Running With The Demon

CHAPTER 12

Ten minutes later, she was racing up the gravel drive to Robert Heppler's house. Cass Minter was closer, and Nest might have gone to her instead, but Robert was more likely to have what she needed. The Hepplers lived at the end of a private road off Spring Drive on three acres of woodland that bordered the park at its farthest point east, just up from the shores of the Rock River. It was an idyllic setting, a miniature park with great old hardwoods and a lawn that Robert's dad, a chemical engineer by trade but a gardener by avocation, kept immaculate. Robert found his father's devotion to yard work embarrassing. He was fond of saying his father was in long–term therapy to cure his morbid fascination with grass. One day he would wake up and discover he really wasn't Mr. Green Jeans after all.

Nest reached the Heppler property by climbing a split–rail fence on the north boundary and sprinting across the yard to intercept the gravel drive on its way to the house. The house sat large and quiet in front of her, a two–story Cape Cod rambler with weathered shingle–shake sides and white trim. Patterned curtains hung in the windows, and flowers sprouted in an array of colors from wooden window boxes and planters. The bushes were neatly trimmed and the flower beds edged. The wicker porch furniture gleamed. All the gardening and yard tools were put away in the toolshed. Everything was in its place. Robert's house looked just like a Norman Rockwell painting. Robert insisted that one day he would burn it to the ground.

But Nest spared little thought for the Heppler house today, Pick's words and looks weighing heavily on her mind. She had seen Pick worried before, but never like this. She tried not to dwell on how sick the big oak looked, the rugged bark of its trunk split apart and oozing, its roots exposed in the dry, cracked earth, but the image was vivid and gritty in her mind. She raced up the Heppler drive, her shoes churning up the gravel in puffs of dust that hung suspended in the summer heat. Robert's parents would be at work, both of them employed at Allied Industrial, but Robert should be home.

She jumped onto the neatly swept porch, trailing dust and gravel in her wake, rang the doorbell with no perceptible effect, and then banged on the screen impatiently. "Robert!"

She knew he was there; the front door was open to the screen. She heard him finally, a rapid thudding of footsteps on the stairs as he dashed down from his room.

"All right already, I'm coming!" His blond head bobbed into view through the screen. He was wearing a T-shirt that said Microsoft Rules and a pair of jeans. He saw Nest. "What are you doing, banging on the door like that? You think I' m deaf or something?"

"Open the door, Robert!"

He moved to unfasten the lock. "This better be important. I'm right in the middle of downloading a fractal coding system it took me weeks to find on the Net. I just left it sitting there, unprotected. If I lose it, so help me …" His fingers fumbled with the catch. "What are you doing here? I thought you were going swimming with Cass and Brianna. Matter of fact, I think they're waiting for you. Didn't Cass call you at your house? What am I, some sort of messenger service? Why does everything always depend on … Hey!"

She had the screen door open now, and she dragged him outside by his arm. "I need a bag of compost and a bag of softener salt."

He jerked his arm free irritably. "What?"

"Compost and softener salt!"

"What are you talking about? What do you want with those?"

"Do you have them? Can we go look? This is important!"

Robert shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Everything is important to you. That's your problem. Chill out. Be cool. It's summer, in case you hadn't noticed, so you don't have to…"

Nest reached out and took hold of his ears. Her grip was strong and Robert gasped. "Look, Robert, I don't have time for this! I need a bag of compost and a bag of softener salt! Don't make me say it again!"

"All right, all right!" Robert was twisting wildly from the neck down, trying not to move his head or put further pressure on his pinioned ears. His narrow face scrunched up with pain. "Leggo!"

Nest released him and stepped back. "This is important, Robert," she repeated carefully.

Robert rubbed at his injured ears and gave her a rueful look. "You didn't have to do that."

"I'm sorry. But you have a way of bringing out the worst in me."

"You're weird, Nest, you know that?"

"I need some pitch, too."

Robert gave her a look. "How about a partridge in a pear tree while we're at it?"

"Robert."

