Terry Brooks - The Gypsy Morph

How much worse, he wondered, could it be than this? His unwanted fascination with and desire for a resurgence of those feelings of power and freedom was terrifying. It suggested the onset of a steady disregard of the moral compass that had guided him all these years. He had always worried that someday the power of the black staff of his office, the magic that defined the Knights of the Word, would prove too much for him. The simple fact that there seemed to be almost no boundaries to its limits save those placed on it by the strength of commitment and sense of right and wrong of the user had troubled him from the beginning. But he had been confident that he could handle it, still a young man who believed in himself completely. He understood the risks, but he was more than willing to accept them for a chance to strike back at the demons and once–men responsible for the loss of his family and his childhood. Revenge was a powerful motivator, and it gave him a reason to embrace a power he might otherwise have shunned.

But that power had now peaked in him, had overwhelmed and claimed him, and he was no longer its master. Not that he couldn’t control it; he could. Not that he still wasn’t able to wield it effectively in his efforts to do what needed doing; he was. But he knew, at the same time, that any use of the magic of his staff was tainted by his freshly discovered craving for it. Rather than think of the magic as a necessary evil, he thought of it as an unsatisfied need. He wanted more of it–its taste and feel, its wild surge through his body, and the sense of freedom it generated within him.

He kept this to himself. He could not discuss this with the Ghosts. They were only kids, and they might not even understand what he was talking about. But more than that, they depended on him. He couldn’t very well saddle them with the knowledge that he might not be as dependable as they wanted him to be, that he might not be master of the magic in all the ways he should. He could not give them reason to doubt him.

He tried to take comfort from the fact that he was still alive. It was no small accomplishment to have done battle with a rogue Knight of the Word and been able to walk away. Damaged perhaps, but in one piece. He had survived the other’s madness and dark purpose. He had put an end to a dangerous enemy. Even the poison of the viper–prick, plunged into his body in a last–ditch effort to finish him, had failed to kill him. He owed Catalya for that; he owed her his life. Panther, of all people, had been quick to let him know. She might have kept it to herself; she likely would have. But Panther had formed an unexpected bond with her, and he was eager to share his feelings. Telling Logan what she had done to save him when it seemed that saving him was impossible was one way of doing that.

All these thoughts roiled through Logan Tom as he rode in the front passenger’s seat of the Lightning S-150 AV the following day. Fixit drove, his experience behind the wheel giving him fresh confidence in his ability to master the vehicle’s sometimes complicated handling. He smiled frequently, an indication of the pleasure he was taking in his work. The final vestiges of the sickness that had claimed him following the death of the Weatherman had vanished.

River, too, was almost back to normal. She sat with Owl and Candle in the backseat. The others rode in the hay wagon, even Panther and Catalya, who were deep in conversation at the wagon’s very rear, heads bent close. Rabbit had climbed onto Panther’s lap and curled up. The boy seemed unaware of the cat’s presence, his entire attention riveted on the girl. A strange pairing by any measure, yet it seemed to be working. It made Logan smile.

They were traveling south again, following the cracked and weed–grown ribbon of the freeway through country that was hilly and forested with the skeletal remains of dead or dying trees turned silvery and black and barren, limbs stripped of foliage and rendered as stark and lifeless as bleached bones. The plan was to continue on the more accessible paved roadway until they found an intersecting road that would take them east to where Hawk had left the camp of children and caregivers on the banks of the Columbia River. Traveling cross–country as the boy and Tessa and Cheney had done in coming west was impossible with the hay wagon, and abandoning the wagon meant that most of them would have to walk. Walking would slow progress considerably, and everyone agreed that speed was important.

Travel gave Logan time to consider his response to the magic, the feelings it generated, and what he must do to live with it. He knew he had to find a way to control it, if he could not banish it. Rash use of the staff’s terrible power could be as addictive as any drug. He had been so grateful to leave behind the days of ferreting out and destroying the slave camps to come in search of the gypsy morph. He’d needed to find something new so that he could rebuild his emotional shield. But he had jumped from the frying pan into the fire. He had traded one form of madness for another.

It was nearing dusk when they found the road they were searching for, a two–lane highway angling east off the freeway into the foothills that fronted the distant bulk of the Cascade Mountains. They were almost to the Columbia River by now, as reckoned by Hawk, and would sight it by morning. They pulled the AV and the wagon it was towing into a paved roadside rest area built for travelers in better days and set up their camp. They ate from their dwindling supplies–reminding Logan once again that they needed to forage for food–and when dinner was finished drifted into smaller groups to talk until they grew sleepy.

Logan let the others gather without him, moving over to a rusting picnic table to take a seat alone. He was surprised when Candle came over to sit across from him. The little girl didn’t say anything for a long time. She just sat there, staring down at her feet and off into the leafless trees, her red hair catching the last rays of the fading sun as the night closed in.

Finally, she looked up at him. “Thank you for everything,” she said.

He grinned despite himself. “That’s a lot to be thanked for.”

“Well, for keeping us safe.” When he didn’t say anything in response right away, she quickly added,

“Not just the other night, but all the other times, too. We wouldn’t have gotten this far if you hadn’t come with us.”

He nodded, vaguely uneasy that a ten–year–old child could make him feel so embarrassed. “I’m just doing what I was sent here to do,” he said, the reply sounding lame, even to him.

“No,” she said, her somber face lifting, her eyes fixing on his. “You were sent to help Hawk. Not us.”

She was so smart, he thought. She understood so much. “I know that,” he said. “But I have to do what’s right, too. Helping all of you feels right to me.”

“Even though we aren’t magic?”

“Even though. Anyway, Hawk wouldn’t be very happy with me if I told him we were leaving you behind.”

“Hawk would never leave us,” she said. She studied him a moment. “Hawk is our father.”

He nodded. “I know that. I know that Owl is your mother. Maybe I’m your uncle. Or something like it.” “You’re our friend,” she said.

He smiled. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

She didn’t smile back. “I just wanted you to know.”

She got up and walked away. He stared after her, wondering at her grasp of things. She knew better than anyone about keeping those she cared about from danger. Except she hadn’t done so lately, he realized suddenly. Owl had told him about her gift, a gift that had saved the Ghosts from harm any number of times. But Candle hadn’t warned them of danger even once since he had arrived, he realized.