Terry Brooks - Running With The Demon

His big hands clasped before his rugged face. "I was a long time deciding that I would do this. It seemed better to me in some ways not to know. But the question haunts me, so I am here. Tomorrow night, I will summon the spirits of the dead from where they lie within the earth. I have shaman powers, little bird's Nest, revealed to me in the madness of the war in Nam. I will use those powers to summon the spirits of the Sinnissippi to dance for me, and in their dance they will reveal the answers to my questions. I am the last of them, so they must speak to me."

Nest tried to picture it. The spirits of the Sinnissippi dancing at night in the park–in the same park where the feeders prowled, unfettered.

"Would you like to watch?" Two Bears asked quietly.

"Me?" She breathed the word as she would a prayer.

"Tomorrow, at midnight. Are you afraid?"

She was, but she refused to admit it.

"I am a stranger, a big man, a combat veteran who speaks of terrifying things. You should be afraid. But we are friends, Nest. Our friendship was sealed with our handshake. I will not hurt you."

The dark eyes reflected pinpricks of light from the rising moon. Darkness cloaked the park, the twilight almost gone. Nest remembered the promise she had made to her grandfather. She had to leave soon.

"If you come," said the big man softly, "you may learn something of your own people's fate. The spirits will speak of more than the Sinnissippi. The dance will reveal things that you should know."

Nest blinked. "What things?"

He shook his head slowly. "What happened to my people can happen to yours as well." He paused. "What if I were to tell you that it is happening now?"

Nest felt a tightening in her throat. She brushed at her short, curly hair with her hand. She could feel the sweat bead on her forehead. "What do you mean?"

Two Bears leaned back, and his face disappeared momentarily into shadow. "All peoples think they are forever," he growled softly. "They do not believe they will ever not be. The Sinnissippi were that way. They did not think they would be eradicated. But that is what happened. Your people, Nest, believe this of themselves. They will survive forever, they think. Nothing can destroy them, can wipe them so completely from the earth and from history that all that will remain is their name and not even that will be known with certainty. They have such faith in their invulnerability.

"Yet already their destruction begins. It comes upon them gradually, in little ways. Bit by bit their belief hi themselves erodes. A growing cynicism pervades their lives. Small acts of kindness and charity are abandoned as pointless and somehow indicative of weakness. Little failures of behavior lead to bigger ones. It is not enough to ignore the discourtesies of others; discourtesies must be repaid in kind. Men are intolerant and judgmental. They are without grace. If one man proclaims that God has spoken to him, another quickly proclaims that his God is false. If the homeless cannot find shelter, then surely they are to blame for their condition. If the poor do not have jobs, then surely it is because they will not work. If sickness strikes down those whose lifestyle differs from our own, then surely they have brought it on themselves.

"Look at your people, Nest Freemark. They abandon their old. They shun their sick. They cast off their children. They decry any who are different. They commit acts of unfaithfulness, betrayal, and depravity every day. They foster lies that undermine beliefs. Each small darkness breeds another. Each small incident of anger, bitterness, pettiness, and greed breeds others. A sense of futility consumes them. They feel helpless to effect even the smallest change. Their madness is of their own making, and yet they are powerless against it because they refuse to acknowledge its source. They are at war with themselves, but they do not begin to understand the nature of the battle being fought."

He took a long, slow breath and released it. "Do even a handful among your people believe that life in this country is better now than it was twenty years ago? Do they believe that the dark things that inhabit it are less threatening? Do they feel safer in their homes and cities? Do they find honor and trust and compassion outweigh greed and deceit and disdain? Can you tell me that you do not fear for them?"

There was bleak appraisal in his dark eyes. "We do not always recognize the thing that comes to destroy us. That is the lesson of the Sinnissippi. It can appear in many different forms. Perhaps my people were destroyed by a world which demanded changes they could not make." He shook his head slowly, as if trying to see beyond his words. "But there is reason to think' that your people destroy themselves."

He went silent then, staring at the girl, his eyes distant, his look impenetrable. Nest took a deep breath. "It is not that bad," she said, trying to keep the doubt from her voice.

Two Bears smiled. "It is worse. You know that it is. You can see it everywhere, even in this park." He glanced around, as if to find some evidence of it close at hand. Feeders were visible at the edges of the deeper shadows, but the Indian seemed oblivious of them. He looked back at Nest. "Your people risk the fate of the Sinnissippi. Come to the summoning tomorrow at midnight and judge for yourself. Perhaps the spirits of the dead will speak of it. If they do not, then perhaps I am just another Indian with too much firewater in his body."

"You're not that," Nest said quickly, not certain at the same time just exactly what he was.

"Will you come?" he pressed.

She nodded. "Okay."

Two Bears rose, a hulking figure amid the shadows. "The Fourth of July approaches," he said softly. "Independence Day. The birth of your nation, of the United States of America." He

nodded. "My nation, too, though I am Sinnissippi. I was born to her. My dreams were nurtured by her. I fought for her in Vietnam. My people are buried in her soil. She is my home, whatever name she bears. So I suppose that I am right to be interested in her fate."

He picked up his knapsack and his bedroll and slung them over his shoulder. "Tomorrow night, little bird's Nest," he repeated.

She nodded in response. "At midnight, O'olish Amaneh."

He gave her a brief, tight–lipped smile. "Tell your little friend he can come out from under the picnic table now."

Then he turned into the darkness and strode silently away.

SATURDAY, JULY 2

The Knight of the Word rode into Hopewell on the nine–fifteen out of Chicago and not one of the passengers who rode with him had any idea who he was. He wore no armor and carried no sword, and the only charger he could afford was this Greyhound bus. He looked to be an ordinary man save for the pronounced limp and the strange, haunted look that reflected in his pale green eyes. He was a bit stooped for thirty–eight years of age, a little weathered for being not yet forty. He was of average height and weight, rather lean, almost gaunt when seen from certain angles. His face was unremarkable. He was the kid who cut your lawn all through high school grown up and approaching middle age. His lank brown hair was combed straight back from his high forehead, cut shoulder–length and tied back with a rolled bandanna. He wore jeans, a blue denim work shirt, and high–top walking shoes that were scuffed and worn, the laces knotted in more than one place.

He had left his duffel bag for storage in the luggage compartment, and when the bus pulled to a stop in front of the Lincoln Hotel he moved to retrieve it. He leaned heavily on a gnarled black walnut staff for support as he made his way to the front of the bus, his knapsack slung loosely across one shoulder. He did not meet anyone's gaze. He appeared to those traveling with him, those whose journey would take them farther west to the Quad Cities and Des Moines, as if he might be drifting, and their assessment was not entirely wrong.