by Terry Brooks
“Hey, whatever.” Robert shrugged, failing to hide his irritation and resentment.
“Call you tonight,” Cass promised.
She picked up the handle of the wagon and trudged off, with Brianna and Robert trailing after. More than once her friends glanced back at her. She could read the questions in their eyes. She stared after them, unable to look away, feeling selfish and deceitful.
When they were out of sight, she called softly for Pick. The sylvan appeared at her feet, and she reached down, picked him up, and set him on her shoulder.
“Will any of this help?” she asked, gesturing vaguely at the tree, struggling to submerge her feelings.
“Might,” he answered. “But it’s a temporary cure at best. The problem lies with a shifting in the balance. The magic that wards the tree is being shredded. I have to find out why.”
They stood without speaking for a time, studying the big oak, as if by doing so they might heal it by strength of will alone. Nest felt hot and itchy from the heat and exertion, but there was a deeper discomfort working inside her. Her eyes traced the outline of the tree against the sky. It was so massive and old, a great, crooked-arm giant frozen in time. How many years had it been alive? she wondered. How much of the land’s history had it witnessed? If it could speak, what would it tell her?
“Do you think the Word made this tree?” she asked Pick suddenly.
The sylvan shrugged. “I suppose so.”
“Because the Word made everything, right?” She paused. “What does the Word look like?”
Pick looked at her.
“Is the Word the same as God, do you think?”
Pick looked at her some more.
“Well, you don’t think there’s more than one God, do you?” Nest began to rush her words. “I mean, you don’t think that the Word and God and Mother Nature are all different beings? You don’t think they’re all running around making different things—like God makes humans and the Word makes forest creatures and Mother Nature makes trees? Or that Allah is responsible for one race and one part of the world and Buddha is responsible for some others? You don’t think that, do you?”
Pick stared.
“Because all these different countries and all these different races have their own version of God. Their religions teach them who their God is and what He believes. Sometimes the different versions even hold similar beliefs. But no one can agree on whose God is the real God. Everyone insists that everyone else is wrong. But unless there is more than one God, what difference does it make? If there’s only one God and He made everything, then what is the point of arguing over whether to call Him God or the Word or whatever? It’s like arguing over who owns the park. The park is for everyone.”
“Are you having some sort of identity crisis?” Pick asked solemnly.
“No. I just want to know what you believe.”
Pick sighed. “I believe creatures like me are thoroughly misunderstood and grossly underappreciated. I also believe it doesn’t matter what I believe.”
“It matters to me.”
Pick shrugged.
Nest stared at her feet. “I think you are being unreasonable.”
“What is the point of this conversation?” Pick demanded irritably.
“The point is, I want to know who made me.” Nest took a deep breath to steady herself. “I want to know just that one thing. Because I’m sick and tired of being different and not knowing why. The tree and I are alike in a way. The tree is not what it seems. It might have grown from a seedling a long, long time ago, but it’s been infused with magic that imprisons the maentwrog. Who made it that way? Who decided? The Word or God or Mother Nature? So then I think, What about me? Who made me? I’m not like anyone else, am I? I’m a human, but I can do magic. I can see the feeders when no one else can. I know about this other world, this world that you come from, that no one else knows about. Don’t you get it? I’m just like that tree, a part of two worlds and two lives—but I don’t feel like I really belong in either one.”
She took him off her shoulder and held him in the palm of her hand, close to her face. “Look at me, Pick. I don’t like being confused like this. I don’t like feeling like I don’t belong. People look at me funny; even if they don’t know for sure, they sense I’m not like them. Even my friends. I try not to let it bother me, but it does sometimes. Like right now.” She felt the tears start, and she forced them down. “So, you know, it might help if I knew something about myself, even if it was just that I was right about God and the Word being the same. Even if it was only that, so I could know that I’m not parts of different things slapped together, not something totally weird, but that I was made whole and complete to be just the way I am!”
Pick looked uncomfortable. “Criminy, Nest, I don’t have any special insight into how people get made. You don’t seem weird to me, but I’m a sylvan, so maybe my opinion doesn’t count.”
She tightened her mouth. “Maybe it counts for more than you think.”
He gave an elaborate sigh, tugged momentarily on his mossy beard, and fixed her with his fierce gaze. “I don’t like these kinds of conversations, so let’s dispense with the niceties. You pay attention to me. You asked if I believe God and the Word are the same. I do. You can call the Word by any name you choose—God, Mohammed, Buddha, Mother Nature, or Daniel the Owl; it doesn’t change anything. They’re all one, and that one made everything, you included. So I wouldn’t give much credence to the possibility that you were slapped together and modified along the way by a handful of dissatisfied deities. I don’t know why you turned out the way you did, but I’m pretty sure it was done for a reason and that you were made all of a piece.”
His brows knit. “If you want to worry about something, I don’t think it should be about whether you owe your existence to God or the Word or whoever. I think you should worry about what’s expected of you now that you’re here and how you’re going to keep from being a major disappointment.”
