Word & Void 03 - Angel Fire East

by Terry Brooks

  She was reminded suddenly of an old-time preacher, the kind that appeared in southern gothics and ghost stories, railing against godlessness and mankind’s paucity of moral resolve.

  “Good morning,” he said, his voice gravelly and deep. He dipped his head slightly, reaching up to touch the brim of his odd hat.

  “Good morning,” she replied.

  “Miss Freemark, my name is Findo Gask,” he announced.

  “I am a minister of the faith and a bearer of the holy word.”

  As if to emphasize the point, he held up a black, leather-bound tome from which dangled a silken bookmark.

  She nodded, waiting. Somehow he knew her name, although she had no memory of meeting him before.

  “It is a fine, grand morning to be out and about, so I won’t keep you,” he said, smiling reassuringly. “I see you are on your way to church. I wouldn’t want to stand in the way of a young lady and her time of worship. Take what comfort you can in the moment, I say. Ours is a restless, dissatisfied world, full of uncertainties and calamities and impending disasters, and we would do well to be mindful of the fact that small steps and little cautions are always prudent.”

  It wasn’t so much the words themselves, but the way in which he spoke them that aroused a vague uneasiness in Nest. He made it sound more like an admonition than the reassurance it was intended to be.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Gask?” she asked, anxious for him to get to the point.

  His head cocked slightly to one side. “I’m looking for a man,” he said. “His name is John Ross.”

  Nest started visibly, unable to hide her reaction. John Ross. She hadn’t seen or communicated with him for more than ten years. She hadn’t even heard his name spoken by anyone but Pick.

  “John Ross,” she repeated flatly. Her uneasiness heightened.

  The old man smiled. “Has he contacted you recently, Miss Freemark? Has he phoned or written you of late?”

  She shook her head no. “Why would he do that, Mr. Gask?”

  The smile broadened, as if to underline the silliness of such a question. The watery gray eyes peered over her shoulder speculatively. “Is he here already, Miss Freemark?”

  A hint of irritation crept into her voice. “Who are you, Mr. Gask? Why are you interested in John Ross?”

  “I already told you who I am, Miss Freemark. I am a minister of the faith. As for my interest in Mr. Ross, he has something that belongs to me.”

  She stared at him. Something wasn’t right about this. The air about her warmed noticeably, changed color and taste and texture. She felt a roiling inside, where Wraith lay dormant and dangerously ready, the protector chained to her soul.

  “Perhaps we could talk inside?” Findo Gask suggested.

  He moved as if to enter her home, a subtle shift of weight from one foot to the other, and she found herself tempted simply to step aside and let him pass. But she held her ground, the uneasiness becoming a tingling in the pit of her stomach. She forced herself to look carefully at him, to meet his eyes directly.

  The tingling changed abruptly to a wave of nausea.

  She took a deep, steadying breath and exhaled. She was in the presence of a demon.

  “I know what you are,” she said quietly.

  The smile stayed in place, but any trace of warmth disappeared. “And I know what you are, Miss Freemark,” Findo Gask replied smoothly. “Now, is Mr. Ross inside or isn’t he?”

  Nest felt the chill of the winter air for the first time and shivered in spite of herself. A demon coming to her home with such bold intent was unnerving. “If he was, I wouldn’t tell you. Why don’t you get off my porch, Mr. Gask?”

  Findo Gask shifted once more, a kind of settling in that indicated he had no intention of moving until he was ready. She felt Wraith stir awake inside, sensing her danger.

  “Let me just say a few things to you, Miss Freemark, and then I’ll go,” Findo Gask said, a bored sigh escaping his lips. “We are not so different, you and I. When I said I know what you are, I meant it. You are your father’s daughter, and we know what he was, don’t we? Perhaps you don’t care much for the reality of your parentage, but truth will out, Miss Freemark. You are what you are, so there isn’t much point in pretending otherwise, though you work very hard at doing so, don’t you?”

