by Terry Brooks
He approaches the pens now, a sprawling maze of wire mesh fences and gates behind which the humans are imprisoned. Torches smoke and blaze on tall stanchions, revealing the extent of the misery visited on the captives. Men, women, and children, all ages, races, and creeds—they have been flushed from their hiding places in the surrounding countryside, rounded up and herded like cattle into the pens, squeezed together with no thought for their comfort or their needs, provided with just enough of what they require to remain alive. They are used for work and breeding until they are no longer strong enough, and then they are exterminated. Their keepers are once-men, humans who have succumbed to the madness that the demons foster everywhere, the madness that was before isolated and is now rampant. Once it was accepted that all men were created equal, but that is no longer so. Humanity has evolved into two separate and distinct life-forms, strong and weak, hunter and hunted. The Void holds sway; the Word lies dormant. The once-men have given way completely to their darker impulses and now think only to survive, even at the cost of the lives of their fellow men, even at the peril of their souls. Given time, some few will evolve to become demons themselves. The feeders dine upon their victims, finding sustenance in the commission of atrocities so terrible that it is difficult even to contemplate them. It must have been like this in the concentration camps of old. But John Ross cannot imagine it.
He is close enough now that he can see the faces of the captives. They peer out at him from behind the wire, their eyes dull and empty. They are naked mostly, thrust up against the wire by those who push from behind, waiting for the night to end and the day to begin, waiting without hope or reason or purpose. They mewl and they cry and they curl up in fear. They scratch themselves endlessly. He can hardly bear to look on them, but he forces himself to do so, for they are the legacy of his failure. Once-men stand armed and ready in watchtowers all about the compound, holding automatic weapons. Weapons are still plentiful in this post-apocalyptic world, a paradox. Sentries patrol the perimeter of the compound. John Ross has come up on them so quickly that they are just now realizing he is there. Some turn to look, some swing their weapons about menacingly. But he is only one man, alone and unarmed. They are not alarmed. They are no better now at recognizing what will destroy them than they were when the first of the demons came among them all those years ago.
A few call out to him to halt, to stand where he is, but he comes on without slowing. A command rings out and shots are fired, a warning. He comes on. Shots ring out again, a flurry this time, meant to bring him down. But his magic is already in place. He calls it Black Ice—smooth, slippery, invisible. It coats him with its protective shield. The bullets slide off harmlessly. He pushes aside the closest of the once-men and strides to the wire mesh of the pens. Holding the staff firmly in both hands, he sweeps its tip across the diamond-shaped openings. Light flares, and the mesh falls apart like torn confetti. The occupants of the pens fall back in shock and fear, not certain what is happening, not knowing what to do. Ross ignores them, turning to face the once-men that rush to stop him. He scatters them with a single sweep of his staff. The guards in the watchtowers turn their weapons on him and begin to fire, but the bullets cannot harm him. He points his staff at the towers. Light flares, incandescent and blinding, and one after another the towers collapse and burn.
The compound is in chaos now. The once-men are rushing about frantically, trying to regroup. The Knight of the Word is relentless. He tears at the wire mesh of the pens until it hangs in tatters. He yells at the cowering prisoners, urging them to get up, to run, to escape. At first no one moves. Then a few begin to creep out, the bolder ones, testing the waters of their newfound freedom. Then others follow, and soon the entire camp is rushing away into the night. Some few, those who still cling to some shred of their humanity, stop to help the children and the elderly. The once-men give chase, howling in frustration and rage, but they are swept aside by the tide and by the fire of the Knight’s bright magic. John Ross strides through the camp unchallenged, flinging aside those who would stop him. The feeders have appeared by now, vast numbers of them, leaping and cavorting about him, seeing in him the prospect of fresh nourishment. He does not like serving as their catalyst, but he knows it cannot be helped. The feeders respond because it is in their nature to do so. The feeders are there because they are drawn by the misery and the pain of the humans. There is nothing he can do to change that.
He is making his way through the greater part of the camp, destroying the pens and freeing their occupants, when he sees the demon. It comes toward him almost casually, appearing out of the shadows. It still looks somewhat human, although grotesquely so, for most of its disguise has fallen away from lack of use. Once-men flank it, mirroring in their faces the hatred and fear that flares in the depths of its bright eyes. Although the demon has come to stop him, John Ross is not afraid. Others of its kind have tried to stop him before. All lie dead.
He swings to face the demon. Behind him, the captives of the pens stream through the empty streets of the ruined city for the flatlands beyond. Perhaps some will escape the pursuit that will follow. Perhaps they will find freedom in another place. The Knight has made what difference he can. It is all he can do.
All about him, the feeders cluster, anticipating that they will soon dine upon the leavings that a battle between the Knight and the demon will create. They creep like shadows in the smoky glow of the torches. Their fluid forms extend and recede like waves on a shore.
The Knight brings up his staff and starts for the demon. As he does so a net falls over him. It is heavy and thick, woven of steel threads and weighted on the ends. It bears him to his knees. Instantly the once-men are upon him, rushing from hiding, charging into the light. It is a trap, and the Knight has stumbled into it. The once-men are on him, seeking to tear the staff from his hands, to strip him of his only weapon. All about, the feeders leap and dart wildly, the frenzy drawing them like moths to a flame. In the background, the demon approaches, eyes intent, eager, and bright with hate.
