by Terry Brooks
The old man paused, his gnarled, wrinkled face tightening even further as if the question demanded too much of him. When he spoke finally, it was in a stillness that was palpable.
“Because I was a Druid once, so long ago I can scarcely remember what it felt like. I studied the ways of the magic and the ways of the discarded sciences and chose the latter, forsaking thereby any claim to the former and the right to continue with the others. Allanon knew me, or if you prefer, he knew about me, and he remembered what I was. But, wait. I embellish a bit by claiming I actually was a Druid. I wasn’t; I was simply a student of the ways. But Allanon remembered in any case. When he came to me, it was as one Druid to another, though he did not say as much. He lacks anyone but myself to do what is needed now, to come after you and the others, to advise them of the legitimacy of their dreams. All have had them by now, you understand—Wren and Walker Boh as well as you. All have been given a vision of the danger the future holds. No one responds. So he sends me.”
The sharp eyes blinked away the memory. “I was a Druid once, in spirit if not in practice, and I practice still many of the Druid ways. No one knew. Not my grandchild Kimber, not your ancestors, no one. I have lived many different lives, you see. When I went with Brin Ohmsford into the country of the Maelmord, it was as Cogline the hermit, half-crazed, half-able, carrying magic powders filled with strange notions. That was who I was then. That was the person I had become. It took me years afterward, long after Kimber had gone, to recover myself, to act and talk like myself again.”
He sighed. “It was the Druid Sleep that kept me alive for so long. I knew its secret; I had carried it with me when I left them. I thought many times not to bother, to give myself over to death and not cling so. But something kept me from giving way, and I think now that perhaps it was Allanon, reaching back from his death to assure that the Druids might have at least one spokesman after he was gone.”
He saw the beginning of the question in Par’s eyes, anticipated its wording, and quickly shook his head. “No, no, not me! I am not the spokesman he needs! I barely have time enough left me to carry the message I have been given. Allanon knows that. He knew better than to come to me to ask that I accept a life I once rejected. He must ask that of someone else.”
“Me?” asked Par at once.
The old man paused. “Perhaps. Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
No one said anything, hunched forward toward the firelight as the darkness pressed close all about. The cries of the night birds echoed faintly across the waters of the Rainbow Lake, a haunting sound that somehow seemed to measure the depth of the uncertainty Par felt.
“I want to ask him,” he said finally. “I need to, I think.”
The old man pursed his thin lips. “Then you must.”
Coll started to say something, then thought better of it. “This whole business needs some careful thought,” he said finally.
“There is little time for that,” the old man grumbled.
“Then we shouldn’t squander what we have,” Coll replied simply. He was no longer abrasive as he spoke, merely insistent.
Par looked at his brother a moment, then nodded. “Coll is right. I will have to think about this.”
The old man shrugged as if to indicate that he realized there was nothing more he could do and came to his feet. “I have given you the message I was sent to give, so I must be on my way. There are others to be visited.”
Par and Coll rose with him, surprised. “You’re leaving now, tonight?” Par asked quickly. Somehow he had expected the old man to stay on, to keep trying to persuade him of the purpose of the dreams.
“Seems best. The quicker I get on with my journey, the quicker it ends. I told you, I came first to you.”
“But how will you find Wren or Walker?” Coll wanted to know.
“Same way I found you.” The old man snapped his fingers and there was a brief flash of silver light. He grinned, his face skeletal in the firelight. “Magic!”
He reached out his bony hand. Par took it first and found the old man’s grip like iron. Coll found the same. They glanced at each other.
“Let me offer you some advice,” the old man said abruptly. “Not that you’ll necessarily take it, of course—but maybe. You tell these stories, these tales of Druids and magic and your ancestors, all of it a kind of litany of what’s been and gone. That’s fine, but you don’t want to lose sight of the fact that what’s happening here and now is what counts. All the telling in the world won’t mean a whisker if that vision I showed you comes to pass. You have to live in this world—not in some other. Magic serves a lot of purposes, but you don’t use it any way but one. You have to see what else it can do. And you can’t do that until you understand it. I suggest you don’t understand it at all, either one of you.”
He studied them a moment, then turned and shambled off into the dark. “Don’t forget, first night of the new moon!” He stopped when he was just a shadow and glanced back. “Something else you’d better remember and that’s to watch yourselves.” His voice had a new edge to it. “The Shadowen aren’t just rumors and old wives’ tales. They’re as real as you and I. You may not have thought so before tonight, but now you know different. They’ll be out there, everywhere you’re likely to go. That woman, she was one of them. She came sniffing around because she could sense you have the magic. Others will do the same.”
He started moving away again. “Lots of things are going to be hunting you,” he warned softly.
He mumbled something further to himself that neither of them could hear as he disappeared slowly into the darkness.
Then he was gone.
V
Par and Coll Ohmsford did not get much sleep that night. They stayed awake long after the old man was gone, talking and sometimes arguing, worrying without always saying as much, eyes constantly scanning the darkness against the promise that things, Shadowen or otherwise, were likely to be hunting them. Even after that, when there was nothing left to say, when they had rolled themselves wearily into their blankets and closed their eyes against their fears, they did not sleep well. They rolled and tossed in their slumber, waking themselves and each other with distressing regularity until dawn.
