Running with the Demon - Terry Brooks [39]
She was nearing the hedgerow, listening to the sounds of the softball games in progress on the other side, when she glanced left into the Peterson backyard and saw the feeders. There were two of them, hiding in the lilac bushes close by the compost heap that Annie Peterson used on her vegetable garden. They were watching Nest, staring out at her with their flat, expressionless eyes, all but invisible in the approaching twilight. Their boldness frightened her. It was as if they were lying in wait for her, hoping to catch her off-guard. They were implacable and relentless, and the certainty of what they would do to her if they had the chance was unnerving. Nest veered toward them, irritated anew by the feelings they aroused in her. It was getting so she couldn’t go anywhere without seeing them.
The feeders blinked once as she neared, then simply faded away into the shadows.
Nest stared into the empty gloom and shivered. The feeders were like vultures, waiting to dispose of whatever leavings they could scavenge. Except that feeders were only interested in the living.
She thought back to what Pick had told her years ago when she had asked about the feeders. Her grandmother had avoided the subject for as long as Nest could remember, but Pick was more than willing to address it.
“Your grandmother won’t talk about them? Won’t say a single word about them? Not a single word? Well, now. Well, indeed!” He’d scrunched up his moss-bearded face and scratched at the side of his head as if to help free up thoughts trapped in his cranium. “All right, then, listen up. First off, you need to understand that feeders are an anomaly. You know what that word means, don’t you?”
Since she’d been only eight at the time, she hadn’t the slightest idea. “Not really,” she’d said.
“Criminy, your education is a mess! Don’t you ever read?”
“You don’t read,” she’d pointed out.
“That’s different. I don’t have to read. I don’t need it in my line of work. But you, why, you should be reading volumes of...”
“What does anoma-whatever mean?” she’d pressed, unwilling to wait through the entirety of Pick’s by-now-familiar lecture on the plight of today’s undereducated youth.
He had stopped in midsentence, harrumphed disapprovingly at her impatience, and cleared his throat. “Anomaly. It means ‘peculiar.’ It means ‘different.’ It means feeders are hard to classify. You know that guessing game you used to play? The one where you start by asking, ‘Animal, mineral, or vegetable?’ Well, that’s the kind of game you have to play when you try to figure out what feeders are. Except feeders aren’t any of these things, and at the same time they’re all of them, because what they are is determined to a large extent by what you are.” She’d stared at him blankly.
He’d frowned then, apparently deciding that his explanation was lacking. “Let’s start at the beginning,” he’d declared, scooting closer to her atop the picnic table in her backyard.
She’d leaned forward so that her chin was resting on her hands and her eyes were level with his. It was late on a spring‘ afternoon, and the leaves of the trees were rustling with the wind’s passing, and clouds were drifting across the sun like cottony caterpillars, casting dappled shadows that wriggled and squirmed.
“Feeders,” he’d said, deepening his voice meaningfully, “don’t come in different sizes and shapes and colors. They don’t hardly have any faces at all. They’re not like other