Past the Size of Dreaming Read online

  Past The Size of Dreaming

  House, Book 2

  Nina Kiriki Hoffman

  2001

  ISBN: 0-441-00898-4

  praise for Past the Size of Dreaming

  “Great urban fantasy … A beautiful story. Nina Kiriki Hoffman is a wonderful storyteller who makes the written word sing. The characters drive the story as the motley crew wins the hearts of readers who will anxiously await the next installment in this fabulous series.”

  —Harriet Klausner, Midwest Book Review

  praise for A Red Heart of Memories

  Chosen as one of the best fantasy novels of 1999 by Locus Chosen as one of the Year 2000 Best Books for Teen Readers by the New York Public Library

  “Hoffman is an expert at creating battered yet resilient characters who confront the world with odd powers and offbeat perspectives. Her empathy for the underdog is deeply felt, without ever stooping to sticky sentimentality, and her latest book displays her narrative strengths to full advantage.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  “Beautifully written … at once whimsical and morally serious, featuring well-developed characters, a contemporary setting, some highly original forms of magic, and a center darker than is immediately apparent. The book succeeds brilliantly. Nina Kiriki Hoffman is one of the most original and important writers of fantasy working in America today.”

  —The New York Review of Science Fiction

  “Fans of Charles de Lint’s modern-world fantasies should appreciate Hoffman’s graceful storytelling and down-to-earth magic.”

  —Library Journal

  “Nina Kiriki Hoffman continues to explore a fantasy realm not quite like anyone else’s …. These characters have to work their way through plenty of life’s hard knocks … they return to a youthful emotional directness which can look straight into the heart of things—something like Zenna Henderson’s People, but with Nina Kiriki Hoffman’s own special sense of the lives within.”

  —Locus

  “Hoffman handles the interconnected solutions to the trio’s problems with skill, as each solution leads subtly to greater understanding and compassion … in a quiet talc of three injured souls helping each other toward happiness.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Hoffman addresses serious concerns … but the journey is leavened by Matt’s irrepressible character—a wonderful mix of pure common sense and whimsy. Highly recommended.”

  —Charles de Lint, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction

  “Exquisite … her imagination is limitless.”

  —KICC, National Public Radio

  “[The author] reworks a familiar outline with fresh, remarkable ideas and considerable flair.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Hoffman’s engaging urban fantasy augments an emotional tale of friendship and trust with hard truths about growing up.”

  —Booklist

  “Filled with a sense of wonder and delight in the world around us … a constant pleasure to read … Hoffman’s best and most complete novel to date.” —locus

  “A lyrical character-driven journey that brings out the best in fantasy.”

  —Harriet Klausner, BookBrowner

  “Full of beautiful; impossible magic. Hoffman has a unique talent for making prose soar. Memorable.”

  —SF Site

  “An engaging tale, told with great skill, full of fascinating characters. A heartwarming read. Enjoy.”

  —The Davis (CA) Enterprise

  “Intriguing … exciting … there is probably more in store for these likable characters.”

  —VOYA

  “Hoffman’s handling of the very real themes of abuse, lack of self-esteem, and loneliness makes this novel’s startlingly beautiful and simple prose rise far above the level of most contemporary fantasy. The author has crafted … a novel to be savored and enjoyed and treasured long after the last page has been turned.” —Chi Rank Reviews

  praise for Nina Kiriki Hoffman

  Winner of the Brain Stoker Award Nominated for the Nebula Award and World Fantasy Award

  “A Nina Hoffman story is, by definition, a thing of high quality and mesmeric appeal.” —Roger Zelazny

  “Nina Kiriki Hoffman is a magician. Her words create worlds no one has seen before. Her characters are charming, her prose lyrical. She is one of the fantasy field’s greatest talents.”

  —Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  “Most writers show and tell. Nina Hoffman sings.”

  —Algis Budrys

  “There is absolutely no other voice in contemporary fantasy like Hoffman’s.” —Fred Bryant

  “Nina Kiriki Hoffman is enormously talented.”

  —Kate Wilhelm

  “For those of you new to Hoffman’s work, she writes quirky fantasies that brim with warmth and charm.”

  —Charles de Lint

  “Nina Kiriki Hoffman is one of those special prizes of the field … One of a kind. An American original.”

  —Locus

  “Is Nina Hoffman a genius? Oh, yes. Yes, indeed.”

  —The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction

  “[Nina Kiriki Hoffman’s] stories are like fire—some are sparks that shoot in the night and catch you sideways when you’re not looking, others glow like red hot coals that make you all toasty on one side and sensitive to the cold around you.” —Rave Reviews

  Ace Books by Nina Kiriki Hoffman

  A Red Heart Of Memories Past The Size Of Dreaming

  Dedication

  This one is for my mother and father, who encouraged all their children to pursue whichever craft spoke to us.

  My thanks to Stephanie Haddock, veterinary technician, who helped me with technical details. All errors are mine.

  My thanks also to Martha Bayless, intrepid fellow desert explorer and dictator par excellence.

  Finally, my thanks to Brian McNaughton and Karen Taylor, willing villains.