  Nest flushed with anger, but Findo Gask waved her off. “I also said I was a minister of the faith. You assumed I meant your faith naturally, but you were mistaken. I am a servant of the Void, and it is the Void’s faith I embrace. You would pretend it is an evil, wicked faith. But that is a highly subjective conclusion. Your faith and mine, like you and I, are not so different. Both are codifications of the higher power we seek to comprehend and, to the extent we are able, manipulate. Both can be curative or destructive. Both have their supporters and their detractors, and each seeks dominance over the other. The struggle between them has been going on for eons; it won’t end today or tomorrow or the day after or anytime soon.”

  He stepped forward, kindly face set in a condescending smile that did nothing to hide the threat behind it. “But one day it will end, and the Word will be destroyed. It will happen, Miss Freemark, because the magic of the Void has always been the stronger of the two. Always. The frailties and weaknesses of mankind are insurmountable. The misguided belief that the human condition is worth salvaging is patently ridiculous. Look at the way the world functions, Miss Freemark. Human frailties and weaknesses abound. Moral corruption here, venal desires there. Greed, envy, sloth, and all the rest at every turn. The followers of the Word rail against them endlessly and futilely. The Void embraces them, and turns a weakness into a strength. Pacifism and meek acceptance? Charity and goodwill? Kindness and virtue? Rubbish!”

  “Mr. Gask—”

  “No, no, hear me out, young lady. A little of that famous courtesy, please.” He cut short her protestation with a sharp hiss. “I don’t tell you this to frighten you. I don’t tell it to you to persuade you of my cause. I could care less what you feel or think about me. I tell it to you to demonstrate the depth of my conviction and my commitment. I am not easily deterred. I want you to understand that my interest in Mr. Ross is of paramount importance. Think of me as a tidal wave and yourself as a sand castle on a beach. Nothing can save you from me if you stand in my way. It would be best for you to let me move you aside. There is no reason for you not to let me do so. None at all. You have nothing vested in this matter. You have nothing to gain by intervening and everything to lose.”

  He paused then, lifting the leather-bound book and pressing it almost reverently against his chest. “These are the names of those who have opposed me, Miss Freemark. The names of the dead. I like to keep track of them, to think back on who they were. I have been alive a very long time, and I shall still be alive long after you are gone.”

  He lowered the book and put a finger to his lips. “This is what I want you to do. You will have no trouble understanding my request, because I will put it to you in familiar terms. In the terms of your own faith. I want you to deny John Ross. I want you to cast him out of your heart and mind and soul as you would a cancer. I want you to shun him as a leper. Do this for yourself, Miss Freemark, not for me. I will have him anyway, in the end. I do not need to claim you as well.”

  Nest was buffeted by so many emotions she could no longer distinguish them. She had kept quiet during the whole of his noxious, execrable presentation, fighting to keep herself and an increasingly agitated Wraith under control. She didn’t think Findo Gask knew of Wraith, and she did not want him to discover Wraith was there unless that became unavoidable. She needed to know more of what was going on first, because she wasn’t for a moment thinking of acceding to a single demand he had made.

  “John Ross isn’t here,” she managed, gripping the storm-door frame so tightly with one hand her knuckles turned white.

  “I accept that, Miss Freemark,” Findo Gask said with a slight dip of his flat-brimmed hat. “But he will be.”

/>   “What makes you so sure?”

  She could see in his eyes that he believed he had won her over, that she was trying to find a way to cooperate with him. “Call it a hunch. I have been following his progress for a time, and I think I know him pretty well. He will come. When he does, or even if he tries to make contact another way, don’t do anything to help him.”

  “What does he have that you want?” she pressed, curious now.

  The demon shrugged. “A magic, Miss Freemark. A magic he would attempt to use against me, I’m afraid.”

  She nodded slowly. “But that you will attempt to use against him, instead?”

  Findo Gask stepped back, reaching up to touch the brim of his hat. “I have taken up enough of your time. Your Sunday worship awaits. I’ll look forward to your call.”

