by Terry Brooks
Coll was waiting with the fish by the time he returned, so they hastily built a fire and cooked dinner. They were both a little tired of fish, but it was better than nothing and they were more hungry than either would have imagined. When the dinner was consumed, they sat watching as the sun dipped into the horizon and the Rainbow Lake turned to silver. The skies darkened and filled with stars, and the sounds of the night rose out of dusk’s stillness. Shadows from the forest trees lengthened and joined and became dark pools that enveloped the last of the daylight.
Par was in the process of trying to figure out a way to tell Coll that he didn’t think they should return to Shady Vale when the woodswoman appeared.
She came out of the trees behind them, shambling from the dark as if one of its shadows, all bent over and hunched down against the fire’s faint light. She was clothed in rags, layers of them, all of which appeared to have been wrapped about her at some time in the distant past and left there. Her head was bare, and her rough, hard face peered out through long wisps of dense, colorless hair. She might have been any age, Par thought; she was so gnarled it was impossible to tell.
She edged out of the forest cautiously and stopped just beyond the circle of the fire’s yellow light, leaning heavily on a walking stick worn with sweat and handling. One rough arm raised as she pointed at Par. “You the one called me?” she asked, her voice cracking like brittle wood.
Par stared at her in spite of himself. She looked like something brought out of the earth, something that had no right to be alive and walking about. There was dirt and debris hanging from her as if it had settled and taken root while she slept.
“Was it?” she pressed.
He finally figured out what she was talking about. “At the cottage? Yes, that was me.”
The woodswoman smiled, her face twisting with the effort, her mouth nearly empty of teeth. “You ought to have come in, not just stood out there,” she whined. “Door was open.”
“I didn’t want . . .”
“Keep it that way to be certain no one goes past without a welcome. Fire’s always on.”
“I saw your smoke, but . . .”
“Gathering wood, were you? Come down out of Callahorn?” Her eyes shifted as she glanced past them to where the boat sat beached. “Come a long way, have you?” The eyes shifted back. “Running from something, maybe?”
Par went instantly still. He exchanged a quick look with Coll.
The woman approached, the walking stick probing the ground in front of her. “Lots run this way. All sorts. Come down out of the outlaw country looking for something or other.” She stopped. “That you? Oh, there’s those who’d have no part of you, but I’m not one. No, not me!”
“We’re not running,” Coll spoke up suddenly.
“No? That why you’re so well fitted out?” She swept the air with the walking stick. “What’s your names?”
“What do you want?” Par asked abruptly. He was liking this less and less.
The woodswoman edged forward another step. There was something wrong with her, something that Par hadn’t seen before. She didn’t seem to be quite solid, shimmering a bit as if she were walking through smoke or out of a mass of heated air. Her body didn’t move right either, and it was more than her age. It was as if she were fastened together like one of the marionettes they used in shows at the fairs, pinned at the joints and pulled by strings.
The smell of the cove and the crumbling cottage clung to the woodswoman even here. She sniffed the air suddenly as if aware of it. “What’s that?” She fixed her eyes on Par. “Do I smell magic?”
Par went suddenly cold. Whoever this woman was, she was no one they wanted anything to do with.
“Magic! Yes! Clean and pure and strong with life!” The woodswoman’s tongue licked out at the night air experimentally. “Sweet as blood to wolves!”
That was enough for Coll. “You had better find your way back to wherever you came from,” he told her, not bothering to disguise his antagonism. “You have no business here. Move along.”
But the woodswoman stayed where she was. Her mouth curled into a snarl and her eyes suddenly turned as red as the fire’s coals.
“Come over here to me!” she whispered with a hiss. “You, boy!” She pointed at Par. “Come over to me!”
She reached out with one hand. Par and Coll both moved back guardedly, away from the fire. The woman came forward several steps more, edging past the light, backing them further toward the dark.
“Sweet boy!” she muttered, half to herself. “Let me taste you, boy!”
