Running with the Demon Part 8

The Knight of the Word has tried hard to determine why this must be, but it requires a deeper understanding of human behavior than he possesses. So he has come to accept the feeders simply as a force of nature. He can see them, as most cannot, so he knows they are real. Few others understand this. Few have any idea at all that the feeders even exist. If they knew, they would be reminded of Biblical references and cautionary tales from childhood and be quick to describe the feeders as Satan's creatures or the Devil's imps. But the feeders belong to the Word. They are neither good nor evil, and their purpose is far too complex to be explained away in such simplistic terms.

He pa.s.ses through what was once an industrial storage area of the city, and the amber eyes follow him, flat and expressionless. The feeders feel nothing, reveal nothing. The feeders have no concern for him one way or the other. That is not their function. The Knight of the Word has to remind himself of this, for the glimmer of their eyes seems a challenge and a danger to him. But the feeders, as he has learned, are as impervious to emotion as fate is to prayers. They are like the wind and the rain; when conditions warrant, they will appear. Look for them as you would a change in the weather, for they respond in no less impersonal and arbitrary a way.

Nevertheless, it seems to him, as he pa.s.ses their dark lair, that they know who he is and judge him accordingly. He cannot help himself, for they have been witness to his every failure. It feels as if they judge him now, remembering as he does the many opportunities he has squandered. Tonight provides another test for him. His successes of late might seem to offset his earlier failures, but it is the failures that matter most. If he had not failed in Hopewell with Nest Freemark, he thinks bitterly, there would be no need for successes now. He remembers her, a child of fourteen, how close he was to saving her, how badly he misjudged what was needed. He remembers the demon, prevailing even in the face of his fierce opposition. The memory will not leave. The memory will haunt him to the grave.

But he will not die tonight, he thinks. He carries in his hands the gleaming, rune-carved staff of magic that the Lady gave him all those years ago, wielding it as Arthur would Excalibur, believing there are no numbers great enough to stand against him or weapons strong enough to destroy him or evil dark enough to expunge the light of his magic. It is the legacy of his failure, the talisman bequeathed to him when nothing remained but the battle itself. He will fight on because fighting is all that is left. He is strong, pure, and fixed of purpose. He is a knight-errant adrift on a quest of his own making. He is Don Quixote tilting at windmills with no hope of finding peace.

He slows now to a walk, close enough to the pens to be able to see the smoky light of the torches that illuminate the compound. He has never been here before, but he knows what he will find. He has seen others of the same sort in other cities. They are all the same - makeshift enclosures into which humans have been herded and shut away. Men, women, and children run to ground and enslaved, there to be separated and processed, to be designated for a purpose, to be used and debilitated and ultimately destroyed. It is the way the world is now, the way it has been for more than seven years. All of the cities of America are either armed camps or ruins. Nuclear missiles and poison gas and defoliant were used early, when there were still governments and armies to wield them. Then the missiles and gas and defoliant were discarded in favor of more personal, rudimentary weapons as the governments and armies disintegrated and the level of savagery rose. Washington was obliterated. New York City tore itself apart. Atlanta, Houston, and Denver built walls and stockpiled weapons and began systematically to annihilate anyone who came close. Los Angeles and Chicago became killing grounds for the demons and their followers. Sides were chosen and battles fought at every turn. Reason gave way to bloodl.u.s.t and was lost.

There are places somewhere, the Knight has heard, where the madness is still held at bay, but he has not found them. Some are in other countries, but he does not know where. Technology is fragmented and does not function in a dependable manner. Airplanes no longer fly, ships no longer sail, and trains no longer run. Knowledge dissipates with the pa.s.sing of every day and the death of every man. The Void has no interest in technology because technology furthers progress. The demons multiply, and their purpose now is to break down what remains of human reason and to put an end to any resistance. Little stands in their way. The madness that marked the beginning of the end continues to grow.

But the Knight fights on, a solitary champion for the Word, shackled to his fate as punishment for his failure to prevent the madness from taking hold when he still had a chance to do so. He goes from city to city, from armed camp to armed camp, freeing those poor creatures imprisoned by the slave pens, hoping that some few will manage to escape to a better place, that one or two will somehow make a difference in the terrible battle being fought. He has no specific expectations. Hope of any sort is a luxury he cannot afford. He must carry on because he has pledged to do so. There is nothing else left for him. There is nothing else that matters.