Light flares along the length of the Knight’s staff and surges into the midst of his attackers …
John Ross awoke with a cry, tearing at the enemies that were no longer there, thrashing beneath the light blanket he had thrown over himself when he succumbed to his need for sleep. He stifled his cry and ceased his struggle and lurched to a sitting position, the black walking staff clutched tightly in both hands. He sat staring into space, coming back from his dream, regaining his sense of place and time. The portable air conditioner thrummed steadily from its seating in the window, and the cool air washed over his sweating face. His breathing was quick and uneven, and his pulse pounded in his ears. He felt as if his heart would burst.
It was like this, sometimes. He would dream and then wake in the middle of his dream, his future revealed in tantalizing snippets, but with no resolution offered. Would he escape from the net and the once-men or would he be killed? Either was possible. Time was disjointed in his dreams, so he could not know. Sometimes the answers would be revealed in later dreams, but not always. He had learned to live with the uncertainty, but not to accept it.
He looked over at the bedside clock. It was midafternoon. He had only slept three hours. He closed his eyes against his bitterness. Three hours. He must sleep again tonight if he was to maintain his strength. He must go back again into the world of his dreams, into the future of his life, into the promise of what waited should he fail in the here and now, and there was no help for it. It was the price he paid for being what he was.
He lay back slowly on the bed and stared upward at the ceiling. He would not sleep again now, he knew. He could never sleep right after waking from the dreams, his adrenaline pumping through him, his nerve endings jagged and raw. It was just as well. He tried not to sleep at all anymore, or to sleep only in small stretches in an effort to lessen the impact of the dreams. But it was hard to live that way. Sometimes it was almost more than he could bear.
He let his thoug
hts drift. His memory of the times and places when he had felt at peace and there had been at least some small measure of comfort were distant and faded. His childhood was a blur, his boyhood a jumbled collection of disconnected faces and events. Even the years of his manhood, from before the coming of the Lady, were no longer clear in his mind. His entire life was lost to him. He had given it all away. Once it had seemed so right and necessary that he should do so. His passion and his beliefs had governed his reason, and the importance of the charge that had been offered him had out-weighed any other consideration.
But that was a long time ago. He was no longer certain he had chosen rightly. He was no longer sure even of himself.
He called up a picture of Josie Jackson in an effort to distance himself from his thoughts. She materialized before him, tousled hair and sun-browned skin, freckles and bright smile. Thinking of her comforted him, but there was no reason for it. She had smiled at him, and they had talked. He knew nothing about her. He could not afford to think about knowing her better. In three days, he would be gone. What did it matter how she made him feel?
But if it did not matter, then why shouldn’t he indulge himself for just a minute?
He stared at the ceiling, at the cracks in the plaster, at the lines the shadows threw across the paint, at worlds so far removed that they could only be found in dreams.
Or nightmares.
Josie Jackson disappeared. John Ross blinked. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes, and he was quick to wipe them away.
CHAPTER 11
Nest Freemark spent Saturday morning cleaning house with Gran. It didn’t matter that it was the Fourth of July weekend or that Nest was particularly anxious to get outside. Nor did it matter how late you stayed up the night before. Saturday mornings were set aside for cleaning and that took precedence over everything. Gran was up at seven, breakfast was on the table at eight, and cleaning was under way by nine. The routine was set in stone. There was no sleeping in. Old Bob was already out of the house by the time Gran and Nest started work. There was a clear division of duties between Nest’s grandparents, and the rough measure of it was whether the work took place inside or out. If it was inside, Gran was responsible. Cutting the grass, raking the leaves, plowing the snow, chopping wood, planting and tending the vegetable garden, fetching and hauling, and just about everything else that didn’t involve the flower beds were Old Bob’s responsibility. As long as he kept up the yard and the exterior of the house, he stayed on Gran’s good side and was relieved of any work inside.
Nest, on the other hand, had responsibility for chores both inside and out, beginning with the Saturday-morning house-cleaning. She rose with Gran at seven to shower and dress, then hurried downstairs for her breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and juice. The quicker she got started, she knew, the quicker she would get done. Gran was already chain-smoking and drinking vodka and orange juice, her breakfast untouched in front of her, Old Bob frowning at her in disapproval. Nest ate her eggs and toast and drank her juice in silence, trying not to look at either of them, consumed instead by thoughts of last night and of Two Bears.
“How did he know I was there?” Pick had demanded in exasperation as they made their way back across the park, the hot July darkness settled all about them like damp velvet. “I was invisible! He shouldn’t have been able to see me! What kind of Indian is he, anyway?”
Nest had been wondering the same thing. The Indian part notwithstanding, Two Bears wasn’t like anyone she had ever met. He was strangely reassuring, big, direct, and well reasoned, but he was kind of scary, too. Sort of like Wraith—a paradox she couldn’t quite explain.