The brothers held their ground against her now, refusing to move any further from the light. The woodswoman saw the determination in their eyes, and her smile was wicked. She came forward, one step, another step . . .
Coll launched himself at her while she was watching Par, trying to grasp her and pin her arms. But she was much quicker than he, the walking stick slashing at him and catching him alongside the head with a vicious whack that sent him sprawling to the earth. Instantly, she was after him, howling like a maddened beast. But Par was quicker. He used the wishsong, almost without thinking, sending forth a string of terrifying images. She fell back, surprised, trying to fend the images off with her hands and the stick. Par used the opportunity to reach Coll and haul him to his feet. Hastily he pulled his brother back from where his attacker clawed at the air.
The woodswoman stopped suddenly, letting the images play about her, turning toward Par with a smile that froze his blood. Par sent an image of a Demon wraith to frighten her, but this time the woman reached out for the image, opened her mouth and sucked in the air about her. The image evaporated. The woman licked her lips and whined.
Par sent an armored warrior. The woodswoman devoured it greedily. She was edging closer again, no longer slowed by the images, actually anxious that he send more. She seemed to relish the taste of the magic; she seemed eager to consume it. Par tried to steady Coll, but his brother was sagging in his arms, still stunned. “Coll, wake up!” he whispered urgently.
“Come, boy,” the woodswoman repeated softly. She beckoned and moved closer. “Come feed me!”
Then the fire exploded in a flash of light, and the clearing was turned as bright as day. The woodswoman shrank away from the brightness, and her sudden cry ended in a snarl of rage. Par blinked and peered through the glow.
An old man emerged from the trees, white-haired and gray-robed, with skin as brown as seasoned wood. He stepped from the darkness into the light like a ghost come into being. There was a fierce smile on his mouth and a strange brightness in his eyes. Par wheeled about guardedly, fumbling for the long knife at his belt. Two of them, he thought desperately, and again he shook Coll in an effort to rouse him.
But the old man paid him no notice. He concentrated instead on the woodswoman. “I know you,” he said softly. “You frighten no one. Begone from here or you shall deal with me!”
The woodswoman hissed at him like a snake and crouched as if to spring. But she saw something in the old man’s face that kept her from attacking. Slowly, she began to edge back around the fire.
“Go back into the dark,” whispered the old man.
The woodswoman hissed a final time, then turned and disappeared into the trees without a sound. Her smell lingered on a moment longer, then faded. The old man waved almost absently at the fire, and it returned to normal. The night filled again with comforting sounds, and everything was as before.
The old man snorted and came forward into the firelight. “Bah. One of nighttime’s little horrors come out to play,” he muttered in disgust. He looked at Par quizzically. “You all right, young Ohmsford? And this one? Coll, is it? That was a nasty blow he took.”
Par eased Coll to the ground, nodding. “Yes, thanks. Could you hand me that cloth and a little water?”
The old man did as he was asked, and Par wiped the side of Coll’s head where an ugly bruise was already beginning to form. Coll winced, sat forward, and put his head dow
n between his legs, waiting for the throbbing to ease off. Par looked up. It dawned on him suddenly that the old man had used Coll’s name.
“How do you know who we are?” he asked, his tone guarded.
The old man kept his gaze steady. “Well, now. I know who you are because I’ve come looking for you. But I’m not your enemy, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Par shook his head. “Not really. Not after helping us the way you did. Thank you.”
“No need for thanks.”
Par nodded again. “That woman, or whatever she was—she seemed frightened of you.” He didn’t make it a question, he made it a statement of fact.
The old man shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“Do you know her?”
“I know of her.”
Par hesitated, uncertain whether to press the matter or not. He decided to let it drop. “So. Why are you looking for us?”