John Ross slows to a steady walk, holding the staff crosswise before him with both hands. He remembers what it was like when the staff was his walking stick and gave support against his limp. But his dreams have ended and his future has become his present. Tomorrow's madness has become today's. The limp has disappeared, and he is transformed. The staff is now his sword and shield; he is infused with its power and made strong. The magic he had feared to use before is now used freely. It is a measure of his service that there are no longer any constraints placed on him, but it is also a mark of his failure.

Ahead, the torchlight grows brighter. The tools of living have become rudimentary once more. There is no electricity to power streetlamps, no fuel for turbines or generators, almost no coal or oil left to burn. There is no running water. There is no sewage or garbage disposal. There are few automobiles that run and few roads that will support them. The concrete of the streets is cracked and broken. Patches of gra.s.s and scrub push through. The earth slowly reclaims its own.

He slides to one side to keep within the shadows. He is not afraid, but there is an advantage in surprise. The feeders peering out at him draw back, wary. They sense that he can see them when most others cannot - even those who have fallen victim to the madness and serve the demons, even those the feeders rely upon to sustain them. Their numbers are huge now, grown so vast that there is not a darkened corner anywhere in which they do not lurk. They have bred in a frenzy as the madness consumed mankind, but of late their breeding has slowed. Some will begin to disappear soon, for the dwindling population of humans cannot continue to support them. With the pa.s.sage of time the balance will shift back again, and the world will begin anew. But it is too late for civilization. Civilization is finished. Men are diminished, reduced to the level of animals. Rebirth, when it comes, will be a c.r.a.pshoot.

He wonders momentarily how bad it is elsewhere in the world. He does not know for certain. He has heard it is not good, that what began in America spread more quickly elsewhere, that what took seed slowly here finds more fertile soil abroad. He believes that every country is under a.s.sault and that most are overrun. He believes that the destruction is widespread. He has not been visited by the Lady in a long time. He has seen no evidence that she still exists. He has heard nothing from the Word.

He approaches the pens now, a sprawling maze of wire mesh fences and gates behind which the humans are imprisoned. Torches smoke and blaze on tall stanchions, revealing the extent of the misery visited on the captives. Men, women, and children, all ages, races, and creeds - they have been flushed from their hiding places in the surrounding countryside, rounded up and herded like cattle into the pens, squeezed together with no thought for their comfort or their needs, provided with just enough of what they require to remain alive. They are used for work and breeding until they are no longer strong enough, and then they are exterminated. Their keepers are once-men, humans who have succ.u.mbed to the madness that the demons foster everywhere, the madness that was before isolated and is now rampant. Once it was accepted that all men were created equal, but that is no longer so. Humanity has evolved into two separate and distinct life-forms, strong and weak, hunter and hunted. The Void holds sway; the Word lies dormant. The once-men have given way completely to their darker impulses and now think only to survive, even at the cost of the lives of their fellow men, even at the peril of their souls. Given time, some few will evolve to become demons themselves. The feeders dine upon their victims, finding sustenance in the commission of atrocities so terrible that it is difficult even to contemplate them. It must have been like this in the concentration camps of old. But John Ross cannot imagine it.

He is close enough now that he can see the faces of the captives. They peer out at him from behind the wire, their eyes dull and empty. They are naked mostly, thrust up against the wire by those who push from behind, waiting for the night to end and the day to begin, waiting without hope or reason or purpose. They mewl and they cry and they curl up in fear. They scratch themselves endlessly. He can hardly bear to look on them, but he forces himself to do so, for they are the legacy of his failure. Once-men stand armed and ready in watchtowers all about the compound, holding automatic weapons. Weapons are still plentiful in this post-apocalyptic world, a paradox. Sentries patrol the perimeter of the compound. John Ross has come up on them so quickly that they are just now realizing he is there. Some turn to look, some swing their weapons about menacingly. But he is only one man, alone and unarmed. They are not alarmed. They are no better now at recognizing what will destroy them than they were when the first of the demons came among them all those years ago.

