Running With The Demon

by Brooks, Terry

  A stray firefly blinked momentarily in front of her face and disappeared in the darkness. Somebody in a lawn chair sneezed, and the sneeze sounded like a dog's bark. A ripple of laughter rose. Robert made a comment about the nature of germs in people's mouths, and Brianna told him he was gross and disgusting. Robert stood up and announced he was off to buy some popcorn and would anybody like some? Nobody would, he was informed, and Brianna said he should take his time coming back, maybe even think about going home and checking his mouth in the mirror. Robert walked off whistling.

  Nest smiled, at ease with herself. She was thinking how comfortable she felt, sitting here in the darkness, surrounded by all these people. She felt sheltered and safe, as if nothing could touch her here, nothing could threaten. How deceptive that was. She wished she could disappear into the gloom and become one with the night, invisible and substanceless, impervious to harm. She wondered if Pick was having any luck. She tried to picture what the sylvan would do to defend her if the need arose, and couldn't. She wondered if the demon was out there, waiting for her. She wondered if John Ross was waiting, too.

  After a time, she began to think of Two Bears, wishing that he was still there and could help her. There was such strength in him, a strength she didn't feel in herself, even though he had told her it was there. They had names of power, he said. But hers was the stronger, the one with true magic. He had given her what he could; the rest must come from her.

  But what was it he had given her? That brief vision of her grandmother as a young girl, running wild in the park with the feeders and the demon? An insight into her convoluted and tragic family history? She didn't know. Something more, she believed. Something deeper, more personal. Think. It was his desire to commune with the spirits of his people, the Sinnissippi, that had brought him to Hopewell, but it was her ties to the magic that had drawn him to her. Your people risk the fate of mine, he had warned, wanting her to know, to understand. No one knows who my people were. No one knows how they perished. It can happen to your people, too. It is happening now, without their knowledge and with their considerable help. Your people are destroying themselves.

  We do not always recognize the thing that comes to destroy us. That is the lesson of the Sinnissippi.

  But he might have been speaking of her father as well.

  She stared into the darkness, lost in thought. It was all tied together. She could feel it in her bones. The fate of her friends and family and neighbors and of people she didn't even know. Her own fate. The fates of the demon and John Ross. Of O'olish Amaneh, too, perhaps. They were all bound up by a single cord.

  I am not strong enough for this.

  I am afraid.

  She stared at nothing, the words frozen in her mind, immutable. Then she heard Two Bears' clear response, the one he had given her two nights earlier.

  Fear is afire to temper courage and resolve. Use it so.

  She sat alone in the darkness, no longer comfortable with pretending at invisibility, and tried to determine if she could do as Two Bears expected.

  Twenty feet away, a shadowy figure in the deepening gloom, John Ross kept watch over her.

  After Old Bob had dismissed him, he had walked into the park in search of the demon, determined to hunt him down. He went to the caves where the feeders made their lair, followed the riverbank east toward the toboggan slide and the deep woods beyond, and climbed to the prison of the maentwrog, that aging, ravaged oak that held the monster bound, but the demon was nowhere to be found.

  He debated returning to Nest Freemark then, but did not. What could he say to her that he hadn't already said-or decided against saying? It was sufficient that he had told her the truth about her father. Telling her more would risk undermining what courage and resolve she could still muster. The best he could do was to watch over her, to wait for the demon to come to her, to be there when it appeared, and to do what he could to save her then.

  He left the park and walked out to Lincoln Highway

  to have dinner at a McDonald's, then walked back again. Sitting in a crowd of spectators on the bleachers at the ball diamond closest to the Freemark house, he watched the sun move west toward the horizon. When dusk approached and the game began to break up, he walked to a stand of pine bordering the service road. Using magic to make certain they could not see him, he stood for a time in the shelter of the trees, watching Pick and Daniel as they wheeled overhead. When Nest went into the park, he followed.