“Oh, that’s rather a long story, I’m afraid,” the old man answered, sounding very much as if the effort required to tell it was entirely beyond him. “I don’t suppose we might sit down while we talk about it? The fire’s warmth provides some relief for these ageing bones. And you wouldn’t happen to have a touch of ale, would you? No? Pity. Well, I suppose there was no chance to procure such amenities, the way you were hustled out of Varfleet. Lucky to escape with your skins under the circumstances.”
He ambled in close and lowered himself gingerly to the grass, folding his legs before him, draping his gray robes carefully about. “Thought I’d catch up with you there, you know. But then that disruption by the Federation occurred, and you were on your way south before I could stop you.”
He reached for a cup and dipped it into the water bucket, drinking deeply. Coll was sitting up now, watching, the damp cloth still held to the side of his head. Par sat down next to him.
The old man finished his water and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Allanon sent me,” he declared perfunctorily.
There was along silence as the Ohmsford brothers stared first at him, then at each other, then back again at him.
“Allanon?” Par repeated.
“Allanon has been dead for three hundred years,” Coll interjected bluntly.
The old man nodded. “Indeed. I misspoke: It was actually Allanon’s ghost, his shade—but Allanon, still, for all intents and purposes.”
“Allanon’s shade?” Coll took the cloth from the side of his head, his injury forgotten. He did not bother to hide his disbelief.
The old man rubbed his bearded chin. “Now, now, you will have to be patient for a moment or two until I’ve had a chance to explain. Much of what I am going to tell you will be hard for you to accept, but you must try. Believe me when I tell you that it is very important.”
He rubbed his hands briskly in the direction of the fire. “Think of me as a messenger for the moment, will you? Think of me as a messenger sent by Allanon, for that’s all I am to you just now. You, Par. Why have you been ignoring the dreams?”
Par stiffened. “You know about that?”
“The dreams were sent by Allanon to bring you to him. Don’t you understand? That was his voice speaking to you, his shade come to address you. He summons you to the Hadeshorn—you, your cousin Wren, and . . .”
“Wren?” Coll interrupted, incredulous.
The old man looked perturbed. “That’s what I said, didn’t I? Am I going to have to repeat everything? Your cousin, Wren Ohmsford. And Walker Boh as well.”
“Uncle Walker,” Par said softly. “I remember.”
Coll glanced at his brother, then shook his head in disgust. “This is ridiculous. No one knows where either of them is!” he snapped. “Wren lives somewhere in the Westland with the Rovers. She lives out of the back of a wagon! And Walker Boh hasn’t been seen by anyone for almost ten years. He might be dead, for all we know!”
“He might, but he isn’t,” the old man said testily. He gave Coll a meaningful stare, then returned his gaze to Par. “All of you are to come to the Hadeshorn by the close of the present moon’s cycle. On the first night of the new moon, Allanon will speak with you there.”
Par felt a chill go through him. “About magic?”
Coll seized his brother’s shoulders. “About Shadowen?” he mimicked, widening his eyes.
The old man bent forward suddenly, his face gone hard. “About what he chooses! Yes, about magic! And about Shadowen! About creatures like the one that knocked you aside just now as if you were a baby! But mostly, I think, young Coll, about this!”
He threw a dash of dark powder into the fire with a suddenness that caused Par and Coll to jerk back sharply. The fire flared as it had when the old man had first appeared, but this time the light was drawn out of the air and everything went dark.
Then an image formed in the blackness, growing in size until it seemed to be all around them. It was an image of the Four Lands, the countryside barren and empty, stripped of life and left ruined. Darkness and a haze of ash-filled smoke hung over everything. Rivers were filled with debris, the waters poisoned. Trees were bent and blasted, shorn of life. Nothing but scrub grew anywhere. Men crept about like animals, and animals fled at their coming. There were shadows with strange red eyes circling everywhere, dipping and playing within those humans who crept, twisting and turning them until they lost their shape and became unrecognizable.
It was a nightmare of such fury and terror that it seemed to Par and Coll Ohmsford as if it were happening to them, and that the screams emanating from the mouths of the tortured humans were their own.
