The Scions of Shannara

by Terry Brooks

  “I don’t let it bother me,” Par said defensively. “The magic is a gift.”

  “Oh? Is it now? How so? A gift is not something you hide as you would a loathsome disease. It is not something of which you are ashamed or cautious or even frightened. It is not something that might kill you.”

  The words were spoken with such bitterness that Par felt chilled. Then his uncle’s mood seemed to change instantly; he grew calm again, quiet. He shook his head in self-reproach. “I forget myself sometimes when speaking of the past. I apologize. I brought you here to talk with you of other things. But only with you, Par. I leave the cottage for your companions to use during their stay. But I will not come there to be with them. I am only interested in you.”

  “But what about Coll?” Par asked, confused. “Why speak with me and not with him?”

  His uncle’s smile was ironic. “Think, Par. I was never close with him the way I was with you.”

  Par stared at him silently. That was true, he supposed. It was the magic that had drawn Walker to him, and Coll had never been able to share in that. The time he had spent with his uncle, the time that had made him feel close to the man, had always been time away from Coll.

  “Besides,” the other continued softly, “what we need to talk about concerns only us.”

  Par understood then. “The dreams.” His uncle nodded. “Then you have experienced them as well—the figure in black, the one who appears to be Allanon, standing before the Hadeshorn, warning us, telling us to come?” Par was breathless. “What about the old man? Has he come to you also?” Again, his uncle nodded. “Then you do know him, don’t you? Is it true, Walker? Is he really Cogline?”

  Walker Boh’s face emptied of expression. “Yes, Par, he is.”

  Par flushed with excitement, and rubbed his hands together briskly. “I cannot believe it! How old is he? Hundreds of years, I suppose—just as he claimed. And once a Druid. I knew I was right! Does he live here still, Walker—with you?”

  “He visits, sometimes. And sometimes stays a bit. The cat was his before he gave it to me. You remember that there was always a moor cat. The one before was called Whisper. That was in the time of Brin Ohmsford. This one is called Rumor. The old man named it. He said it was a good name for a cat—especially one who would belong to me.”

  He stopped, and something Par couldn’t read crossed his face briefly and was gone. The Valeman glanced over to where the cat had been resting, but it had disappeared.

  “Rumor comes and goes in the manner of all moor cats,” Walker Boh said as if reading his thoughts.

  Par nodded absently, then looked back at him. “What are you going to do, Walker?”

  “About the dreams?” The strange eyes went flat. “Nothing.”

  Par hesitated. “But the old man must have . . .”

  “Listen to me,” the other said, cutting him short. “I am decided on this. I know what the dreams have asked of me; I know who sent them. The old man has come to me, and we have talked. He left not a week past. None of that matters. I am no longer an Ohmsford; I am a Boh. If I could strip away my past, with all its legacy of magic and all its glorious Elven history, I would do so in an instant. I want none of it. I came into the Eastland to find this valley, to live as my ancestors once lived, to be just once where everything is fresh and clean and untroubled by the presence of others. I have learned to keep my life in perfect order and to order the life around me. You have seen this valley; my mother’s people made it that way and I have learned to keep it. I have Rumor for company and occasionally the old man. Once in a while, I even visit with those from the outside. Darklin Reach has become a haven for me and Hearthstone my home.”

  He bent forward, his face intense. “I have the magic, Par—different from yours, but real nevertheless. I can tell what others are thinking sometimes, even when they are far away. I can communicate with life in ways that others cannot. All forms of life. I can disappear sometimes, just like the moor cat. I can even summon power!” He snapped his fingers suddenly, and a brief spurt of blue fire appeared on his fingers. He snuffed it out. “I lack the magic of the wishsong, but apparently some of its power has taken root inside me. Some of what I know is innate; some is self-taught; some was taught to me by others. But I have all I need, and I wish no more. I am comfortable here and will never leave. Let the world get on as best it can without me. It always did so before.”

  Par struggled to respond. “But what if the dream is right, Walker?” he asked finally.

  Walker Boh laughed derisively. “Par! The dreams are never right! Have you not paid heed to your own stories? Whether they manifest themselves as they have this time or as they did when Allanon was alive, one fact remains unchanged—the Ohmsfords are never told everything, only what the Druids deem necessary!”

  “You think that we are being used.” Par made it a statement of fact.

  “I think I would be a fool to believe anything else! I do not trust what I am being told.” The other’s eyes were as hard as stone. “The magic you insist on regarding as a gift has always been little more than a useful tool to the Druids. I do not intend to let myself be put to whatever new task they have discovered. If the world needs saving as these dreams suggest, let Allanon or the old man go out and save it!”

  There was a long moment of silence as the two measured each other. Par shook his head slowly. “You surprise me, Walker. I don’t remember the bitterness or the anger from before.”

  Walker Boh smiled sadly. “It was there, Par. It was always there. You just didn’t bother to look for it.”

  “Shouldn’t it be gone by now?”

  His uncle kept silent.

  “So you are decided on this matter, are you?”

  “Yes, Par. I am.”