  Chapter One

  A really big secret can keep you warm on cold nights, stifle hunger, drive shadows back. The best secrets make you feel safe. You could use this, you think, but not using it is what keeps you strong.

  Deirdre Eberhard changed the water in the last cat kennel in the row, petted the cat and spoke softly to it. It had to stay at the clinic until its wound healed, but it was lonesome for its owner. “Not much longer,” Deirdre told it. She closed the cage door and straightened, pressed a hand into the small of her back and worked her knuckles against her spine.

  Her vet technician, Angie, had gone home for the day; the kennel aides, high-school kids named Bob and Nikki, had left hours earlier, and her partner, Doug Rosenfeld, hadn’t even stopped at the clinic today. He did all the large-animal doctoring in their practice, caring for cattle, llamas, horses, reindeer, and the occasional ostrich, and he mostly worked out of his van at the ranches that spread out around the tiny Oregon desert town of Artemisia. He only came into the office on Wednesdays and Thursdays or when there was an emergency.

  Even the most forlorn dog on the premises had stopped howling and lay with its nose on its paws, its shining eyes watching Deirdre. All the animals had fresh food and water and clean litter or paper. The exam tables had been cleaned and had fresh mats and towels on them for tomorrow’s patients. The autoclave had finished its last run of the day, and the washer and drier their last loads. Everything in the surgery was sterile and ready for the procedures she’d do tomorrow.

  All done. Just one final mugful of coffee in the coffeemaker, and a piece of sunset to watch. She rinsed out her mug, refilled it, cleaned the coffeepot and set the coffeemaker to start again tomorrow morning, then headed out the back door to the desert.

  Her c
linic was a cinder-block building on the edge of town. She had a green resin Adirondack chair by the back door, under the shade of an overhang, where she sat between patients and wrote up her charts. After work, she sat and watched the quiet. She set her mug on the cement apron that wrapped around the building and leaned back in the chair, which was still warm from the clay’s heat.

  The sun slipped behind the Cascade Mountains. The sky’s clear, distant blue had faded to white near the horizon, with bands of tangerine stain above where the sun dropped. At the zenith, the sky darkened.

  Warped and twisty juniper trees poked up here and there from an expanse of scrubby sage—and rabbitbrush that stretched, deceptively flat, from Deirdre’s feet toward the forested mountains. She knew unseen undulations hid things: only half a mile away, a gorge cut through the desert like a sword strike through sand.

  The desert rustled, anticipating night.

  Birds flew down to the seep pond she had piped out when she first took over the veterinary practice here, at the edge of a universe. Deirdre practiced stillness and watched.

  This was her night: a place that looked desolate, arid, yet cupped life unseen. Her night, her place, her secret hope, that under a desolate surface, rustling, uttering things still lurked.

  She let out a slow breath, the frustrations of the day, and reached down for her coffee.

  Something wet touched the back of her hand.

  “Whoa!” she cried, and jerked back. She looked down into the face of a coyote.

  It stared at her with yellow-brown eyes.

  She gathered her breath, settled into the chair, arid stared back. It showed no signs of rabies, aggression, or fear. It just stared.

  She had never been so close to a coyote before. She had seen them loping across distance, and heard their voices raised in the night, usually far enough away that they might be part of dreams. She had seen some caged down at the High Desert Museum in Bend, where injured wild animals were cared for and then released when they were well.

  There was a musky sagebrush-and-carrion scent, a strange heat that prickled the hairs on her forearms. She exchanged glances with the coyote for a long while, then wondered what next.

  It bucked up a step and sat down.

  It lifted its left paw. For the first time she noticed the laceration. She sucked in breath.

  A fight with another animal? How would it get a cut like that?

  “Looks pretty bad,” she said. “You want some help with that?”

  It cocked its head.

  Should she call animal control? She could deal with approach-with-caution cats and badly trained dogs, but she was out of her element with a wild animal. Well, that wasn’t totally true; occasionally people brought her wild animals that had been hit by cars, but she dealt with them during office hours, when she had her vet tech with her, and they were never alert the way this coyote was. She could call someone and have the coyote shipped somewhere like the museum, where they had experience with undomesticated creatures.

  She sighed and got to her feet. If it spooked, so be it; that would make her decision for her. What if it only wanted to get into her building, where several small animals were helpless and edible? Getting into the kennels wouldn’t be easy, and it would have to go through her first.

  The coyote backed off the concrete, but stopped on the earth beyond. It watched her and waited for what she would do next.

  Deirdre opened the back door of the building, dropped a doorstop under it. The coyote’s access to outside had to be clear. She went into the treatment room and waited.

  The animal edged in, its nose lifted as it tasted air. After a period of examination, it limped forward.

  Had it been trained somehow? She had heard of half-coyote dogs, but she had never heard of a trained coyote. How was she going to deal with this?

  She opened the door into surgery, propped it, too, with a doorstop, parted the stainless-steel-topped operating table. “Up here.”

  It gathered itself and jumped onto the table, then sat, its gaze fixed on her face.

