A Knight Of The Word

He rose now and picked up the black staff from where it lay beside the bed. He limped over to the window, leaning heavily on the staff, and stood for a time looking down at the street. He was in Portland. He had come down on the train early this morning and spent the day walking the riverfront and the streets of the city. When he was so tired he could no longer stay awake, he had taken this room.

Thoughts of Stefanie Winslow crowded suddenly into the forefront of his mind. He let them push forward, unhindered. Less painful now than yesterday, they would be less painful still tomorrow. It was odd, but he still thought of her as human, maybe because it made thinking of her at all more bearable. Memories of a year’s time spent with someone you loved couldn’t be expunged all at once. The memories, he found, were bittersweet and haunting. They marked a rite of passage he could not ignore. If not for Stefanie, he would have no sense of what his life might have been were he not a Knight of the Word. And in an odd sort of wy, he was better off for knowing. It gave him perspective on the worth of what he was doing by revealing what he had given up.

He studied the empty street as if it held answers he could not otherwise find. He might have been a decent sort of man in an ordinary life. He might have done well over the years working with Simon Lawrence on the programs at Fresh Start and Pass/Go. He might have made a difference in the lives of other people.

But never the kind of difference he would make as a Knight of the Word.

His eyes drifted from empty doorway to empty doorway, through shadows and lights. He had been wrong in thinking that successes alone were the measure of his worth in the Word’s service. He had been wrong in fleeing his mistakes as if they marked him a failure. It was not as simple as that. All men and women experienced successes and failures, and their tally at death was not necessarily determinative of ones worth in life. This was true, as well, for a Knight of the Word. It was trying that mattered more. It was the giving of effort and heart that lent value. It was the making of sacrifices. Ray Hapgood had said it best. Someone has to take responsibility. Someone has to be there.

That was the real reason he was a Knight of the Word.

Such a hard lesson, in retrospect, but Stefanie Winslow had taught him well the price for not understanding it.

He thought back to last night. When he left Nest, he had gone back up to the apartment to write Simon a short note of explanation and a letter of authorisation for transfer of the misplaced funds. He had packed his duffel bag, then packed Stefanie’s suitcases, removing everything of a personal nature from the apartment. Tossing the wooden desk chair out the window to provide an explanation for the glass breakage had been an afterthought. He had taken the note and authorisation, put them in an envelope, and carried them over to Pass/Go.

Then he had gone down to the train station with his duffel and Stefanie’s bags in hand to wait for the six-ten commuter. When he reached Portland, he disembarked and dumped Stefanie’s bags in a Dumpster not a block away from the station.

He turned away from the window and looked around the little room. He wondered how Nest Freemark was doing. She had come to Seattle to help him, to give him a chance he might not otherwise have gotten, and it had cost her a great deal. He was sorry for that, but he did not think it his fault. The Lady had sent her, knowing to some extent the likely result. The Lady had planed her in a dangerous situation, knowing she would be forced to use her magic and would discover the truth about Wraith. It would have happened at another time in another place if not here. And it had saved his life. It did not make him feel better knowing this. But recognising truths seldom achieved that result anyway.

He thought about how much alike they were, both of them gifted with magic that dominated their lives, both of them pressed into service by an entity they would never fully understand or perhaps ever satisfy. They were outsiders in a world that lacked any real comprehension of their service, and they would struggle on mostly alone and largely unappreciated until their lives were ended.

There was one glaring difference, of course. In his case, the choice to be what he was had been his. In hers, it had not.

He went into the bathroom, showered and shaved, and came out again and dressed in the light of the bedside lamp. When he was finished, he packed his duffel bag, He went downstairs to the lobby, dropped his key on the desk, and walked out.

Sunrise was brightening the eastern sky, a faint, soft glow against the departing night. The day was just beginning. By nightfall. John Ross would be in another town, looking to make a change in the way the world was going. His dreams would begin to tell him again what he could do that would make a difference.

It wasn’t the worst sort of way to live one’s life. In his case, he concluded hopefully, perhaps it was the best.