The Ivory and the Horn

'Because the bottom line is I believe I can make a difference. Not a big one. What I do is just a small ripple, but I know it helps. And if enough little people like me make our little differences, one day we're going to wake up to find that we really did manage to change the world.'

'There's a big distinction between some trees getting cut down and a kid dying,' Dennison said.

'From our perspective, sure,' she agreed. 'But maybe not from a global view. We have to remember that everything's connected. The real world's not something that can be divided into convenient little compartments, like we'll label this, 'the child abuse problem,' this'll go under 'depletion of the ozone layer.' If you help some homeless child on these city streets, it has repercussions that touch every part of the world.'

'I don't get it.'

'It's like a vibe,' she said. 'If enough people think positively, take positive action, then it snowballs all of its own accord and the world can't help but get a little better.'

Dennison couldn't stop from voicing the cynical retort that immediately came into his mind.

'How retro,' he said.

'What do you mean?'

'It sounds so sixties. All this talk about vibes and positive mumbo-jumbo.'

'Positive thinking brought down the Berlin Wall,' she said.

'Yeah, and I'm sure some fortune teller predicted it in the pages of a supermarket tabloid, although she probably got the decade wrong. Look, I'm sorry, but I don't buy it. If the world really worked on 'vibes,' I think it'd be in even worse shape than it already is.'

'Maybe that's what is wrong with it: too much negative energy. So we've got to counteract it with positive energy.'

'Oh, please.'

She got a sad look on her face. 'I believe it,' she said. 'I learned that from a man that I came to love very much. I didn't believe him when he told me, either, but now I know it's true.'

'How can you know it's true?'

Debra sighed. She put her hand in the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out a piece of paper.

'Talk to these people,' she said. 'They can explain it a whole lot better than I can.'

Dennison looked at the scrap of paper she'd handed him. 'Elders' Council' was written in ballpoint. The address given was City Hall's.

'Who are they?'

'Elders from the Kickaha Reservation.'

'They've got an office at City Hall?'

Debra nodded. 'It's part of a program to integrate alternative methods of dealing with problems with the ones we would traditionally use.'

'What? People go to these old guys and ask them for advice?'

'They're not just men,' she said. 'In fact, among the Kickaha— as with many native peoples— there are more women than men sitting on an elders' council. They're the grandmothers of the tribe who hold and remember all the wisdoms. The Kickaha call them 'the Aunts.' '

Dennison started to shake his head. 'I know you mean well, Debra, but—'

'Just go talk to them— please? Before you make your decision.'

'But nothing they say is going to—'

'Promise me you will. You asked me why I helped you last night, well, let's say this is what I want in return: for you just to talk to them.'

'I...'

The last thing Dennison wanted was to involve himself with some nut-case situation like this, but he liked the woman, despite her flaky beliefs, and he did owe her something. He remembered throwing up last night and her catching the vomit in his garbage can. How many people would do that for a stranger?

'Okay,' he said. 'I promise.'

The smile that she gave him seemed to make her whole face glow.

'Good,' she said. 'Make sure you bring a present. A package of tobacco would be good.'

'Tobacco.'

She nodded. 'I've got to go now,' she added. She stood up and shook his hand. 'I'm really glad I got the chance to meet you.'

'Wait a minute,' Dennison said as she left the kitchen.

He followed her into the living room where she was putting on her jacket.

'Am I going to see you again?' he asked.

'I hope so.'

'What's your number?'

'Do you have a pen?'

He went back into the kitchen and returned with a pencil and the scrap of paper she'd given him. She took it from him and quickly scribbled a phone number and address on it. She handed it back to him, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, and then she was out the door and gone.

Dennison stood staring at the door after it had closed behind her. The apartment had never seemed so empty before.

Definitely flaky, he thought as he returned to the kitchen. But he thought maybe he'd fallen in love with her, if that was something you were allowed to do with angels.

He finished his coffee and cleaned up the dishes, dawdling over the job. He didn't know anything about the Kickaha except for those that he saw in his office, applying for welfare, and what he'd seen on the news a couple of years ago when the more militant braves from the reservation had blockaded Highway 14 to protest logging on their land. So he had only two images of them: down and out, or dressed in khaki, carrying an assault rifle. Wait, make that three. There were also the pictures in the history books of them standing around in ceremonial garb.

He didn't want to go to this Elders' Council. Nothing they could tell him was going to make him look at the world any differently, so why bother? But finally he put on a lightweight sportsjacket and went out to flag a cab to take him to City Hall, because whatever else he believed or didn't believe, the one thing he'd never done yet was break a promise.

He wasn't about to start now— especially with a promise made to an angel.

***

Dennison left the elevator and walked down a carpeted hallway on the third floor of City Hall. He stopped at the door with the neatly lettered sign that read ELDERS' COUNCIL. He felt surreal, as though he'd taken a misstep somewhere along the way yesterday and had ended up in a Fellini film. Being here was odd enough, in and of itself. But if he was going to meet a native elder, he felt it should be under pine trees with the smell of wood smoke in the air, not cloistered away in City Hall, surrounded by miles of concrete and steel.

Really, he shouldn't be here at all. What he should be doing was getting his affairs in order. Resigning from his job, getting in touch with his cousin Pete, who asked Dennison at least every three or four months if he wanted to go into business with him. Pete worked for a small shipping firm, but he wanted to start his own company. 'I've got the know-how and the money,' he'd tell Dennison, 'but frankly, when it comes to dealing with people, I stink. That's where you'd come in.'

Dennison hesitated for long moment, staring at the door and the sign affixed to its plain wooden surface. He knew what he should be doing, but he'd made that promise, so he knocked on the door. An old native woman answered as he was about to lift his hand to rap a second time.

Her face was wrinkled, her complexion dark; her braided hair almost grey. She wore a long brown skirt, flat-soled shoes and a plain white blouse that was decorated with a tracing of brightly coloured beadwork on its collar points and buttoned placket. The gaze that looked up to meet his was friendly, the eyes such a dark brown that it was hard to differentiate between pupil and iris.

'Hello,' she said and ushered him in.

It was strange inside. He found him self standing in a conference room overlooking the parking garage behind City Hall. The walls were unadorned and there was no table, just thick wall-to-wall on the floor and a ring of chairs set in a wide circle, close to the walls. At the far side of the room, he spied a closed door that might lead