Angel Fire East

by Terry Brooks

  “Well, I’m not much good at sitting back and waiting for life to solve my problems for me.”

  “No. And this is not what you should do. You should solve those problems you understand well, but leave the others alone. You should provide solutions where you are able and accept that this is enough.” He paused, then sighed. “In a houseful of trouble, not everything can be salvaged.”

  Well, okay, she was thinking, you save what you can and let go of the rest. Fair enough. But how was she supposed to save anything if she didn’t know where to start?

  “Can you tell me something about the gypsy morph?” she tried hopefully.

  He nodded. “Very powerful magic. Very unpredictable. A gypsy morph becomes what it will, if it becomes anything at all, which is rare. Mostly it fails to find its form and goes back with the air, wild and unreachable. Spirits understand it, for they occupy space with it. They brush against it, pass through it, float upon it, before it becomes a solid thing, while it is still waiting to take form.” He shrugged. “It is an enigma waiting for an answer.”

  She blew out a cloud of breath. “Well, how do I go about finding out what that answer is? This morph has become a little boy. What does that mean? Is that the form it intends to take? What does it want with me? It spoke my name to John Ross, but now that it’s here it doesn’t even look at me.”

  They stopped on the rickety wooden bridge that crossed the nearly frozen trickle of the winter stream. Two Bears leaned on the railing, hands clasped.

  “Talk to him, little bird’s Nest.”

  “What?”

  “Have you said anything to him? This little boy, have you spoken to him on your own?”

  She thought about it a moment. “No.”

  “The solution is often buried somewhere in the problem. If the gypsy morph requires you, it may choose to tell you so. But perhaps it needs to know you care first.”

  She thought about it a moment. The gypsy morph was a child, a newborn less than thirty days formed, and as a four-year-old boy, it might be necessary that he be reassured and won over. She hadn’t done that. She hadn’t even tried, feeling pressed and rushed by Ross. The morph might need her badly, but needing and trusting were two different things entirely.

  “All right,” she said.

  “Good.” He lifted away from the bridge, straightening. “Now I will explain my reason for asking to speak with you. It is simple. I am your friend, and I came to say good-bye. I am the last of the Sinnissippi, and I have come home to be with my people. I wanted you to know, because it is possible I will not see you again.”

  Nest stared, absorbing the impact of his words. “Your people are all dead, O’olish Amaneh. Does this mean you will die, too?”

  He laughed, and his laugh was hearty and full. “You should see your face, little bird’s Nest! I would be afraid to die with such a fierce countenance confronting me! Mr. Pick! Look at her! Such fierce resolution and rebuke in her eyes! How do you withstand this power when it is turned on you?”

  He sobered then, and shook his head. “This is difficult to explain, but I will try. By joining with my ancestors, with my people, who are gone from this earth, I do not have to give up my own life in the way you imagine. But I must bond with them in a different form. By doing so, I must give up something of myself. It is difficult to know beforehand what this will require. I say good-bye as a precaution, in the event I am not able to return to you.”

  “Transmutation?” she asked. “You will become something else.”

  “In a sense. But then, I always was.” He brushed the matter off with a wave of his big hand. “If I leave, I will not be gone forever. Like the seasons, I will still be in the seeds of the earth, waiting.” He shrugged. “My leaving is a small thing. I will not be missed.”

  She exhaled sharply. “Don’t say that. It isn’t true.”

  There was a long silence as they faced each other in the graying winter light, motionless in the cold, breath clouding the air before their intense faces. “It isn’t true for you,” he said finally. “I am grateful for that.”

  She was still fighting to accept the idea that he would not be there anymore, that he would be as lost to her as Gran and Old Bob, as her mother and her father, as so many of her friends. It was a strange reaction to have to someone she had encountered only twice before and had such mixed feelings about. It was an odd response no matter how she looked at it. The closest parallel she could draw was to Wraith, when he had disappeared on her eighteenth birthday, gone forever it seemed, until she discovered him anew inside her.

  Would it be like that with O’olish Amaneh?

  “When will this happen?” she asked, her voice tight and small.

  “When it is time. Perhaps it will not happen at all. Perhaps the spirits of my people will not have me.”

  “Perhaps they’ll throw you back when they find out you talk in riddles all the time!” Pick snapped.

  Two Bears’ laughter boomed through the empty woods. “Perhaps if they do, I will have to come live with you, Mr. Pick!” He glanced at Nest. “Come, walk with me some more.”

  They retraced their steps down the ravine toward the bayou, then along the riverbank where the woods hugged the shoreline, the dark, skeletal limbs crisscrossing the graying skies. The air was crisp and cold, but there was a fresh dampness as well, the smell of incoming snow, thick and heavy. The Rock was frozen solid below the toboggan run, and there would be sleds on the ice by nightfall.

  When they reached the edge of the woods and were in sight of the wooden chute where it opened onto the ice, Two Bears stopped.

  “Even when I am with my people, you may see me again, little bird’s Nest,” he said.

  She wrinkled her nose. “Like a ghost?”

  “Perhaps. Are you afraid of what that might mean?”

  She gave him a look. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

  “Always.”

