Angel Fire East

by Brooks, Terry

  * * *

  It was early October when the tatterdemalion came to him. He was still living in Cannon Beach with Mrs. Staples and working at the Cannon Beach Bookstore. Through help from Anson Robbington, he had discovered the cave in which the gypsy morph would appear, and had returned there many times to prepare for the event. He had memorized the cave's layout and begun thinking of how he might trap the morph when it appeared. But he was still unable to conceive of a way in which to snare this elusive creature. He was hoping his dream of the Knight on the cross would come again and show him something new.

  He was marking time.

  The tatterdemalion appeared to him when he woke from a different dream, a particularly bad one, a dream in which he had witnessed another city's demise and the slaughter of its inhabitants. He could not remember the city's name, which troubled him considerably. He could not even remember which part of the country it was located in. There were people in the dream whose names and faces he knew, but on waking he could remember none of them. He had been fighting on a roadway leading out of the city, a group of women and children and old people under his protection and care. He had gotten them clear of the city, but they couldn't travel fast enough to stay ahead of their pursuers. Finally, Ross had been forced to turn and fight. Once-men and demons quickly surrounded them, and there was nowhere to go. Ross was still engaged in a desperate attempt to break free when he awoke.

  For a moment, he could not remember where he was. His head still swam with images from the dream, and the sounds of battle rang hi his ears. It was a warm, windless night, strayed somehow from the summer gone, and the windows to his bedroom were open to the air. The tatterdemalion stood by the window closest to the sea, pale and vaguely iridescent, a child of indeterminate sex, very young, with lost, haunted eyes that reflected bits and pieces of a human life best forgotten.

  "Are you John Ross?" it asked in a soft, high voice.

  Ross blinked and nodded, remembering his situation, the remnants of his dream beginning to fade. "Yes."

  "I have a message for you from the Lady. She would speak with you. She wishes you to come to her."

  "To the Fairy Glen?" he asked quickly, sitting up now.

  The tatterdemalion shimmered faintly. "She wishes you to come at once."

  "To the Fairy Glen?" he repeated.

  But the tatterdemalion was already fading, its luminescence failing, its lines erasing, its presence turning to memory. In seconds, it had disintegrated entirely, and Ross was alone once more.

  He caught a flight out of Portland the next afternoon, flew east to New York, changed planes at Kennedy, and by midday of the following day, he was landing at Heathrow. From there, he took a train to Cardiff, then rented a car and drove north to Betwys-y-Coed. The trip cost him most of what he had earned that summer at the bookstore. He had barely managed to throw together the clothes he needed before going out the door. He was disorganized and exhausted on his arrival, and while his instincts were to go at once to the Fairy Glen, his body thought otherwise, and he collapsed in his bed and slept ten hours.

  When he awoke, dream-haunted, but better able to make the decisions that might be required of him, he showered, dressed, and ate lunch in the pub downstairs. Afterward, on a typical Welsh October day—mostly cloudy, some brief rain showers interspersed with glimpses of sun, and a hint of early winter cold in the air—he drove up to the Fairy Glen and walked in from the road.

  There were a pair of cars in the tiny parking area, and a handful of people in the glen, climbing over the rocks and wandering the muddied paths. The glen was green and lush, the stream that meandered along its floor swollen from recent rains. Ross descended the trail from the upper road cautiously, taking his time, placing his staff carefully for support. The familiar sounds filled him with excitement and hope— the tumble of the waterfall, the rush of the stream, the whisper of wind through the leaves, and the birdsong. He breathed in the dank rawness of the earth and plants, the rich smell laced with the fragrances of wildflowers and greenery. It was startling how much he felt at peace here, how close to everything that grew about him, as if this was where he really belonged now, as if this was his home.