A few call out to him to halt, to stand where he is, but he comes on without slowing. A command rings out and shots are fired, a warning. He comes on. Shots ring out again, a flurry this time, meant to bring him down. But his magic is already in place. He calls it Black Ice-smooth, slippery, invisible. It coats him with its protective shield. The bullets slide off harmlessly. He pushes aside the closest of the once-men and strides to the wire mesh of the pens. Holding the staff firmly in both hands, he sweeps its tip across the diamond-shaped openings. Light flares, and the mesh falls apart like torn confetti. The occupants of the pens fall back in shock and fear, not certain what is happening, not knowing what to do. Ross ignores them, turning to face the once-men that rush to stop him. He scatters them with a single sweep of his staff. The guards in the watch-towers turn their weapons on him and begin to fire, but the bullets cannot harm him. He points his staff at the towers. Light flares, incandescent and blinding, and one after another the towers collapse and burn.

The compound is in chaos now. The once-men are rushing about frantically, trying to regroup. The Knight of the Word is relentless. He tears at the wire mesh of the pens until it hangs in tatters. He yells at the cowering prisoners, urging them to get up, to run, to escape. At first no one moves. Then a few begin to creep out, the bolder ones, testing the waters of their newfound freedom. Then others follow, and soon the entire camp is rushing away into the night. Some few, those who still cling to some shred of their humanity, stop to help the children and the elderly. The once-men give chase, howling in frustration and rage, but they are swept aside by the tide and by the fire of the Knight's bright magic. John Ross strides through the camp unchallenged, flinging aside those who would stop him. The feeders have appeared by now, vast numbers of them, leaping and cavorting about him, seeing in him the prospect of fresh nourishment. He does not like serving as their catalyst, but he knows it cannot be helped. The feeders respond because it is in their nature to do so. The feeders are there because they are drawn by the misery and the pain of the humans. There is nothing he can do to change that.

He is making his way through the greater part of the camp, destroying the pens and freeing their occupants, when he sees the demon. It comes toward him almost casually, appearing out of the shadows. It still looks somewhat human, although grotesquely so, for most of its disguise has fallen away from lack of use. Once-men flank it, mirroring in their faces the hatred and fear that flares in the depths of its bright eyes. Although the demon has come to stop him, John Ross is not afraid. Others of its kind have tried to stop him before. All lie dead.

He swings to face the demon. Behind him, the captives of the pens stream through the empty streets of the ruined city for the flatlands beyond. Perhaps some will escape the pursuit that will follow. Perhaps they will find freedom in another place. The Knight has made what difference he can. It is all he can do.

All about him, the feeders cl.u.s.ter, antic.i.p.ating that they will soon dine upon the leavings that a battle between the Knight and the demon will create. They creep like shadows in the smoky glow of the torches. Their fluid forms extend and recede like waves on a sh.o.r.e.

The Knight brings up his staff and starts for the demon. As he does so a net falls over him. It is heavy and thick, woven of steel threads and weighted on the ends. It bears him to his knees. Instantly the once-men are upon him, rushing from hiding, charging into the light. It is a trap, and the Knight has stumbled into it. The once-men are on him, seeking to tear the staff from his hands, to strip him of his only weapon. All about, the feeders leap and dart wildly, the frenzy drawing them like moths to a flame. In the background, the demon approaches, eyes intent, eager, and bright with hate.

Light flares along the length of the Knight's staff and surges into the midst of his attackers...

John Ross awoke with a cry, tearing at the enemies that were no longer there, thrashing beneath the light blanket he had thrown over himself when he succ.u.mbed to his need for sleep.

He stifled his cry and ceased his struggle and lurched to a sitting position, the black walking staff clutched tightly in both hands. He sat staring into s.p.a.ce, coming back from his dream, regaining his sense of place and time. The portable air conditioner thrummed steadily from its seating in the window, and the cool air washed over his sweating face. His breathing was quick and uneven, and his pulse pounded in his ears. He felt as if his heart would burst.

It was like this, sometimes. He would dream and then wake in the middle of his dream, his future revealed in tantalizing snippets, but with no resolution offered. Would he escape from the net and the once-men or would he be killed? Either was possible. Time was disjointed in his dreams, so he could not know. Sometimes the answers would be revealed in later dreams, but not always. He had learned to live with the uncertainty, but not to accept it.

He looked over at the bedside clock. It was midafternoon. He had only slept three hours. He closed his eyes against his bitterness. Three hours. He must sleep again tonight if he was to maintain his strength. He must go back again into the world of his dreams, into the future of his life, into the promise of what waited should he fail in the here and now, and there was no help for it. It was the price he paid for being what he was.