  “Then I have no reason to be afraid.”

  He shook his head in contradiction. “If I come to you, I will do so as my ancestors did for me in the park fifteen years ago—in dreams. They came to you as well that night. Do you remember?”

  She did. Fifteen years ago, her dreams of the Sinnissippi had shown Gran as a young girl, running with a demon in the park, feeders chasing after her, a wild, reckless look in her dark eyes. They had revealed truths that had changed everything.

  “There is always cause to be afraid of what our dreams will show us,” he whispered. One hand lifted to touch her face gently. “Speak my name once more.”

  “O’olish Amaneh,” she said.

  “No one will ever say it and give me greater pleasure. The winds bear your words to the heavens and scatter them as stars.”

  He gestured skyward, and her eyes responded to the gesture, searching obediently.

  When she looked back again, he was gone.

  “Just tell me this,” Pick said after a long moment of silence. “Do you have any idea what he was talking about?”

  John Ross came down the hallway to the living room and found Bennett Scott sitting in a chair reading a Sports Illustrated while Harper colored paper on the floor. The gypsy morph knelt on the couch and stared out the window as if turned to stone.

  Bennett looked up, and he asked, “Where’s Nest?”

  She shrugged. “Out in the park, talking with some Indian.”

  A cold space settled in the pit of his stomach. Two Bears. He leaned heavily on his staff, thinking that it was all going to happen again, a new confrontation between the Word and the Void, another battle in an endless war. What was expected of him this time? To unlock the secret of the morph, he knew. But if he failed …

  He brushed his thoughts aside, finding they spiraled down into a darkness he didn’t care to approach. He thought back suddenly to the Fairy Glen and the Lady, to his last visit there, and to the secret he had discovered and could never share with anyone. Thinking on it made him suddenly weary of his life.

  “Are you al
l right?” Bennett Scott asked him.

  He almost laughed, thinking that he would never be all right, thinking the question strange coming from her. “Yes,” he said, and walked into the kitchen.

  He had poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and was halfway through it when the doorbell rang. When it rang a second time, he walked to the kitchen entry and looked into the living room. Harper was in her mother’s lap, a storybook in her hands. Bennett glanced up and shrugged indifferently, so Ross limped down the hallway instead.

  When he opened the front door, Josie Jackson was waiting.

  Chapter 12

  It had been fifteen years since they had seen each other, but it might just as easily have been yesterday. Physically, they had changed, weathered and lined by the passing years and life’s experiences, settled into midlife and aware of the steady approach of old age. But emotionally, they were frozen in time, locked in the same space they had occupied at the moment they had spoken last. Their feelings for each other ran so deep and their memories of the few days they had shared were so vivid and immediate that they were reclaimed instantly by what they had both thought lost forever.

  “John?” Josie said his name softly, but the shock mirrored in her dark eyes was bright and painful.

  She was older, but not enough so that it made more than a passing impression on him. Mostly, she was the way he remembered her. She still had that tanned, fresh look and that scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her blond, tousled hair was cut shorter, but it accentuated her face, lending it a soft, cameo beauty.

  Only the smile was missing, that dazzling, wondrous smile, but he had no reason to expect she would be inclined to share it now with him. When he met her, the attraction was instantaneous and electric. Even though he knew that a relationship with her would be disastrous, particularly one in which he fell in love, he let it happen anyway. For two days, he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to have a normal life, to share himself with a woman he cared about, to pretend it might lead to something permanent. Together, they spent an evening in Sinnissippi Park at a picnic and dance. When he was attacked and beaten by men who believed him someone other than who he was, she took him home, washed him, bandaged him, soothed him, and gave herself to him. When he left her in the morning for a final confrontation with the demon who was Nest Freemark’s father, walking away from her as she sat in her car looking after him, he had thought he would never see her again.

  “Hello,” she said, and he realized he hadn’t said anything, but was simply standing there in the doorway, staring.

  “Hello, Josie,” he managed, his own voice sounding strange to him, forced and dry. “How are you?”

  “Good.” The shock in her eyes had eased, but she didn’t seem to be having any better luck than he was with conversation. “I didn’t know you were here.”

  “My coming was kind of unexpected.”

  He felt slow and awkward in her presence, aware of his ragged appearance in old jeans, plaid work shirt, and scuffed boots. His long hair, tied back from his face and still damp from his shower, was shot through with gray and had receded above his temples. He bore the scars from his battles with the minions of the Void across his sun-browned face and forearms, and the damage to his leg ached more often these days. He found Josie as fresh and youthful as ever, but believed that to her he must look old and used up.

  He glanced down at the plate of cookies she was holding in her hands, seeing them for the first time.

  Her eyes lowered. “I brought them for Nest. She always bakes cookies for everyone else, so I thought someone ought to bake some for her. Can I come in?”

  “Of course,” he said hurriedly, stepping back. “Guess my mind is somewhere else. Come in.” He waited until she was inside and then closed the door. “Nest is out in the park, but she should be back in a few minutes.”

  They stared at each other in the shadowed entry, hearing the ticking of the grandfather clock and the low murmur of Bennett reading to Harper.

