Terry Brooks - Running With The Demon

John Ross nodded. "Well, that's good to hear." He tried not to think of the dreams. "Does she look at all like her mother?"

"Very much so." Old Bob's smile broadened. "Having Nest helps in some small way to make up for losing Caitlin."

Ross looked at the floor. "I expect it does. I wish I could see her. I think often of Caitlin." He went silent, as if unable to think of anything else to say. "Well, thank you, sir. I appreciate having had the opportunity of meeting you."

He started to rise, levering himself up with the aid of his staff. "Please give my regards to Mrs. Freemark and your granddaughter."

He was already moving away when Old Bob caught up with him. The big man's hand touched his arm. "Wait a minute, Mr. Ross. John. I don't think it's right that you've come all this way and don't get to talk about Caitlin more than this. Why don't you come to dinner tonight? You can meet Evelyn‑Mrs. Freemark–and Nest as well. We'd like to hear more about what you remember. Would you like to come?"

John Ross took a long, deep breath. "Very much, sir."

"Good. That's good. Come about six, then." Old Bob brushed at his thick white hair with one hand. "Can you find a ride or shall I pick you up?"

"I'll manage to get there." Ross smiled.

Robert Freemark extended his hand and Ross took it. The old man's grip was powerful. "It was good of you to come, John. We'll be looking forward to seeing you this evening."

"Thank you, sir," Ross replied, meaning it.

He moved away then, back toward the counter, listening to the conversation of the other men at the table trail after him. Knew Caitlin, did he? At college? What's his name again? You think he's one of those hippies? He looks a little frayed around the edges. What do you think he did to his leg? Ross let the words wash off him and did not look around. He felt sad and old. He felt bereft of compassion. None of them mattered. No' one mattered, in truth, besides Nest Freemark.

He came back to the counter and Josie Jackson. She handed him his bill and stood waiting while he pried loose several dollars from his jeans pocket.

"You knew Caitlin, did you?" she asked, studying him.

"A long time ago, yes." He held her gaze with his own, wanting to find a way to take something of her with him when he went.

"Is that what brought you to Hopewell? Because the fact of the matter is you don't look like a salesman or a truck driver or a bail bondsman or anything."

He gave her a quick, tight smile. "That's what brought me." "So where are you off to now?" She took the money he handed her without looking at it. "If you don't mind my asking."

He shook his head. "I don't mind. To tell you the truth, I thought I'd go back to my room for a bit. I'm a little tired. I just came in on the bus, and I didn't sleep much." The word "sleep" sent an involuntary chill through his body.

"Are you staying at the Lincoln Hotel?" she asked.

"For a few days."

"So maybe we'll see some more of you while you're here?"

He smiled anew, liking the way she looked at him. "I don't see how you can avoid it if everything at Josie's is as good as the hash."

She smiled back. "Some things are even better." She kept her gaze level, unembarrassed. "See you later, John."

The Knight of the Word turned and walked out the door into the midday heat, riddled with shards of confusion and hope.

Seated at the table in the back of the cafe with Old Bob and the others, an invisible presence in their midst, the demon watched him go.

It is night. The sky is clear, and the full moon hangs above the eastern horizon in brilliant opalescence. Stars fill the dark firmament with pinpricks of silver, and the breeze that wafts across his heated skin is cool and soft. He stands looking upward for a moment, thinking that nothing of the madness of the world in which he stands reflects in the heavens he views. He wishes he could find a way to smother the madness with the tranquillity and peace he finds there. He remembers for a moment the way things were.

Then he is moving again, jogging steadily down the concrete highway into the city, hearing already the screams and cries of the captives. The pens are two miles farther in, but the number of prisoners they contain is so vast that the sounds travel all the way to the farmlands. The city is not familiar to him. It lies in what was Kansas or perhaps Nebraska. The country about is flat and empty. Once it grew crops, but now it grows only dust. Nothing lives in the country. All of the fields have dried away. All of the animals have been killed. All of the people have been hunted down and herded into the pens by those who were once like them. In the silence of the night, there is only the buzzing and chirping of insects and the dry, papery whisper of old leaves being blown across stone.

Feeders peer out from the shadows as he passes, but they keep their distance. He is a Knight of the Word, and they have no power over him. They sense this, and they do not offer challenge. They are creatures of instinct and habit, and they react to what they find in humans in the way that predators react to the smell of blood. John Ross knows this about them. He understands what they are, a lesson imparted to him long ago when there was still hope, when there was still reason to believe he could make a difference. The feeders are a force of nature, and they respond to instinct rather than to reason. They do not think, because thinking is not required of them. They do not exist to think, but to react. The Word made them for reasons that John Ross does not understand. They area part of the balance of life, but their particular place in the balance remains a mystery to him. They are attracted by the darker emotions that plague human beings. They appear when those emotions can no longer be contained. They feed on those emotions and in so doing drive mad the humans who are their victims. Given enough time and space and encouragement, they would destroy everything.

The Knight of the Word has tried hard to determine why this must be, but it requires a deeper understanding of human behavior than he possesses. So he has come to accept the feeders simply as a force of nature. He can see them, as most cannot, so he knows they are real. Few others understand this. Few have any idea at all that the feeders even exist. If they knew, they would be reminded of Biblical references and cautionary tales from childhood and be quick to describe the feeders as Satan's creatures or the Devil's imps. But the feeders belong to the Word. They are neither good nor evil, and their purpose is far too complex to be explained away in such simplistic terms.

He passes through what was once an industrial storage area of the city, and the amber eyes follow him, flat and expressionless. The feeders feel nothing, reveal nothing. The feeders have no concern for him one way or the other. That is not their function. The Knight of the Word has to remind himself of this, for the glimmer of their eyes seems a challenge and a danger to him. But the feeders, as he has learned, are as impervious to emotion as fate is to prayers. They are like the wind and the rain; when conditions warrant, they will appear. Look for them as you would a change in the weather, for they respond in no less impersonal and arbitrary a way.

Nevertheless, it seems to him, as he passes their dark lair, that they know who he is and judge him accordingly. He cannot help himself, for they have been witness to his every failure. It feels as if they judge him now, remembering as he does the many opportunities he has squandered. Tonight provides another test for him. His successes of late might seem to offset his earlier failures, but it is the failures that matter most. If he had not failed in Hopewell with Nest Freemark, he thinks bitterly, there would be no need for successes now. He remembers her, a child of fourteen, how close he was to saving her, how badly he misjudged what was needed. He remembers the demon, prevailing even in the face of his fierce opposition. The memory will not leave. The memory will haunt him to the grave.