They rose then, dragged themselves from the warmth of their coverings, washed in the chilling waters of the lake, and promptly began talking and arguing all over again. They continued through breakfast, which was just as well because once again there wasn’t much to eat and it took their minds off their stomachs. The talk, and more often now the arguments, centered around the old man who claimed to be Cogline and the dreams that might or might not have been sent and if sent might or might not have been sent by Allanon, but included such peripheral topics as Shadowen, Federation Seekers, the stranger who had rescued them in Varfleet, and whether there was sense to the world anymore or not. They had established their positions on these subjects fairly well by this time, positions that, for the most part, weren’t within a week’s walk of each other. That being the case, they were reduced to communicating with each other across vast stretches of intractability.
Before their day was even an hour old, they were already thoroughly fed up with each other.
“You cannot deny that the possibility exists that the old man really is Cogline!” Par insisted for what must have been the hundredth time as they carried the canvas tarp down to the skiff for stowing.
Coll managed a quick shrug. “I’m not denying it.”
“And if he really is Cogline, then you cannot deny the possibility that everything he told us is the truth!”
“I’m not denying that either.”
“What about the woodswoman? What was she if not a Shadowen, a night thing with magic stronger than our own?”
“Your own.”
Par fumed. “Sorry. My own. The point is, she was a Shadowen! She had to be! That makes at least part of what the old man told us the truth, no matter how you view it!”
“Wait a minute.” Coll dropped his e
nd of the tarp and stood there with his hands on his hips, regarding his brother with studied dismay. “You do this all the time when we argue. You make these ridiculous leaps in logic and act as if they make perfect sense. How does it follow that, if that woman was a Shadowen, the old man was telling the truth?”
“Well, because, if . . .”
“I won’t even question your assumption that she was a Shadowen,” Coll interrupted pointedly. “Even though we haven’t the faintest idea what a Shadowen is. Even though she might just as easily have been something else altogether.”
“Something else? What sort of . . . ?”
“Like a companion to the old man, for instance. Like a decoy to give his tale validity.”
Par was incensed. “That’s ridiculous! What would be the purpose of that?”
Coll pursed his lips thoughtfully. “To persuade you to go with him to the Hadeshorn, naturally. To bring you back into Callahorn. Think about it. Maybe the old man is interested in the magic, too—just like the Federation.”
Par shook his head vehemently. “I don’t believe it.”
“That’s because you never like to believe anything that you haven’t thought of first,” Coll declared pointedly, picking up his end of the tarp again. “You decide something and that’s the end of it. Well, this time you had better not make your decision too quickly. There are other possibilities to consider, and I’ve just given you one of them.”
They walked down to the shoreline in silence and deposited the tarp in the bottom of the skiff. The sun was barely above the eastern horizon, and already the day was beginning to feel warm. The Rainbow Lake was smooth, the air windless and filled with the scent of wildflowers and long grass.
Coll turned. “You know, it’s not that I mind you being decisive about things. It’s just that you then assume I ought simply to agree. I shouldn’t argue, I should acquiesce. Well, I am not going to do that. If you want to strike out for the Hadeshorn and the Dragon’s Teeth—fine, you go right ahead. But quit acting as if I ought to jump at the chance to go along.”
Par didn’t say anything back right away. Instead, he thought about what it had been like for them growing up. Par was the older by two years and while physically smaller than Coll, he had always been the leader. He had the magic, after all, and that had always set him apart. It was true, he was decisive; it had been necessary to be decisive when faced with the temptation to use the magic to solve every situation. He had not been as even-tempered as he should have; he wasn’t any better now. Coll had always been the more controlled of the two—slower to anger, thoughtful and deliberate, a born peacemaker in the neighborhood fights and squabbles because no one else had the physical and emotional presence. Or was as well liked, he added—because Coll was always that, the sort of fellow that everyone takes to instantly. He spent his time looking after everyone, smoothing over hard feelings, restoring injured pride. Par was always charging around, oblivious to such things, busy searching for new places to explore, new challenges to engage, new ideas to develop. He was visionary, but he lacked Coll’s sensitivity. He foresaw so clearly life’s possibilities, but Coll was the one who understood best its sacrifices.
There had been a good many times when they had covered for each other’s mistakes. But Par had the magic to fall back on and covering up for Coll had seldom cost him anything. It hadn’t been like that for Coll. Covering up for Par had sometimes cost him a great deal. Yet Par was his brother, whom he loved, and he never complained. Sometimes, thinking back on those days, Par was ashamed of how much he had let his brother do for him.
He brushed the memories aside. Coll was looking at him, waiting for his response. Par shifted his feet impatiently and thought about what that response ought to be. Then he said simply, “All right. What do you think we should do?”
“Shades, I don’t know what we should do!” Coll said at once. “I just know that there are a lot of unanswered questions, and I don’t think we should commit ourselves to anything until we’ve had a chance to answer some of them!”
Par nodded stoically. “Before the time of the new moon, you mean.”
