Running With The Demon

by Brooks, Terry

  The afternoon wore on. She looked for feeders, but did not see any. She looked for Daniel and did not see him either. She remembered that she had forgotten to ask Pick if he was making any progress in the search for Bennett Scott's cat, Spook. Leaves threw dappled shadows on the ground she walked across, and she imagined faces and shapes in their patterns. She found herself wondering about her father and her mother, both such mysterious figures in her life, so removed in time, almost mythical. She thought of Gran and her stubborn refusal to speak of them in any concrete way. A cold, hard determination grew inside her. She would make Gran tell her, she promised herself. She would force her to speak.

  She walked to the base of the cliffs, staying back from where the caves tunneled into the rock. Pick had told her never to go there. He had made her promise. It wasn't safe for her, he insisted. It didn't matter that other kids explored the caves regularly and no harm came to them. Other kids couldn't see the feeders. Other kids didn't have use of the magic. She was at risk, and she must keep away.

  She shook her head as she turned and began to walk up the roadway that led to the bluff. There it was again, she thought. The realization that she was different. Always different.

  She reached the heights and turned toward the cemetery. She thought she might visit her mother's grave. She had a sudden need to do so, a need to connect in some small way with her lost past. She crossed the road in front of the Indian mounds and turned in to the trees. The sun burned white-hot in the afternoon sky, its glare blinding her as she walked into it. She squinted and shaded her eyes with her hand.

  Ahead, someone moved in the blaze of light.

  She slowed in a patch of shade and tried to see who it was. At first she thought it was Two Bears, returned early for tonight's visit. But then she saw it was a man in forest green coveralls, a maintenance employee of the park. He was picking up trash with a metal-tipped stick and depositing it into a canvas bag. She hesitated, then continued on. As she approached, he turned and looked at her.

  "Hot one, isn't it?" His bland face was smooth and expressionless, and his blue eyes were so pale they seemed almost devoid of color.

  She nodded and smiled uncertainly.

  "Off for a visit to the cemetery?" he asked.

  "My mother is buried there," she told him, stopping now.

  The man placed the sharp tip of the stick against the ground and rested his hands on the butt. "Hard thing to lose a mother. She been gone a long time?"

  "Since I was a baby."

  "Yeah, that's a long time, all right. You know, I hardly remember mine anymore."

  Nest thought momentarily to tell him about the big oak, but then decided there was nothing he could do in any case, that it was better off in Pick's capable hands.

  "You still got your father?" the man asked suddenly.

  Nest shook her head. "I live with my grandparents."

  The man looked sad. "Not the same as having a father, is it? Old folks like that aren't likely to be around for too much longer, so you got to start learning to depend pretty much on yourself. But then you start to wonder if you're up to the job. Think about one of these trees. It's old and rugged. It hasn't really ever had to depend on anyone. But then along comes a logger and cuts it down in minutes. What can it do? You catch my drift?"

  She looked at him, confused.

  The man glanced at the sky. "The weather's not going to change for a while yet. Are you coming out for the fireworks Monday?"

  She nodded.

  "Good. Should be something. Fourth of July is always something." His smile was vaguely mocking. "Maybe I'll see you there."

  She was suddenly uneasy. Something about the man upset her. She wanted to move away from him. She was thinking that it was getting close to dinnertime anyway and she should be getting home. She would visit her mother's grave that evening instead, when it was cool and quiet.

  "I've got to be going," she said perfunctorily.

  The man looked at her some more, saying nothing. She forced herself to smile at him and turned away. Already the shadows of the big trees were lengthening. She went quickly, impelled by her discomfort.

  She did not look back, and so she did not see the man's strange eyes turn hard and cold and fixed of purpose as he watched her go.

  When Nest Freemark was safely out of sight, the demon hoisted the canvas sack and stick over his shoulder and began walking. He crossed the roadway to the Indian mounds and angled down toward the river, whistling softly to himself. Keeping within the shelter of the trees, he worked his way steadily east through the park. The light was pale and gray where the hillside blocked the sun, the shadows deep and pooled. Afternoon ball games were winding down and picnickers were heading home. The demon smiled and continued on.

