Angel Fire East

by Brooks, Terry

  Bennett and the children were accepting enough, but Ross looked worried. Without saying so, he made it clear he was concerned that Findo Gask might still be somewhere in the park. Nest had considered the possibility, but she didn't think there was much danger of a second encounter. The park was full of families and dog walkers, and there would be other visitors to the cemetery as well.

  "This won't take long," she assured him. "I'll just walk up, be by myself for a few moments, and walk back." She glanced at the sky. "I want to get there before it snows again."

  Ross offered to accompany her, rather pointedly she thought, but she demurred. He would be needed to help with the Christmas tree, she told him just as pointedly, nodding toward Bennett and the children. Ross understood.

  She set off at a steady pace across the flats until she reached the road again, then began following its plowed surface west toward the bluffs. The sky was blanketed with clouds, and the first slow-spiraling flakes of new snow were beginning to fall. West, from where the weather was approaching, it was dark and hazy. The storm, when it arrived, would be a big one.

  A steady stream of vehicles crawled past her, going to and from the parking lot. Some had brought toboggans lashed to the roofs of cars and shoved through the gates and back windows of SUVs. Apparently the word hadn't gotten around yet that the slide was closed. There were sledders on the slopes leading down to the bayou, and kids ran and cavorted about the frozen playground equipment under the watchful, indulgent eyes of adults. Futile efforts to build snowmen were in progress; it was still too cold for the snow to pack.

  Watching the children play, Nest was reminded how much of her life had been lived in Sinnissippi Park. When she was little, the park had been her entire world. She had known there were other places, and her grandparents had taken her to some of them. She understood that there was a world outside her own. But that world didn't matter. That world was as distant and removed as the moon. Her family and friends lived at the edge of the park. Pick lived in the park. Even the feeders appeared to her mostly in the park. The magic, of course, had its origins in the park, and Gran and the Freemark women for five generations back had cared for that magic.

  It wasn't until the summer of her fourteenth birthday, when her father came back into her life, that everything changed. The park was still hers, but it was never again the same. Her father's deadly machinations forced her to give up her child's world and embrace a much larger one. Perhaps it was inevitable that it should happen, later if not then. Whatever the case, she made the necessary adjustment.

  But even after growing up and moving away for a time, even with all she had experienced, she never lost the sense of belonging that she found in the park. She marveled at it now, as she walked down the snow-packed road in the wintry gray light—the way she felt at peace in its confines, at home in its twenty acres of timber and playground and picnic areas. Even now, when there was reason to be wary of what might be lurking there, she did not feel threatened. It was the legacy of her childhood, of her formative years, spent amid magic and magic's creatures, within a world that few others even knew existed.

  She wondered if she would ever lose that. She couldn't be sure, especially now. Findo Gask was a powerful and intrusive presence, and his intent was to undo everything in her life. To take her life, she corrected herself quickly, if he could find a way to do so. She looked off across the river, where smoke from fireplace chimneys lifted in the air like streamers. It was the John Ross factor again. Every time she connected with him, her life changed in a way she hadn't imagined was possible. It would do so again this time. It was foolish to believe otherwise.

  She shook her head at the enormity of this admission. It would crush her if she tried to accept its weight all at once. She would have to shoulder it a little at a time, and not let herself be overwhelmed. Maybe then she could manage to carry it.

  The wind gusted hard and quick down the road, sending a stinging spray of ice needles against her skin and down her throat. The cold was raw and sharp, but it made her feel alive. Despondent over the death of Ray Childress and angered by her confrontation with Findo Gask, she felt exhilarated nevertheless. It was in her nature to feel positive, to pull herself up by her emotional bootstraps. But it was her symbiotic relationship with the park as well. There was that link between them, that tie that transcended every life change she had experienced in her twenty-nine years.

  Maybe, she mused hopefully, she could save her connection with the park this time, too. Even with the changes she knew she must undergo. Even with the return of John Ross.