  “Mr. Gask,” she called to him as he started down the porch steps toward the walk. He turned back to her, squinting against the bright December sunlight. “My grandfather kept a shotgun in his bedroom closet for duck hunting. When my father tried to come back into this house fifteen years ago, my grandmother used that shotgun to prevent him from doing so. I still have that shotgun. If you ever step foot on my property again, I will use it on you. I will blow away your miserable disguise and leave you naked in your demon form for however long it takes you to put yourself back together and all the while be hoping to God you won’t be able to do so!”

  Findo Gask stared at her speechless, and then his face underwent such a terrible transformation that she thought he might come at her. Instead he turned away, strode up the walk to the roadway without looking back, and disappeared.

  Nest Freemark waited until he was out of sight, then walked back inside and slammed the door so hard the jolt knocked the pictures of the Freemark women askew.

  Chapter 2

  On the drive to church, Nest considered the prospect of another encounter with John Ross.

  As usual, her feelings about him were mixed. For as little time as she had spent with him, maybe seven days all told over a span of fifteen years, he had made an extraordinary impact on her life. Much of who and what she was could be traced directly to their strange, sad relationship.

  He had come to her for the first time when she was still a girl, just turned fourteen and beginning to discover that she wasn’t at all who she thought she was. The secrets of her family were unraveling around her, and Ross had pulled on the ends of the tangle until Nest had almost strangled in the resulting knots. But her assessment wasn’t really fair. Ross had done what was necessary in giving her the truth. Had he not, she would probably be dead. Or worse. Her father had killed her mother and grandmother, and tried to kill her grandfather. He had done so to get to her, to claim her, to subvert her, to turn her to the life he had embraced himself long ago. Findo Gask had been right about him. Her father was a demon, a monster capable of great evil. Ross had helped Nest put an end to him. Ross had given her back her life, and with it a chance to discover who she was meant to be.

  Of course, he would just as quickly have taken her life had she been turned to the demon’s cause, which was a good part of the reason for her mixed feelings about him. That, and the fact that at one time she believed Ross to be her father. It seemed strange, thinking back on it. She had rejoiced in the prospect of John Ross as her father. She found him tender and caring; she thought she probably loved him. She was still a girl, and she had never known her father. She had made up a life for her father; she had invented a place for him in her own. It seemed to her John Ross had come to fill that place.

  Gran warned her, of course. In her own way, without saying as much, she indicated over and over that her father was not somebody Nest would want to know. But it seemed as if Gran’s cautions were selfish and misplaced. Nest believed John Ross was a good man. When she learned that he was not her father and the demon was, she was crushed. When she learned that he had come to save her if he could but to put an end to her otherwise, the knowledge almost broke her heart.

  Most of her anger and dismay had abated by the time she encountered him again five years later in Seattle, where he was the victim and she the rescuer. Ross was the one in danger of being claimed, and if Nest had not been able to save him, he would have been.

  Ten years had passed since then, and she hadn’t seen or heard from him.

  She shook her head, watching the houses of Hopewell, Illinois, drift past as she drove her new Taurus slowly along Lincoln Highway toward downtown. The day was bright and sunny, the skies clear and blue and depthless. Another storm was predicted for Tuesday, but at the moment it was hard to imagine.

  She cracked a window to let in some fresh air, listening to the sound of the tires crunch over a residue of road dirt and cinders. As she drove past the post office, the Petersons pulled up to the mail drop. Her neighbors for the whole of her life, the Petersons had been there when Gran was still young. But they were growing old, and she worried about them. She reminded herself to stop by later and take them some cookies.

  She turned off Fourth Street down Second Avenue and drove past the First Congregational Church to find a parking space in the adjoining bank lot. She climbed out of the car, triggered the door locks, and walked back toward the church.