  “You look tired, John,” she said finally.

  “You look wonderful.”

  The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Josie flushed, then released that blinding smile, and he felt as if nothing on earth would ever be more welcome.

  “That smile—now there’s something I’ve thought about often,” he admitted, shaking his head at what he was feeling inside, knowing already he shouldn’t allow it, unable to help himself.

  She held his gaze, the smile in place. “I’ve missed you, too. Isn’t that remarkable?”

  “It’s been a long time,” he said.

  “Not so long that you felt the need to call or write?”

  He gave her a rueful look. “I’ve never been much good at either. I tell myself to do it, but I just don’t follow through. I don’t really know what to say. It feels strange trying to put down what I’m thinking on paper or to say it into a phone. I don’t know. Ask Nest. I haven’t called or written her either.”

  The smile faded, and she shook her head slowly. “It’s all right. I guess I never really thought you would.” She handed him the plate of cookies. “Here, hold these for a moment, will you?”

  She shrugged out of her coat and hung it on the coatrack, draping her scarf on top and shoving her gloves into the pockets. She brushed back her hair self-consciously, smoothed her blouse where it tucked into her pants, and took the cookies back.

  “Pour me a glass of milk and I’ll share,” she offered, the smile back in place again.

  They walked down the hall past the living room, and Bennett and Harper looked up. Little John, kneeling on the couch, never moved. Josie leaned around Ross to say hello and asked if anyone would like a snack. The women didn’t seem to know each other, but neither made an effort to introduce herself, so Ross let the matter alone. He went into the kitchen with Josie, helped her with glasses of milk, then remained leaning against the counter looking off into the tree-shrouded distance while Josie carried a tray for Bennett and the children into the living room.

  When she returned, he sat with her at the old wooden table, the cookies and milk between them. For a moment, no one spoke.

  “Do you still have the coffee shop?” he asked finally.

  “Yep. Mostly the same customers, too. Nothing changes.” She arched one eyebrow. “You?”

  “Traveling,” he said. “Working odd jobs here and there, trying to make sense of my life. You know. How’s your daughter?”

  “Grown up, married, two kids. I’m a grandmother. Who would have thought?”

  “Not me. I don’t see you that way.”

  “Thanks. How long are you here for?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know yet. Through Christmas, I guess. It depends.”

  She nodded slowly. “On them?” She indicated the living room with a nod of her head.

  “Well, on the boy, at least.”

  She waited, watching him carefully. When he didn’t say anything, she asked, “Who is he?”

  He cleared his throat softly. “He’s my son. I’m taking him to Chicago to see a specialist. He doesn’t speak.”

  She went very still. “Is that your wife and daughter with him?”

  “What?”

  “The woman and the little girl?”

  He blinked. “No. Why would you—No, she’s barely twenty, and I don’t …”

  “You seemed a little awkward about introducing them,” she said.

  “Oh, well, maybe so.” He shook his head. “I don’t know them, is the problem. I just got here last night, and they were already here, and I don’t know much more about them than you do.”

  She took a bite of cookie and a sip of milk, eyes shifting away. “Tell me about your son. Where is his mother?”

  He shook his head again. “I don’t know.” He caught himself too late, the lie already spoken, and quickly added, “He’s adopted. Single-parent adoption.” His mind raced. “That’s another reason I’m here. I’m not much good at
this. I’m hoping Nest can help.”

  He was getting in deeper, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He had never thought he would have to explain the gypsy morph to anyone except Nest, that he would slip in at night, tell her why he was there, then wait for something to develop, and slip out again. Instead, he found himself in a situation where he was forced to make things up almost faster than he could manage.

  “What is it you think Nest can do?”

  He stared at her wearily. “I don’t know,” he admitted, realizing he was saying the same thing over and over, but this time speaking the truth. “I’m in over my head, and I don’t know who else to turn to.”

  Her face softened instantly. “John, you can ask Nest for anything. You know that. If she can help you, she will.” She paused. “I hope you know that you can ask me, as well.”

  He grinned ruefully. “It helps hearing you say it. I wasn’t sure how things stood between us.”

  She nodded slowly. “They stand the way they have always stood. Can’t you tell?”

  The way she looked at him when she said it, he guessed maybe he could.

  Deputy Sheriff Larry Spence pulled over at the Quik Stop and went inside to buy some gum. When he came out, hunching down into his heavy leather coat for warmth, taking note of the graying skies and gusting winds, he paused at the pay phone attached to the side of the building and dialed the number FBI Agent Robinson had given him. He still wasn’t sure about this whole business, but he didn’t want to take any chances with Nest.

  He drummed his fingers on the metal phone shell while he waited for someone to pick up. He didn’t much like Robinson or that woman agent, especially after their visit to his house. His kids didn’t seem to like them much either. Neither had slept very well last night, and Billy had come awake half a dozen times screaming about knives. No, he didn’t much like it. It seemed to him they might have found a better place to talk to him about John Ross. He’d thought about calling the bureau, checking up on the agents, but he was afraid it would make him look foolish to do so. Anyway, all they wanted to know was whether or not Ross was out there. Once he told them that, he was done with the matter.