Robert stepped back guardedly. "Okay, let me go take a look out in the toolshed. I think there's a couple bags of compost stored there. And there's some salt for the conditioner in the basement. Jeez."

They trotted out to the storage shed and found the compost, then returned to the house and went down into the basement, where they found the softener salt. The bags weighed fifty pounds, and it took both of them to haul each one out to the front porch. They were sweating freely when they finished, and Robert was still griping about his ears.

They dropped the compost on top of the softener salt, and Robert kicked at the bags angrily. "You better not grab me like that again, Nest. If you weren't a girl, I'd have decked you."

"Do you have any pitch, Robert?"

Robert put his hands on his narrow hips and glared at her. "What do you think this is, a general store? My dad counts all this stuff, you know. Maybe not the salt, since that doesn't have

anything to do with his precious yard, but the compost for sure. What am I supposed to tell him when he asks me why he's missing a bag?"

"Tell him I borrowed it and I'll replace it." Nest glanced anxiously towards the park. "How about the pitch?"

Robert threw up his hands. "Pitch? What's that for? You mean like for patching roads? Tar? You want tar? Where am I supposed to find that?"

"No, Robert, not tar. Pitch, the kind you use to patch trees."

"Is that what we're doing here? Patching up trees?" Robert looked incredulous. "Are you nuts?"

"Do you have a wagon?" she asked. "You know, an old one from when you were little?"

"No, but I think it might be a good idea to call one for you! You know, the padded kind?" Robert was apoplectic. "Look, I found the compost and the salt, and that's all I…"

"Maybe Cass has one," Nest interrupted. "I'll call her. You go back out to the shed and look for the pitch."

Without waiting for his response, she darted into the house and through the hall and living room to the kitchen phone, the screen door banging shut behind her. She felt trapped. It was hard knowing what she did of the park and of its creatures and their magic and never being able to speak of it to her friends. But what if they knew? What would happen if the maentwrog were to break free of its prison? Something that terrible would be too obvious to miss, wouldn't it? Not like the feeders or Pick or even Wraith. What would that do to the barrier of secrecy that separated the human and forest–creature worlds?

She dialed the phone, chewing nervously on her lower lip. This was all taking too much time. Cass picked up on the second ring. Nest told her friend what she needed, and Cass said she would be right down. Good old Cass, Nest thought as she hung up the phone. No questions, no arguments–just do it. She went back outside and sat on the porch waiting for Robert. He reappeared a few moments later with a bucket of something labeled Tree Seal that he said he thought would do the trick. He'd found an old stirring stick and a worn brush to apply the contents. He dumped them on the ground and sat down beside her on the steps. Neither of them said anything, staring out into the shaded yard and the heat. Somewhere down the way, off toward Woodlawn, they could hear the music of an ice–cream truck.

"You know, I would have been all right yesterday," Robert said finally, his voice stubborn. "I'm not afraid of Danny Abbott. I'm not afraid to fight him." He scuffed at the porch step with his shoe. "But thanks, anyway, for doing whatever it was you did."

"I didn't do anything," she told him.

"Yeah, sure." Robert smirked.

"Well, I didn't."

"I was there, Nest. Remember?"

"He tripped over himself." She smoothed the skin on her knees with the palms of her hands, looking down at her feet. "I didn't touch him. You saw."

Robert didn't say anything. He hunched forward and buried his face in his knees. "All I know is I'd rather have you for a friend than an enemy." He peeked up at her and rubbed his reddened ears gingerly. "So we're off to patch up a tree, are we? Jeez. What a treat. Good thing I like you, Nest."