  He knew he would not see the Lady, or the fairy creatures that served her, in daytime. He thought he might see Owain Glyndwr in the familiar guise of a fisherman, but it didn't really matter if Glyndwr appeared to him or not. Mostly, he had come just to see the glen in daylight, to feel once again the lure of this place that had changed his life so dramatically. He descended to its floor and sat on the rocks, looking off at the waterfall and the stream, at the trees and plants and tiny wildflowers, at nothing in particular at all, just the sweep of the hollow and the colors that imbued it.

  After a while, he went back to the inn and took a short nap. When he woke again, he walked around the tiny village, then returned for dinner. The innkeeper remembered him from his last visit, and they talked for a time about upheaval and unpredictability in the larger world. Betwys-y-Coed was an island of tranquillity and constancy, and it offered a sense of reassurance to its inhabitants. The innkeeper had lived in the village all his life; he couldn't understand why anyone would want to live anywhere else.

  An hour before midnight, Ross returned to the Fairy Glen. The night was black and starless, and the moon peeked through the clouds like an intruder. Ross parked and walked to the gate, then descended the pathway to the glen. The damp air was chilly, and Ross tucked his chin into his heavy coat and watched his breath cloud the air before him. Using his staff, he navigated the uncertain trail to the edge of the stream and stood looking around. He breathed in the night smells and listened to the soft rush of the falls.

  Almost immediately, Owain Glyndwr appeared. A Knight of the Word once and servant to the Lady now, he stood as still as stone on the other side of the stream, his greatcoat wrapped about his lean body, his wide, flat-brimmed hat shadowing his face. He held his fishing pole loosely, the line curved away into the flowing waters.

  He nodded amiably toward Ross. " 'Tis a good night for watching fairies," he said quietly. "Come to see them, have you?"

  "I have," Ross acknowledged, realizing suddenly that it was true, it was a part of the reason he was here.

  "Wait a bit, and they'll appear," the other offered. "Your eyes say you need their comfort. Well and good. Those who believe can always find comfort in them."

  He shifted his weight slightly, and his face lifted out of the shadows. Ross saw himself in that face, his features more closely mirrored than when he had encountered his ancestor last. He was older, of course, so their ages were closer. But it was more than that. It was as if by living lives as Knights of the Word, their resemblance to each other had increased.

  Owain Glyndwr began moving slowly downstream from Ross. He stopped once, casting his line anew. Ross watched him a moment, then looked away in the direction of the falls. When he looked back again, the other man was gone.

  Ross stayed where he was, waiting patiently. The glen's darkness was hard and cold about him, but it was strangely comforting as well. It enfolded and welcomed him. It gave him peace. That had not been so on his last visit, when he had returned ten years earlier to tell the Lady he could no longer serve as a Knight of the Word. The glen had felt hostile and forbidding then; it had disdained him. The Lady had not appeared, and he had gone home disconsolate and frustrated in his efforts. He had lost his way without knowing it. As a consequence, he had almost died.

  Lights twinkled suddenly in the curtain of the falls, bright and pulsing as they moved through the dark waters. Hundreds of them appeared at once, as if tiny fireflies had migrated out of place and time to welcome him home. He smiled at the sight of them, at the realization the fairies were revealing themselves to him, acknowledging his presence. They grew in number until they filled the waterfall with their light, and Ross thought he would never see anything so wonderful again.

  Then he heard his name called softly.

  "John Ross."


  He knew her voice at once, recognized it as surely as he did the fairies dancing in the waterfall.

  "John Ross, I am here."

  She was standing where Owain Glyndwr had disappeared, balanced on the surface of the water, suspended on air. She was as young and beautiful and ephemeral as ever, almost not there in the paleness of light that defined her image. She lifted her arms toward him, and the light moved with her, cloaking her in silver, trailing after her in bright streamers. She advanced in an effortless, floating motion, a shifting figure of shadows and moonlight.

  "My brave knight-errant," she whispered as she drew close. "You have done well in my service. You are the image of your ancestor in more than appearance. You carry his blood in your veins and his heart in your breast. Six hundred years have passed since his time, but you reflect anew what was best in him."