  “Okay,” said Deirdre. She took a deep breath. She had to be crazy. What if it bit her? A bad bite could cripple her. She should sedate it. If it were asleep, she could operate without worrying whether it was going to bite her. But anesthesia was difficult to handle without her vet tech; an operation was really a two-person job. First the shot to sedate the animal, then a short wait for it to fall asleep; not hard. Monitoring the tracheal tube that kept gas flowing to anesthetize the animal while she operated, positioning the animal, help with equipment during surgery, and keeping the patient warm during anesthesia by surrounding it with hot water bottles and covering it with towels, those were things her tech usually did.

  Maybe she should call Angie. But Angie would be home having supper with her husband and three-year-old daughter.

  Maybe there was another answer.

  She studied the coyote, and it studied her.

  “Okay. I’m going to take a look.” She reached slowly forward.

  It let her lift its paw.

  The cut was deep, and looked fresh.

  “Here’s what I have to do. I need to clean this out. First shave around the wound, then reshape the edges so I can suture it, then sew you up. So I want to put you to sleep, because this is going to hurt, but it’ll help in the long run. Why am I telling you this?”

  “Whuff.” A breath of bark.

  “Yeah, because I always talk to my patients, that’s why, except when Angle’s around to hear me. She already thinks I’m crazy.” She took a look at the coyote and judged its weight at about forty pounds. She opened a sterile syringe and plunged the needle through the rubber cap of the anesthetic bottle, drew out the dose, and approached the coyote. “This will hurt a little, but a lot less than the operation would if you were awake,” she said, showing the syringe to the animal. Would it let her grab the scruff of its neck and give the injection?

  The coyote growled.

  “Okay, that’s it. I can’t do this for you if you’re going to protest.”

  It lifted its left paw.

  “You want me to operate without anesthesia? You can’t guarantee that you won’t bite me when I do something that hurts you, can you? Of course you’ll bite me. It’s only natural.”

  “Whuff.”

  She tossed the filled syringe in the SHARPS biohazard waste can. “We’ll try it one step at a time,” she said. “Guess I should have realized before now that you’re not exactly natural. First I’m going to put some lubricant on the wound so I can shave around it and not get hair in it.”

  The coyote put up with jelly, electric clippers, and her vacuuming the hair away. No flinching, no untoward movements, nothing that threatened.

  Deirdre scrubbed up, put on surgical gloves, sighed again. She got out the cold tray of sterile instruments she would need if she went any further.

  She drenched cotton squares in Nolvasan, then gripped the coyote’s paw in her right hand and gently pressed the antiseptic to the wound.

  “Bowoooo!” The coyote lifted its head and howled in soprano.

  The three dogs in the kennels barked at the tops of their lungs, setting up resonance and echoes. Some of the cats snarled, hissed, growled. She glanced through the open door of the surgery into the treatment room, where kennels lined the back wall. The cats’ fur had bushed up.

  Strange that the cacophony had waited until the coyote howled: usually everybody would be excited to some extent whenever she brought another animal into the treatment room. One that smelled as wild as this should have driven the dogs mad from the start.

  She finished cleaning the wound and preparing it for surgery.

  The coyote whimpered. But it didn’t bite her.

  The other animals settled down again, not even the ambient growl.

  Then she turned to the cold tray. “How about a local anesthetic?”

  This in crazy, she thought. I’m talking as though it can understand me. It acts as if it can. Now
I’m discussing treatment options with a patient, which is something I never expected to do as a vet. But then again, it’s not exactly a natural patient.

  Not exactly natural.

  Something shimmered and trembled in her chest. She had moved away from magic when she left Guthrie to go to the vet college at Oregon State University. She’d only gone back once, to find the magic tarnished and ragged and worn. The ghost had been a lot smaller and dimmer, and all her other friends were gone.

  When she was much younger, magic had touched her. She had worn magic like a coat. But it had never entered her bloodstream the way it had with the others, never claimed her as part of it. She had figured there must be something wrong with her. She was destined to be ordinary; she might as well get on with it, build herself the best ordinary life she could.

  Her marriage had lasted almost three years.

  The coyote cocked its head.

  “If I give you a shot,” she said, “it can numb the leg so you won’t feel the stitches. One prick instead of lots of them. What do you think?” Of course, it would involve some waiting, too, but she had nothing else to do tonight but watch TV in her A-frame, a hundred yards from the clinic.

  “Whuff.”

  “You’re sure?”

  It pawed her arm. She sighed. “Okay. No anesthetic. I need you to lie down on your side.”

  The coyote lay down, wounded leg up and available. Deirdre threaded the curved needle with the first suture and set the suture container upright, then went to work. Her patient occasionally whined, but it did not interfere or resist in any way.

  When she had finished, she wrapped the wound, even though she knew that if this were a normal animal, it would bite the bandages off, and maybe chew out the stitches, too.

  “The hard part’s done,” she said. “I want to give you a shot of Pen B and G. It won’t knock you out or make you woozy, but it will prevent tetanus. Okay?” The coyote sat up. Deirdre drew the dose. This time the coyote didn’t resist, and she gave it an injection. “Anything else I can do for you? Would you like some food? I imagine it’s been hard to catch rabbits and mice and grasshoppers with that bum leg.”