  Richie Stoudt was waiting at the toboggan slide, seated at one of the picnic tables, staring out at the river. The demon was almost on top of him before Richie realized he was there. Richie leaped up then, grinning foolishly, shaking his head.

  "Hey, how's it going?" he sputtered. "Didn't hear you come up. Been waiting though, just like you said to do. Got your message all right. Finished up at the Prestons' and came right over."

  The demon nodded, smiled, and kept walking. "Let's get started then."

  "Sure, sure." Richie was right on his heels. He was small and wiry, and his thin face peeked out from under a mop of unruly dark hair. He was wearing coveralls over a blue denim shirt and high-top work boots, everything looking ragged and worn. "Didn't know you worked for the park, I guess," he said, trying to make conversation. "Pretty steady hours and all, I suppose. You sure this is all right, this late in the day and all? What is it we're doing, anyway?"

  The demon didn't answer. Instead, he led Richie east into the big trees beyond the pavilion toward the slope that ran down to the little creek. The air was hot and still beneath the canopy of branches, and the mosquitoes were beginning to come out in swarms. Richie slapped at them irritably.

  "Hate these things," he muttered. When the demon failed to respond, he said, "You said this would pay pretty well and I might have a chance to catch on with the city? That right?"

  "Right as rain," the demon replied, not bothering to look at him.

  "Well, all right, that's great, just great!" Richie sounded enthused. "I mean, I don't know if that damn strike is ever gonna get settled, and I need me something secure."

  They descended the slope to the creek, crossed the wooden bridge, and began to climb the opposite embankment toward the deep woods. In the distance, the bayou was as flat and gray as hammered tin. Richie continued to mutter about the mosquitoes and the heat, and the demon continued to ignore him. They crested the rise, following the path that Nest and Pick had taken earlier, and moments later they were standing in front of the big oak. The demon glanced about cautiously, but there was no sign of anyone except the feeders, who had followed them every step of the way and crouched now at the edge of the clearing, their eyes glimmering watchfully.

  "Whoa, will you look at that!" Richie exclaimed, staring up at the sickened tree. "That guy looks like a goner!"

  "That's what we're here to determine," the demon explained, his bland face expressionless.

  Richie nodded eagerly. "All right. Just tell me what to do."

  The demon dropped the canvas sack and took a new grip on the metal-tipped stick. He put his free hand on Richie's shoulder. "Just walk over here to the trunk with me for a moment," he said softly.

  The shadows were deep and pervasive as they moved forward, the demon keeping his hand on Richie Stoudt's shoulder. When they were right next to the massive trunk, the demon took his hand away.

  "Look up into the branches," he said.

  Richie did so, peering intently into the shadows. "I can't see anything. Not in this light."

  "Step a little closer. Put your face right up against the trunk."

  Richie glanced at him uncertainly, then did as he was told, pressing his cheek against the rough bark, staring up into the branch
es. "I still can't…"

  The demon drove the pointed end of his stick through Richie's neck with a furious lunge. Richie gasped in shock and pain as his windpipe and larynx shattered. He tried to cry out, but his voice box was gone and the blood pouring down his throat was choking him. His fingers clawed at the tree as if to tear the bark away, and his eyes bulged. He thrashed wildly, trying to break free, but the demon pressed firmly on the wooden shaft, keeping Richie pinned, watching the dark blood spurt from his ruptured throat.

  Feeders raced from among the trees and began throwing themselves on Richie, tearing at his convulsed body, beating past his futile efforts to protect himself, anxious to taste his pain and fear.

  Then the bark of the tree, wet with Richie's blood, began to split apart in long, ragged fissures, and parts of Richie were drawn into the cracks. His hands and knees went first, pressing into the trunk as if into soft mud as he struggled to escape. His scream of horror came out a strangled cough, and then more of him was sucked slowly, relentlessly from view. When his head was swallowed, all sound ceased. The demon yanked free his pointed stick and stood watching as Richie's back bucked and heaved in a last futile effort to break free.