  Now he stood waiting, close enough to make certain he could act when the demon appeared, close enough to go to her aid if the need arose. All about him, the Fourth of July spectators were shrouded in gloom, vague and featureless in the night. Shouts and laughter rose from the crowded hillside amid the bang of firecrackers and the whistle of small rockets. The air was humid and still, filled with the erratic buzzing of insects and the raw smell of pine needles and wood smoke. He gripped his staff tightly in his hand, feeling anxious and uncertain. He needed only one chance at the demon, but would he get even that? How strong would Nest Freemark be then? He edged his way east toward the woods behind the pavilion, changing his location yet again, trying to avoid notice from the people gathered, concentrating on Nest. He could just make her out, sitting with her friends near the back of the crowd.

  Then he caught sight of a familiar face and turned his head aside quickly as Robert Heppler walked past on his way back from the popcorn stand.

  "So, did I miss anything?" Robert asked the girls as he plopped back down comfortably on the blanket, his bag of popcorn firmly in hand. "Want some?" he asked Brianna Brown. "I only breathed on it a little. Or did you pig out on the rest of the watermelon while I was gone?"

  Brianna grimaced. "I leave the pigging out in life to you, Robert. You're so good at it."

  Nest was staring off into space, barely aware of the conversation. Robert glanced over. "Hey, Nest, guess who I just saw standing…"

  A child flew out of the darkness and into their midst, a little boy running blindly through the night, sparklers waving in both hands. He saw them too late, veering aside when he was already on top of them, nearly losing his balance and toppling onto Robert. Robert yelled angrily at him, and sparks showered everywhere. Cass and Brianna leaped to their feet, stamping at the embers that had tumbled onto the blanket.

  Nest rose with them, stepping back, distracted, and as she did so she heard Pick scream. He was screaming inside her head, throwing his voice so that only she could hear, throwing it from somewhere far away so that it was faint and fragmented. But it was terror-stricken, too.

  Nest, Nest… quick, run… here, the oak collapsing… demon… knows you are… the maentwrog breaking…

  Then the screaming stopped, abruptly, completely, leaving an echo that rang in her ears as she stood shocked and frozen amid the crowd and her friends.

  "Pick?" she whispered into the silence he had left behind. Her hand groped blindly at the air before her. "Pick?"

  Her friends were staring at her, eyes filled with uncertainty. "Nest, what's wrong?" Cass asked urgently.

  But Nest was already turning from her, beginning to run. "I have to go," she shouted over her shoulder, and raced away into the night.

  Chapter 30

  It was an act of instinct rather than of reason, a response to an overwhelming, terrifying fear .that another life precious to her was about to be lost. Nest did not hesitate as she bolted through the crowd. Of course the demon was drawing her out. Of course it was a trap. She didn't have to think twice about it to know it was true. If she stayed where she was, safe within the crowd gathered on the slopes of Sinnissippi Park, he could not reach her so easily. But it was Pick who was at risk, her best friend in the whole world, and she would not abandon him even to save her own life.

  She darted through the crowd as if become one of the wild children who waved their sparklers, dodging lawn chairs and coolers, avoiding blankets filled with people, seeking the open blackness of the woods beyond. She knew where to go, where t
he demon would be waiting, where Pick could be found; the sylvan's frantic words had told her that much. The deep woods. The maentwrog's prison. The aging oak from which, it seemed, the monster was threatening to break free. She thought she heard shouts trailing after her, calling her name, but she ignored them, burying them in her determination not to be slowed. She vaulted the last of the coolers that obstructed her passage and broke for the trees.

  In the open, beyond the scattering of flashlights and sparklers, she slowed just enough to let her vision adjust to the change of light. Ahead, the trees rose in dark, vertical lines against the softer black of the night. She angled past picnic tables and cook stations, running toward the rolling hills that fronted the deep woods. The sounds of the crowd faded behind her, receding into the distance, leaving her alone with the huff of her breathing and the beat of her heart. She heard her name called clearly then, but she forced herself to go on, trying to ignore the unwelcome summons, trying to outdistance it. When it continued, and she determined with certainty its source, she slowed reluctantly and turned to face a hard-charging Robert Heppler.

  "Wait up, Nest!" he shouted as he rushed up to her from out of the darkness, blond hair swept back from his angular face.

