Terry Brooks - Running With The Demon

Nest, on the other hand, had responsibility for chores both inside and out, beginning with the Saturday–morning house–cleaning. She rose with Gran at seven to shower and dress, then hurried downstairs for her breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and juice. The quicker she got started, she knew, the quicker she would get done. Gran was already chain–smoking and drinking vodka and orange juice, her breakfast untouched in front of her, Old Bob frowning at her in disapproval. Nest ate her eggs and toast and drank her juice in silence, trying not to look at either of them, consumed instead by thoughts of last night and of Two Bears.

"How did he know I was there?" Pick had demanded in exasperation as they made their way back across the park, the hot July darkness settled all about them like damp velvet. "I was invisible! He shouldn't have been able to see me! What kind of Indian is he, anyway?"

Nest had been wondering the same thing. The Indian part notwithstanding, Two Bears wasn't like anyone she had ever met. He was strangely reassuring, big, direct, and well reasoned, but he was kind of scary, too. Sort of like Wraith-a paradox she couldn't quite explain.

She pondered him now as she cleaned with Gran, dusting and polishing the furniture, vacuuming the carpet, sweeping and mopping the floors, wiping down the blinds and window–sills, scrubbing out the toilets and sinks, and washing out the tubs and showers. On a light cleaning day, they would stick to dusting and vacuuming, but on the first Saturday of the month they did it all. She helped Gran with the laundry and the dishes as well, and it was nearing noon when they finally finished. When Gran told her she could go, she wolfed down a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, drank a large glass of milk, and went out the back door in a rush, inadvertently letting the screen slam shut behind her once more. She cringed at the sound, but she didn't turn back.

"He said he was a shaman," Nest had remarked to Pick the previous night. "So maybe that means he sees things other people can't. Aren't Indian medicine men supposed to have special powers?"

"How am I supposed to know what medicine men can or can't do?" Pick had snapped irritably. "Do I look like an expert on Indians? I live in this park and I don't take vacations to parts of the country where there might be Indians like some people I could mention! Why don't you know what Indians do? Haven't you studied Indians in school? What kind of education are you getting, anyway? If I were you, I'd make certain I knew everything that was important about the history …"

And on and on he had gone, barely pausing for breath to say good night when she reached her house and left him to go in. Sometimes Pick was insufferable. A lot of times, really. But he was still her best friend.

Nest had met Pick at the beginning of the summer of her sixth year. She was sitting on the crossboard at the coiner of her sandbox one evening after supper, staring out at the park, catching glimpses of it through gaps in the hedgerow, which was still filling in with new spring growth. She was humming to herself, picking idly at the sand as she scrutinized the park, when she saw the feeder. It was slipping through the shadows of the Petersons' backyard, hunkered down against the failing light as it made its way smoothly from concealment to concealment. She stared after it intently, wondering where it was going and what it was about.

"Weird, aren't they?" a voice said.

She looked around hurriedly, but there was no one to be seen.

"Down here," said the voice.

She looked down, and there, sitting on the crossboard at the opposite corner of the sandbox, was what looked like a tiny wooden man made out of twigs and leaves with a little old face carved into the wood and a beard made of moss. He was so small and so still that at first she thought he was a doll. Then he shifted his position slightly, causing her to start, and she knew he was alive.

"I don't scare you, do I?" he asked her with a smirk, wiggling his twiggy fingers at her.

She shook her head wordlessly.

"I didn't think so. I didn't think you would be scared of much. Not if you weren't scared of the feeders or that big dog. Nossir. You wouldn't be scared of a sylvan, I told myself."

She stared at him. "What's a sylvan?"

"Me. That's what I am. A sylvan. Have been all my life." He chuckled at his own humor, then cleared his throat officiously. "My name is Pick. What's yours?"

"Nest," she told him.

"Actually, I knew that. I've been watching you for quite a while, young lady."

"You have?"

"Watching is what sylvans do much of the time. We're pretty good at it. Better than cats, as a matter of fact. You don't know much about us, I don't expect."

She thought a moment. "Are you an elf?"

"An elf!" he exclaimed in horror. "An elf? I should guess not! An elf, indeed! Utter nonsense!" He drew himself up. "Sylvans are real, young lady. Sylvans are forest creatures–like tatterdemalions and riffs–but hardworking and industrious. Always have been, always will be. We have important responsibilities to exercise."

She nodded, not certain exactly what he was saying. "What do you do?"

"I look after the park," Pick declared triumphantly. "All by myself, I might add. That's a lot of work! I keep the magic in balance. You know about magic, don't you? Well, there's a little magic in everything and a lot in some things, and it all has to be kept in balance. There's lots of things that can upset that balance, so I have to keep a careful watch to prevent that from happening. Even so, I'm not always successful. Then I have to pick up the pieces and start over."

"Can you do magic?" she asked curiously.

"Some. More than most forest creatures, but then I'm older than most. I've been at this a long time."

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Are you like Rumpelstiltskin?"

Pick turned crimson. "Am I like Rumpelstiltskin? Crirriiny! What kind of question is that? What did I just get through telling you? That's the trouble with six–year–olds! They don't have any attention span! No, I am not like Rumpelstiltskin! That's a fairy tale! It isn't real! Sylvans don't go around spinning straw into gold, for goodness' sake! What kind of education are they giving you in school these days?"

Nest didn't say anything, frightened by the little man's outburst. The leaves that stuck out of the top of his head were rustling wildly, and his twiggy feet were stamping so hard she was afraid they would snap right off. She glanced nervously toward her house.

"Now, don't do that! Don't be looking for your grandmother, like you think you might need her to come out and shoo me away. I just got done telling you that I knew you weren't afraid of much. Don't make a liar out of me." Pick spread his arms wide in dismay. "I just get upset sometimes with all this fairy–tale bunk. I didn't mean to upset you. I know you're only six. Look, I'm over a hundred and fifty years old! What do I know about kids?"

Nest looked at him. "You're a hundred and fifty? You are not."

"Am so. I was here before this town was here. I was here when there were no houses anywhere!" Pick's brow furrowed. "Life was much easier then."

"How did you get to be so old?"

"So old? That's not old for a sylvan! No, sir! Two hundred and fifty is old for a sylvan, but not one hundred and fifty." Pick cocked his head. "You believe me, don't you?"

Nest nodded solemnly, not sure yet if she did or not.

"It's important that you do. Because you and I are going to be good friends, Nest Freemark. That's why I'm here. To tell you that." Pick straightened. "Now, what do you think? Can we be friends, even though I shout at you once in a while?"

Nest smiled. "Sure."

"Friends help each other, you know," the sylvan went on. "I might need your help sometime." He gave her a conspiratorial look. "I might need your help keeping the magic in balance. Here, in the park. I could teach you what I know. Some of it, anyway. What do you think? Would you like that?"