by Terry Brooks
He would not ask much, he told himself suddenly. He would only ask to see her dance for him—just dance.
The need to have her there again burned through him like a fever. He set the sack upon the earth and lifted out the brightly colored bottle. Red harlequins gleamed like blood drawings in the moonlight.
Quickly, he pulled free the stopper.
The Darkling crawled into the light like some loathsome insect. “Oh, sweet are your dreams, master!” it hissed and began to writhe about the lip of the bottle as if possessed. “Sweet longings that need to be fulfilled!”
“You can read my thoughts?” the River Master asked, sudden apprehension flooding through him.
“I can read your very soul, master,” the black thing whispered. “I can see the depth and height of your passion! Let me satisfy it, master! I can give you what you wish!”
The River Master hesitated. The gills at his neck fluttered almost uncontrollably, and his breathing was harsh in his ears. This was wrong, he thought suddenly. This was a mistake! The magic was too much …
Then the demon sprang upright on the bottle and wove its fingers through the air, conjuring from out of nowhere a vision of Willow’s mother. She danced in miniature in a cloud of silver, her face as lovely as it had ever been in the River Master’s memories, her dance a magic that transcended reason or restraint. She spun, whirled, and was gone.
The Darkling’s laughter was low and anxious. “Would you have her whole?” it asked softly. “In flesh and blood form?”
The River Master stood transfixed. “Yes!” he whispered finally. “Bring her! Let me see her dance!”
The Darkling sped from sight as if one of night’s shadows fleeing daylight. The River Master stood alone in the grove of old pines and stared after him, hearing again the music of the children, the bright, mesmerizing sounds of the dance. His silver skin glistened, and his hard, flat eyes were suddenly alive with expectation.
To see her dance again, to see her dance just once more …
Then, with the speed of thought, the Darkling was back again. It skittered through the ring of pines into the clearing, its laughter high and quick. It held in its hands lines of red fire that did not seem to burn, tugging on them in the manner of a handler.
The lines were secured at their other end to Willow’s mother.
She came into the light as if a dog at its master’s bidding, the lines of red fire fastened about her wrists and ankles, her slender form shaking as if from a chill. She was lovely, so small and airy, so much more alive than the pale vision the River Master still guarded deep within his memory. Silver hair fell waist-length and shimmered with every movement of her tiny limbs. Her skin was pale green like Willow’s, her face childlike. A gown of white gauze clothed her body, and a silver ribbon cinched her waist. She stood there, staring at him, her eyes filled with fear.
The River Master saw nothing of the fear. He saw only the beauty he had dreamed of all these many years, come finally to life. “Let her dance!” he whispered.
The Darkling hissed and jerked on the lines, but the frightened wood nymph simply crouched down against the earth, her face buried in her arms. She began to keen, a low, terrified cry that was almost birdlike.
“No!” the River Master shouted angrily. “I want her to dance, not cry as if stricken!”
“Yes, master!” the Darkling said. “She requires only a love song!”
The demon hissed once again, then began to sing—if singing it could be called. His voice was a harsh, rasping wail that caused the River Master to flinch from the sound and Willow’s mother to jerk upright as if possessed. The lines of red fire fell away, and the wood nymph stood free once more. Yet she was not truly free, for the voice of the demon bound her as surely as iron chains. It picked her up and moved her about like a puppet, forcing her to dance, compelling her to move to the music. All about the clearing, she whirled and spun, a seemingly lifeless, if perfectly formed bit of workmanship. She danced, yet the dance was not a dance of beauty, but only of forced motion. She danced, and while she danced, tears ran in streams down her child’s face.
The River Master was horrified. “Let her dance free!” he shouted in fury.
The Darkling glared at him with blood-red eyes, hissed in loathing, and changed the shape and form of its song to something so unmentionable that the River Master dropped to his knees at the sound. Willow’s mother danced faster, her speed of movement disguising now her lack of control. She was a blur of white gauze and silver hair as she spun recklessly, helplessly through the night.
