"You are John Ross?" O'olish Amaneh asked him.
Ross nodded, unable to speak.
"You are a Knight of the Word?"
Ross bunked rapidly and swallowed against the dryness in his throat. "Do you come from her?" he managed.
The Indian did not answer.
"Are you in service to the Lady?" he pressed.
"The staff belongs to you," O'olish Amaneh insisted quietly, ignoring him. "Take it."
Ross could not do so. He knew with sudden, terrifying certainty that if he did, there would be no turning back. The clarity of his knowledge was appalling. It was the staff, something in the way it gleamed, in its blackness, in the intricacy of its carvings. It was in the implacable way the Indian urged him to take hold of it. If he did so, he was finished. If he did so, it was the end of him. He was not ready for this after all, he saw. He no longer wanted to be a part of what had happened in the Fairy Glen, in Wales, in the realm of the Lady's magic.
The Indian was a rock, standing, before him unmoved. "Your faith must be stronger than this," he advised in a whisper. "Your faith must sustain you. You swore to serve. You cannot recant. It is forbidden."
"Forbidden?" Ross repeated in disbelief. He was nearly in tears, filled with contempt for himself, for his weakness, for his failing resolve. "Don't you understand?" he breathed.
The Indian gave no sign as to whether he did or not. "You are a Knight of the Word. You have been chosen. You have need of the staff. Take it."
Ross shook his head slowly. "I can't."
"Stand up," O'olish Amaneh ordered.
There was no change of expression in the big man's face, no sign of disappointment, of anger, of anything. The eyes fixed on John Ross, calm and steady, as dark and deep as night pools, bottomless pits within the shadow of the great brow. Ross could not look away. Slowly he rose to his feet. The Indian came forward and held the staff out to him, before his terrified face, the carved markings, the polished wood, the gnarled length.
"Take the staff," he said quietly.
John Ross tried to step away, struggled to break free of the eyes that held him bound.
"Take the staff," O'olish Amaneh repeated.
Ross brought his hands up obediently, and his fingers closed about the polished wood. Instantly, fire ripped through his body. Oh, God! His left foot began to cramp, pain seizing and locking about it, working its way down to the bone. Ross tried to scream, but found he could make no sound. The pain intensified, growing worse than anything he had ever experienced, than anything he had imagined possible. His hands fastened so tightly about the staff that his knuckles turned white. He felt as if Ms fingers were imprinting the wood. He could not make himself let go. His foot jerked and twisted, and the pain climbed up his leg, cramping his muscles, tearing his ligaments, setting fire to his nerves. It bore into his knee, and now his mouth was open wide and his head thrown back in agony.
Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the pain was gone. John Ross gasped in shock and relief, his head sagging on his chest. He leaned heavily on the black staff, letting it support him, relying on its strength to hold him erect. My God, my God!
Slowly O'olish Amaneh stepped away. "Now it belongs to you," the Indian repeated. "You are bound to it. You are joined as one. You cannot give it up until you are released from your service. Remember that. Do not try to put it from you. Do not try to cast it away. Ever."
Then O'olish Amaneh was gone, out the door and down the hall, as silent as a ghost. Ross waited half a breath, then took a quick step toward the door to close it. He collapsed instantly, his foot turning in, his leg unable to bear the weight of his body. He struggled back to his feet, leaning on the staff for -support, and fell again. He sprawled on the floor, staring down at his leg. Once more he climbed to his feet, gritting his teeth, squeezing shut his eyes, so fearful of what had been done to him that he could barely breathe.
He was finally able to stand, but only with the aid of the staff. He was going to have to learn to walk all over again. He leaned against the wall and cried with rage and frustration.
Why has this been done to me?
He would have his answer that night when he dreamed for the first time of the future that was his to prevent.
"Penny for your thoughts, John Ross."
It was evening, the daylight gone hazy and dim with twilight's slow descent, the heat lingering in a thick blanket across the broad stretch of the park. Ross was sitting alone on the grass beneath an old hickory just back from where the band was setting up for the dance in the pavilion. People were milling about, watching the proceedings, eating popcorn, ice cream, and cotton candy and drinking pop, lemonade, and iced tea. Ball games were still under way on the diamonds, but the last of the organized races and the horseshoe tournament had come to a close. Ross had been lost momentarily in the past, in the days before he understood what the Lady required of him and what it meant to be a Knight of the Word.
The familiar voice brought him out of his reverie. He looked up and smiled at Josie Jackson. "A penny? I expect that's more than they're worth. How are you?"
"I'm fine, thank you." She stood looking at him for a moment, openly appraising him. She was wearing a flower–print blouse with a scoop neck and a full, knee–length skirt cinched about her narrow waist. She had tied back her blond hair with a ribbon, and wore sandals and a gold bracelet. She looked fresh and cool, even in the stifling heat. "I missed you at breakfast this morning. You didn't come in."
He smiled ruefully. "My loss. I overslept, then went straight to church. The Freemarks invited me." He drew up his good leg and clasped his hands about his knee. "I don't get to church as much as I should, I'm afraid."
She laughed. "So how was it?"
He hesitated, picturing in his mind the dark shapes of the feeders prowling through the sanctuary, Wraith stalking out of the gloom of the foyer, and the demon hiding somewhere farther back in the shadows. How was it? "It wasn't quite what I remember," he replied without a trace of irony.
"Nothing ever is." She came forward a step. "Are you alone this evening?"
The expressive dark eyes held him frozen in place. He looked away to free himself, then quickly back again. Nest had gone off with her friends. Old Bob had taken Evelyn home. He was marking time now, waiting on the demon. "Looks that way," he said.
"Do you want some company?" she asked, her voice smooth and relaxed.
He felt his throat tighten. He was tired of being alone. What harm could it do to spend a little time with her, to give a little of himself to a pretty woman? "Sure," he told her.
"Good." She sat down next to him, a graceful movement that put her right up against him. He could feel the softness of her shoulder and hip. She sat without speaking for a moment, looking at the people gathered about the pavilion, her gaze steady and distant. He studied the freckles on her nose out of the corner of his eye, trying to think of something to say.
"I'm not much of a dancer," he confessed finally, struggling to read her thoughts.
She looked at him as if amazed that he would admit such a thing, then gave him a quirky smile. "Why don't we just talk, then?"
He nodded and said nothing for a moment. He looked off toward the pavilion. "Would you like an ice cream or something to drink?"
She was still looking at him, still smiling. "Yes."
"Which?"
"Surprise me."
He levered himself to his feet using the staff, limped over to the food stand, bought two chocolate ice–cream cones, and limped back again, squinting against the sharp glare of the setting sun. It was just for a little while, he told himself. Just so that he could remember what it was like to feel good about himself. He sat down beside her again and handed her a cone.