A few minutes later Cass arrived with Brianna, pulling a small, red metal wagon. They loaded the softener salt, compost, and bucket of Tree Seal into the bed and headed back down the drive, Nest and Robert pulling the wagon, Cass and Brianna helping to balance its load. They followed the road out to Spring, then turned down Spring until they reached Mrs. Eberhardt's blacktop drive, which ran back through her lot to her garage at the edge of the park. They were halfway down the drive when Alice Eberhardt appeared, yelling at them for trespassing on private property. This was nothing new. Mrs. Eberhardt yelled at every kid who cut through her yard, and there were a lot of them. Robert said it was Mrs. Eberhardt's fault for providing them with a shortcut in the first place. He assured her now, giving her his "don't mess with me" look, that this was an emergency, so the law was on their side. Mrs. Eberhardt, who was a retired insurance adjuster and convinced that all kids were looking to get into trouble, but especially the ones in her yard, shouted back that she knew who Robert was and she was going to speak to his parents. Robert said she should call the house before seven, because his father was still doing nights in jail until the end of the month and his mother would probably go off to visit him after dinner.

They reached the end of the driveway, detoured around the garage to the back of the lot, and set off into the park. The woods began immediately, so they moved to the nearest trail and followed it in.

"You are really asking for it, Robert," Brianna observed, but there was a hint of admiration in her voice.

"Hey, this is how I look at it." Robert cocked his head, a savvy bantam rooster. "Each day is a new chance to get into trouble. I don't ever pass up those kinds of chances. You know why? Because even when I don't go out of the house, I get into trouble. Don't ask me why. It's a gift. So what's the difference if I get into trouble at Mrs. Eberhardt's or at home? It's all relative." He gave Brianna a smirk. "Besides, getting into trouble, is fun. You should try it sometime."

They worked their way deeper into the woods, the heat and the silence growing. The sounds of the neighborhood faded. Gnats flew at them in clouds. "Yuck." Brianna grimaced.

"Just a little additional protein for your diet," Robert cracked, licking at the air with his tongue.

"What are we doing out here?" Cass asked Nest, plodding along dutifully, one hand balancing the sacks of salt and compost in the swaying wagon.

Nest spit out a bug. "There's a big oak that's not looking too good. I'm going to see what I can do to help it."

"With salt and compost?" Robert was incredulous. "Tree Seal, I can see. But salt and compost? Anyway, why are you doing this? Don't they have people who work for the parks who are supposed to patch up sick trees?"

The trail narrowed and the ground roughened. The wagon began to bounce and creak. Nest steered around a large hole. "I tried getting hold of someone, but they're all off for the Fourth of July weekend," she improvised.

"But how do you know what to do?" Cass pressed, looking doubtful as well.

"Yeah, have you nursed other sick trees back to health?" Robert asked with his trademark smirk.

"I watched Grandpa once. He showed me." Nest shrugged dismissively and pushed on.

Fortunately, no one asked her for details. They worked their way along the trail through the weeds and scrub, swatting at bugs and brushing aside nettles, hot and miserable in the damp heat. Nest began to feel guilty for forcing her friends to come. She could probably handle this alone, now that she had the wagon and the supplies. Robert could go back to his computer and Cass and Brianna could go swimming. Besides, what would she do about Pick?

"You don't have to come any farther," she said finally, glancing over her shoulder at them, tugging on the wagon handle. "You can head back. I can manage."

"Forget it!" Robert snapped. "I want to see this sick tree."

Cass nodded in agreement. "Me, too. Anyway, this is more fun than doing hair." She gave Brianna a wry glance.

"Is it much farther?" Brianna asked, stepping gingerly around a huge thistle.

Five minutes later, they reached their destination. They pulled the wagon into the clearing and stood looking at the tree in awe. Nest wasn't sure if any of them had ever seen it before. She hadn't brought them herself, so maybe they hadn't. Whatever the case, she was certain from the looks on their faces that they would never forget it.

"Wow," whispered Robert. Uncharacteristically, he was otherwise at a loss for words.

"That is the biggest oak tree I have ever seen," Cass said, gazing up into its darkened branches. "The biggest."

"You know what?" Robert said. "When they made that tree, they threw away the mold."

"Mother Nature, you mean," Cass said.

"God," Brianna said.

"Whoever," Robert said.

Nest was already moving away from them, ostensibly to take a closer look at the oak, but really to find Pick. There was no sign of him anywhere.

"Look at the way the bark is split," said Cass. "Nest was right. This tree is really sick."