She was destroying herself, the River Master realized suddenly! The dance was killing her!
Still she danced on, and the River Master watched, helpless to act. It was as if the magic bound him, too. He was caught up in its feel, a peculiar satisfaction welling up within him at the power it released. He recognized the horror of what was happening, yet could not break free. He wanted the dance to continue. He wanted the vision stayed.
Then suddenly he was screaming without knowing how or why, “Enough! Enough!”
The Darkling abruptly ceased its song, and Willow’s mother collapsed on the forest earth. The River Master dropped the bottle, rushed to where she lay, lifted her gently in his arms, and cringed as he saw the ravaged look on her face. She was no longer the vision he remembered; she was like some beaten thing.
He whirled on the Darkling. “You said a love song, demon!”
The Darkling skittered to the discarded bottle and perched there. “I sang the love song that was in your heart, master!” it whispered.
The River Master froze. He knew it was the truth. It was his song the Darkling had sung, a song born of selfishness and disregard, a song that lacked any semblance of real love. His impassive face tried to twist in on itself as he felt the pain well up from within. He turned to hide what he was feeling.
Willow’s mother stirred in his arms, her eyes fluttered and opened, and the fear returned to them instantly. “Hush,” he said quickly. “There will be no more harm done to you. You will be allowed to go.”
He hesitated, then impulsively he hugged her close. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
His need for her in that moment was so great that he could barely bring himself to speak the words that would free her, but his horror at what he had done compelled him to. He saw the fear lessen perceptibly and the tears come again to her eyes. He stroked her gently, waited while her strength returned, then helped her to her feet. She stood there momentarily looking at him, glanced past him once in anguish at the creature who crouched upon the bottle’s lip, then whirled and fled into the forest like a frightened deer.
The River Master stared after her, seeing only the trees and the shadows, feeling the emptiness of the night all about him. He had lost her forever this time, he sensed.
He turned. “Back into the bottle,” he said softly to the demon.
The Darkling climbed obediently from view, and the River Master replaced the stopper. He stood there momentarily staring at the bottle and found that he was shaking. He jammed the bottle into the sack and stalked from the clearing back through the forest to the city. The sounds of the music and the dancing grew distinct again as he approached, but the feeling of joy they had given him earlier was completely gone.
He crossed torchlit bridges and wound down paths and garden walks, feeling the weight of the sack and its contents as if it were the burden of his guilt. Finally, he re-entered the park.
The shadow wight crouched where he had left it on the grass, dead eyes fixed on nothing. It rose at the approach of the River Master, impatience apparent in its movements. Poor soul, the River Master thought and suddenly wondered how much of his pity was meant for the wight.
He came up to the shadow wight and stood there for a moment, studying the creature. Then he handed back the sack with the bottle. “I cannot help you,” he said softly. “I cannot use this magic.”
“Cannot?”
“It is too dangerous—fo
r me, for anyone.”
“Lord River Master, please …” the wight wailed.
“Listen to me,” the River Master interrupted gently. “Take this sack and drop it into the deepest pit of mire in the marshland you can find. Lose it where it can never be found. When you have done that, come back to me, and I will do what I can for you, using the healing powers of the lake country people.”
The shadow wight flinched. “But can you make me what I was?” it cried out sharply. “Can you do that with your powers?”
The River Master shook his head. “I think not. Not completely. I think no one can.”
The shadow wight shrieked as if bitten, snatched the sack with the bottle from his hands, and fled wordlessly into the night.
The River Master thought momentarily to pursue it, then changed his mind. As much as he disliked risking the possibility that the bottle might fall into other, less wise hands, he hadn’t the right to interfere. After all, the shadow wight had come to him freely; it must be let go the same way. There was nowhere for it to run in any case, if not to him. There was no one else who would wish to help it. Other creatures would be terrified of it. And it couldn’t use the magic of the bottle itself, so the bottle was useless to it. It would probably think the matter through and do as he had suggested. It would drop the bottle and its demon into the mire.
