The iron hooves paused. For an awful moment there was no sound; howls and screeching tires fell silent. Then metal began to smash on stone in a thunderous canter, right across the street, and with a horrible screeching neigh the rider's iron steed smashed into the tree-wall, splintering wood, bowing the palisade inward. Nita wanted to shut her mind against the screams of the trees broken and flung aside in that first attack, but she could not- All around her the remaining trees sank their roots deep in determination, but even they knew it would be hopeless. There were enough cracks in the wall that Nita could see the black steed rearing back for another smash with its front four hooves, the rider smiling, a cold cruel smile that made Nita shudder. One more stroke and the wall would be down. Then there would be wildfire in the park, Kit, oblivious, kept reading. The iron mount rose to its full height. "Fred," Nita whispered, "I think you'd better—" The sound of heavy hoofbeats, coming from behind them, from the park side, choked her silent. He has a twin brother, Nita thought. We are dead.
But the hoofbeats divided around the battered circle of trees and poured past in a storm of metal and stone, the riders and steeds marble pale or bronze dark, every equestrian statue in or near Central Park gathered together into an impossible cavalry that charged past Nita and Kit and Fred and into the street to give battle. Perytons and cabs screamed as General sherman from Grand Army Plaza crashed in among them with sword raised, closely followed by loan of Arc in her armor, and Simon Bolivar and General fi* aan Martin right behind. King Wladislaw was there in medieval scale mail, galloping on a knight's armored charger; Don Quixote was there, urging poor broken-down Rosinante to something faster than a stumble and shouting weats against the whole breed of sorcerers; Teddy Roosevelt was there, cracking off shot after shot at the cabs as his huge horse stamped them into he pavement; El Cid Campeador rode there, his bannered lance striking
Own one peryton after another. Behind all these came a wild assortment of Matures, pouring past the tree circle and into the street—eagles, bears, huge °§s, a hunting cat, a crowd of doughboys from the first World War with aXoneted rifles—all the most warlike of the nearby statuary—even some not Warlike, such as several deer and the Ugly Duckling. From down Fifth enue came striding golden Prometheus from his pedestal in Rockefeller er)ter, bearing the fire he brought for mortals and using it in bolt after bolt to melt down cabs where they stood; and from behind him, with a stony A like the sky falling, the great white lions from the steps of the Public Librarv leaped together and threw themselves upon the iron steed and its dark rider For all its extra legs, the mount staggered back and sideways, screaming (n a horrible parody of a horse's neigh and striking feebly at the marble claws that tore its flanks.
Under cover of that tumult of bowls and crashes and the clash of arms Nita grabbed Kit to pull him away from the tree-wall, behind another row of trees. She half expected her hands to go right through him, he was becoming so transparent. Unresisting, he got up and followed her, still holding the Book open, still reading as if he couldn't stop, or didn't want to, still burning more and more fiercely with the inner light of the bright Book's power. "Fred," she said as she pushed Kit down onto the ground again behind a looming old maple, "I've got to do this now. I may not be able to do anything else. If a diversion's needed—"
(I'll do what's necessary,) Fred said, his voice sounding as awed and frightened as Nita felt at the sight of what Kit was becoming. (You be careful too.)
She reached out a hand to Fred. He bobbed close and settled at the tip of one finger for a moment, perching there delicately as a firefly, energy touch-ing matter for a moment as if to reconfirm the old truth that they were just different forms of the same thing. Then he lifted away, turning his attention out to the street, to the sound of stone and metal wounding and being wounded; and in one quick gesture Nita grabbed the Book of Night with Moon away from Kit and bent her head to read.
An undertow of blinding power and irresistible light poured into her, over her, drowned her deep. She couldn't fight it. She didn't want to. Nita under-stood now the clear-burning transfiguration of Kit's small plain human face and body, for it was not the wizard who read the Book; it was the other way around. The silent Power that had written the Book reached through it now and read what life had written in her body and soul — joys, hopes, fears, and failings all together — then took her intent and read that too, turning it into fact. She was turning the bright pages without even thinking about it, finding the place in the Book that spoke of creation and rebellion and war among the stars — the words that had once before broken the terrible destroying storm01 death and darkness that the angry Starsnuffer had raised to break the ne*' made worlds and freeze the seas where life was growing, an eternity ago. am the wind that troubles the water," Nita said, whispering in the SpeeC"-The whisper smote against the windowed cliffs until they echoed again, anfl the clash and tumult of battle began to grow still as the wind rose at»e naming. "I am the - water, and the waves; I am the shore where the waves bt$ in rainbows; I am the sunlight that shines in the spray—".
The power rose with the rhythms of the old, old words, rose with the wip as all about her the earth and air and waters of the park began to remember what they were—matter and energy, created, indestructible, no matter what darkness lay over them. '7 am the trees that drink the light; I am the air of the green things' breathing; I am the stone that the trees break asunder; I am the molten heart of the world—"
"NO/" came his scream from beyond the wall of trees, hating, raging, desperate. But Nita felt no fear. It was as it had been in the Beginning; all his no's had never been able to stand against life's I Am. All around her trees and stones and flesh and metal burned with the power that burned her, self-awareness, which death can seem to stop but can never keep from happening, no matter how hard it tries. "Where will you go? To what place will you wander?" she asked sorrowfully, or life asked through her, hoping that the lost one might at last be convinced to come back to his allegiance. Of all creatures alive and otherwise, he had been and still was one of the mightiest. If only his stubborn anger would break, his power could be as great for light as for darkness—but it could not happen. If after all these weary eons he still had not realized the hopelessness of his position, that everywhere he went, life was there before him— Still she tried, the ancient words speaking her solemnly. "—in vale or on hilltop, still I am there—"
Silence, silence, except for the rising wind. All things seemed to hold their breath to hear the words; even the dark rider, erect again on his iron steed and bitter of face, ignoring the tumult around him. His eyes were only for Nita, for only her reading held him bound. She tried not to think of him, or of the little time remaining before the Moon went out, and gave herself over wholly to the reading. The words shook the air and the earth, blinding, burning. "—will you sound the sea's depth, or climb the mountain?