"Something bad has gotten inside of it," Brianna declared, taking a tentative step forward. "See that stuff oozing out of the sores?"

"Maybe it's only sap," said Robert.

"Maybe pigs fly at night." Cass gave him a look.

Nest rounded the tree on its far side, listening to the silence, to the murmur of her friends' voices, to the rustle of the feeders lurking in the shadows back where they couldn't be seen. She glanced left and right, seeing the feeders, but not Pick. Irritation shifted to concern. What if something had happened to him? She glanced at the tree, afraid suddenly that the damage was more extensive than they had believed, that somehow the creature trapped within was already loose. Heat and fear closed about her.

"Hey, Nest!" Robert called out. "What are we supposed to do, now that we're here?"

She was searching for an answer when Pick dropped from the tree's branches onto her shoulder, causing her to start in spite of herself. "Pick!" she gasped, exhaling sharply.

"Took you long enough," he huffed, ignoring her. "Now listen up, and I'll tell you what to do."

He gave Nest a quick explanation, then disappeared again. Nest walked back around the tree, gathered her friends together, and told them what was needed. For the next half hour they worked to carry out her instructions. Robert was given the Tree Seal to apply to the splits in the trunk, and he used the stirring stick and brush to slap the pitchlike material into place in thick gobs. Cass and Brianna spread the compost over the exposed roots and cracks, dumping it in piles and raking it in with their hands. Nest took the conditioner salt and poured it on the ground in a thin line that encircled the tree some twenty–five feet out from its base. When Robert asked what she was doing, she told him she was using the salt to protect the tree from a particularly deadly form of wood bore that was causing the sickness. The pitch would heal the sores, the compost would feed the roots, and the salt would keep other wood bores from finding their way back to the tree. It wasn't true, of course, but it sounded good.

When they were done, they stood together for a time surveying their handiwork. Robert gave his theory on tree bores, some wild concoction he said he had picked up on the Internet, and Brianna gave her theory on Robert. Then Cass allowed as how standing there looking at the tree was like watching grass grow, Brianna complained about being hot and thirsty, and Robert remembered the program he was downloading on his computer. It was not yet midafternoon, so there was still time to go swimming. But Nest told them she was tired and thought she would go home instead. Robert snorted derisively and called her a wimp and Cass and Brianna suggested they could just hang out. But Nest persisted, needing to be alone with Pick, distracted by thoughts of the maentwrog and tonight's meeting with Two Bears. The lie felt awkward, and she added to her discomfort by saying that Gran had asked her to do some additional chores around the house. She promised to meet them the following day in the park by the Indian mounds after church services and lunch.

"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 else, am I? I'm a human, but I can do magic.! can see the feeders when no one else can. I know about this other world, this world that you come from, that no one else knows about. Don't you get it? I'm just like that tree, a part of two worlds and two lives–but I don't feel like I really belong in either one."

She took him off her shoulder and held him in the palm of her hand, close to her face. "Look at me, Pick. I don't like being confused like this. I don't like feeling like I don't belong. People look at me funny; even if they don't know for sure, they sense I'm not like them. Even my friends. I try not to let it bother me, but it does sometimes. Like right now." She felt the tears start, and she forced them down. "So, you know, it might help if I knew something about myself, even if it was just that I was right about God and the Word being the same. Even if it was only that, so I could know that I'm not parts of different things slapped together, not something totally weird, but that I was made whole and complete to be just the way I am!"

Pick looked uncomfortable. "Criminy, Nest, I don't have any special insight into how people get made. You don't seem weird to me, but I'm a sylvan, so maybe my opinion doesn't count."

She tightened her mouth. "Maybe it counts for more than you think."

He gave an elaborate sigh, tugged momentarily on his mossy beard, and fixed her with his fierce gaze. "I don't like these kinds of conversations, so let's dispense with the niceties. You pay attention to me. You asked if I believe God and the Word are the same. I do. You can call the Word by any name you choose-God, Mohammed, Buddha, Mother Nature, or Daniel the Owl; it doesn't change anything. They're all one, and that one made everything, you included. So I wouldn't give much credence to the possibility that you were slapped together and modified along the way by a handful of dissatisfied deities. I don't know why you turned out the way you did, but I'm pretty sure it was done for a reason and that you were made all of a piece."