He lay back slowly on the bed and stared upward at the ceiling. He would not sleep again now, he knew. He could never sleep right after waking from the dreams, his adrenaline pumping through him, his nerve endings jagged and raw. It was just as well. He tried not to sleep at all anymore, or to sleep only in small stretches in an effort to lessen the impact of the dreams. But it was hard to live that way. Sometimes it was almost more than he could bear.

He let his thoughts drift. His memory of the times and places when he had felt at peace and there had been at least some small measure of comfort were distant and faded. His childhood was a blur, his boyhood a jumbled collection of disconnected faces and events. Even the years of his manhood, from before the coming of the Lady, were no longer clear in his mind. His entire life was lost to him. He had given it all away.

Once it had seemed so right and necessary that he should do so. His pa.s.sion and his beliefs had governed his reason, and the importance of the charge that had been offered him had outweighed any other consideration.

But that was a long tune ago. He was no longer certain he had chosen rightly. He was no longer sure even of himself.

He called up a picture of Josie Jackson in an effort to distance himself from his thoughts. She materialized before him, tousled hair and sun-browned skin, freckles and bright smile. Thinking of her comforted him, but there was no reason for it. She had smiled at him, and they had talked. He knew nothing about her. He could not afford to think about knowing her better. In three days, he would be gone. What did it matter how she made him feel?

But if it did not matter, then why shouldn't he indulge himself for just a minute?

He stared at the ceiling, at the cracks in the plaster, at the lines the shadows threw across the paint, at worlds so far removed that they could only be found in dreams.

Or nightmares.

Josie Jackson disappeared. John Ross blinked. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes, and he was quick to wipe them away.

Chapter Eleven.

NNest Freemark spent Sat.u.r.day morning cleaning house with Gran. It didn't matter that it was the Fourth of July weekend or that Nest was particularly anxious to get outside. Nor did it matter how late you stayed up the night before. Sat.u.r.day mornings were set aside for cleaning and that took precedence over everything. Gran was up at seven, breakfast was on the table at eight, and cleaning was under way by nine. The routine was set in stone. There was no sleeping in. Old Bob was already out of the house by the time Gran and Nest started work. There was a clear division of duties between Nest's grandparents, and the rough measure of it was whether the work took place inside or out. If it was inside, Gran was responsible. Cutting the gra.s.s, raking the leaves, plowing the snow, chopping wood, planting and tending the vegetable garden, fetching and hauling, and just about everything else that didn't involve the flower beds were Old Bob's responsibility. As long as he kept up the yard and the exterior of the house, he stayed on Gran's good side and was relieved of any work inside.

Nest, on the other hand, had responsibility for ch.o.r.es both inside and out, beginning with the Sat.u.r.day-morning house-cleaning. She rose with Gran at seven to shower and dress, then hurried downstairs for her breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and juice. The quicker she got started, she knew, the quicker she would get done. Gran was already chain-smoking and drinking vodka and orange juice, her breakfast untouched in front of her, Old Bob frowning at her in disapproval. Nest ate her eggs and toast and drank her juice in silence, trying not to look at either of them, consumed instead by thoughts of last night and of Two Bears.

"How did he know I was there?" Pick had demanded in exasperation as they made their way back across the park, the hot July darkness settled all about them like damp velvet. "I was invisible! He shouldn't have been able to see me! What kind of Indian is he, anyway?"

Nest had been wondering the same thing. The Indian part notwithstanding, Two Bears wasn't like anyone she had ever met. He was strangely rea.s.suring, big, direct, and well reasoned, but he was kind of scary, too. Sort of like Wraith - a paradox she couldn't quite explain.

She pondered him now as she cleaned with Gran, dusting and polishing the furniture, vacuuming the carpet, sweeping and mopping the floors, wiping down the blinds and window-sills, scrubbing out the toilets and sinks, and washing out the tubs and showers. On a light cleaning day, they would stick to dusting and vacuuming, but on the first Sat.u.r.day of the month they did it all. She helped Gran with the laundry and the dishes as well, and it was nearing noon when they finally finished. When Gran told her she could go, she wolfed down a peanut b.u.t.ter and jelly sandwich, drank a large gla.s.s of milk, and went out the back door in a rush, inadvertently letting the screen slam shut behind her once more. She cringed at the sound, but she didn't turn back.