  He was shaking, not from fear or expectation or anything he could readily define, but simply because she was so close to him that he could feel her presence. He could not answer, but only wait on her to speak again.

  "John Ross," she whispered through silky blackness and shimmering light. "Brave Knight, your service is almost ended. One more thing must you do for me, and then I will set you free."

  He could not believe what he was hearing. He had waited more than twenty-five years for those words. He was fifty-three years old, and he had been a Knight of the Word for half of them. Ten years earlier, he had begged in vain to be released. Now she was offering him his freedom without even being asked. He was stunned.

  "You must return to await the appearance of the gypsy morph," she told him. "As in your dream, it will come. As foretold, it will appear. When it does, you must be ready. For the time allotted to it, you must protect it from the Void. You must protect it at all costs. It is precious to me, and you must keep it safe. When it has transformed for the final time, your service to the Word is finished. Then you may come home."

  He could barely comprehend what he was being told. His voice failed him when he tried to speak; the words would not form in his mouth.

  "Give me your hand," she instructed.

  Without thinking, he knelt at her approach, lifting his hand to touch hers. All that she was and all that was the Word filled him with strength and determination. He felt something pressed into his hand, and when her own withdrew, he found himself holding a gossamer net.

  "You will use this to take possession of the creature you seek. When it appears and begins to take form, cast the net. The gypsy morph will be yours then—to care for, to protect, and to shepherd as a newborn lamb." The Lady lifted her arm to sweep the air with light. "Give to it the shelter of your magic, your faith, and your great heart. Do not forsake it, no matter how strong the temptation or great the odds. Do this for me."

  "I will," he said, the words coming almost unbidden, his voice returned.

  "Rise," she said to him, and he did so. "The Word takes pleasure in you, John Ross—as do I. Go now, and serve us well."

  He did as he was bid, departing the Fairy Glen, carrying with him the gossamer net that would snare the gypsy morph, resolving that he would do what was necessary so that finally his time of service might be ended.

  It was only later, when he was back at Cannon Beach, awaiting Thanksgiving and the gypsy morph's coming, that he began to ponder more closely the Lady's words, and only in the past few days, as time began to narrow down and the demons close about, that he understood how he might have mistaken their meaning.

  * * *

  "Do you mean that, John?" Josie's voice spoke suddenly through the receiver, interrupting his reverie. "Because I wouldn't want you to say so if you didn't. Not to make me feel better, certainly. And not because you think it's the right thing to say after last night."

  He brushed aside his thoughts of the Lady and the Fairy Glen. "I'm saying it because it's true, Josie."

  "Will you come see me, then? Tonight?"

  "If I can." He took a deep breath. "I want to promise you I will. I want to promise you a lot of things. But you were right last night. I didn't come back for that. I'm not in a position to promise anything. Not yet, at least. One day, that could change. I hope it does. I suppose I hope for it more than anything."

  There was a long silence from the other end. He stood motionless by the kitchen phone, waiting for her to say something. Hawkeye appeared from somewhere in the back of the house, sauntering down the hallway and into the living room. With barely a glance at Ross, he wandered over to Little John and lay down beside him. The boy reached out at once to begin stroking him. The cat's eyes closed in contentment.

  "I love you, John," Josie said suddenly. Her voice caught. "Big surprise, huh? But I had to say it at least once. Funny, it didn't hurt a bit. Call me later, okay?"

  She hung up before he could say anything. He stared at the phone for a moment, listening to the dial tone, then placed the receiver back in its cradle. The ache he felt inside was bittersweet, and it left him wanting a resolution he couldn't have. He should call her back. He should tell her he loved her, too. But he knew he wouldn't.

  He was still mulling the matter when he caught a glimpse of movement through the kitchen window. When he walked over for a closer look, a sheriff's cruiser was parked in the driveway and Larry Spence was walking toward the house.

  Chapter 24

  Just from the look on John Ross's face, Nest knew who it was even before she answered the knock at the door. Her impatience and frustration with Larry Spence crowded to the forefront of her thoughts, but she forced herself to ignore them. This visit did not concern her; it concerned Bennett Scott. Because it was necessary to talk with him about Bennett at some point anyway, she was prepared to endure the unpleasantness she was certain would follow.