His brows knit. "If you want to worry about something, I don't think it should be about whether you owe your existence to God or the Word or whoever. I think you should worry about what's expected of you now that you're here and how you're going to keep from being a major disappointment."

She shook her head in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Just this. Everything that exists has a counterpart. The Word is only half of the equation, Nest. The Void is the other half. The Word and the Void–one a creator, one a destroyer, one good, one evil. They're engaged in a war and they've been fighting it since the beginning of time. One seeks to maintain life's balance; the other seeks to upset it. We're all a part of that struggle because what's at risk is our own lives. The balance isn't just out there in the world around us; it's inside us as well. And the good that's the Word and the evil that's the Void is inside us, too. Inside us, each working to gain the upper hand over the other, each working to find a way to overcome the other."

He paused, studying her. "You already understand that you aren't like most people. You're special. You have one foot firmly planted in each of two worlds, forest creature and human. There're not many like you. Like I've said, there's a reason for this, just like there's a reason for everything. Don't you think for a minute that the Void doesn't realize this. You have a presence and a power. You have a purpose. The Void would like to see all that turned to his use. You may think you are a good person and that nothing could change that. But you haven't been tested yet. Not really. You haven't been exposed to the things in life that might change you into something you wouldn't even recognize. Sooner or later, that's going to happen. Maybe sooner, given the amount of unrest among the feeders. Something is going on, Nest. You better concentrate your concerns on that. You better be on your guard."

There was a long silence when he finished as she digested the implications of his admonition. He stood rigid in her hand, arms folded across his wooden chest, mouth set in a tight line, eyes bright with challenge. He was trying to tell her something, she realized suddenly. His words had more than one meaning; his warning was about something else. A sense of uneasiness crept through her, a shadow of deep uncertainty. She found herself thinking back on the past few days, on Ben–nett Scott's rescue from the cliffs, on the maentwrog's emergence from its prison, and on the increased presence and boldness of the feeders. Did it have to do with these?

What was Pick trying to say?

She knew she would not find out today. She had seen that look on his face before, stubborn and irascible. He was done talking.

She felt suddenly drained and worn. She lowered Pick to the ground, waited impatiently for him to step out of her hand, and then stood up again. "I'm going home after all," she told him. "I'll see you tonight."

Without waiting for his reply, she turned and walked off into the trees.

She didn't go home, however. Instead, she walked through the park, angling down off the heights to the bayou's edge and following the riverbank west. She took her time, letting her emotions settle, giving herself a chance to think through the things that were bothering her. She could put a voice to some of them, but not yet to all. What troubled her was a combination of what had already come about and what she sensed was yet to happen. The latter was not a premonition exactly–more an unpleasant whisper of possibility. The day was hot and still, and the sun beat down out of the cloudless sky on its slow passage west. The park was silent and empty–feeling, and even the voices of the picnickers seemed distant and subdued. As if everyone was waiting for what she anticipated. As if everyone knew it was coming.

She passed below the toboggan slide and above a pair of young boys fishing off the bank by the skating shelter. She glanced up the long, straight, wooden sluice to the tower where the sledders began their runs in winter, remembering the feeling of shooting down toward the frozen river, gathering speed for the launch onto the ice. Inside she felt as if it were happening to her now in another way, as if she were racing toward something vast and broad and slick, and that once she, reached it she would be out of control.

The afternoon wore on. She looked for feeders, but did not see any. She looked for Daniel and did not see him either. She remembered that she had forgotten to ask Pick if he was making any progress in the search for Bennett Scott's cat, Spook. Leaves threw dappled shadows on the ground she walked across, and she imagined faces and shapes in their patterns. She found herself wondering about her father and her mother, both such mysterious figures in her life, so removed in time, almost mythical. She thought of Gran and her stubborn refusal to speak of them in any concrete way. A cold, hard determination grew inside her. She would make Gran tell her, she promised herself. She would force her to speak.

