by Terry Brooks
The fisherman nodded, a spare, brief movement. “Hello, John. How are you?”
Ross hesitated, suddenly unsure of what he should say. “Not well. Something’s happened. Something terrible.”
The other man nodded and turned away, working his line carefully through the rapids that swirled in front of where he stood. “Terrible things always happen when you are a Knight of the Word, John. A Knight of the Word is drawn to terrible things. A Knight of the Word stands at the center of them.”
Ross adjusted the hood of his slicker to ward off the rain that blew into his eyes. “Not any longer. I’m not a Knight of the Word anymore. I’ve given it up.”
The fisherman didn’t look at him. “You cannot give it up. The choice isn’t yours to make.”
“Then whose choice is it?”
The fisherman was silent.
“Is she here, Owain?” Ross asked finally, coming forward to the very edge of the rock shelf on which he stood. “Is the Lady here?”
The fisherman gave a barely perceptible nod. “She is.”
“Good. Because I couldn’t feel her, couldn’t feel anything of the magic when I walked down.” Ross groped for the words he needed. “I suppose it’s because I’ve been away for so long. But … it doesn’t feel right.” He hesitated. “Maybe it’s because I’m here in the daylight, instead of at night. You told me, the first day we met, that if it was magic I was looking for, if I wanted to see the fairies, it was best to come at night. I’d almost forgotten about that. I don’t know what I was thinking I’ll come back tonight—”
“John.” Owain’s soft voice stopped him midsentence. “Don’t come back. She won’t appear for you.”
John Ross stared. “The Lady? She won’t? Why not?” The fisherman took a long time before answering. “Because the choice isn’t yours to make.”
Ross shook his head, confused. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. Which choice? The one for her to appear or the one for me to stop being a Knight of the Word?”
The other man worked his pole and line without looking up. “Do you know why you can’t feel the magic, John? You can’t feel it because you don’t admit that it’s inside yourself anymore. Magic doesn’t just happen. It doesn’t just appear. You have to believe in it.”
He looked over at Ross. “You’ve stopped believing.”
Ross flushed. “I’ve stopped believing in its usefulness. I’ve stopped wanting it to rule my life. That’s not the same thing.”
“When you become a Knight of the Word, you give yourself over to a life of service to the Word.” Owain Glyndwr ran his big, gnarled hands smoothly along the pole and line. Shadows from passing clouds darkened his features. “If it was an easy thing to do, anyone would be suitable to the task. Most aren’t.”
“Perhaps I’m one of them,” Ross argued, anxious to find a way to get his foot in the door the Lady had apparently closed on him. “Perhaps the Word made a mistake with me.”
He paused, waiting for a response. There was none. This was stupid, he thought, arguing with a ghost. Pointless. He closed his eyes, remembering San Sobel. “Listen to me, Owain. I can’t go through it anymore. I can’t live with it another day. The dreams and the killing and the monsters and the hate and fear and all of it endless and purposeless and stupid! I can’t do it. I don’t know how you did it.”
The big man turned to face him again, taking up the pole and line, looking away from the stream. “I did it because I had to, John. Because I was there. Because maybe there was no one else. Because I was needed to do it. Like you.”
Ross clenched his hands on the walnut staff. “I just want to return the staff,” he said quietly. “Why don’t I give it to you?”
“It doesn’t belong to me.”
“You could give it to the Lady for me.”
The fisherman shook his head. “If I take it from you, how will you leave the Fairy Glen? You cannot walk without the staff. Will you crawl out on your hands and knees like an animal? If you do, what will you find waiting for you at the rim? When you became a Knight of the Word, you were transformed. Do you think you can be as you were? Do you think you can forget what you know, what you’ve seen, or what you’ve done? Ever?”
John Ross closed his eyes against the tears that suddenly welled up. “I just want my life back. I just want this to be over.”