  Josie Jackson was coming up the sidewalk from her bake shop and restaurant across Third, so Nest waited for her. Bright and chipper and full of life, Josie was one of those women who never seemed to age. Even at forty-eight, she was still youthful and vivacious, waving and smiling like a young girl as she came up, tousled blond hair flouncing about her pretty face. She still had that smile, too. No one ever forgot Josie Jackson’s smile.

  Nest wondered if John Ross still remembered.

  “Good morning, Nest,” Josie said, falling into step with the younger woman, matching her long stride easily. “I hear we’ve got baby duty together this morning.”

  Nest smiled. “Yes. Experience counts, and you’ve got a whole lot more than me. How many are we expecting?”

  “Oh, gosh, somewhere in the low teens, if you count the three- and four-year-olds.” Josie shrugged. “Alice Wilton will be there to help out, and her niece, what’s-her-name-Anna.”

  “Royce-Anna.”

  “Royce-Anna Colson.” Josie grimaced. “What the heck kind of name is that?”

  Nest laughed. “One we wouldn’t give our own children.”

  They mounted the steps of the church and pushed through the heavy oak doors into the cool dark of the narthex. Nest wondered if Josie ever thought about John Ross. There had been something between them once, back when he had first come to Hopewell and Nest was still a girl. For months after he disappeared, she asked Nest about him. But it had been years now since she had even mentioned his name.

  It would be strange, Nest thought, if he was to return to Hopewell after all this time. Findo Gask had seemed sure he would, and despite her doubts about anything a demon would tell her, she was inclined to think from the effort he had expended to convince her that maybe it would happen.

  That was an unsettling prospect. An appearance by John Ross, especially with a demon already looking for him, meant trouble. It almost certainly foreshadowed a fresh upheaval in her life, something she didn’t need, since she was just getting used to her life the way it was.

  What would bring him back to her after so long?

  Unable to find an answer, she walked with Josie down the empty, shadowed hallway, stained glass and burnished wood wrapping her in a cocoon of silence.

  She spent the next two hours working in the nursery, having a good time with the babies and Josie, doing something that kept her from thinking too much about things she would just as soon forget. She concentrated instead on diaper changing, bottle feeding, telling stories, and playing games, and left the world outside her bright, cheery room of crayon pictures and colored posters to get on by itself as best it could.

  Once or twice, she thought about Paul. It was impossible for her to be around babies and not think about Paul, but she had found
a way to block the pain by taking refuge in the possibility that she was not meant to have children of her own but to be a mother to the children of others. It was heartbreaking to think that way, but it was the best she could do. Her legacy of magic from the Freemark women would not allow her to think otherwise.

  Josie helped pass the time with wry jokes and colorful stories of people they both knew, and mostly Nest found herself thinking she was pretty lucky.

  When the service was over, a fellowship was held in the reception room just off the sanctuary. After returning her small charges to their proper parents, Nest joined the congregation in sipping coffee and punch, eating cookies and cake, and exchanging pleasantries and gossip. She wandered from group to group, saying hello, asking after old people and children come home for the holidays, wishing Christmas cheer to all.

  “What’s the world coming to, young lady?” an indignant Blanche Stern asked when she paused to greet a gaggle of elderly church widows standing by the narthex entry. She peered at Nest through her bifocals. “This is your generation’s responsibility, these children who do such awful things! It makes me weep!”

  Nest had no idea what she was talking about.

  “It’s that boy shooting those teachers yesterday at an outing in Pennsylvania,” Addie Hull explained, pursing her thin lips and nodding solemnly for emphasis. “It was all over the papers this morning. Only thirteen years old.”

  “Takes down his father’s shotgun, rides off to school on his bike, and lets them have it in front of two dozen other students!” Winnie Ricedorf snapped in her no-nonsense teacher’s voice.

  “I haven’t read the papers yet,” Nest explained. “Sounds awful. Why did he do it?”

  “He didn’t like the grades they were giving him for his work in some advanced study program,” Blanche continued, her face tightening. She sighed. “Goodness sakes alive, he was a scholar of some promise, they say, and he threw it all away on a bad grade.”