Terry Brooks - Running With The Demon

The setting shifted. John Ross stood within the camps in which the survivors of the holocaust were penned, imprisoned to live out their lives in servitude to those who had been like them, but had embraced the madness that had destroyed their world. Both showed themselves, victors and victims, born of the same flesh and blood; both had been transformed into something barely recognizable and impossibly sad.

There was more, scene after scene of the destruction, of its aftermath, of the madness that had consumed everything. Ross felt something shift inside him, a lurching recognition, and even before she spoke the words that came next, he knew what they would be.

"It is the future," she said softly, her words as delicate as flower petals. "It approaches."

The vision disappeared. The black hole closed. Ross stood again before her, surrounded by the fairies and the night. Once more, he found his voice. "No," he said. "No, it will never be like that. We would never allow ourselves to become like that. Never."

She floated on the surface of the stream now, balanced on the night air. "Would you change the future, John Ross? Would you be one of those who would forbid it? Then do as Owain Glyndwr once did, as all the others did who entered into my service. Embrace me."

She approached him slowly, a wraith in the starlight, advancing without apparent motion. "This is what is required of you. You must become one of my champions, my paladins, my knights–errant. You must go forth into the world and do battle with those who champion the Void. The war between us is as old as time and as endless. You know of it, for it is revealed by every tongue and written in every language. It is the confrontation between good and evil, between creation and destruction, between life and death. There are warriors that serve each of us, but only a handful like you. You have long sought after yourself, John Ross, searching for the way that you were meant to travel in your life. You have come to me for that reason. Your way lies through me. I am the road that you must take."

Ross shook his head anew. "I can't do this. I haven't the … I'm not strong enough, not…"

"Give me your hand."

She held forth her own, shimmering like quicksilver in the starlight. Ross flinched away, unwilling to do as she asked. His eyes lowered, and he tried to hide. The Lady waited, her hand held forth, her body still. She had approached to within a yard of him now, so close that he could feel the heat of her, an invisible fire that burned somewhere deep within. Although he tried not to, he could not help himself. He looked at her.

"Oh, my God, my God," he whispered in awe and fear.

"Give me your hand," she repeated.

He did so then, compelled by the force of her voice and the recognition that he could not escape what was about to happen. He placed his hand of flesh and blood within her own of heat and light, and the shock of the contact dropped him instantly to his knees. He threw back his head and tried to scream what he was feeling, but no sound would come from his mouth. He closed his eyes and waited to die, but found instead that it was not death that had come to claim him, but life. Strength filled him, drawn from the well of his heart. Visions flooded his mind, and he saw himself as he could be, as he must be, a man become new again, a man reborn. He saw his future in the Lady's service, saw the roads he would travel down and the journeys he would make, saw the people whose lives he would change and those he might save. In the mix of passion and heat that twisted and built within the core of his being, he found the belief the Lady had foreseen.

She released him then, and he sagged forward, gasping for air, feeling the cool dampness of the earth against his knees and palms, feeling the power of her touch rush through him.

"Rise," she whispered, and he did, surprised to find that he could do so, that there was within him, sparking like flint on stone, the promise that he could do anything.

"Embrace me," she whispered, and he did that as well, without hesitation or deliberation, casting off his doubt and fear and taking on the mantle of his newfound certainty and belief, reaching for her, committing himself irrevocably and forever to her service.

With twilight deepening to night and the park emptying of its last visitors, John Ross walked Nest Freemark home again. He had finished his tale, or as much of it as he wished to confide in her, and they were speaking now of what had brought him to Hope well. Pick had joined them, come out of nowhere to sit all fidgety and wide–eyed on the girl's shoulder, trying his best not to appear awestruck in the presence of a vaunted Knight of the Word, but failing miserably. Pick knew of the Word's champions–knew as well what having one come to Hopewell meant. It was vindication, of a sort, for his frequently expressed suspicions.

"I told you so!" he declared triumphantly, over and over again, tugging at his mossy beard as if to rid himself of fleas. "I knew it all along! A shift in the balance this extreme could only be the work of something purposefully evil and deliberately ill–intentioned! A demon in the park! Criminy!"

He was the guardian of Sinnissippi Park, and therefore entitled to a certain amount of respect, even from a Knight of the Word, so John Ross indulged his incessant chatter while struggling to complete his explanation to Nest. He had been tracking this particular demon for months, he continued, momentarily silencing Pick, He had sought to bring him to bay on countless occasions, had thought he had done so more than once, but each time had failed. Now he had tracked him here, to Hope–well, where the demon meant to precipitate an event of such far–reaching consequence that it would affect the entire country for years to come. The event itself would not necessarily be dramatic or spectacular enough to draw national attention; that was not how things worked. The event would be the culmination of many other events, all leading to the proverbial last straw that would tip the scales in the demon's favor. Of small events are great catastrophes constructed, and it would be so here.

"The demon will attempt something this weekend that will shift the balance in a way that will make it difficult, if not impossible, to right." John Ross kept his voice calm and detached, taking care not to reveal the rest of what he knew. "What we must do is discover what he intends and put a stop to it."

"How are we supposed to do that?" Pick interrupted for the twentieth time. "Demons can disguise themselves so thoroughly that even a forest creature can't recognize them! If we don't know who he is, how are we supposed to disrupt his plans?"

John Ross was silent for a moment. They were passing down the service road now, the lights of the Freemark house shining ahead through the trees. He had not told them of his dreams. He had not told them of the future he had seen, the future that had revealed to him the truth about what the demon intended to accomplish by coming to Hopewell. He could not tell them that, of course. He could never tell them that.

"The demon is not perfect," he said, choosing his words carefully. "He makes mistakes, just like humans. He was human once; he cannot free himself of his mortal coil completely. If we keep close watch, we will find him out. He will do something to reveal himself. One of us will learn something that will help."

"How much time do we have?" Nest asked quickly.

Ross took a deep breath. "Until Monday. July fourth."

"July fourth?" She looked over at him curiously. "How do you know that?"

Ross slowed and stopped, leaning heavily on his staff, suddenly weary. He had slipped up. "Sometimes the Lady tells me things," he said quietly. "She confides in me."