  "Afternoon," he greeted as she opened the door. "Would it be all right with you if I took those statements now?"

  As if she had a choice. She managed a weak smile. "Sure. Come on in."

  He clumped through the open doorway, knocked the snow from his boots onto the throw rug, and slipped off his uniform coat and hat and hung them on the rack. He seemed ill at ease, as if his size and authority were out of place here, as if they belonged somewhere else entirely and not in her home. She felt better for this, thinking that it wouldn't hurt for him to walk on eggshells for a while.

  "Armbruster finished the autopsy," he advised conspiratorially, lowering his voice. "The young lady had enough drugs in her system to float a battleship. But the drugs didn't kill her. She froze to death. The marks on her body were from the fall off the bluff. I'd say she lost her way and wandered off, but it's just a guess."

  "Larry," she said quietly, turning him with her hands on his arms so that his back was to the living room. "I don't know anything about Bennett Scott and drugs beyond the fact she was an addict. John knows even less. I didn't even know she was coming back here until she showed up on my doorstep. John, when he came to see me, didn't either. He hasn't been back here in fifteen years. Bennett was five then. All this talk about drug dealing in the park, true or not, does not involve us. Keep that in mind, will you?"

  His face closed down. "I'll keep an open mind, I can promise you that." He glanced over his shoulder. "I'll need to see the young lady's room. You don't have to let me, of course, if you don't want to. But it would save me a trip down to the courthouse for a search warrant."

  "Oh, for God's sake, Larry!" she snapped. "You can see anything you want!" She sighed wearily. "Come with me. I'll show you where she was staying."

  They walked down the hallway past the den and Nest's room to the guest bedroom where Bennett and Harper were staying. The room was gray with shadows and silent. Bennett's clothes were still in her bag in the closet, and Nest had already picked up after Harper and made the bed. She stood in the doorway while Larry Spence poked about, checking the closet and the dresser drawers, looking under the bed and in the adjoining bathroom, and searching Bennett's worn satchel. He didn't seem to find anything of importance, and when he was d
one he put everything back the way he had found it.

  "Guess that'll do," he said without much enthusiasm. "Why don't we do the interviews now, and then I'll be out of your hair?"

  "All right," she replied. "Do you want some privacy for this?"

  He shrugged his big shoulders, and she could hear the creak of his leather gun belt. "I can interview you and Mr. Ross out in the living room. Do the both of you together. Maybe the children could play back here while we talk."

  She shook her head. "I don't want Harper alone in this room just yet. I just finished telling her about her mother." She hesitated. "They can play in my bedroom."

  She went past him out the door and down the hall, irritated but resigned, already thinking about the more pressing problem of how she would manage the next twenty-four hours. It wouldn't be easy. Harper would be thinking of her mother. Little John was a weight she could barely shoulder, and yet she had to find a way to do so. Ross would probably be wanting to leave and go into hiding; he hadn't said so, but she could sense he'd made the decision. Whatever she did about any of them, she would second-guess herself later.

  She collected Harper and Little John, the puzzle and a few other toys, and took them all into her bedroom. She told the children she had to talk with someone out in the living room, but she would be back to check on them. It wouldn't take long, and they could come back out when she was done.

  It felt awkward, but she wanted the space and maneuverability that the living room offered so that she could usher Larry Spence out as soon as the interviews were concluded— sooner, if he started to annoy her—without disturbing the children.

  Larry Spence had closed Bennett's bedroom door and was standing in the hallway, waiting for her. He continued to look ill at ease. Leaving her own bedroom door open just a crack, anxious that Harper not hear what might be said, she took him back down the hall to where Ross was waiting. They sat together in the living room, Ross and Nest on the couch, Spence in the easy chair. He produced a small notebook and pen, jotted a few notes, and then asked Nest to begin.