I should tell her. I should take the chance. She's stronger than she looks. She is older than her fourteen years. She can accept it.
But he said nothing. Old Bob finished, sighed, glanced out across the bayou as if seeing into the past, then reached over impulsively to pat his wife's hand. "You're awfully quiet, Dark Eyes."
For just an instant all the hardness went out of Evelyn Freemark's face, all the lines and age spots vanished, and she was young again. A smile flickered at the corners of her mouth, and her eyes lifted to find his.
Ross stood up, leaning on his staff for support. "Nest, how about taking a walk with me. My leg stiffens up if I sit for too long. Maybe you can keep me from getting lost."
Nest put down her plate and looked at her grandmother. "Gran, do you want me to help clean up?"
Her grandmother shook her head, said nothing. Nest waited a moment, then rose. "Let's go this way," she said to Ross. She glanced at her grandparents. "We'll be back in a little while."
They climbed the hill at an angle that took them away from the crowds, east toward the park's far end, where the deep woods lay. They walked in silence, Nest pacing herself so that Ross could keep up with her, limping along with the aid of his staff. They worked their way slowly through the shady oaks and hickories, passing families seated on blankets and at tables eating their picnic lunches, following the curve of the slope as it wound back around the rise and away from the river. Soon Gran and Old Bob were out of sight.
When they were safely alone, Ross said to her, "I'm sorry about what happened at church. I know it was scary."
"I have to show you something," she said, ignoring his apology. "I promised Pick."
They walked on for a ways in silence, and then she asked sharply, accusingly, "Are you an angel? You know, in the Biblical sense? Is that what you are?"
He stared over at her, but she wasn't looking at him, she was looking at the ground. "No, I don't think so. I'm just a man."
"But if God is real, there must be angels."
"I suppose so. I don't know."
Her voice was clipped, surly. "Which? Which don't you know? If there are angels or if God is real?"
He slowed and then stopped altogether, forcing her to do the same. He waited until she was looking at him. "What I told you was the truth–about the Fairy Glen, and the Lady, and the voice, and the way I became a Knight of the Word. What are you asking me, Nest?"
Her eyes were hot. "If there really is a God, why would He allow all those feeders in His church? Why would He allow the demon in? Why would He allow Mrs. Browning to die? Why didn't He stop it from happening?"
Ross took a long, slow breath. "Maybe that isn't the way it works. Isn't the church supposed to be open to everyone?"
"Not to demons and feeders! Not to things like that! What are they doing here, anyway? Why aren't they somewhere else?" Her voice was hard–edged and shaking now, and her hands were gesturing wildly. "If you really are a Knight of the Word, why don't you do something about them? Don't you have some kind of power? You must! Can't you use it on them? Why is this so hard?"
Ross looked off into the trees. Tell her. His hands tightened on the staff. "If I destroy the feeders, I reveal myself." He looked back at her. "I let people know what I am. When that happens, I am compromised. Worse, I weaken myself. I don't have unlimited power. I have … only so much. Every time I use it, I leave myself exposed. If the demon finds me like that, he will destroy me. I have to be patient, to wait, to choose my time. Ideally, I will only have to use my power once–when I have the demon before me."
He felt trapped by his words. "Pick must have told you about the feeders. The feeders are only here because of us. They react to us, to us as humans. They feed on our emotions, on our behavior. They grow stronger or weaker depending on how we behave. The Word made them to be a reflection of us. If we behave well, we diminish them. If we behave badly, we strengthen them. Give them too much to feed on and they devour us. But they're not subject to the same laws as we are. They don't have life in the same way we do; they don't have substance. They creep around in the shadows and come out with any release of the dark that's inside us. I can burn them all to ash, but they will just come back again, born out of new emotions, new behavior. Do you understand?"
The girl nodded dubiously. "Are they everywhere, everywhere in the world?"
"Yes."
"But aren't there more in places where things are worse? In places where the people are killing each other, killing their children?"
"Yes."
"Then why aren't you there? What are you doing here, in this little, insignificant Midwestern town? No one is dying here. Nothing is happening here!" Her voice rose. "What is so important about Hopewell?"
Ross did not look away, dared not. "I can't answer that. I go where I'm sent. Right now, I'm tracking the demon. I'm here because of him. I know that something pivotal is going to take place, something that will affect the future, and I have to stop it. I know it seems incredible that anything occurring in a tiny place like Hopewell could have such an impact. But we know how history works. Cataclysms are set in motion by small events in out–of–the–way places. Maybe that's what's happening."
She studied him fixedly. "It has something to do with me, doesn't it?"
Tell her! "It looks that way," he hedged.
She waited a moment, then said, <!I had a … dream about Gran last night. She was a girl, the way she looks in one of the pictures on the mantel. She was running in the park with the feeders. She was one of them. I asked her about it, and she admitted that she had done that when she was a girl." She paused. "There was a demon with her. She admitted that, too. She said she didn't know at first what it was, and that when she found out, she sent it away. Pick said that was true." She paused. "What I wonder is if this might be the same demon, if it might have come back to hurt Gran through me."
Ross nodded slowly. "It's possible."
She glared at him, needing more, wanting a better answer. "But how would that change anything about the future? What difference would that make to anyone but us?"
Ross started walking again, forcing her to follow. "I don't know. What was it you were going to show me?"
She caught up to him easily, kept her hot gaze turned on him. "If you're hiding something, I'll find out what it is." Her voice was hard–edged and determined, challenging him to respond. When he failed to do so, she moved ahead of him as if to push the matter aside, dismissive and contemptuous. "This way, over there, in those trees."
They descended a gentle slope to a small stream and an old wooden bridge. They crossed the bridge and started up the other side into the deep woods. It was silent here, empty of people, of sound, of movement. The heat was trapped in the undergrowth, and none of the river's coolness penetrated to
ease the swelter. Insects buzzed annoyingly in their faces, attracted by their sweat.
"Actually, it wasn't a dream," she said suddenly. "About Gran, I mean. It was a vision. An Indian named Two Bears showed it to me. He took me to see the spirits of the Sinnissippi dance in the park last night after you left. He says he is the last of them." She paused. "What do you think?"
A chill passed over John Ross in spite of the heat. O'olish Amaneh. "Was he a big man, a Vietnam vet?"
She looked over at him quickly. "Do you know him?"
"Maybe. There are stories about an Indian shaman, a seer. He uses different names. I've come across people who've met him once or twice, heard about some others." He could not tell her of this, either. He could barely stand to think on it. O'olish Amaneh. "I think maybe he is in service to the Word."