"He said he was a shaman," Nest had remarked to Pick the previous night. "So maybe that means he sees things other people can't. Aren't Indian medicine men supposed to have special powers?"

"How am I supposed to know what medicine men can or can't do?" Pick had snapped irritably. "Do I look like an expert on Indians? I live in this park and I don't take vacations to parts of the country where there might be Indians like some people I could mention! Why don't you know what Indians do? Haven't you studied Indians in school? What kind of education are you getting, anyway? If I were you, I'd make certain I knew everything that was important about the history..."

And on and on he had gone, barely pausing for breath to say good night when she reached her house and left him to go in. Sometimes Pick was insufferable. A lot of times, really. But he was still her best friend.

Nest had met Pick at the beginning of the summer of her sixth year. She was sitting on the crossboard at the coiner of her sandbox one evening after supper, staring out at the park, catching glimpses of it through gaps in the hedgerow, which was still filling in with new spring growth. She was humming to herself, picking idly at the sand as she scrutinized the park, when she saw the feeder. It was slipping through the shadows of the Petersons' backyard, hunkered down against the failing light as it made its way smoothly from concealment to concealment. She stared after it intently, wondering where it was going and what it was about.

"Weird, aren't they?" a voice said.

She looked around hurriedly, but there was no one to be seen.

"Down here," said the voice.

She looked down, and there, sitting on the crossboard at the opposite corner of the sandbox, was what looked like a tiny wooden man made out of twigs and leaves with a little old face carved into the wood and a beard made of moss. He was so small and so still that at first she thought he was a doll. Then he shifted his position slightly, causing her to start, and she knew he was alive.

"I don't scare you, do I?" he asked her with a smirk, wiggling his twiggy fingers at her.

She shook her head wordlessly.

"I didn't think so. I didn't think you would be scared of much. Not if you weren't scared of the feeders or that big dog. Nossir. You wouldn't be scared of a sylvan, I told myself."

She stared at him. "What's a sylvan?"

"Me. That's what I am. A sylvan. Have been all my life." He chuckled at his own humor, then cleared his throat officiously. "My name is Pick. What's yours?"

"Nest," she told him.

"Actually, I knew that. I've been watching you for quite a while, young lady."

"You have?"

"Watching is what sylvans do much of the time. We're pretty good at it. Better than cats, as a matter of fact. You don't know much about us, I don't expect."

She thought a moment. "Are you an elf?"

"An elf!" he exclaimed in horror. "An elf? I should guess not! An elf, indeed! Utter nonsense!" He drew himself up. "Sylvans are real, young lady. Sylvans are forest creatures - like tatterdemalions and riffs - but hardworking and industrious. Always have been, always will be. We have important responsibilities to exercise."

She nodded, not certain exactly what he was saying. "What do you do?"

"I look after the park," Pick declared triumphantly. "All by myself, I might add. That's a lot of work! I keep the magic in balance. You know about magic, don't you? Well, there's a little magic in everything and a lot in some things, and it all has to be kept in balance. There's lots of things that can upset that balance, so I have to keep a careful watch to prevent that from happening. Even so, I'm not always successful. Then I have to pick up the pieces and start over."

"Can you do magic?" she asked curiously.

"Some. More than most forest creatures, but then I'm older than most. I've been at this a long time."

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Are you like Rumpelstiltskin?"

Pick turned crimson. "Am I like Rumpelstiltskin? Crirriiny! What kind of question is that? What did I just get through telling you? That's the trouble with six-year-olds! They don't have any attention span! No, I am not like Rumpelstiltskin! That's a fairy tale! It isn't real! Sylvans don't go around spinning straw into gold, for goodness' sake! What kind of education are they giving you in school these days?"

Nest didn't say anything, frightened by the little man's outburst. The leaves that stuck out of the top of his head were rustling wildly, and his twiggy feet were stamping so hard she was afraid they would snap right off. She glanced nervously toward her house.

"Now, don't do that! Don't be looking for your grandmother, like you think you might need her to come out and shoo me away. I just got done telling you that I knew you weren't afraid of much. Don't make a liar out of me." Pick spread his arms wide in dismay. "I just get upset sometimes with all this fairy-tale bunk. I didn't mean to upset you. I know you're only six. Look, I'm over a hundred and fifty years old! What do I know about kids?"

