Running with the Demon - Terry Brooks [129]
But it was not real to him yet. It was still a dream, and as he traveled farther away from the Fairy Glen and that night, it became steadily more so. He went home to his parents, who were still alive then, to let them know he was well, but would not be staying. He was purposefully vague, and he told them nothing of what had befallen him. He had not been forbidden to do so, but he knew that it would be foolish to speak of it. His parents, whether they believed him or not, would be needlessly worried. Better that they thought him a wanderer still when he left them. Better that they lived without knowing.
So he waited, frozen in time. He tried to envision what his life would be like in service to the Lady. He tried to resolve his doubts and his fears, to settle within himself the feelings of inadequacy that had begun to surface. What could he do, that would make a difference? What would be required of him, that he would be able to respond? Was he strong enough to do what was needed? Was he anything of what the Lady believed?
He waited for her to speak to him, to reveal her purpose for him. She did not. He visited with friends and acquaintances from his past, marking time against an uncertain future. Weeks went by. Still the Lady did not appear. Doubts set in. Had he dreamed it all? Had he imagined her? Or worse, had he mistaken her intent? What if the great purpose he had envisioned, the purpose for which he had searched so long, was a lie?
Doubts turned to mistrust. What if he had been deceived? He was beset by nightmares that woke him shaking and chilled on the hottest nights, sweating and fiery in the coldest of rooms. Something had gone wrong. Perhaps he was not the champion she had been looking for, and she had realized it and abandoned him. Perhaps she had forsaken him entirely.
Strong belief turned slowly to fragile hope, the Lady’s whispered promise echoing through the empty corridors of his mind.
Your way lies through me. I am the road that you must take.
Then the Indian came to him. He was sitting on the bed in his room, alone in the house, his parents gone for the afternoon. He was staring at words on a paper before him, words that he had written in an effort to find reason in what had happened to him, when the door opened and the Indian was standing there.
“I am O’olish Amaneh,” he said quietly.
He was a big man, his skin copper-colored, his hair braided and black, his eyes intense and probing. He wore old army clothes and moccasins and carried a backpack and bedroll. In one massive hand, he gripped a long black staff.
He came into the room and shut the door behind him. “I have come to give you this,” he said, and held out the staff.
Ross stared, saw the sheen of the wood, the rune marks cut into the shiny surface, and the way the light played over both. He sat there on the bed, frozen in place.
“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.