She walked to the base of the cliffs, staying back from where the caves tunneled into the rock. Pick had told her never to go there. He had made her promise. It wasn't safe for her, he insisted. It didn't matter that other kids explored the caves regularly and no harm came to them. Other kids couldn't see the feeders. Other kids didn't have use of the magic. She was at risk, and she must keep away.

She shook her head as she turned and began to walk up the roadway that led to the bluff. There it was again, she thought. The realization that she was different. Always different.

She reached the heights and turned toward the cemetery. She thought she might visit her mother's grave. She had a sudden need to do so, a need to connect in some small way with her lost past. She crossed the road in front of the Indian mounds and turned in to the trees. The sun burned white–hot in the afternoon sky, its glare blinding her as she walked into it. She squinted and shaded her eyes with her hand.

Ahead, someone moved in the blaze of light.

She slowed in a patch of shade and tried to see who it was. At first she thought it was Two Bears, returned early for tonight's visit. But then she saw it was a man in forest green coveralls, a maintenance employee of the park. He was picking up trash with a metal–tipped stick and depositing it into a canvas bag. She hesitated, then continued on. As she approached, he turned and looked at her.

"Hot one, isn't it?" His bland face was smooth and expressionless, and his blue eyes were so pale they seemed almost devoid of color.

She nodded and smiled uncertainly.

"Off for a visit to the cemetery?" he asked.

"My mother is buried there," she told him, stopping now.

The man placed the sharp tip of the stick against the ground and rested his hands on the butt. "Hard thing to lose a mother. She been gone a long time?"

"Since I was a baby."

"Yeah, that's a long time, all right. You know, I hardly remember mine anymore."

Nest thought momentarily to tell him about the big oak, but then decided there was nothing he could do in any case, that it was better off in Pick's capable hands.

"You still got your father?" the man asked suddenly.

Nest shook her head. "I live with my grandparents."

The man looked sad. "Not the same as having a father, is it? Old folks like that aren't likely to be around for too much longer, so you got to start learning to depend pretty much on yourself. But then you start to wonder if you're up to the job. Think about one of these trees. It's old and rugged. It hasn't really ever had to depend on anyone. But then along comes a logger and cuts it down in minutes. What can it do? You catch my drift?"

She looked at him, confused.

The man glanced at the sky. "The weather's not going to change for a while yet. Are you coming out for the fireworks Monday?"

She nodded.

"Good. Should be something. Fourth of July is always something." His smile was vaguely mocking. "Maybe I'll see you there."

She was suddenly uneasy. Something about the man upset her. She wanted to move away from him. She was thinking that it was getting close to dinnertime anyway and she should be getting home. She would visit her mother's grave that evening instead, when it was cool and quiet.

"I've got to be going," she said perfunctorily.

The man looked at her some more, saying nothing. She forced herself to smile at him and turned away. Already the shadows of the big trees were lengthening. She went quickly, impelled by her discomfort.

She did not look back, and so she did not see the man's strange eyes turn hard and cold and fixed of purpose as he watched her go.

When Nest Freemark was safely out of sight, the demon hoisted the canvas sack and stick over his shoulder and began walking. He crossed the roadway to the Indian mounds and angled down toward the river, whistling softly to himself. Keeping within the shelter of the trees, he worked his way steadily east through the park. The light was pale and gray where the hillside blocked the sun, the shadows deep and pooled. Afternoon ball games were winding down and picnickers were heading home. The demon smiled and continued on.

Richie Stoudt was waiting at the toboggan slide, seated at one of the picnic tables, staring out at the river. The demon was almost on top of him before Richie realized he was there. Richie leaped up then, grinning foolishly, shaking his head.

"Hey, how's it going?" he sputtered. "Didn't hear you come up. Been waiting though, just like you said to do. Got your message all right. Finished up at the Prestons' and came right over."

The demon nodded, smiled, and kept walking. "Let's get started then."