She pondered him now as she cleaned with Gran, dusting and polishing the furniture, vacuuming the carpet, sweeping and mopping the floors, wiping down the blinds and window-sills, scrubbing out the toilets and sinks, and washing out the tubs and showers. On a light cleaning day, they would stick to dusting and vacuuming, but on the first Saturday of the month they did it all. She helped Gran with the laundry and the dishes as well, and it was nearing noon when they finally finished. When Gran told her she could go, she wolfed down a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, drank a large glass of milk, and went out the back door in a rush, inadvertently letting the screen slam shut behind her once more. She cringed at the sound, but she didn’t turn back.
“He said he was a shaman,” Nest had remarked to Pick the previous night. “So maybe that means he sees things other people can’t. Aren’t Indian medicine men supposed to have special powers?”
“How am I supposed to know what medicine men can or can’t do?” Pick had snapped irritably. “Do I look like an expert on Indians? I live in this park and I don’t take vacations to parts of the country where there might be Indians like some people I could mention! Why don’t you know what Indians do? Haven’t you studied Indians in school? What kind of education are you getting, anyway? If I were you, I’d make certain I knew everything that was important about the history …”
And on and on he had gone, barely pausing for breath to say good night when she reached her house and left him to go in. Sometimes Pick was insufferable. A lot of times, really. But he was still her best friend.
Nest had met Pick at the beginning of the summer of her sixth year. She was sitting on the crossboard at the corner of her sandbox one evening after supper, staring out at the park, catching glimpses of it through gaps in the hedgerow, which was still filling in with new spring growth. She was humming to herself, picking idly at the sand as she scrutinized the park, when she saw the feeder. It was slipping through the shadows of the Petersons’ backyard, hunkered down against the failing light as it made its way smoothly from concealment to concealment. She stared after it intently, wondering where it was going and what it was about.
“Weird, aren’t they?” a voice said.
She looked around hurriedly, but there was no one to be seen.
“Down here,” said the voice.
She looked down, and there, sitting on the crossboard at the opposite corner of the sandbox, was what looked like a tiny wooden man made out of twigs and leaves with a little old face carved into the wood and a beard made of moss. He was so small and so still that at first she thought he was a doll. Then he shifted his position slightly, causing her to start, and she knew he was alive.
“I don’t scare you, do I?” he asked her with a smirk, wiggling his twiggy fingers at her.
She shook her head wordlessly.
“I didn’t think so. I didn’t think you would be scared of much. Not if you weren’t scared of the feeders or that big dog. Nossir. You wouldn’t be scared of a sylvan, I told myself.”
She stared at him. “What’s a sylvan?”
“Me. That’s what I am. A sylvan. Have been all my life.” He chuckled at his own humor, then cleared his throat officiously. “My name is Pick. What’s yours?”
“Nest,” she told him.
“Actually, I knew that. I’ve been watching you for quite a while, young lady.”
“You have?”
“Watching is what sylvans do much of the time. We’re pretty good at it. Better than cats, as a matter of fact. You don’t know much about us, I don’t expect.”
She thought a moment. “Are you an elf?”
“An elf!” he exclaimed in horror. “An elf? I should guess not! An elf, indeed! Utter nonsense!” He drew himself up. “Sylvans are real, young lady. Sylvans are forest creatures—like tatterdemalions and riffs—but hardworking and industrious. Always have been, always will be. We have important responsibilities to exercise.”
She nodded, not certain exactly what he was saying. “What do you do?”
“I look after the park,” Pick declared triumphantly. “All by myself, I might add. That’s a lot of work! I keep the magic in balance. You know about magic, don’t you? Well, there’s a little magic in everything and a lot in some things, and it all has to be kept in balance. There’s lots of things that can upset that balance, so I have to keep a careful
watch to prevent that from happening. Even so, I’m not always successful. Then I have to pick up the pieces and start over.”
“Can you do magic?” she asked curiously.
“Some. More than most forest creatures, but then I’m older than most. I’ve been at this a long time.”
She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Are you like Rumpelstiltskin?”
Pick turned crimson. “Am I like Rumpelstiltskin? Criminy! What kind of question is that? What did I just get through telling you? That’s the trouble with six-year-olds! They don’t have any attention span! No, I am not like Rumpelstiltskin! That’s a fairy tale! It isn’t real! Sylvans don’t go around spinning straw into gold, for goodness’ sake! What kind of education are they giving you in school these days?”
Nest didn’t say anything, frightened by the little man’s outburst. The leaves that stuck out of the top of his head were rustling wildly, and his twiggy feet were stamping so hard she was afraid they would snap right off. She glanced nervously toward her house.
“Now, don’t do that! Don’t be looking for your grandmother, like you think you might need her to come out and shoo me away. I just got done telling you that I knew you weren’t afraid of much. Don’t make a liar out of me.” Pick spread his arms wide in dismay. “I just get upset sometimes with all this fairy-tale bunk. I didn’t mean to upset you. I know you’re only six. Look, I’m over a hundred and fifty years old! What do I know about kids?”
Nest looked at him. “You’re a hundred and fifty? You are not.”
“Am so. I was here before this town was here. I was here when there were no houses anywhere!” Pick’s brow furrowed. “Life was much easier then.”