Nest looked at him. "You're a hundred and fifty? You are not."

"Am so. I was here before this town was here. I was here when there were no houses anywhere!" Pick's brow furrowed. "Life was much easier then."

"How did you get to be so old?"

"So old? That's not old for a sylvan! No, sir! Two hundred and fifty is old for a sylvan, but not one hundred and fifty." Pick c.o.c.ked his head. "You believe me, don't you?"

Nest nodded solemnly, not sure yet if she did or not.

"It's important that you do. Because you and I are going to be good friends, Nest Freemark. That's why I'm here. To tell you that." Pick straightened. "Now, what do you think? Can we be friends, even though I shout at you once in a while?"

Nest smiled. "Sure."

"Friends help each other, you know," the sylvan went on. "I might need your help sometime." He gave her a conspiratorial look. "I might need your help keeping the magic in balance. Here, in the park. I could teach you what I know. Some of it, anyway. What do you think? Would you like that?"

"I'm not supposed to go into the park," Nest advised him solemnly, and glanced furtively over her shoulder at the house again. "Gran says I can only go into the park with her."

"Hnimm. Well, yes, I suppose that makes sense." Pick rubbed at his beard and grimaced. "Parental rules. Don't want to transgress." He brightened. "But that's just for another year or so, not forever. Just until you're a little older. Your lessons could begin then. You'd be just about the right age, matter of fact. Meanwhile, I've got an idea. A little magic is all we need. Here, pick me up and put me in your hand. Gently, now. You're not one of those clumsy children who drop things, are you?"

Nest reached down with her hands cupped together, and Pick stepped into them. Seating himself comfortably, he ordered her to lift him up in front of her face.

"There, hold me just like that." His hands wove in feathery patterns before her eyes, and he began to mutter strange words. "Now close your eyes," he told her. "Good, good. Keep them closed. Think about the park. Think about how it looks from your yard. Try to picture it in your mind. Don't move..."

A warm, syrupy feeling slipped through Nest's body, beginning from somewhere behind her eyes and flowing downward through her arms and legs. Time slowed.

Then abruptly she was flying, soaring through the twilight high over Sinnissippi Park, the wind rushing past her ears and across her face, the lights of Hopewell distant yellow pinp.r.i.c.ks far below. She was seated astride an owl, the bird's great brown-and-white feathered wings spread wide. Pick was seated in front of her, and she had her arms about his waist for support. Amazingly, they were the same size. Nest's heart lodged in her throat as the owl banked and soared with the wind currents. What if she were to fall? But she quickly came to realize that the motion would not dislodge her, that her perch astride the bird was secure, and her fear turned to exhilaration.

"This is Daniel," Pick called back to her over his shoulder. In spite of the rush of the wind, she could hear him clearly. "Daniel is a barn owl. He carries me from place to place in the park. It's much quicker than trying to get about on my own. Owls and sylvans have a good working relationship in most places. Truth is, I'd never get anything done without Daniel."

The owl responded to a nudge of Pick's knees and dropped earthward. "What do you think of this, Nest Freemark?" Pick asked her, indicating with a sweep of his hand the park below.

Nest grinned broadly and clutched the sylvan tightly about the waist. "I think it's wonderful!"

They flew on through the twilight, crossing the playgrounds and the ballparks, the pavilions and the roadways. They soared west over the rows of granite and marble tombstones that dotted the verdant carpet of Riverside Cemetery, east to the tree-shaded houses of Mineral Springs, south to the precipitous cliffs and narrow banks of the sprawling Rock River, and north to the shabby, paint-worn town houses that fronted the entry to the park. They flew the broad expanse of the Sinnissippi to the wooded sections farther in, skimming the tops of the old growth, of the oaks, elms, hickories, and maples that towered out of the growing darkness as if seeking to sweep the starry skies with their leafy branches. They found the long slide of the toboggan run, its lower section removed and stored beneath, waiting for winter and snow and ice. They discovered a doe and her fawn at the edge of the reedy waters of the bayou, back where no one else could see. Deep within the darkest part of the forest they tracked the furtive movement of shadows that, cloaked in twilight's gray mystery, might have been something alive.

