Running with the Demon - Terry Brooks [42]
Then suddenly the man rose, picked up his knapsack and bedroll, and came toward Nest. Nest was so surprised she did not even have the presence of mind to think of running away. She sat there, frozen in place as he approached. She could see his face clearly now, his heavy, prominent features — dark brows, flat nose, and wide cheekbones. He moved with the grace and ease of a younger man, but the lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth suggested he was much older.
He sat down across from her without a word, depositing his belongings on the bench beside him. She realized suddenly that Pick had disappeared.
“Why are you looking at me?” he said. She tried to speak, but nothing came out. He didn’t sound or look angry, but his face and voice were hard to read. “Cat got your tongue?” he pressed. She cleared her throat and swallowed. “I was wondering if you were an Indian.”
He stared at her without expression. “You mean Native American, don’t you?”
She bit her lower lip and blushed. “Sorry. Native American.” He smiled, a tight, thin compression of his lips. “I suppose it doesn’t matter what you call me. Native American. Indian. Redskin. The words of themselves do not define me. No more so than your histories do my people.” The dark eyes squinted at her. “Who are you?”
“Nest Freemark,” she told him.
“Huh, little bird’s Nest, crafted of twigs and bits of string. Do you live nearby?”
She nodded, then glanced over her shoulder. “At the edge of the park. Why did you call me ‘bird’s Nest’ like that?”
The dark eyes bore into her. “Isn’t that what you were called when you were little?”
“By my grandmother, a long time ago. Then by some of the kids in school, when they wanted to tease me.” She held his gaze. “How did you know?”
“I do magic,” he told her in a whisper. “Don’t you?” She stared at him, not knowing what to say. “Sometimes.” He nodded. “A girl named Nest is bound to be called ‘bird’s Nest’ by someone. Doesn’t take much to figure that out. But ‘Nest’ — that is a name that has power. It has a history in the world, a presence.”
Nest nodded. “It is Welsh. The woman who bore it first was the wife and mother of Welsh and English kings.” She was surprised at how freely she was talking with the man, almost as if she knew him already.
“You have a good name, Nest. My name is Two Bears. I was given my name by my father, who on seeing me, newly born and quite large, declared, ‘He is as big as two bears!’ So I was called afterward, although that is not my Indian name. In the language of my people, my name is O’olish Amaneh.”
“O’olish Amaneh,” Nest repeated carefully. “Where do you come from, Two Bears?”
“First we must shake hands to mark the beginning of our friendship, little bird’s Nest,” he declared. “Then we can speak freely.”
He motioned for Nest to extend her hand, and then he clasped it firmly in his own. His hand was as hard and coarse as rusted iron.
“Good. Because of your age, we will skip the part that involves smoking a peace pipe.” He did not smile or change expression. “You ask me where I come from. I come from everywhere. I have lived a lot of places. But this” — he gestured about him — “is my real home.”
“You’re from Hopewell?” Nest said dubiously.
“No. But my people are of this land, of the Rock River Valley, from before Hopewell. They have all been dead a long time, my people, but sometimes I come back to visit them. They are buried just over there.” He pointed toward the Indian mounds. “I was born in Springfield. That was a long time ago, too. How old do you think I am?”
He waited, but she could only shake her head. “I don’t know.”
“Fifty-two,” he said