The Gypsy Morph

by Terry Brooks

  Eventually, she would figure it out. They all would. Or events would force him to reveal it.

  That the magic that had formed him had surfaced from its dormant state and was now a full-blown presence.

  He was a boy, same as always. But he was a gypsy morph, too. It was odd to think like this. He didn’t feel any different than he had before the King of the Silver River had saved him and brought him into the gardens. But where before he had lacked knowledge of his origins, had accepted his memories of his childhood as real, now he knew the truth. Not only knew it, but had seen the extent of it demonstrated at that militia-controlled bridge where he had used his magic—almost without knowing what he was doing—to turn everything into a tangled green jungle.

  But that didn’t mean he was ready to talk to the others about it. Tessa knew because she had seen what he could do. But the others were still getting used to the idea that the Hawk they knew was only a small piece of the Hawk he had become. They needed time to come to terms with this, and telling them too much at once risked an unpleasant response. They were his family, but even your family could be alienated by discoveries they were not prepared for.

  Hawk did not want that to happen. On the other hand, he had no idea what to do to prevent it once the whole truth came out.

  Logan Tom lay atop the hay wagon, wrapped in blankets and asleep on one of the collapsible stretchers. Beneath bruises and scratches, his face was bloodless in the pale wash of the starlight; his skin felt damp and cold to the touch. He was breathing in uneven, shallow gulps, and now and then he twitched as if plagued by troublesome dreams.

  Hawk climbed up beside him and knelt close. The others stayed where they were, standing next to the wagon, peering upward like supplicants. Even Tessa did not try to join him, sensing perhaps that he needed to do this alone and without the possibility of distraction. He glanced at her and smiled. She smiled back, her beautiful face brightening in a way that left him weak with need. He loved her so much, and it made him suddenly afraid. All he wanted was to be with her, but he knew in that instant—in a way that defied argument—he might be wishing for something that could never happen.

  He put the thought aside, unable to accept it, even to consider that it might be true. His eyes left her face, and he turned his attention to the man lying on the stretcher. Logan Tom, Knight of the Word and his protector. Now it was Hawk’s turn to protect him. He wondered momentarily if he could do it. Then he thought of Cheney as the dog had lain dying in their home in Pioneer Square, and he knew that he could.

  He reached out to Logan, placed his hands on the other’s body, and felt the other twitch slightly in response. He was awake inside his damaged mind, but he couldn’t find his way out. Or perhaps he didn’t want to; Hawk couldn’t tell which. What mattered was that he needed to know that someone was out here who cared about him and would welcome him back from the darkness into which he was submerged.

  “Logan,” the boy said softly, and moved his hands from the other’s body to his head, palms pressing gently against either side of the wan face.

  Logan, he repeated in his mind.

  Then he reached down and enfolded the sleeping man in his arms, closing his eyes as he did so, hugging the limp body close. He felt Logan twitch again—once, twice. Then he was still. Hawk pressed the other close, held him as he had Cheney, and willed him to come back.

  Wake up, Logan.

  He said it several times, each time pressing his palms into the other’s back. He felt the warmth growing inside him, just as it had with Cheney, and he knew the magic was working. He let the feeling build and did not try to rush what was happening. He knew from before—with Cheney and again with the foliage on the bridge—that it was a response he could not control, a response that surfaced from deep within and took the course of action that was called for. It was like watching the birds for which he’d named himself take flight. He could not determine where they would go; he could only soar with them in his mind and imagine their freedom.

  The warm feeling peaked and then exited his body through his hands in short bursts. He could feel the familiar bitter taste on the tip of his tongue, widening to fill his mouth. It lasted only a few moments. Then the warmth faded and the bitterness disappeared. He released his grip on Logan Tom and gently laid him down again.

  When he straightened, the Knight of the Word was looking up at him. “You’re back,” the other whispered.

  “So are you,” Hawk answered, smiling.

  Gathered close around the hay wagon the Ghosts stared wordlessly, eyes wide, except for Catalya, who was standing well back from the others where they couldn’t see that she was crying.

  SEVEN

  L OGAN TOM could not remember all the details. Whether it was the intensity of his battle with Krilka Koos or his shock at being stabbed with a viper-prick or something else entirely, he had lost bits and pieces of what had happened just before he lapsed into his coma. Hawk’s gypsy morph magic had been enough to bring him back to consciousness, but not enough to restore his memory.

  Given what he could recollect, he decided it might be just as well.

  Because what he did remember haunted him in a way that nothing had since the death of Michael. It had taken him years to come to terms with that experience, and in truth it was just weeks ago, while on his way west to find the gypsy morph, that he had finally done so. There in that mountain pass amid the spirits of the dead, he had put the ghosts of his old life to rest and banished at last the terrible sense of guilt and failure they had fostered in him.

  Now it seemed he might have awakened to an entirely new form of haunting.

  It wasn’t the events themselves that were troubling. He understood that he couldn’t expect to control events any more than he could control the rising and setting of the sun. He had responded to them in the best way he knew how, and by doing so had saved his life. He did not regret any part of that. Nor did he feel any particular regret for what he had done to Krilka Koos, a dangerous and messianic madman who would have killed others if he had not been defeated and disabled. Krilka Koos had courted his fate and had found it.