  Par took a deep breath. “What will you do, Walker, if the things in the dream come to pass? What will become of your home then? What will happen if the evil the dream showed us decides to come looking for you?”

  His uncle said nothing, but the steady gaze never wavered. Par nodded slowly. “I have a different view of matters from yours, Walker,” he said softly. “I have always believed that the magic was a gift, and that it was given to me for a reason. It appeared for a long time that it was meant to be used to tell the stories, to keep them from being forgotten completely. I have changed my mind about that. I think now that the magic is meant for something more.”

  He shifted, straightening himself because he was feeling suddenly small in the presence of the other. “Coll and I cannot go back to the Vale because the Federation has found out about the magic and is hunting for us. The old man, Cogline, says there may be other things hunting us as well—perhaps even Shadowen. Have you see the Shadowen? I have. Coll and I are scared to death, Walker, though we don’t talk about it much. The funny thing is, I think the things hunting us are scared, too. It’s the magic that scares them.” He paused. “I don’t know why that is, but I mean to find out.”

  There was a flicker of surprise in Walker Boh’s eyes. Par nodded. “Yes, Walker, I have decided to do as the dreams have asked. I believe they were sent by Allanon, and I believe they should be heeded. I will go to the Hadeshorn. I think I made the decision just now; I think listening to you helped me decide. I haven’t told Coll. I don’t really know what he will do. Maybe I will end up going alone. But I will go. If for no other reason, I will go because I think Allanon can tell me what the magic is intended to do.”

  He shook his head sadly. “I can’t be like you, Walker. I can’t live apart from the rest of the world. I want to be able to go back to Shady Vale. I don’t want to go away and start life over. I came this way through Culhaven. The Dwarves who brought us are from there. All of the prejudice and greed, the politics and wars, all of the madness you speak about is very much in evidence there. But unlike you I don’t want to escape it; I want to find a way to end it! How can that happen if I simply pretend it doesn’t exist!”

  His hands tightened into fists. “You see, I keep thinki
ng, what if Allanon knows something that can change the way things are? What if he can tell me something that will put an end to the madness?”

  They faced each other in the dark for a long time without speaking, and Par thought he saw things in his uncle’s dark eyes that he hadn’t seen since his childhood—things that whispered of caring and need and sacrifice. Then the eyes were flat again, expressionless, empty. Walker Boh came to his feet.

  “Will you reconsider?” Par asked him quietly.

  Walker regarded him silently, then walked to the pool at the center of the clearing and stood looking down. When his fingers snapped, Rumor materialized from out of nowhere and came over to him.

  He turned momentarily and looked back. “Good luck, Par,” was all he said.

  Then he turned, the cat beside him, and disappeared into the night.

  X

  Par waited until morning to tell the others of his meeting with Walker Boh. There did not seem to be any reason to hurry it. Walker had made clear his intentions, and there was nothing any of them could do about it in any case. So Par made his way back to the cottage, surprising himself at how easily he was able to retrace his steps, resumed his watch without disturbing the others, lost himself in his thoughts, and waited for dawn.

  Reactions were mixed when he finally related his story. There was some initial doubt as to whether he was mistaken about what happened, but that dissipated almost at once. They made him tell the story twice more after that, interjecting comments and questions in equal measure as he went. Morgan was outraged that Walker should treat them like this, declaring that they deserved at the very least the courtesy of a direct confrontation. He insisted that they search the valley again, convinced that the man must be close by and should be found and made to face them all. Steff was more pragmatic. He was of the opinion that Walker Boh was no different from most, preferring to stay out of trouble when he could, avoiding situations in which trouble would most probably result.

  “It seems to me that his behavior, however irritating you might find it, is certainly not out of character,” the Dwarf declared with a shrug. “After all, you said yourselves that he came here to escape involvement with the Races. By refusing to go to the Hadeshorn, he is simply doing what he said he would do.”

  Teel, as usual, had nothing to say. Coll only said, “I wish I could have spoken with him,” and dropped the matter.

  There was no reason now to stay longer at Hearthstone, but they decided to postpone leaving for at least another day. The moon was still more than half full, and they had at least another ten days left to them before they were required to be at the Hadeshorn—if, indeed, they were going at all. The subject of what was to happen next was being carefully avoided. Par had made up his own mind, but had not yet told the others. They, of course, were waiting to hear from him. While they played at this game of cat-and-mouse, they finished breakfast and decided to go along with Morgan’s suggestion and scout the valley one more time. It gave them something to do while they considered the implications of Walker Boh’s decision. Tomorrow morning would be time enough to make any decisions of their own.

  So they went back to the clearing where Par had met with Walker and the moor cat the previous night and began a second search, agreeing to meet back at the cottage by late afternoon. Steff and Teel formed one group, Par and Coll a second, and Morgan went alone. The day was warm and filled with sunshine, and a light breeze blew down out of the distant mountains. Steff scoured the clearing for signs of any sort and found nothing—not even the tracks of the cat. Par had a feeling that it was going to be a long day.