  She crossed the bridge where the road split off and curved down to the bayou and to the caves where the feeders lived, making instead for the summit of the cliffs and the turnaround. The parking area was empty, and the snow stretched away into the trees, undisturbed and pristine. In the shadowed evergreens, a handful of feeders crouched, their flat, empty eyes watchful. They had no particular interest in her now, but that could change in a heartbeat.

  She found the gap in the cemetery fence that had opened two years ago and not yet been repaired, and she squeezed herself through. Riverside's tombstones and monuments stretched away before her, their bumpy, rolling acres dissected by roads that meandered in long, looping ribbons through clusters of old hardwoods and shaggy conifers. The roads were plowed, and she trudged to the nearest and followed it on toward the edge of the bluffs. The wind had picked up, and the snowflakes were falling more quickly, beginning to form a curtain against the gray backdrop of failing light. It would be dark by four o'clock, the evening settling in early during the winter solstice, the days gone short and the nights made long. She pulled up her collar and picked up her pace.

  When she reached the plots of her grandparents and of her mother, she knelt in the snow before them. Snow layered the rough-cut tops of the marble and the well-tended grounds beneath, but the vertical surface of the stone was clear and legible. She read the names to herself in silence. ROBERT ROOSEVELT FREEMARK. EVELYN OPAL FREEMARK. CAITLIN ANNE FREEMARK. Her grandparents and her mother, laid to rest in a tree-shaded spot that overlooked the river. One day she would be there, too. She wondered if she would see them then. If she did, she wondered how it would feel.

  "Kind of a cold day for paying your respects to the dead," a voice from behind her remarked.

  From her kneeling position, she glanced over her shoulder at Two Bears. He stood a few paces back, beefy arms folded over his big chest. Snowflakes spotted his braided black hair and his ribbed army sweater. One arm encircled his bedroll and gripped his rucksack, which hung down against his camouflage pants and heavy boots. For as little clothing as he wore, he did not seem cold.

  "Don't you ever wear a coat?" she asked, swiveling slightly without rising.

  He shrugged. "When it gets cold enough, I do. What brings you to visit the spirits of your ancestors, little bird's Nest? Are you lonesome for the dead?"

  "For Gran and Old Bob, I am. I think of them all the time. I remember how good they made me feel when they were around. I miss them most at Christmas, when family is so important." She cocked her head, reflecting. "I miss my mother, too, but in a different way. I never knew her. I guess I miss her for that."

  He came forward a few paces. "I miss my people in the same way."

  "You haven't found them yet, I guess."

  He shook his head. "Haven't looked all that hard. Calling up the spirits of the dead takes a certain amount of preparation. It takes effort. It requires a suspension of the present and a step across the Void into the future. It means that we must meet halfway between life and death." He looked out across the river. "No one lives on that ground. Only visitors come there."

  She came to her feet and brushed the snow from her knees. "I took your suggestion. I tried talking with the gypsy morph. It didn't work. He wouldn't talk back. He just stared at me— when he bothered looking at me at all. I sat up with him last night for several hours, and I couldn't get a word out of him."

  "Be p
atient. He is just a child. Less than thirty days old. Think of what he has seen, how he must feel about life. He has been hunted since birth."

  "But he asked for me!" she snapped impatiently. "He came here to find me!"

  Two Bears shifted his weight. "Perhaps the next step requires more time and effort. Perhaps the next step doesn't come so easily."

  "But if he would just tell me—"

  "Perhaps he is, and you are not listening."

  She stared at him. "What does that mean? He doesn't talk!" Then she blinked in recognition. "Oh. You mean he might be trying to communicate in some other way?"

  Two Bears smiled. "I'm only a shaman, little bird's Nest, not a prophet. I'm a Sinnissippi Indian who is homeless and tribeless and tired of being both. I give advice that feels right to me, but I cannot say what will work. Trust your own judgment in this. You still have your magic, don't you?"