  She shook her head in disbelief. "Robert, what are you doing? Go back!"

  "Not a chance." He came to a ragged halt before her, breathing hard. "I'm going with you."

  "You don't even know what I'm doing!"

  "Doesn't matter. You're not doing it alone."

  "Robert…"

  "The last time I let you wander off by yourself," he interrupted heatedly, "you ended up in the caves and I had to get your grandfather to come find you! I'm not going through that again!"

  He brushed at his tousled hair, his mouth set, his eyes determined. He looked pugnacious and challenging. "You're going out to that big oak, aren't you? This has something to do with that tree, doesn't it? What's going on?"

  "Robert!" she snapped at him, suddenly angry. "Get out of here!"

  He stared back at her defiantly. "No way. I'm going with you. You're stuck with me."

  "Robert, don't argue with me! This is too dangerous! You don't know what you're…" She stopped in exasperation. "Turn around, Robert! Right now!"

  But he refused to budge. She came toward him menacingly. "I'm not afraid of you, Nest," he said quickly, clenching his fists. "I'm not Danny Abbott, either. You can't make me do anything I don't want to do. I don't know what's going on, but I…"

  She locked his eyes with hers and struck out at him with her magic in a swift, hard attack. Robert Heppler went down like a stone, his muscles turned to jelly and his words became mush. He jerked once where he lay in the thinning forest grass, gave a long sigh, and blacked out.

  She blocked the feelings of guilt that immediately assailed her and turned away, racing on. It was better this way. She knew Robert; he would not turn back. She would attempt an explanation later. If there was a later. Desperation and anger swept aside her attempts at forming an apology. She had done what she had to do. It didn't matter that she had promised not to use the magic, that she hated to use it, that it left her feeling sullied and drained. Gran was gone, and in moments she would face her killer, and all she had to rely qn was the magic she had just used on Robert.

  A fierce glee rocked her, a strange sense of chains being cast aside and freedom being gained. The defiance she felt at having done something forbidden lent her a certain satisfaction. The magic was a part of her. Why should it ever be wrong to use it?

  She charged down the slope into the ravine that separated the picnic grounds from the deep woods, feeling her feet beginning to slide on the loose earth and long grasses. She caught herself with her hands to keep from falling, straightened up again as she reached the base of the ravine, and ran on. The bridge that spanned the little creek appeared through the gloom, and she thundered onto it, tennis shoes pounding as she crossed to the far side and began to climb the slope into the woods.

  When she reached the top of the rise, she slowed again. Ahead, a wicked green light pulsed faintly within the trees, like the heartbeat of something alive. She pushed the thought aside and went on, jogging now, her breathing slowing, her eyes flicking from side to side watchfully, trying to penetrate the wall of shadows. The trail had narrowed, choked with brush and hemmed by the trees, a twisting serpent's spine. It was black there, so dark that only the greenish light gave any illumination against the night. She was being drawn to it; she could not pretend otherwise. She repeated the words of Gran's note over and over in her mind, a litany to lend her courage.

  She brushed at the insects that buzzed at her, thick clouds of them that flew at her eyes and mouth. Her fear returned in a sudden wave as she pictured what waited ahead. But she did not turn back. She could not. It was no different now than it had been when she had gone to save Bennett Scott from the feeders. No different at all.

  Please, Pick, don't give up. I'm coming.

  Moments later, she stepped from the woods into the clearing where the big oak stood. The tree was a vast, crooked monster within the darkness, its bark wet-looking and ravaged, as if skin split from the bones and muscles of a corpse. The wicked green light emanated from here, given off by the trunk of the old tree, pulsing slowly, steadily against the darkness. Nest stared in dismay. The tree was still intact, but it had the look of a dying creature. It reminded her of pictures she had seen of animals caught in steel traps, their limbs snared, their eyes glazed with fear and pain.

  The demon stood next to the tree, his calm eyes fixed on her. He seemed to think nothing was out of place, nothing awry. It was all she could do to make herself meet his gaze.

  "Where is Pick?" she demanded.

