Running with the Demon - Terry Brooks [67]
“Hey, whatever.” Robert shrugged, failing to hide his irritation and resentment.
“Call you tonight,” Cass promised.
She picked up the handle of the wagon and trudged off, with Brianna and Robert trailing after. More than once her friends glanced back at her. She could read the questions in their eyes. She stared after them, unable to look away, feeling selfish and deceitful.
When they were out of sight, she called softly for Pick. The sylvan appeared at her feet, and she reached down, picked him up, and set him on her shoulder.
“Will any of this help?” she asked, gesturing vaguely at the tree, struggling to submerge her feelings.
“Might,” he answered. “But it’s a temporary cure at best. The problem lies with a shifting in the balance. The magic that wards the tree is being shredded. I have to find out why.”
They stood without speaking for a time, studying the big oak, as if by doing so they might heal it by strength of will alone. Nest felt hot and itchy from the heat and exertion, but there was a deeper discomfort working inside her. Her eyes traced the outline of the tree against the sky. It was so massive and old, a great, crooked-arm giant frozen in time. How many years had it been alive? she wondered. How much of the land’s history had it witnessed? If it could speak, what would it tell her?
“Do you think the Word made this tree?” she asked Pick suddenly.
The sylvan shrugged. “I suppose, so.”
“Because the Word made everything, right?” She paused. “What does the Word look like?”
Pick looked at her.
“Is the Word the same as God, do you think?”
Pick looked at her some more.
“Well, you don’t think there’s more than one God, do you?”, Nest began to rush her words. “I mean, you don’t think that the Word and God and Mother Nature are all different beings? You don’t think they’re all running around making different things — like God makes humans and the Word makes forest creatures and Mother Nature makes trees? Or that Allah is responsible for one race and one part of the world and Buddha is responsible for some others? You don’t think that, do you?”
Pick stared.
“Because all these different countries and all these different races have their own version of God. Their religions teach j them who their God is and what He believes. Sometimes the I different versions even hold similar beliefs. But no one can agree on whose God is the real God. Everyone insists that everyone else is wrong. But unless there is more than one God, what difference does it make? If there’s only one God and He made everything, then what is the point of arguing over whether to call Him God or the Word or whatever? It’s like arguing over who owns the park. The park is for everyone.”
“Are you having some sort of identity crisis?” Pick asked solemnly.
“No. I just want to know what you believe.”
Pick sighed. “I believe creatures like me are thoroughly misunderstood and grossly underappreciated. I also believe it doesn’t matter what I believe.”
“It matters to me.”
Pick shrugged.
Nest stared at her feet. “I think you are being unreasonable.”
“What is the point of this conversation?” Pick demanded irritably.
“The point is, I want to know who made me.” Nest took a deep breath to steady herself. “I want to know just that one thing. Because I’m sick and tired of being different and not knowing why. The tree and I are alike in a way. The tree is not what it seems. It might have grown from a seedling a long, long time ago, but it’s been infused with magic that imprisons the maentwrog. Who made it that way? Who decided? The Word or God or Mother Nature? So then I think, What about me? Who made me? I’m not like anyone