  Her mouth tightened reproachfully. "You know I do. But my magic is a toy, all but that part that comprises Wraith and belonged to my father. You're not trying to tell me I should use that?"

  He shook his head. "You are too quick to dismiss your abilities and to disparage your strengths. Think a moment. You have survived much. You have accomplished much. You are made more powerful by having done so. You should remember that."

  A smile quirked at the corners of her mouth. "Isn't it enough that I remember to speak your name? O'olish Amaneh. I say it every time I feel weak or frightened or too much alone. I use it like a talisman."

  The copper face warmed, and the big man nodded approvingly. "I can feel it when you do so. In here." He tapped his chest. "When you speak my name, you give me strength as well. You remember me, so that I will not be forgotten."

  "Well, I don't know that it does much good, but if you think so, I'm glad." She sighed and exhaled a cloud of frosty air. "I better be getting back." She glanced skyward. "It's getting dark fast."

  They stood together without speaking over the graves of her family, flakes of snow swirling about them in gusts of wind, the dark distant tree trunks and pale flat headstones fading into a deepening white curtain.

  "A lot of snow will fall tonight," Two Bears said in his deep, soft voice. His black eyes fixed her. "Might be a good time to think about the journeys you have taken in your life. Might be a good time to think back over the roads you have traveled down."

  She did not want to ask him why he was suggesting this. She did not think she wanted to know. She did not believe he would tell her anyway.

  "Good-bye, little bird's Nest," he said, backing off a step into the white. "Hurry home."

  "Good-bye, O'olish Amaneh," she replied. She started away, then turned back. "I'll see you later."

  He did not respond. He simply walked into the thickly falling snow and disappeared.

  * * *

  From the concealing shelter of a thick stand of spruce, Findo Gask watched Nest Freemark converse with the big Indian. He watched them through the steadily deepening curtain of new snow until Nest began walking back toward the park, and then he turned to an impatient Penny Dreadful.

  "Let's go get her," Penny suggested eagerly.

  Findo Gask thought a moment, then shook his head. "I don't think so. Not just yet."

  Penny looked at him as if he were newly arrived from Mars. Her red hair corkscrewed out from her head in a fresh gust of wind. "Gramps, are you going soft on me? Don't you want to hurt her after the way she talked to you?"

  He smiled indulgently. "I want to hurt her so badly she will never be well again. But the direct approach isn't necessarily the best way to accomplish this."

  She made a face. "I'm sick and tired of playing around with Little Miss Olympics, you know that? I don't get the point of these mind games you love so much. If you want to play games, let's try a few that involve cutting off body parts. That's the way to hurt someone so they won't forget."

  Findo Cask watched Nest Freemark begin to fade into the white haze of falling snow. "If we kill her now, John Ross will take the morph and go to ground, and we might not find him again. He is the more dangerous of the two. But he relies on her. She has something he needs. I want to know what it is."

  He signaled into the trees behind him where Twitch and the ur'droch were waiting. Then he began walking, Penny right on his heels.

  "We're going after the Indian instead," he told her.

  She quickened her pace to get close to him. "The Indian? Really?" She looked excited.

  He slid through the spruce, shadowy in his dark clothing, his eyes scanning the snow-flecked land ahead. He had heard stories of an Indian who was connected in some way to the Word, either as a messenger or prophet, a powerful presence in the Word's pantheon of magics. He would be the most powerful of Nest Freemark's allies, so it made sense to eliminate him first. It was his plan to strip away Nest Freemark's friends one by one. He wasn't doing this just to weaken her and thereby gain possession of the morph. He wasn't even doing it because he was afraid that killing her outright would scare off John Ross. He was doing it because there was something about her that disturbed him. He couldn't identify it, but it had revealed itself in the way she stood up to him, so confident, so determined. She knew he was dangerous, but she didn't seem to care. Before he killed her, he wanted to find out why. He wanted to break down her defenses, strip away her confidence and determination, and have a close look at what lay beneath.