  No, it wasn’t in the events themselves. It was in his response to them. Not in how he had reacted to them physically, but in how he had responded emotionally. The former was over and done with in moments, but the latter lingered on. Emotional response was an after effect of every battle, every violent encounter, and over the years he had learned to recognize it and live with it. Every time he attacked and destroyed a slave camp and the children on which the demons had experimented, he lived with the pain and the sense of horror and guilt for weeks afterward. Sometimes months. If he was brutally honest, he would admit to himself that he was living with it still.

  It was so here, but in a different way. Doing battle with Krilka Koos had awakened something new. He didn’t feel pain or horror or guilt about what he had done to the rogue Knight of the Word. But in the course of his struggle he had lost control of himself. This wasn’t new; it had happened before. In the bloodlust of battle, losing control was almost a given. If you weren’t madder and more reckless than those you fought to defeat, you were probably going to die. Michael had taught him that, and Michael had been right.

  But this time something new had happened. This time he had enjoyed it. He had reveled in it. And now, in the aftermath, he was eager for a return of the feelings it had generated.

  How much worse, he wondered, could it be than this? His unwanted fascination with and desire for a resurgence of those feelings of power and freedom was terrifying. It suggested the onset of a steady disregard of the moral compass that had guided him all these years. He had always worried that someday the power of the black staff of his office, the magic that defined the Knights of the Word, would prove too much for him. The simple fact that there seemed to be almost no boundaries to its limits save those placed on it by the strength of commitment and sense of right and wrong of the user had troubled him from the beginning. But he had been conf
ident that he could handle it, still a young man who believed in himself completely. He understood the risks, but he was more than willing to accept them for a chance to strike back at the demons and once-men responsible for the loss of his family and his childhood. Revenge was a powerful motivator, and it gave him a reason to embrace a power he might otherwise have shunned.

  But that power had now peaked in him, had overwhelmed and claimed him, and he was no longer its master. Not that he couldn’t control it; he could. Not that he still wasn’t able to wield it effectively in his efforts to do what needed doing; he was. But he knew, at the same time, that any use of the magic of his staff was tainted by his freshly discovered craving for it. Rather than think of the magic as a necessary evil, he thought of it as an unsatisfied need. He wanted more of it—its taste and feel, its wild surge through his body, and the sense of freedom it generated within him.

  He kept this to himself. He could not discuss this with the Ghosts. They were only kids, and they might not even understand what he was talking about. But more than that, they depended on him. He couldn’t very well saddle them with the knowledge that he might not be as dependable as they wanted him to be, that he might not be master of the magic in all the ways he should. He could not give them reason to doubt him.

  He tried to take comfort from the fact that he was still alive. It was no small accomplishment to have done battle with a rogue Knight of the Word and been able to walk away. Damaged perhaps, but in one piece. He had survived the other’s madness and dark purpose. He had put an end to a dangerous enemy. Even the poison of the viper-prick, plunged into his body in a last-ditch effort to finish him, had failed to kill him. He owed Catalya for that; he owed her his life. Panther, of all people, had been quick to let him know. She might have kept it to herself; she likely would have. But Panther had formed an unexpected bond with her, and he was eager to share his feelings. Telling Logan what she had done to save him when it seemed that saving him was impossible was one way of doing that.

  All these thoughts roiled through Logan Tom as he rode in the front passenger’s seat of the Lightning S-150 AV the following day. Fixit drove, his experience behind the wheel giving him fresh confidence in his ability to master the vehicle’s sometimes complicated handling. He smiled frequently, an indication of the pleasure he was taking in his work. The final vestiges of the sickness that had claimed him following the death of the Weatherman had vanished.

  River, too, was almost back to normal. She sat with Owl and Candle in the backseat. The others rode in the hay wagon, even Panther and Catalya, who were deep in conversation at the wagon’s very rear, heads bent close. Rabbit had climbed onto Panther’s lap and curled up. The boy seemed unaware of the cat’s presence, his entire attention riveted on the girl. A strange pairing by any measure, yet it seemed to be working. It made Logan smile.

  They were traveling south again, following the cracked and weed-grown ribbon of the freeway through country that was hilly and forested with the skeletal remains of dead or dying trees turned silvery and black and barren, limbs stripped of foliage and rendered as stark and lifeless as bleached bones. The plan was to continue on the more accessible paved roadway until they found an intersecting road that would take them east to where Hawk had left the camp of children and caregivers on the banks of the Columbia River. Traveling cross-country as the boy and Tessa and Cheney had done in coming west was impossible with the hay wagon, and abandoning the wagon meant that most of them would have to walk. Walking would slow progress considerably, and everyone agreed that speed was important.

  Travel gave Logan time to consider his response to the magic, the feelings it generated, and what he must do to live with it. He knew he had to find a way to control it, if he could not banish it. Rash use of the staff’s terrible power could be as addictive as any drug. He had been so grateful to leave behind the days of ferreting out and destroying the slave camps to come in search of the gypsy morph. He’d needed to find something new so that he could rebuild his emotional shield. But he had jumped from the frying pan into the fire. He had traded one form of madness for another.