She shook her head in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“Just this. Everything that exists has a counterpart. The Word is only half of the equation, Nest. The Void is the other half. The Word and the Void—one a creator, one a destroyer, one good, one evil. They’re engaged in a war and they’ve been fighting it since the beginning of time. One seeks to maintain life’s balance; the other seeks to upset it. We’re all a part of that struggle because what’s at risk is our own lives. The balance isn’t just out there in the world around us; it’s inside us as well. And the good that’s the Word and the evil that’s the Void is inside us, too. Inside us, each working to gain the upper hand over the other, each working to find a way to overcome the other.”
He paused, studying her. “You already understand that you aren’t like most people. You’re special. You have one foot firmly planted in each of two worlds, forest creature and human. There’re not many like you. Like I’ve said, there’s a reason for this, just like there’s a reason for everything. Don’t you think for a minute that the Void doesn’t realize this. You have a presence and a power. You have a purpose. The Void would like to see all that turned to his use. You may think you are a good person and that nothing could change that. But you haven’t been tested yet. Not really. You haven’t been exposed to the things in life that might change you into something you wouldn’t even recognize. Sooner or later, that’s going to happen. Maybe sooner, given the amount of unrest among the feeders. Something is going on, Nest. You better concentrate your concerns on that. You better be on your guard.”
There was a long silence when he finished as she digested the implications of his admonition. He stood rigid in her hand, arms folded across his wooden chest, mouth set in a tight line, eyes bright with challenge. He was trying to tell her something, she realized suddenly. His words had more than one meaning; his warning was about something else. A sense of uneasiness crept through her, a shadow of deep uncertainty. She found herself thinking back on the past few days, on Bennett Scott’
s rescue from the cliffs, on the maentwrog’s emergence from its prison, and on the increased presence and boldness of the feeders. Did it have to do with these?
What was Pick trying to say?
She knew she would not find out today. She had seen that look on his face before, stubborn and irascible. He was done talking.
She felt suddenly drained and worn. She lowered Pick to the ground, waited impatiently for him to step out of her hand, and then stood up again. “I’m going home after all,” she told him. “I’ll see you tonight.”
Without waiting for his reply, she turned and walked off into the trees.
She didn’t go home, however. Instead, she walked through the park, angling down off the heights to the bayou’s edge and following the riverbank west. She took her time, letting her emotions settle, giving herself a chance to think through the things that were bothering her. She could put a voice to some of them, but not yet to all. What troubled her was a combination of what had already come about and what she sensed was yet to happen. The latter was not a premonition exactly—more an unpleasant whisper of possibility. The day was hot and still, and the sun beat down out of the cloudless sky on its slow passage west. The park was silent and empty-feeling, and even the voices of the picnickers seemed distant and subdued. As if everyone was waiting for what she anticipated. As if everyone knew it was coming.
She passed below the toboggan slide and above a pair of young boys fishing off the bank by the skating shelter. She glanced up the long, straight, wooden sluice to the tower where the sledders began their runs in winter, remembering the feeling of shooting down toward the frozen river, gathering speed for the launch onto the ice. Inside she felt as if it were happening to her now in another way, as if she were racing toward something vast and broad and slick, and that once she reached it she would be out of control.
The afternoon wore on. She looked for feeders, but did not see any. She looked for Daniel and did not see him either. She remembered that she had forgotten to ask Pick if he was making any progress in the search for Bennett Scott’s cat, Spook. Leaves threw dappled shadows on the ground she walked across, and she imagined faces and shapes in their patterns. She found herself wondering about her father and her mother, both such mysterious figures in her life, so removed in time, almost mythical. She thought of Gran and her stubborn refusal to speak of them in any concrete way. A cold, hard determination grew inside her. She would make Gran tell her, she promised herself. She would force her to speak.
She walked to the base of the cliffs, staying back from where the caves tunneled into the rock. Pick had told her never to go there. He had made her promise. It wasn’t safe for her, he insisted. It didn’t matter that other kids explored the caves regularly and no harm came to them. Other kids couldn’t see the feeders. Other kids didn’t have use of the magic. She was at risk, and she must keep away.
She shook her head as she turned and began to walk up the roadway that led to the bluff. There it was again, she thought. The realization that she was different. Always different.
She reached the heights and turned toward the cemetery. She thought she might visit her mother’s grave. She had a sudden need to do so, a need to connect in some small way with her lost past. She crossed the road in front of the Indian mounds and turned in to the trees. The sun burned white-hot in the afternoon sky, its glare blinding her as she walked into it. She squinted and shaded her eyes with her hand.
Ahead, someone moved in the blaze of light.
She slowed in a patch of shade and tried to see who it was. At first she thought it was Two Bears, returned early for tonight’s visit. But then she saw it was a man in forest green coveralls, a maintenance employee of the park. He was picking up trash with a metal-tipped stick and depositing it into a canvas bag. She hesitated, then continued on. As she approached, he turned and looked at her.
“Hot one, isn’t it?” His bland face was smooth and expressionless, and his blue eyes were so pale they seemed almost devoid of color.
