeâre spoiled for choice here. What about ⊠This looks interesting. Desert Wind, music for flute, percussion and didjeridoo.â She looked more closely. âBy Wood, Begay and Foxxe. Hey, this is you.â
âThat was me. Five years ago. Begay and I still play together sometimes, but Woodâs moved back to Australia.â
âI didnât know you played professionally, Fox.â
He laughed. âThatâs because I donât. That recording is from a little local company, now defunct; it sold six copies, to us and our mothers. Begay still has a garage full of them.â
âHave you recorded anything else?â
Fox shook his head.
âWell why not? Look, my first book didnât sell many copies, or even the one after that. It was only with Low Life and The Maid on the Shore that anyone paid attention. But you have to believe in your work anyway. Keep putting yourself out there. Go after what you want.â
âAnd thatâs what youâve done? Youâve gone after what you wanted?â
âYes.â Maggie looked uncomfortable. âWell, kind of.â She did not elaborate.
Fox glanced at her as he turned off River and onto a busy road running north. âBut you assume that what I want is what you would want: Success. Recognition. Iâm not like you. Iâm not like Cooper. Thatâs not what a good life means to me. Playing music is a high, for sureâbut thereâs other things that I like just as much. Carpentry, for instance; itâs honest work, itâs solid, itâs real, it pays a living wage. And the Mentor Program, thatâs another kind of high.â
âWhatâs that?â
âI give free music lessons to kidsâin the barrio, and on the reservations. I like having time for things like that. And time for my friends. And for myself. I donât want to spend all my time hustling music. Just want to play it, enjoy it, and have a life.â
Fox braked abruptly, turning toward the Interstate. Then he glanced over at Maggie again, and saw that she was smiling.
He said, âSorry for that diatribe. You pushed some old buttons, thatâs all.â
âYouâre arguing with Cooperâs ghost again, arenât you?â
Then he smiled himself. âI reckon I am.â
Maggie said, âYouâre right, though. I am like Cooper. Art is the thing that matters to me. Itâs not the desire for fame that drives me, but to do good work, the best that I can. When I was married, it was as if my energy was in hockâto Nigel, to the magazines, to anyone who asked for it loudly enough. Now Iâm more single-minded, I admit it. I want to leave something good behind me when I go, something that will last.â
âThereâs the difference between us then. Immortality means nothing to me. Iâm a desert boy. âI have learned to walk lightly on this land, and to leave no trace behind.âââ
âGhalad Kellerâs âStone Canyonâ?â she guessed.
He was pleased that she recognized it. âââThe mountains reach into heaven,âââ Fox said. âââAnd a man, so small. And a man, so small.âââ
As they climbed the ramp to the Interstate, the city stretched around them, filling the valley from the mountains in the east to the mountains in the west. The sky was a clear, deep blue above them, the rich color of old Bisbee turquoise. The sound of flute and drums filled the truck, masking the trafficâs noise.
The traffic was light on the highway as soon as they left the city center. It disappeared almost altogether when they turned off the Interstate again, heading west into low hills. Foxâs mother lived north and west of the city, between the Tucson and Tortolita Mountains. The desert here was drier, scrubbier than the land below the Rincon range. The Tucsons were volcanic plugs with the jagged profile seen in a hundred cowboy movies. It was a land of saguaro and ironwood trees, unique in Sonoran ecology. Buildersâ signs were everywhere on it, announcing high-density developments to come.
The imminent construction disappeared as the road beneath them turned to dirt. There were still houses here, but individually built and tucked into the low desert scrub. The desert was peaceful, but arid and rough. The sky made a vast blue dome overhead. The heat shimmered in waves just above the dusty road they travelled on.
He turned suddenly onto a narrow track that bumped its way along a dry creek bed. Maggie grabbed for the dashboard as the truck hit a rock. âMy god, what kind of a road is this?â
âWeâre on Cooperâs land. Well, itâs my motherâs land now. Two hundred acres, going up into the Tortilitas. These last ten years he was buying up what he could, one step ahead of the developers. Cooperâs version of the National Trust. It was one thing we could agree on.â
âHow does your mother get in and out?â
âShe doesnât. She doesnât like to leave it. Thereâs a Mexican family that lives over that way.â He gestured vaguely to the north. âThey look after things and look after
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