Then the image was gone, and they were back again about the fire, the old man sitting there, watching them with hawk’s eyes.
“That was a part of my dream,” Par whispered.
“That was the future,” the old man said.
“Or a trick,” a shaken Coll muttered, stiffening against his own fear.
The old man glared “The future is an ever-shifting maze of possibilities until it becomes the present. The future I have shown you tonight is not yet fixed. But it is more likely to become so with the passing of every day because nothing is being done to turn it aside. If you would change it, do as I have told you. Go to Allanon! Listen to what he will say!”
Coll said nothing, his dark eyes uneasy with doubt.
“Tell us who you are,” Par said softly.
The old man turned to him, studied him for a moment, then looked away from them both, staring out into the darkness as if there were worlds and lives hidden there that only he could see. Finally, he looked back again, nodding.
“Very well, though I can’t see what difference it makes. I have a name, a name you should both recognize quickly enough. My name is Cogline.”
For an instant, neither Par nor Coll said anything. Then both began speaking at once.
“Cogline, the same Cogline who lived in the Eastland with . . . ?”
“You mean the same man Kimber Boh . . .?”
He cut them short irritably. “Yes, yes! How many Coglines can there possibly be!” He frowned as he saw the looks on their faces. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
Par took a deep breath. “Cogline was an old man in the time of Brin Ohmsford. That was three hundred years ago.”
Unexpectedly, the other laughed. “An old man! Ha! And what do you know of old men, Par Ohmsford? Fact is, you don’t know a whisker’s worth!” He laughed, then shook his head helplessly “Listen. Allanon was alive five hundred years before he died! You don’t question that, do you? I think not, since you tell the story so readily! Is it so astonishing then that I have been alive for a mere three hundred years?” He paused, and there was a surprisingly mischievous look in his eye. “Goodness, what would you have said if I had told you I had been alive longer even than that?”
Then he waved his hand dismissively. “No, no, don’t bother to answer. Answer me this instead. What do you know about me? About the Cogline of your stories? Tell me.”
Par shook his head, confused. “That
he was a hermit, living off in the Wilderun with his granddaughter, Kimber Boh. That my ancestor, Brin Ohmsford, and her companion, Rone Leah, found him there when they . . .”
“Yes, yes, but what about the man? Think now of what you’ve seen of me!”
Par shrugged. “That he . . .” He stopped. “That he used powders that exploded. That he knew something of the old sciences, that he’d studied them somewhere.” He was remembering the specifics of the tales of Cogline now, and in remembering found himself thinking that maybe this old man’s claim wasn’t so farfetched. “He employed different forms of power, the sorts that the Druids had discarded in their rebuilding of the old world. Shades! If you are Cogline, you must still have such power. Do you? Is it magic like my own?”
Coll looked suddenly worried. “Par!”
“Like your own?” the old man asked quickly. “Magic like the wishsong? Hah! Never! Never so unpredictable as that! That was always the trouble with the Druids and their Elven magics—too unpredictable! The power I wield is grounded in sciences proven and tested through the years by reliable study! It doesn’t act of its own accord; it doesn’t evolve like something alive!” He stopped, a fierce smile creasing his aged face. “But then, too, Par Ohmsford, my power doesn’t sing either!”
“Are you really Cogline?” Par asked softly, his amazement at it being possible apparent in his voice.
“Yes,” the old man whispered back. “Yes, Par.” He swung quickly then to face Coll, who was about to interrupt, placing a narrow, bony finger to his lips. “Shhhh, young Ohmsford, I know you still disbelieve, and your brother as well, but just listen for a moment. You are children of the Elven house of Shannara. There have not been many and always much has been expected of them. It will be so with you as well, I think. More so, perhaps. I am not permitted to see. I am just a messenger, as I have told you—a poor messenger at best. An unwilling messenger, truth is. But I am all that Allanon has.”
“But why you?” Par managed to interject, his lean face troubled now and intense.
