Ken Hood - Demon Rider

"It will come. There is a right way and a wrong way to put a horse in a stall, isn't there?"

"Huh? Well, they like to have their eating end next the manger."

"And lying on their backs with their feet in the air would count as a wrong way?"

"I've seen them try it." Where was this conversation leading?

"Then I picked a poor analogy. What I mean to say, Tobias, is that there is more than one way to put a spirit inside a person. A hexer has a special way of inserting a demon into a husk to make a creature. A free demon will possess a man in another way."

"And the hob?"

"Seems to have found a third position. From what you have told me of your experiences, it may have tried several times before it got comfortable. Father Guillem thinks that is why the Inquisition failed to conjure it, although he is guessing. There is yet another—"

"Is that why you say it cannot be exorcized?"

"No." The old man walked on for a moment with his head down, his face hidden by his hood. "I must tell you this now, Tobias, although I would have preferred to keep it for later. The reason you cannot ever be rid of the hob is that it is too late."

"I guessed that. It's put down roots, hasn't it?"

"You have grown together, and you will continue to grow together. To remove the hob now would leave very little of you. That is how you bring back such useful memories from the future. Warnings, you called them, and you said the hob wasn't smart enough to be so selective, but you certainly are. It used your intelligence to choose the warnings, manipulating you. And manipulation seems to work both ways—doesn't it, Tobias?"

Toby squirmed like a worm on a hook. "Well, maybe a little. Maybe once..."

"Which of you destroyed the landsknechte and the Inquisition?"

Murderer! "I did, Brother. I told the hob where to strike. It was the storm that roused it, and I've been wondering if that was what was different from the time before, when it jerked me back to start over—this time the storm came. The storm was just luck, but once the hob began rampaging, I found I could direct some of the thunderbolts. I've never felt anything like that before, and I had trouble directing it at the end. Whatever power I had didn't last long."

The friar sighed but did not comment.

"Doesn't a man have the right to defend himself, Brother? They were going to torture me to death!"

"Because they thought you had a demon. They weren't so far wrong were they? No, I don't really blame you for fighting back. I believe you would have chosen another way to escape if there had been one. But you and the hob are growing together, and eventually there will be no difference between you. Which of you is going to be master? I warn you, if it can ever gain control of you, then it will. It will take you over completely."

"And I will go crazy?"

"You will be its creature, my son. The hob may not be as malicious as a demon, but it has no conscience, not yet. You know what happened at Mezquiriz."

Toby shivered, for his worst fears were being confirmed. "Is this inevitable, Brother? Because if it is, then I must try to kill myself now."

"No, it is not inevitable. You still have a chance. You were not a child when it happened, but you were not fully adult, either, so there is hope. Time will work on your side. Through you the hob must learn what it is to be mortal, what is right, what is wrong, what suffering means. We teach the spirits these things, my son. It takes centuries to train an elemental to be a tutelary, and you do not have centuries."

"Is there no quicker way?" Toby asked.

Apparently the old man did not hear that impertinent question. "Keep practicing your meditation, for that keeps the hob quiescent and you in control. The two of you will gradually merge into one, but it will take many years, and you must emerge as the dominant partner. Rush the process, as you were doing the other night, and the hob will be the survivor."

They were almost at the campsite.

"That's all I can do—breathe funny, think about swans, mumble 'Lochan na Bi' over and over?"

"That is quite enough to keep you busy!" Brother Bernat said sharply. "The safest thing would be to enter a monastery, for there you would have no distractions. I just cannot see you ever becoming a monk, though. I think you would go out of your mind with boredom, and then you would be no better off. But do try and stay away from battles and women, from strong drink and hair-raising escapades."

"And if I do? If I am the survivor, what will I be then?"

The friar walked on for a long while before he answered. "Whatever you deserve to be."

"What does that mean?"

"Ah. You promised not to ask questions until I had finished, Tobias. I have not finished yet. Not quite."

The men unloaded and groomed the horses, watered them and set them free to graze, hobbling a couple so that they could be caught in the morning and used to round up the rest. The women gathered firewood, ground grain, made biscuits of dough to bake under the ashes. Those persons who chose to do so washed themselves. By the time the meal was ready, darkness had fallen, and the company gathered around the fire in no especial order to eat and share stories.

Some nights now they had singing after their meal, for Don Ramon had liberated a vihuela from the landsknechte camp. He had not only a gentleman's skill at playing it but also a fine tenor voice—there seemed to be nothing he was not good at, except facing reality. He could pick up the melody when the Catalans sang their songs, and even manage to accompany Hamish in Scottish ballads, although Hamish's memory for lyrics was much better than his ability to stay in key. Father Guillem had a powerful bass and a repertoire of monastic chants from many lands.

After that evening's meal, though, Toby took Hamish aside and asked him to organize a second campfire some distance from the first, where he and the don could have a private chat.

Hamish disapproved, naturally. "How can you possibly trust him? He's as batty as a bell tower! His head's full of eels."

"And I have foreseen his death. It may not happen, but I owe him a warning, at least." For some reason he could not identify, Toby felt he ought to trust the don, that it might be important.

Hamish went off muttering but did what he had been asked, as usual.

Toby invited Doña Francisca to attend also and then decided to include Josep, who had supported him steadfastly and deserved recognition for it. The inquisitive Senora Collel tried to gatecrash, bringing Gracia with her, and the don peremptorily ordered them away, insisting that women could not attend a council of war.

The five huddled around the little flames that danced on their nest of twigs and streamed ribbons of smoke into the night wind. Pale light flickered on intent faces.

"This is a strange tale," Toby began, "perhaps the strangest you will have ever heard, but Brother Bernat believes it, and I suspect no lie would ever deceive him. I must warn you that it involves truths that are dangerous to know. The Fiend has decreed that anyone who learns these things must die, so you may prefer not to listen. Whether that will reduce your peril, I cannot say. Just by associating with you, I have put you all at risk."

"A dramatic preamble!" proclaimed the don. "Let us hope that the gravamen is worthy of it."

No one departed. So there, in the cool night breezes, Toby told his whole improbable story once again. Hamish just scowled in silence at the starlit hills, for he knew it all. Josep and Doña Francisca grew more and more worried as it progressed, but Don Ramon seemed to find it dull. Perhaps his internal fantasies were too vivid for him to appreciate anyone else's adventures, no matter how bizarre. He yawned frequently, although he beamed approval when Toby described how calmly he had laid his head on the block to have it chopped off. His mother wailed in horror.