She nodded and smiled uncertainly.
“Off for a visit to the cemetery?” he asked.
“My mother is buried there,” she told him, stopping now.
The man placed the sharp tip of the stick against the ground and rested his hands on the butt. “Hard thing to lose a mother. She been gone a long time?”
“Since I was a baby.”
“Yeah, that’s a long time, all right. You know, I hardly remember mine anymore.”
Nest thought momentarily to tell him about the big oak, but then decided there was nothing he could do in any case, that it was better off in Pick’s capable hands.
“You still got your father?” the man asked suddenly.
Nest shook her head. “I live with my grandparents.”
The man looked sad. “Not the same as having a father, is it? Old folks like that aren’t likely to be around for too much longer, so you got to start learning to depend pretty much on yourself. But then you start to wonder if you’re up to the job. Think about one of these trees. It’s old and rugged. It hasn’t really ever had to depend on anyone. But then along comes a logger and cuts it down in minutes. What can it do? You catch my drift?”
She looked at him, confused.
The man glanced at the sky. “The weather’s not going to change for a while yet. Are you coming out for the fireworks Monday?”
She nodded.
“Good. Should be something. Fourth of July is always something.” His smile was vaguely mocking. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”
She was suddenly uneasy. Something about the man upset her. She wanted to move away from him. She was thinking that it was getting close to dinnertime anyway and she should be getting home. She would visit her mother’s grave that evening instead, when it was cool and quiet.
“I’ve got to be going,” she said perfunctorily.
The man looked at her some more, saying nothing. She forced herself to smile at him and turned away. Already the shadows of the big trees were lengthening. She went quickly, impelled by her discomfort.
She did not look back, and so she did not see the man’s strange eyes turn hard and cold and fixed of purpose as he watched her go.
When Nest Freemark was safely out of sight, the demon hoisted the canvas sack and stick over his shoulder and began walking. He crossed the roadway to the Indian mounds and angled down toward the river, whistling softly to himself. Keeping within the shelter of the trees, he worked his way steadily east through the park. The light was pale and gray where the hillside blocked the sun, the shadows deep and pooled. Afternoon ball games were winding down and picnickers were heading home. The demon smiled and continued on.
Richie Stoudt was waiting at the toboggan slide, seated at one of the picnic tables, staring out at the river. The demon was almost on top of him before Richie realized he was there. Richie leaped up then, grinning foolishly, shaking his head.
“Hey, how’s it going?” he sputtered. “Didn’t hear you come up. Been waiting though, just like you said to do. Got your message all right. Finished up at the Prestons’ and came right over.”
The demon nodded, smiled, and kept walking. “Let’s get started then.”
“Sure, sure.” Richie was right on his heels. He was small and wiry, and his thin face peeked out from under a mop of unruly dark hair. He was wearing coveralls over a blue denim shirt and high-top work boots, everything looking ragged and worn. “Didn’t know you worked for the park, I guess,” he said, trying to make conversation. “Pretty steady hours and all, I suppose. You sure this is all right, this late in the day and all? What is it we’re doing, anyway?”
The demon didn’t answer. Instead, he led Richie east into the big trees beyond the pavilion toward the slope that ran down to the little creek. The air was hot and still beneath the canopy of branches, and the mosquitoes were beginning to come out in swarms. Richie slapped at them irritably.
“Hate these things,” he muttered. When the demon failed to respond, he sai
d, “You said this would pay pretty well and I might have a chance to catch on with the city? That right?”
“Right as rain,” the demon replied, not bothering to look at him.
“Well, all right, that’s great, just great!” Richie sounded enthused. “I mean, I don’t know if that damn strike is ever gonna get settled, and I need me something secure.”
They descended the slope to the creek, crossed the wooden bridge, and began to climb the opposite embankment toward the deep woods. In the distance, the bayou was as flat and gray as hammered tin. Richie continued to mutter about the mosquitoes and the heat, and the demon continued to ignore him. They crested the rise, following the path that Nest and Pick had taken earlier, and moments later they were standing in front of the big oak. The demon glanced about cautiously, but there was no sign of anyone except the feeders, who had followed them every step of the way and crouched now at the edge of the clearing, their eyes glimmering watchfully.
“Whoa, will you look at that!” Richie exclaimed, staring up at the sickened tree. “That guy looks like a goner!”
“That’s what we’re here to determine,” the demon explained, his bland face expressionless.
Richie nodded eagerly. “All right. Just tell me what to do.”
The demon dropped the canvas sack and took a new grip on the metal-tipped stick. He put his free hand on Richie’s shoulder. “Just walk over here to the trunk with me for a moment,” he said softly.
The shadows were deep and pervasive as they moved forward, the demon keeping his hand on Richie Stoudt’s shoulder. When they were right next to the massive trunk, the demon took his hand away.
“Look up into the branches,” he said.
Richie did so, peering intently into the shadows. “I can’t see anything. Not in this light.”
“Step a little closer. Put your face right up against the trunk.”