"Sure, sure." Richie was right on his heels. He was small and wiry, and his thin face peeked out from under a mop of unruly dark hair. He was wearing coveralls over a blue denim shirt and high–top work boots, everything looking ragged and worn. "Didn't know you worked for the park, I guess," he said, trying to make conversation. "Pretty steady hours and all, I suppose. You sure this is all right, this late in the day and all? What is it we're doing, anyway?"

The demon didn't answer. Instead, he led Richie east into the big trees beyond the pavilion toward the slope that ran down to the little creek. The air was hot and still beneath the canopy of branches, and the mosquitoes were beginning to come out in swarms. Richie slapped at them irritably.

"Hate these things," he muttered. When the demon failed to respond, he said, "You said this would pay pretty well and I might have a chance to catch on with the city? That right?"

"Right as rain," the demon replied, not bothering to look at him.

"Well, all right, that's great, just great!" Richie sounded enthused. "I mean, I don't know if that damn strike is ever gonna get settled, and I need me something secure."

They descended the slope to the creek, crossed the wooden bridge, and began to climb the opposite embankment toward the deep woods. In the distance, the bayou was as flat and gray as hammered tin. Richie continued to mutter about the mosquitoes and the heat, and the demon continued to ignore him. They crested the rise, following the path that Nest and Pick had taken earlier, and moments later they were standing in front of the big oak. The demon glanced about cautiously, but there was no sign of anyone except the feeders, who had followed them every step of the way and crouched now at the edge of the clearing, their eyes glimmering watchfully.

"Whoa, will you look at that!" Richie exclaimed, staring up at the sickened tree. "That guy looks like a goner!"

"That's what we're here to determine," the demon explained, his bland face expressionless.

Richie nodded eagerly. "All right. Just tell me what to do."

The demon dropped the canvas sack and took a new grip on the metal–tipped stick. He put his free hand on Richie's shoulder. "Just walk over here to the trunk with me for a moment," he said softly.

The shadows were deep and pervasive as they moved forward, the demon keeping his hand on Richie Stoudt's shoulder. When they were right next to the massive trunk, the demon took his hand away.

"Look up into the branches," he said

Richie did so, peering intently into the shadows. "I can't see anything. Not in this light."

"Step a little closer. Put your face right up against the trunk."

Richie glanced at him uncertainly, then did as he was told, pressing his cheek against the rough bark, staring up into the branches. "I still can't…"

The demon drove the pointed end of his stick through Richie's neck with a furious lunge. Richie gasped in shock and pain as his windpipe and larynx shattered. He tried to cry out, but his voice box was gone and the blood pouring down his throat was choking him. His fingers clawed at the tree as if to tear the bark away, and his eyes bulged. He thrashed wildly, trying to break free, but the demon pressed firmly on the wooden shaft, keeping Richie pinned, watching the dark blood spurt from his ruptured throat.

Feeders raced from among the trees and began throwing themselves on Richie, tearing at his convulsed body, beating past his futile efforts to protect himself, anxious to taste his pain and fear.

Then the bark of the tree, wet with Richie's blood, began to split apart in long, ragged fissures, and parts of Richie were drawn into the cracks. His hands and knees went first, pressing into the trunk as if into soft mud as he struggled to escape. His scream of horror came out a strangled cough, and then more of him was sucked slowly, relentlessly from view. When his head was swallowed, all sound ceased. The demon yanked free his pointed stick and stood watching as Richie's back bucked and heaved in a last futile effort to break free.

A moment later, Richie Stoudt was gone completely. The feeders melted back into the night.

The demon waited for a time, watching as the tree began to ooze what it didn't want of Richie, the bark splitting further and deeper as the blood offering did its work. Within its prison, the maentwrog was feasting, gaining the strength it needed to break free, readying itself for the demon's summons.

The demon looked down. One of Richie's work boots lay on the ground. The demon reached down and picked it up. He would carry it to the riverbank where the water turned rough above the dam and leave it where it could be found. Let people draw their own conclusions.

Humming, he collected his canvas sack and disappeared back into the trees.