They swept past a ma.s.sive old white oak, one much larger than its fellows, its trunk gnarled by age and weather, its limbs crooked and twisted in a way that suggested immense fury and desperation captured in midstride, as if a giant had been frozen in place and transformed one bare instant before it had fallen upon the world it now shadowed.

Then a flash of lamplight struck Nest full in the eyes as they crossed back toward Woodlawn, and she blinked in surprise, momentarily blinded.

"Nest!"

It was Gran calling. She blinked again.

"Nest! It's time to come inside!"

She was sitting once more on the crossboard of her sandbox, staring out into the darkening stretch of her yard toward the park. Her hands were cupped before her, but they were empty. Pick was gone.

She didn't tell Gran about him that night, wary by now of telling anyone anything about the park and its magic, even Gran. She waited instead to see if Pick would return. Two days later he did, appearing at midday while she poked along the hedgerow, sitting on a limb above her head, waving a skinny stick limb in greeting, telling her they had to hurry, there were things to do, places to go, and people to see. Then, when she did tell Gran about him, that very night, the old woman simply nodded, as if the sylvan's appearance was the most natural thing in the world, and told her to pay close attention to what Pick had to say.

Pick was her closest friend after that, closer to her than her school friends, even those she had known all her life. She couldn't explain why that was. After all, he was a forest creature, and for most people such creatures didn't exist. On the surface of things, they had nothing in common. Besides being a sylvan, he was a hundred and fifty years old and a big grouch. He was fastidious and temperamental. He had no interest in the playthings she tried to share with him or in the games she favored.

What drew them together, she decided when she was older, what bonded them in a way nothing else could, was the park. The park with its feeders and its magic, its secrets and its history, was their special place, their private world, and even though it was public and open and everyone could come visit, it belonged only to them because no one else could appreciate it the way they could. Pick was its caretaker, and she became his apprentice. He taught her the importance of looking for damage to the woods and injury to the creatures that inhabited them. He explained to her the nature of the world's magic, how it inhabited everything, why there was a balance to it, and what could be done on a small scale to help keep it in place. He instructed her on how to deal with the feeders when they threatened the safety of those who could not protect themselves. He enlisted her aid against them. He gave her an insight into the coexisting worlds of humans and forest creatures that changed her life.

He told her, eventually, that Gran and her mother and three generations of her mother's side of the family before Gran had helped him care for the park.

She was thinking of this as she crossed the backyard that Sat.u.r.day morning. She paused to give a sleeping Mr. Scratch a rub behind his grizzled ears and glanced about in vain for Miss Minx. The day was hot and"slow, and the air was damp and close. Her friends wanted to go swimming, but she hadn't made up her mind whether to join them. She was still preoccupied with Two Bears and not yet ready to think of anything else. She squinted up at the sun, full and brilliant in a cloudless sky, brushed at a fly that flew into her face, and moved to the hedgerow and the park. The gra.s.s beneath her feet was brittle and dry and crunched softly. Questions pressed in about her. Would the spirits of the Sinnissippi appear tonight as Two, Bears believed? Would they reveal to her something of the future? Only to her? What would they say? How would she I respond? She brushed at her curly hair, ungluing a handful of strands from her forehead. Sweat was dampening her skin already, and a fresh mosquito bite had appeared on her forearm. She scratched at it ruefully. She had asked Pick repeatedly why it was that she was the only one who could see the feeders, or see him, or know about the magic in the park. Pick had told her the first time she asked that she wasn't the only one, her grandmother could see the forest creatures and the feeders and knew more about the magic than Nest did, and there were others like her in other places. After that, when she narrowed the scope of the question so that it excluded Gran and people in other places, Pick brushed the matter aside by saying that she was lucky, was all, and she ought to be grateful and let it go at that. But Nest couldn't let it go, not even now, after all these years | of living with it. It was what set her apart from everyone else. It was what defined her. She would not be satisfied until she understood the reasons behind it.

A few weeks ago she had pressed Pick so hard about it that he had finally revealed something new.

"It has to do with who you are, Nest!" he snapped, facing her squarely. His brow furrowed, his eyes steadied, and his rigid stance marked his determination to lay the matter to rest for good. "You think about it. I'm a sylvan, so I was born to the magic. For you to have knowledge of the magic and me, you must have been born to it as well. Or, in the alternative, share a close affinity with it. You know the word, don't you? 'Affinity'? I don't have time to be teaching you everything."