Running with the Demon - Terry Brooks [96]
She didn’t answer. Instead, she broke into a fast trot, jogging swiftly down the service road and past the nearest backstop, then cutting across the ball diamond toward the cliffs and the river. The humid night air whipped past her face as her feet flew across the newly mowed grass. She ran as if she were being chased, arms and legs churning, chest expanding and contracting with deep, regular breaths, blood racing through her in a hot pulse. Pick gave a surprised gasp and hung on to her T-shirt to keep from falling off. Nest could hear him muttering as she ran, his voice swept away by the rush of the air whipping past her ears. She disappeared into herself, into the motion of her arms and legs, into the pounding of her heart. She covered the open ground of the ball fields and the playgrounds, crossed the main roadway, hurdled the chain dividers, and darted into the trees that fronted the burial mounds. She ran with fury and discontent, thinking suddenly that she might not stop, that she might just keep on going, running through the park and beyond, running until there was nowhere left to go.
But she didn’t. She reached the picnic benches across the road from the burial mounds and slowed, winded and shot through with the heat of her exertion, but calm again as well, distanced momentarily from her frustration and doubt. Pick was yapping at her like a small, angry dog, but she ignored him, looking about for Two Bears and the spirits of the dead Sinnissippi. She glanced down at her wristwatch. It was almost midnight, and he was nowhere in sight. The burial mounds were dark and silent against the starry backdrop of the southern horizon where moonlight spilled from the heavens. The park was empty-feeling and still. Nothing moved or showed itself. Even the feeders were nowhere to be seen.
A trace of wood smoke wafted on the still air, pungent and invisible.
“Where is he?” she asked softly, turning slowly in the, humid dark, eyes flicking left and right, heart pounding. “Here, little bird’s Nest,” his familiar voice answered, and she jumped at the sound of it. He was standing right in front of her, so close she might j have reached out to touch him if she had wished to do so. He had materialized out of nowhere, out of the heat and the night, i out of the ether. He was stripped to the waist, to his baggy pants and worn army boots, and he had painted his face, arms, and chest in a series of intricate black stripes. His long hair was still braided, but now a series of feathers hung from it. If he had seemed big to her before, he looked huge now, the coppery skin of his massive chest and arms gleaming behind the bars of paint, his blunt features chiseled by shadows and light.
“So you’ve come,” he said softly, looking down at her with curious eyes. “And you’ve brought your shy little friend.”
“This is Pick.” She introduced the sylvan, who was sitting up straight on her shoulder, eyeing the big man.
“Charmed,” Pick snapped, sounding anything but. “How come you can see me when no one else can?”
The smile flashed briefly on Two Bears’ face. “Indian magic.” He looked at Nest. “Are you ready?”
She took a deep breath. “I don’t know. What’s going to happen?”
“What I have told you will happen. I will summon the spirits of the Sinnissippi and they will appear. Maybe they will speak with us. Maybe not.”
She nodded. “Is that why you’re dressed like that?” He looked down at himself. “Like this? Oh, I see. You’re afraid I might be wearing war paint, that I might be preparing to ride out into the night and collect a few paleface scalps.” She gave him a reproving frown. “I was just asking.”
“I dress like this because I will dance with the spirits if they let me. I will become for a few brief moments one with them.” He paused. “Would you like to join me?”
She considered the possibility of dancing with the dead Sinnissippi. “I don’t know. Can I ask you something, O’olish Amaneh?”
He smiled anew on hearing his Indian name. “You can ask me anything.”
“Do you think the spirits would tell me who my father