Distracted by thoughts of what he had done that night, haunted by memories of Willow’s mother in that clearing, he pushed the matter of the shadow wight from his mind.
He would regret later that he hadn’t been thinking more clearly.
The shadow wight fled north all that night, escaping from the marshland forests of the lake country into the wooded hills surrounding Sterling Silver and continuing on toward the wall of the mountains. It ran first without purpose, fleeing the intangibles of disappointment and despair, then discovered quite unexpectedly the purpose it had lacked and ran toward its promise. It sped from one end of the valley to the other, south from the lake country, north to the Melchor. It was as quick as thought, the shadow wight, as quicksilver as a kobold like Bunion, and it could be anywhere in almost no time.
As dawn approached, it found itself at the rim of the Deep Fell. “Mistress Nightshade will help me,” it whispered to the dark.
It started down the wall of the hollows, picking its way swiftly through undergrowth and over rock, the sack with the precious bottle held firmly in one hand. Light began to creep from behind the rim of the mountains, silver shards of brightness that lengthened and chased the shadows. The shadow wight pushed on.
When at last it reached the floor of the hollows, deep within the tangle of trees, scrub, marsh, and weeds, Nightshade was waiting. She materialized before him out of nothing, her tall, forbidding figure rising up from the shadows like a wraith’s, black robes stark against her white skin, the streak of white that parted her raven hair almost silver.
Green eyes studied the shadow wight dispassionately. “What brings you to me, shadow wight?” the witch of the Deep Fell asked.
“Lady, I bring a gift in exchange for a gift,” the wight whimpered, falling to its knees. “I bring a magic that …”
“Give it to me,” she commanded softly.
It handed the sack over obediently, unable to question or resist her voice. She took it, opened it, and lifted out the bottle. “Yessss!” she breathed in recognition, her voice a serpent’s hiss.
She cradled the bottle lovingly for a moment, then glanced back again at the shadow wight. “What gift would you have of me?” she asked it.
“Give me back my real self!” the wight exclaimed quickly. “Let me be as I was before!”
Nightshade smiled, her ageless face sharp and cunning. “Why, shadow wight, you ask so simple a gift. What you were before was what we all were once.” She bent down and touched him softly on his face. “Nothing.”
There was a flash of red light and the shadow wight disappeared. In its place was a huge dragonfly. The dragonfly buzzed and looped away as if maddened. It sped frantically across a bit of marshy swamp. Then something huge snapped at it from out of the mire, and it was gone.
Nightshade’s smile broadened. “Such a foolish gift,” she whispered.
Her gaze shifted. Sunlight streamed from out of the eastern skies overhead. The new day was beginning.
She turned with the bottle cradled in her arms and prepared to welcome it.
LOST AND FOUND
Ben Holiday turned the rental car into the drive of 2986 Forest Park, brought it to a stop, shut down the engine, and set the brake. He glanced briefly at Miles, who looked a little like what Bear Bryant used to on the sidelines, and then at Willow, who smiled at him through a mask of weariness and pain. Ben smiled back. It was becoming increasingly difficult to do so.
They left the car and walked to the front stoop of the small, well-kept ranch home and knocked on the door. Ben could hear the sound of his pulse in his ears and he shifted his feet anxiously.
The door opened, and a lanky, bearded man with hollow eyes and a guarded look stood facing them. He was holding a can of beer in one hand. “Yeah?” His eyes fastened on Willow.
“Davis Whitsell?” Ben asked.
“Yeah?” Whitsell’s voice was a mix of fear and mistrust. He couldn’t stop staring at the sylph.
“Are you the man who has the talking dog?”
Whitsell continued to stare.
“The one who called Hollywood Eye?” Ben persisted.
Willow smiled. Davis Whitsell forced his eyes away. “You from the Eye?” he asked cautiously.