  It was nearing dusk when they found the road they were searching for, a two-lane highway angling east off the freeway into the foothills that fronted the distant bulk of the Cascade Mountains. They were almost to the Columbia River by now, as reckoned by Hawk, and would sight it by morning. They pulled the AV and the wagon it was towing into a paved roadside rest area built for travelers in better days and set up their camp. They ate from their dwindling supplies—reminding Logan once again that they needed to forage for food—and when dinner was finished drifted into smaller groups to talk until they grew sleepy.

  Logan let the others gather without him, moving over to a rusting picnic table to take a seat alone. He was surprised when Candle came over to sit across from him. The little girl didn’t say anything for a long time. She just sat there, staring down at her feet and off into the leafless trees, her red hair catching the last rays of the fading sun as the night closed in.

  Finally, she looked up at him. “Thank you for everything,” she said.

  He grinned despite himself. “That’s a lot to be thanked for.”

  “Well, for keeping us safe.” When he didn’t say anything in response right away, she quickly added, “Not just the other night, but all the other times, too. We wouldn’t have gotten this far if you hadn’t come with us.”

  He nodded, vaguely uneasy that a ten-year-old child could make him feel so embarrassed. “I’m just doing what I was sent here to do,” he said, the reply sounding lame, even to him.

  “No,” she said, her somber face lifting, her eyes fixing on his. “You were sent to help Hawk. Not us.”

  She was so smart, he thought. She understood so much. “I know that,” he said. “But I have to do what’s right, too. Helping all of you feels right to me.”

  “Even though we aren’t magic?”

  “Even though. Anyway, Hawk wouldn’t be very happy with me if I told him we were leaving you behind.”

  “Hawk would never leave us,” she said. She studied him a moment. “Hawk is our father.”

  He nodded. “I know that. I know that Owl is your mother. Maybe I’m your uncle. Or something like it.”

  “You’re our friend,” she said.

  He smiled. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

  She didn’t smile back. “I just wanted you to know.”

  She got up and walked away. He stared after her, wondering at her grasp of things. She knew better than anyone about keeping those she cared about from danger. Except she hadn’t done so lately, he realized suddenly. Owl had told him about her gift, a gift that had saved the Ghosts from harm any number of times. But Candle hadn’t warned them of danger even once since he had arrived, he realized.

  What did that mean?

  He watched Owl while she finished putting away their dishes and supplies with help from River and Sparrow and then as she gathered the Ghosts around her and read them a story. He sat back in the shadows, listening to the sound of her voice in the darkness.

  When she was done and the kids were drifting off to sleep, he walked over to where she was sitting in her wheelchair and knelt down beside her. “I enjoyed that,” he said.

  “That story?” She laughed softly. “Everyone likes being read to. Reading and storytelling before bed has become a tradition with this family.”

  “It’s a good one to have.” He looked off into the darkness. “I was talking with Candle earlier, and it got me to thinking. You told me she senses trouble, danger. She has a gift. But she hasn’t used it the whole time I’ve been with you. Not even when we walked into that trap set by Krilka Koos. What do you make of that?”

  Owl shook her head. Her brow furrowed and her plain, warm features tightened. “I don’t know. She’s always had the gift. This is the first time it hasn’t worked for her. Maybe it has something to do with you being here to help us. Maybe she thought that was enough and wasn’t paying attention.
”

  “Maybe.” He hesitated. “I was thinking it might have something to do with Hawk.”

  “Why Hawk?”

  “Because he wasn’t with us. Hasn’t been since we left Seattle. Maybe she can’t use her gift if he isn’t present. Maybe it doesn’t work then.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense. It was working before she ever came to us.” Owl studied him intently. “Unless something has changed.”

  They looked at each other without speaking for a moment, each waiting for the other to provide the answer to the riddle.

  “Maybe you could ask her,” Logan suggested.

  “She doesn’t like talking about it. In fact, she never talks about it anymore. I don’t know. I think we have to let it be.”

  “We can’t rely on her then. We can’t risk it.” He held her gaze. “Sooner or later, someone is going to ask her if she senses anything. What happens then? We won’t be able to trust what she tells us if we don’t know the truth.”

  Owl didn’t answer, her eyes troubled. “I’ll see what I can do,” she told him finally.

  After she was gone, he walked over to the AV, retrieved a blanket from the storage compartment, and stretched out on a patch of dry earth. Slipping off his boots, he rolled himself into the blanket and lay back, staring up at the stars. He thought about what he had asked Owl to do. It amounted to asking her to question the value of one of her children. Who was he to ask that of her? He was less trustworthy and dependable than they were.

  What right did he have to question anyone else?

  He pictured Candle’s young face, and he wished suddenly that he could take back what he had said to Owl. But words spoken can never be taken back. They can only be measured for and judged on the strength of their sincerity and need.

  Because here there were lives at stake, perhaps that would be enough.