  Her voice sounded impossibly childish and small, and she saw herself as the demon must see her, a young girl, weaponless and desperate in the face of power she could not even begin to comprehend.

  The demon smiled at her. "He's right over there," he replied, and pointed.

  Five feet or so off the ground, a small metal cage hung from the branches of a cherry. Within its shadowed interior, Nest could just make out a crumpled form.

  "Safely tucked away," the demon said. "To keep him from meddling where he shouldn't. He was flying about on that owl, trying to see what I was up to, but he wasn't very smart about it." He paused. "A cage wasn't necessary for the owl."

  A feathered heap lay at the edge of the trees, wings splayed wide. Daniel. "He came right at me when I knocked the sylvan off his back," the demon mused. "Can you imagine?"

  He motioned vaguely at the cage. "You do know about syl-vans and cages, don't you? Well, perhaps not. Sylvans can't stand being caged. It drains away their spirit. Happens rather swiftly, as a matter of fact. A few hours, and that's it. That will be the fate of your friend if someone doesn't release him."

  Nest! Pick gasped in a frantic attempt to signal her. Then he went silent again, his voice choked off.

  "Your little friend would like to say something to you about his condition, I'm sure," the demon breathed softly, "but I think it best he save his strength. Don't you?"

  Nest felt alone and vulnerable, felt as if everything was being stripped from her. But that was the plan, wasn't it? "Let him go!" she ordered, staring at the demon as if to melt him with the heat of her anger.

  The demon nodded. "After you do what I tell you." He paused. "Child of mine."

  Her skin crawled at the sound of his words, and a new wave of rage swept through her. "Don't call me that!"

  The demon smiled, satisfaction reflecting in his eyes. "You' know then, don't you? Who told you? Evelyn, before she died? The sylvan?" He shrugged. "I guess it doesn't matter. That you know is what matters. That you appreciate the special nature of our relationship. Who you are will determine what you become, and that is what we are here to decide."

  He looked past her, suddenly startled. A hint of irritation flashed across his strange empty features. "Ah, it's the bad penny. He's turned up after all
."

  John Ross emerged from the trees, sweat-streaked and hard-eyed. He seemed taller and broader than she remembered, and the black staff gleamed and shimmered with silver light. "Get behind me," he said at once, his green eyes fixed on the demon.

  "Oh, she doesn't want to do that!" the demon sneered, and threw something dark and glittering at the ravaged oak.

  Instantly the tree exploded in a shower of bark and wood splinters, and the green light trapped within burst forth.

  Old Bob crossed to the fireworks from his home as the crow flies, not bothering with the service road or any of the pathways, the beam of his flashlight scanning the darkness before him-as he went. The weariness he had felt earlier fell away in the face of his fear, and a rush of adrenaline surged through him, infusing him with new strength. The sounds of laughter and conversation and the momentary flare of sparklers guided him through the broad expanse of the grassy flats, and in moments he had reached the rear edge of the crowd.

  He began to ask at once if anyone had seen Mel Riorden. He knew most of the people gathered, and once he got close enough to make out their faces, he simply offered a perfunctory greeting and inquired about Mel. He was a big man with a no-nonsense way about him, a man who had just suffered a terrible loss, and those he spoke with were quick to reply. He moved swiftly in response, easing forward through the crowd toward the cordoned perimeter west of the slide. He was sweating freely, his underarms and back damp, his face flushed from his efforts. He did not have a definite plan. He was not even certain that he needed one. He might be mistaken about Deny Howe. He might be overreacting. If he was, fine. He would feel foolish, but relieved. He could live with that. He would find Derry, talk to him, possibly confront him with his suspicions, and deal with his feelings later.

  He wove his way through knots of people sprawled on blankets and seated in lawn chairs, through darting children and ambling teens. The viewing area was packed. Some looked at him with recognition, and a few spoke. Some he stopped to talk with took time to offer condolences on his loss, but most simply answered his questions about Mel and let him go his way. His eyes flicked left and right as he proceeded, searching the darkness. He could no longer see the riverbank clearly, and the trees had faded into a black wall. The fireworks would begin any moment.