He felt the rain on his hands, heard the sound of the drops striking the rocks and trees and stream, small splashes and mutterings that whispered of other things. “Please, help me,” he said quietly.
But when he looked up again, the ghost of Owain Glyndwr was gone, and he was alone.
He climbed out of the Fairy Glen and returned—walking more than half the distance before he found a ride—to his inn. He ate dinner in the public rooms and drank several pints of the local ale, thinking on what he would do, on what he believed must happen. The rain continued to fall, but as midnight neared it eased off to a slow, soft drizzle that was more mist than rain.
The innkeeper let him borrow his car, and Ross drove out to the Fairy Glen and parked in the little parking lot and walked once more to the gap in the fence. The night was clouded and dark, the world filled with shadows and wet sounds, and the interlaced branches of the trees formed a thick net that looked as if it were poised to drop over him. He eased his way through the gap and proceeded carefully down the narrow, twisting trail. The Fairy Glen was filled with the sound of water rushing over the rocks of the rain-swollen stream, and the rutted trail was slick with moisture. Ross took a long time to reach the floor of the ravine, and once there he stood peering about cautiously for a long time. When nothing showed itself, he walked to the edge of the stream and stood looking back at the falls.
But the fairies, those pinpricks of scattered, whirling bright light he remembered so well, did not appear. Nor did the Lady. Nor did Owain Glyndwr. He stood in the darkness and rain for hours, waiting patiently and expectantly, willing them to appear, reaching out to them with his thoughts, as if by the force of his need alone he could make them materialize. But no one came.
He returned to his rooms in disappointment, slept for most of the day, rose to eat, waited anew, and went out again the following night. And again, no one appeared. He refused to give up. He went out each night for a week and twice more during the days, certain that someone would appear, that they could not ignore him entirely, that his determination and persistence would yield him something.
But it was as if that other world had ceased to exist. The Lady and the fairies had vanished completely. Not even Owain returned to speak with him. Not a hint of the magic revealed itself. Time after time he waited at the edge of the stream, a patient supplicant. Surely they would not abandon him when he needed help so badly. At some point they would speak to him, if only to reject his plea. His pain was palpable. They must feel it. Wasn’t he entitled to at least the reassurance that they understood? The rain continued to fall in steady sheets, the forests of Snowdonia stayed dark and shadowy, and the air continued damp and cold in the wake of fall’s passing and the approach of winter.
Finally he went home to America. He despaired of giving up, but there seemed to be no other choice. It was clear he was to be given no audience, to be offered no further contact. He was wasting his time. He packed his bags, bussed and trained his way back to Heathrow, boarded a plane, and flew home. He thought more than once to turn around and go back to the Fairy Glen, to try again, but he knew in his heart it was futile. By choosing to give up his office, he had made himself an outcast. Perhaps Owain Glyndwr was right, that once you gave up on the magic, it gave up on you, as well. He no longer felt a part of it, that much was certain. Even when he touched the rune-scrolled length of his staff, he could find no sign of life. He had wanted to distance himself from the magic, and apparently he had done so.
He accepted that this was the way it must be if he was to stop being a Knight of the Word. Whatever ties had bound him to the Word’s service were apparently severed. The ma
gic was gone. The dreams had nearly ceased. He was a normal man again. He could go about finding a normal life.
But he remembered Owain Glyndwr’s words about how, by becoming a Knight of the Word, he had been transformed and things could never be the same again. He found himself thinking of a time several years earlier in Hopewell, Illinois, when Josie Jackson had made him feel for just a few hours of his nightmarish existence what it was like to be loved, and of how he had walked away from her because he knew he had nothing to give her in return. He recalled how Nest Freemark had asked him in despair and desperation if he was her father, and he remembered wishing so badly he could tell her that he was.
He thought of these things, and he wondered if anything even remotely resembling a normal life would ever be possible again.