  A moment later, Richie Stoudt was gone completely. The feeders melted back into the night.

  The demon waited for a time, watching as the tree began to ooze what it didn't want of Richie, the bark splitting further and deeper as the blood offering did its work. Within its prison, the maentwrog was feasting, gaining the strength it needed to break free, readying itself for the demon's summons.

  The demon looked down. One of Richie's work boots lay on the ground. The demon reached down and picked it up. He would carry it to the riverbank where the water turned rough above the dam and leave it where it could be found. Let people draw their own conclusions.

  Humming, he collected his canvas sack and disappeared back into the trees.

  Chapter 13

  Nest pushed open the screen door off the porch just in time to hear the big grandfather clock in the den strike the half hour between five and six. As she paused in the silence that followed, Gran materialized out of the shadows of the kitchen, a thin, gray apparition gripping a pot holder.

  "Dinner's in an hour, Nest. Go wash up. We've got company coming."

  Nest caught the screen door as it started to swing back on its, springs and eased it quietly into place. She could feel the sweat, warm and sticky on her skin beneath her clothes. "Who is it?" she asked.

  "Someone your grandfather invited. You'll have to ask him." Gran looked less than pleased. She gestured with the pot holder. "Go clean up first, though. You look like something the cat dragged in."

  She disappeared back into the kitchen. Nest could smell pot roast cooking, rich and savory, and she realized suddenly how hungry she was. She went down the hallway past Gran and the good smells and glanced into the den in search of her grandfather, but he was not there. She took a moment longer to listen for him; then, hearing nothing, she continued on to her room, closed the door, popped Nirvana into her CD player, stripped off her clothes, and headed for the shower. She tried not to look at herself in the mirror, but ended up doing so anyway. The girl looking back at her was skinny and flat-chested. She had bony arms and legs and looked as if she would disappear altogether if she turned sideways. She might have been half-pretty if her face hadn't been breaking out so badly. As usual, Nest didn't much care for her.

  She spent a long time in the shower washing and soaking. Then she dried, dressed, and stared out the window into the park. She thought about Pick and the big oak tree, about her friends and the magic she hid from them, about the maintenance man and Wraith, and about the feeders. She thought about Two Bears and the dance of the spirits of the Indian dead, now less than six hours away. She wondered if Two Bears could see the feeders. He had seen Pick clearly enough, so shouldn't he be able to see the feeders as well? She had never met anyone who could see the feeders besides herself and Gran. Pick said there were others, but not many and they all lived elsewhere. Pick said only a handful of people could see the feeders, and that was because you had to have some connection with magic. Maybe Two Bears could do magic, she thought. Wouldn't he have to be able to do magic in order to summon spirits?

  She left the window and went down the hall toward the living room, wrapped in her speculations. Her hair was still damp and loose. The curls tickled her ears. She brushed at them self-consciously, wishing suddenly that they weren't having company for dinner, thinking about how boring it was likely to be, already planning how she would excuse herself as soon as the meal was consumed…

  "Hello."

  She stopped in surprise. A man was standing just inside the front door looking at her. She had been so preoccupied with her musings she had missed seeing him.

  "Hello," she replied.

  "Sorry if I startled you."

  "No, that's all right. I was thinking about something."

  The words sounded stupid, and she colored slightly. The man didn't seem to notice. His green eyes stayed fixed on her, his gaze so intense that she blinked in spite of herself.

  "You must be Nest." He smiled as if pleased by this. "My name is John Ross."

  He extended his hand, and she took it in her own. His grip was strong, and she thought he must be used to hard work. He seemed to her to be constructed all of bones and muscle, but his clothes hung on him as they would have hung on a scarecrow. He looked strange with his shoulder-length hair tied back in that bandanna, but kind of cool, too. She thought it made him look like a little boy. She wondered suddenly what he was doing there. Was he their dinner company or just someone looking to do yard work?