  He would have the morph, of course. It didn't matter what Nest Freemark or John Ross tried to do to stop him. He would have the morph, and their names in his book, before the week was out.

  And in the process, he would have their souls as well.

  The big Indian was already out of sight, disappeared into the white curtain of blowing snow. But Findo Gask did not need to see the Indian to find him. There were other senses he could call upon besides his sight. There were other ways to find what was hidden.

  He glanced left and right, catching just a glimpse of Twitch and the ur'droch to either side. Penny stalked next to him, eyes darting this way and that, pale face intense. She was whispering, "Here, Tonto. Here, big fella. Come to Penny."

  Wind gusted and died away, snow swirled and drifted, and Riverside Cemetery was a surreal jungle of dark trunks and ice-capped markers. They were closing on the bluffs overlooking the bayou, where the cemetery ended at a chain-link fence set just back from the cliffs. There was still no sign of the Indian, but Findo Gask could sense him, not far ahead, still moving, but seemingly in no great hurry. The demon's mind was working swiftly. He might lose one or two of his allies in this effort, but demons were replaceable.

  All but him, of course.

  There was no one else like him.

  They came out of the blowing snow on a tree-sheltered flat, close back against the edge of the bluffs, and the Indian was waiting.

  * * *

  Nest made her way out of the maze of tombstones to the cemetery road and followed it back toward the park. The wind was gusting heavily and the snow blowing so hard it was impossible to see much more than a dozen yards. Banks of storm clouds rolled across the sky, and the light had dimmed to an iron gray that turned the landscape hazy and colorless.

  "O'olish Amaneh," she whispered to herself.

  A dark shadow whizzed by her head, and she flinched from it automatically, dropping to a guarded crouch. The shadow was gone a moment and then it was back again, appearing out of the whirling snow in a rush of darkness. It was an owl, winging low across the tombstones and monuments, flattened out like a big kite. Without a sound, it flew right at her. At the last minute it banked away, and Pick dropped onto her shoulder with a grunt.

  "Criminy, I can't see a thing!" he grumbled, latching on to her collar and pulling himself into the warmth of its folds. "Cold up there, too. I might be made of twigs and leaves, but I'm frozen all the way through!"

  "What are you doing?" she asked, coming back to her feet, looking at the white space where the owl had been a moment before.

  "What do
es it look like I'm doing? I'm patrolling the park!"

  "In this weather?" She exhaled sharply. "What is that supposed to accomplish?"

  "You mean, besides possibly saving your life?" he snapped irritably. "Oh, right, I forgot. That was yesterday, wasn't it? Guess I'm just wasting my time out here today."

  "Okay, okay, I'm sorry." She hadn't seen him since last night's incident and had forgotten that she hadn't thanked him. "What can I say? I'm an ingrate. You did save my life. All of our lives, for that matter."

  She could feel him puff up. "You are entirely welcome."

  "I mean it. It's belated, I know, but thanks."

  "It's okay."

  "I'm just a little distracted."

  He gestured impatiently. "Start walking. It's freezing out here, and I have to see you safely home before I can take cover myself. Mr. Cask is still out here, and he has a couple of his demon cronies with him. They were watching you talk with the Indian."

  "With Two Bears?" She glanced around quickly.

  "Don't worry, they didn't follow you. I was watching to make sure. Come on, keep moving, don't be looking around like you didn't know the way. I'll keep watch for the both of us."

  She made her way to the fence and squeezed through the gap to the other side. Ahead, the park was a white blur. The residences to her left and the bayou and railroad tracks to her right had disappeared completely. But even in weather conditions as bad as this, she could find her way, the park as familiar to her as her own bedroom in darkest night. Head lowered against the stinging gusts of frozen snow and bitter wind, she moved down the road past the Indian mounds.

  "Tell me what you know about last night," she suggested, striding steadily forward.