Chapter 9
It was already dark when John Ross and Stefanie Winslow exited the offices of Fresh Start, turned down Main Street, and headed for Umberto’s. Daylight saving time was over for another year, and all the clocks had been reset Sunday morning in an effort to conserve daylight—spring forward, fall back—but the approach of winter in the northwest shortened Seattle days to not much more than eight hours anyway. Streetlights threw their hazy glare on the rough pavement of the roadways and sidewalks, and the air was sharp and crisp with cold. It had rained earlier in the day, so shallow puddles dotted the concrete and dampness permeated the fall air. Traffic moved sluggishly through a heavy concentration of mist, and the city was wrapped in a ghostly pall.
Ross and Stefanie crossed Second Avenue and continued west past Waterfall Park, a strange, secretive hideaway tucked into an enclosure of brick walls and iron fences that abutted the apartment building where they lived. One entire wall and corner of the park’s enclosure was devoted to a massive waterfall that tumbled over huge rocks with such a thunderous rush that conversation attempted in its immediate vicinity was drowned out. A walkway dropped down along a catchment and circled back around to a narrow pavilion with two additional features involving a spill of water over stone, and a cluster of tables and chairs settled amid a collection of small trees and flowering vines. In better weather, people employed in the vicinity would come into the park on their lunch breaks to watch the waterfall and to eat. John and Stefanie did so frequently. From their bedroom window, they could look down on the park and across at the offices of Fresh Start.
Adjoining Waterfall Park was Occidental Park, a broad open space paved with cobblestones that overlapped Main from Jackson to Yesler and fronted a series of shops and restaurants and a parking lot that serviced the entire Pioneer Square area. The new Seattle was built on the old Seattle, the earlier version of the city having burned to the ground in a turn-of-the-century fire. An underground tour of portions of the old city began just a few blocks to the north. By passing through a nondescript door and descending a steep, narrow flight of stairs, you could step back in time.
But the present was above ground, and that was what most people came to see. Pioneer Square was an eclectic collection of art galleries, craft outlets, bookstores, bars, restaurants, souvenir shops, and oddities, funky and unassuming and all-embracing, and John Ross had felt at home from the day he arrived.
He had come to Seattle with Stef more than a year ago. They had been together for several months by then, were drifting more or less, and had read about Fresh Start and thought it would be a good place for them to work. They had come on a whim, not even knowing if there might be jobs available, and there hadn’t been, not at first, but they had fallen in love with the city and particularly with Pioneer Square. They had rented a small apartment to see how things would go, and while he had been pessimistic about their chances of catching on at Fresh Start—they had been told, after all, that there were no paid openings and none expected anytime soon—Stef had just laughed and told him to be patient. And sure enough, within a week Simon Lawrence had called her back and said he had something, and within a month after that, after spending his time doing volunteer work at the shelter, Ross had been offered full-time employment, too.
He glanced over at Stef surreptitiously as they crossed Occidental Park. He was wearing his greatcoat with the huge collar turned up and his heavy wool scarf with the fringed ends trailing behind, and as he limped along with the aid of his heavy walking staff, he looked a little like a modern-day Gandalf. Stefanie matched her pace to his, all sleek and smooth and flawless with her shimmering black hair and long limbs. She seemed entirely out of place amid the jumble of old buildings, antique street lamps, and funky people. She looked odd walking past the trolley that was stopped at the little island across from The Paper Cat, as if she had gotten off at the wrong stop on her way to the glass and steel towers of the high-rent district uptown. You might have thought she was slumming amid the homeless men who were clustered together next to the carved wooden totems and on the benches and under the mushroom-shaped pavilion across the way.
But you would have been wrong. If there was one thing Ross had learned about Stefanie Winslow, it was that notwithstanding how she looked and dressed, she was right at home anywhere. You might think you could tell something about her by just looking at her, but you couldn’t. She was comfortable with herself in a way that astonished him. Stef was one of those rare people who could walk into any situation, anyplace, anytime, and find a way to deal with it. It was a combination of presence and attitude and intelligence. It was the reason Simon Lawrence had hired her. And subsequently hired him, for that matter. Stefanie made you feel she was indispensable. She made you believe she was up to anything. It was, in large part, he knew, why he was in love with her.