  She realized she was still holding his hand and quickly released it. "Sorry."

  He smiled and looked around. His eyes settled on the portraits of the Freemark women, grouped to one side of the entry door. "Your family?" he asked.

  She nodded. "Six generations of us."

  "Handsome women. This house has a good feel to it. Have you lived here all your life?"

  She was pondering whether to answer his question or ask one of her own when her grandfather appeared from the den. "Sorry to take so long. I was just looking for her yearbook, senior year, when she was president of the student council. Nest, have you met Mr. Ross?"

  Nest nodded, watching her grandfather closely. It was her mother's yearbook he was holding.

  "Mr. Ross knew your mother in school, Nest. In college, in Ohio." He seemed fascinated by the idea. "He came down to visit us, to say hello. I ran into him at Josie's this morning and invited him to join us for dinner. Look here, John, this is Caitlin's picture from her senior year."

  He opened the yearbook and held it out for John Ross to see. Ross limped gingerly over for a look, and for the first time Nest noticed the polished black staff leaning against the wall next to the umbrella stand. The staff was covered with strange symbols carved into wood black and depthless beneath the staff's worn sheen. Nest stared at the markings for a long moment as John Ross and her grandfather studied her mother's yearbook. There was something familiar about the markings. She had seen them somewhere before. She was certain of it.

  She looked at John Ross anew and wondered how that could be.

  Moments later, Gran called them in to dinner. She seated them at the big dining-room table, Nest next to John Ross across from Robert and herself. She placed the food on the table, then finished off her bourbon and made herself another before taking her seat. She picked up her fork and began to eat with barely a glance at her company. Very unlike Gran, who was a stickler for good manners. Nest thought something was clearly troubling her.

  "Did you know my mother a long time?" Nest asked, curious now to know more about this stranger.

  Ross shook his head. He took small, careful bites as he ate. His green eyes were distant as he spoke. "No, I'm afraid I didn't. I didn't meet her until her second year, and she went home at the end of it. We only had a few months together. I wish I had known h
er better."

  "She was pretty, wasn't she?"

  John Ross nodded. "She was."

  "You were a year ahead of her at Oberlin, you said," Old Bob encouraged. "Did you stay on and graduate?"

  "Caitlin could have graduated, too, if she'd wanted," Gran said quietly, giving him a sharp glance.

  "I think Caitlin was one of the smartest people I've ever known, Mrs. Freemark," John Ross offered, looking now at Gran. She looked back at him very deliberately. "But she was fragile, too. Very sensitive. She could be hurt more easily than most. I admired that about her."

  Gran put down her fork and sipped at her bourbon. "I don't know that I understand what you're saying, Mr. Ross."

  Ross nodded. "It's just that most of us are so hardened to life that we've forgotten how to respond to pain. Caitlin wasn't like that. She understood the importance of recognizing the little hurts that other people ignore. She was always concerned with healing. Not physical injuries, you understand. Emotional hurts, the kind that inflict damage on your soul. She could identify and heal them with a few well chosen words. She was better at it than anyone. It was a genuine gift."

  "You said you dated? You and Caitlin?" Old Bob helped himself to more of the roast, ignoring the look Gran shot him. Nest watched the interplay with fascination. Something about John Ross being here had Gran very upset. Nest had never seen her so on edge.

  "On and off for some of that year." John Ross smiled, but kept his eyes fixed on his plate. "Mostly we were just friends. We went places together. We talked a lot. Caitlin talked about you all the time. And about her home. She loved the park."

  "I have to tell you that she never mentioned you, Mr. Ross," Gran observed pointedly, watching his face.

  John Ross nodded. "I'm sorry to hear that. But she kept a lot to herself. I don't suppose I was very important to her in the larger scheme of things. But I admired her greatly."

  "Well, she may have mentioned you, and we've just forgotten," Old Bob soothed, giving Gran a warning glance. Gran sniffed and sipped some more of her drink.