  He walked east with Coll after parting from the others, his mind crowding with thoughts of what he should say to his brother. A mix of emotions worked their way through him, and he found it difficult to sort them out. He ambled along halfheartedly, conscious of Coll watching him from time to time, but avoiding his gaze. After they had wandered through several dozen clearings and forded half that many streams without coming on even a trace of Walker Boh, Par called a halt.

  “This is a waste of time,” he announced, a hint of exasperation creeping into his voice. “We’re not going to find anything.”

  “I don’t imagine we are,” Coll replied.

  Par turned to him, and they faced each other silently for a moment. “I have decided to go on to the Hadeshorn, Coll. It doesn’t matter what Walker does; it only matters what I do. I have to go.”

  Coll nodded. “I know.” Then he smiled. “Par, I haven’t been your brother all these years without learning something about the way you think. The moment you told me that Walker had said he would have nothing to do with the matter, I knew you’d decided you would. That’s the way it is with you. You’re like a dog with a bone in its teeth—you can’t let go.”

  “I suppose that’s the way it seems sometimes, doesn’t it?”

  Par shook his head wearily and moved over to a patch of shade beneath an old hickory. He turned his back to the trunk and slid to the ground. Coll joined him. They sat staring out at the empty woodlands. “I admit that I made the decision pretty much the way you describe it. I just couldn’t accept Walker’s position. Truth is, Coll, I couldn’t even understand it. I was so upset, I didn’t even think to ask him whether he believed the dreams were real or not.”

  “Not consciously, perhaps—but you thought about it. And you decided at some point it wasn’t necessary. Walker said that he’d had the same dreams as you. He told you the old man had come to him just as he did to us. He admitted the old man was Cogline. He didn’t dispute any of it. He simply said he didn’t want to become involved. The implication is that he believes the dreams are real—otherwise, there wouldn’t be anything to get involved with.”

  Par’s jaw tightened. “I don’t understand it, Coll. That was Walker I spoke with last night; I know it was. But he didn’t talk like Walker. All that business about not becoming involved, about his decision to separate himself from the Races, and to live out here like a hermit. Something’s not right; I can feel it! He wasn’t telling me everything. He kept talking about how the Druids kept secrets from the Ohmsfords, but he was doing the same thing with me! He was hiding something!”

  Coll looked unconvinced. “Why would he do that?”

  Par shook his head. “I don’t know. I just sense it.” He looked at his brother sharply. “Walker never backed down from anything in his entire life; we both know that. He was never afraid to stand up and be counted when he was needed. Now he talks as if he can scarcely bear the thought of getting up in the morning! He talks as if the only important thing in life is to look out for himself!” The Valeman leaned back wearily against the hickory trunk. “He made me feel embarrassed for him. He made me feel ashamed!”

  “I think you might be reading too much into this.” Coll scuffed the ground with the heel of his boot. “It may be just the way he says it is. He’s lived alone out here for a long time, Par. Maybe he simply isn’t comfortable with people anymore.”

  “Even you?” Par was incensed. “For goodness sake, Coll—he wouldn’t even speak with you!”

  Coll shook his head and held his gaze steady. “The truth is, Par, we never spoke much as it was. You were the one he cared about, because you were the one with the magic.”

  Par looked at him and said nothing. Walker’s exact words, he thought. He was just fooling himself when he tried to equate Coll’s relationship with their uncle to his own. It had never been the same.

  He frowned. “There is still the matter of the dreams. Why doesn’t he share my curiosity about them? Doesn’t he want to know what Allanon has to say?”

  Coll shrugged. “Maybe he already knows. He seems to know what everyone is thinking most of the time.”

  Par hesitated. He hadn’t considered that. Was it possible his uncle had already determined what the Druid would tell them at the Hadeshorn? Could he read the mind of a shade, a man three hundred years dead?

  He shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. He would ha
ve said something more than he did about the reason for the dreams. He spent all of his time dismissing the matter as one more instance when the Ohmsfords would be used by the Druids; he didn’t care what the reason was.”

  “Then perhaps he is relying on you to tell him.”

  Par nodded slowly. “That makes better sense. I told him I was going; maybe he thinks that one of us going is enough.”

  Coll stretched his big frame full length on the ground and stared up into the trees. “But you don’t believe that either, do you?”

  His brother smiled faintly. “No.”

  “You still think that it’s something else.”

  “Yes.”

  They didn’t speak for a time, staring off into the woods, thinking their separate thoughts. Slender streams of sunlight played along their bodies through chinks in the limbs canopied overhead, and the songs of birds filtered through the stillness. “I like it here,” Par said finally.

  Coll had his eyes closed. “Where do you think he’s hiding?”

  “Walker? I don’t know. Under a rock, I suppose.”

  “You’re too quick to judge him, Par. You don’t have the right to do that.”

  Par bit off what he was going to say next and contented himself with watching a ray of sunlight work its way across Coll’s face until it was in his eyes, causing him to blink and shift his body. Coll sat up, his squarish face a mask of contentment. Not much of anything ruffled him; he always managed to keep his sense of balance. Par admired him for that. Coll always understood the relative importance of events in the greater scheme of things.