They rounded the corner at Elliott Bay Book Company and walked down First Avenue to King Street, then turned into the door of Umberto’s Ristorante. The hostess checked off their names, smiled warmly at Stef, and said that their table was ready. She led them down several steps to the dining area, past the salad island toward the neon sign that said il piccolo, which was the tiny corner bar, then turned right down a hallway covered with posters of upcoming Seattle arts events. Ross looked at Stef in surprise. The dining room was behind them now; where were they going? Stef gave him a wink.
At the end of the hallway was the wine cellar, a small room closed away behind an iron gate in which a single table had been set for dinner. The hostess opened the wrought-iron door and seated them inside. A white tablecloth, green napkins, and silver and china seemed to glow in soft candlelight amid the racks of wines surrounding them.
“How did you manage this?” Ross asked in genuine amazement as the hostess left them alone.
Stef tossed back her long hair, reached for his hand, and said, “I told them it was for you.”
He had been back from Wales for almost a month when he met her. He had returned defeated in spirit and bereft of hope. He had failed in his effort to speak with the Lady or return the staff of power. His parents were dead, and his childhood home sold. He had lost contact with his few relatives years earlier. He had nowhere to go and no one to go to. For lack of a better idea, he went up from New York to Boston College, where he had studied years earlier, and began auditing classes while he worked out his future. He was offered a position in the graduate-studies program in English literature, but he asked for time to think about it, uncertain if he wanted to go back into academia. What he really wanted was to do something that would allow him to make a difference in people’s lives, to take a job working with people he could help. He needed human contact again. He needed validation of his existence. He worked hard at thinking of himself as something other than a Knight of the Word. He struggled bravely to develop a new identity.
Each day he would take his lunch in the student cafeteria, sitting at a long table, poring through his study books and staring out the windows of the dining hall. It was winter, and snow lay thick and white on the ground, ice hung from the eaves, and breath clouded in the air like smoke. Christmas was approaching, and he had nowhere to spend it and no one to spend it with. He felt incredibly
lonely and adrift.
That was when he first saw Stefanie Winslow. It was early December, only days before the Christmas break. He wasn’t sure if she had been coming there all along and he just hadn’t noticed her or if she had suddenly appeared. Once he saw her though, he couldn’t look away. She was easily the most beautiful woman he had ever seen—exotic, stunning, and unforgettable. He couldn’t find words to give voice to what he was feeling. He watched her all through the lunch hour and stayed afterward when he should have been auditing his class, continuing to stare at her until she got up and walked away.
The next day she was back, sitting at the same table, off to one side, all alone. He watched her come in and sit down to have her lunch for five days, thinking each time that he had to go over to her and say something, had to introduce himself, had to make some sort of contact, but he always ended up just sitting there. He was intimidated by her. But he was compelled, as well. No one else tried to sit with her; no one else even tried to approach. That gave him pause. But his connection with her was so strong, so visceral, that he could not ignore it.
Finally, at the beginning of the following week, he just got up and walked over, limped over really, feeling stupid and inadequate with his heavy staff and rough look, and said hello. She smiled up at him as if he were the most important thing in her life, and said hello back. He told her his name, she told him hers.
“I’ve been watching you for several days,” he said, giving her a deprecatory shrug.
“I know,” she said, arching one eyebrow speculatively.
He flushed. “I guess I overdid it if I was that obvious. I was wondering if you were a student at the college.”
She shook her head, her black hair catching the winter light. “No, I work in administration.”
“Oh. Well, I’m auditing some classes.” He let the words trail away. He didn’t know where else to go with it. He felt suddenly awkward about what he was doing, sitting here with her. He glanced about. “I didn’t mean to intrude, I just …”