Miles shook his head. “Hardly, Mr. Whitsell. We’re from …”
“We represent another concern,” Ben interrupted quickly. He glanced about the empty neighborhood momentarily. “Do you suppose we could step inside and talk?”
Whitsell hesitated. “I don’t think …”
“You could finish your beer that way,” Ben interjected. “You could let the lady rest a moment, too. She’s not feeling very well.”
“I don’t have the dog anymore,” the other said suddenly.
Ben glanced at his companions. The uncertainty and concern mirrored in their faces was undisguised. “Could we come inside anyway, Mr. Whitsell?” he asked quietly.
Ben thought he was going to say no. He seemed right on the verge of saying it, closing the door, and putting them out of his life. Then something changed his mind. He nodded wordlessly and stepped aside.
When they were inside, he closed the door behind them and went over to sit in a well-worn easy chair. The house was dark and still, the blinds drawn, and the ticking of the old clock at the head of the hall the only sound. Ben and his companions sat together on the sofa. Whitsell took a long pull at his beer and looked at them. “I told you the dog was gone,” he repeated.
Ben exchanged a quick glance with Miles. “Where did he go?” he asked.
Whitsell shrugged, trying hard to be nonchalant. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? You mean he just left?”
“Sorta. What difference does it make?” Whitsell leaned forward. “Who are you, anyway? Who do you represent? The Inquirer or something?”
Ben took a deep breath. “Before I tell you that, Mr. Whitsell, I have to know something from you. I have to know if we’re both talking about the same dog. We happen to be looking for a very particular dog—a dog that really does talk. Did this dog really talk, Mr. Whitsell? I mean, really talk?”
Whitsell suddenly looked very frightened. “I don’t think we should continue this,” he said abruptly. “I think you should go.”
None of them moved. Willow wasn’t even paying attention to him. She was making a strange, birdlike sound—a sound Ben had never heard before. It brought a tiny black poodle out from under the couch with a whine and into her lap as if they had been friends all their lives. The dog nuzzled the girl and licked her hand, and the girl stroked the animal fondly.
“She’s been badly frightened,” Willow said softly, t
o no one in particular.
Whitsell started to get up, then sat back again. “Why should I tell you anything?” he muttered. “How do I know what you want?”
Miles was drumming his fingers on his knee impatiently. “What we want is a little cooperation, Mr. Whitsell.”
They stared at each other for a moment. “You from the police?” Whitsell asked finally. “Some special branch, maybe? Is that what this is all about?” He seemed to think better of the question almost before he had finished asking it. “What am I thinking here? Police don’t use girls with green hair, for Pete’s sake!”
“No, we’re not police.” Ben stood up suddenly and walked about for a minute. How much should he tell this man? Whitsell had his eyes fixed on Willow again, watching the little dog nuzzle into the girl as she continued to pet it.
Ben made his decision. “Was the dog’s name Abernathy?”
He stopped walking and looked directly at Whitsell. The other man blinked in surprise. “Yeah, it was,” he said. “How did you know that?”
Ben came back and sat down again. “My name is Ben. This is Miles and Willow.” He pointed to the other two. “Abernathy is our friend, Mr. Whitsell. That’s how we know. He’s our friend, and we’ve come to take him home.”
There was a long moment of silence as they studied each other wordlessly, and then Davis Whitsell nodded. “I believe you. Don’t know why, exactly, but I do. I just wish I could help you.” He sighed. “But the dog’s … but Abernathy’s gone.”
“Did you sell him, Mr. Whitsell?” Miles asked.
“No, hell, no!” the other snapped angrily. “I never planned anything like that! I was just gonna make a few bucks off that interview with the Eye, then send him to Virginia, the way he wanted. Wasn’t no harm gonna come to him. But it was the chance I’d waited for all my life, don’t you see, the chance to get a little recognition, get off the circuit, maybe, and …”
He had leaned forward in the chair, but now he trailed off, spent, and slumped back again. “It doesn’t matter now, I guess. The point is, he’s gone. Someone took him.”