“That’s better than three weeks away and you know it!”
Par’s jaw tightened. “That’s not as much time as you make it seem! How are we supposed to answer all the questions we have before then?”
Coll stared at him. “You are impossible, you know that?”
He turned and walked back from the shoreline to where the blankets and cooking gear were stacked and began carrying them down to the skiff. He didn’t look at Par. Par stood where he was and watched his brother in silence. He was remembering how Coll had pulled him half-drowned from the Rappahalladran when he had fallen in the rapids on a camping trip. He had gone under and Coll had been forced to dive down for him. He became sick afterward and Coll had carried him home on his back, shaking with fever and half-delirious. Coll was always looking out for him, it seemed. Why was that, he wondered suddenly, when he was the one with the magic?
Coll finished packing the skiff, and Par walked over to him. “I’m sorry,” he said and waited.
Coll looked down at him solemnly a moment, then grinned. “No, you’re not. You’re just saying that.”
Par grinned back in spite of himself. “I am not!”
“Yes, you are. You just want to put me off my guard so you can start in again with your confounded decision-making once we’re out in the middle of that lake where I can’t walk away from you!” His brother was laughing openly now.
Par did his best to look mortified. “Okay, it’s true. I’m not sorry.”
“I knew it!” Coll was triumphant.
“But you’re wrong about the reason for the apology. It has nothing to do with getting you out in the middle of the lake. I’m just trying to shed the burden of guilt I’ve always felt at being the older brother.”
“Don’t worry!” Coll was doubled over. “You’ve always been a terrible older brother!”
Par shoved him, Coll shoved back, and for the moment their differences were forgotten. They laughed, took a final look about the campsite and pushed the skiff out onto the lake, clambering aboard as it reached deeper water. Coll took up the oars without asking and began to row.
They followed the shoreline west, listening contentedly as the distant sounds of birds rose out of the trees and rushes, letting the day grow pleasantly warm about them. They didn’t talk for a while, satisfied with the renewed feeling of closeness they had found on setting out, anxious to avoid arguing again right away.
Nevertheless, Par found himself rehashing matters in his mind—much the same as he was certain Coll was doing. His brother was right about one thing—there were a lot of unanswered questions. Reflecting on the events of the previous evening, Par found himself wishing he had thought to ask the old man for a bit more information. Did the old man know, for instance, who the stranger was who had rescued them in Varfleet? The old man had known about their trouble there and must have, had some idea how they escaped. The old man had managed to track them, first to Varfleet, then down the Mermidon, and he had frightened off the woodswoman—Shadowen or whatever—without much effort. He had some form of power at his command, possibly Druid magic, possibly old world science—but he had never said what it was or what it did. Exactly what was his relationship with Allanon? Or was that simply a claim without any basis in fact? And why was it that he had given up on Par so easily when Par had said he must think over the matter of going off to the Hadeshorn for a meeting with Allanon? Shouldn’t he have worked harder at persuading Par to go?
But the most disturbing question was one that Par could not bring himself to discuss with Coll at all—because it concerned Coll himself. The dreams had told Par that he was needed and that his cousin Wren and his uncle Walker Boh were needed as well. The old man had said the same—that Par, Wren, and Walker had been called.
Why was there no mention of Coll?
It was a question for which he had no answer at all. He had
thought at first that it was because he had the magic and Coll didn’t, that the summons had something to do with the wishsong. But then why was Wren needed? Wren had no magic either. Walker Boh was different, of course, since it had always been rumored that he knew something of magic that none of the others did. But not Wren. And not Coll. Yet Wren had been specifically named and Coll hadn’t.
It was this more than anything that made him question what he should do. He wanted to know the reason for the dreams; if the old man was right about Allanon, Par wanted to know what the Druid had to say. But he did not want to know any of it if it meant separating from Coll. Coll was more than his brother, he was his closest friend, his most trusted companion, practically his other self. Par did not intend to become involved in something where both were not wanted. He simply wasn’t going to do it.
Yet the old man had not forbidden Coll to come. Nor had the dreams. Neither had warned against it.
They had simply ignored him.
Why would that be?
The morning lengthened, and a wind came up. The brothers rigged a sail and mast using the canvas tarp and one of the oars, and soon they were speeding across the Rainbow Lake, the waters slapping and foaming about them. Several times they almost went over, but they stayed alert to sudden shifts in the wind and used their body weight to avoid capsizing. They set a southwest course and by early afternoon had reached the mouth of the Rappahalladran.
There they beached the skiff in a small cove, covered it with rushes and boughs, left everything within but the blankets and cooking gear, and began hiking upriver toward the Duln forests. It soon became expedient to cut across country to save time, and they left the river, moving up into the Highlands of Leah. They hadn’t spoken about where they were going since the previous evening, when the tacit understanding had been that they would debate the matter later. They hadn’t, of course. Neither had brought the subject up again, Coll because they were moving in the direction he wanted to go anyway, and Par because he had decided that Coll was right that some thinking needed to be done before any trip back north into Callahorn was undertaken. Shady Vale was as good a place as any to complete that thinking.
