A Knight Of The Word

The silken white image floated onto the trailhead, and Nest Freemark dutifully followed. They entered the wall of trees, and within seconds the parking lot and its lights disappeared behind them. Nest’s eyes adjusted slowly to this new level of darkness. There were no lights here, but the low ceiling of clouds reflected the lights of the city and its homes to provide a pale, ambient glow. Nest could pick out the shapes of the massive conifers---cedar, spruce, and fir-interspersed with broad-leaved madrona. Thick patches of thimble-berry and salal flanked the pathway, and fern fronds drooped in feathery clusters. Rain carpeted the grass and leaves in crystal shards, and mist worked its way through the branches and trunks of the trees in snakelike tendrils. The park was silent and empty-feeling. It could have been Sinnissippi Park on a cold, wet fall night, except that the limbs of the north-west conifers, unlike their deciduous Midwest cousins, were still thick with needles and did not lift bare, skeletal limbs against the sky.

The trail branched ahead, but Abel chose the way without hesitation, her slender childish body wraithlike in the gloom. Nest glanced right and left at every turn, her senses pricked for movement and sound, wary of this dark, misty place. The uneasiness she had felt earlier was still with her. At times like these, she wished she had Wraith to protect her. The big ghost wolf had been a reassuring presence. She did not think often of him these days, not since he had disappeared. She was surprised to discover now that she missed him.

The trail climbed and she went with it, working her way through heavy old growth, fallen limbs, and patches of thick scrub. Clearings opened every so often to either side, filled with dull, grey light reflected off the heavy clouds. The rain continued to mist softly, a wetness that settled on her face and hands and left the air tasting of damp earth and wood. Now and again, her shoes slipped on patches of mud and leaves, causing her to lose her balance. Each time, she righted herself and continued, keeping Ariel in sight ahead of her.

They topped a rise, and Nest could just make out the black, choppy surface of Puget Sound through the trees. They were atop a bluff that dropped away precipitously beyond a low rail fence. The trail they followed branched et again, following the edge of the cliff both ways along the fence into the darkness.

Ariel turned left and led Nest to a small clearing with a rainsoaked wooden bench that looked out over the sound.

“Here,” she said, stopping.

Nest drew even with her and looked around doubtfully. “What happens now?”

Ariel was insistent. “We wait.”

The minutes ticked by as they stood in the chilly darkness, listened to the rain falling softly through the trees, and watched the mist float in and out of the damp, shiny trunks in shifting forms. Wind rustled the topmost branches in sudden gusts that showered them with water. Out on the sound, ferry boats and container ships steamed by, their lights steady and bright against the black waters.

Nest hugged herself with her arms and dug the toe of her shoe into the wet earth, growing impatient.

Then a familiar shadow flitted across the darkness, appearing abruptly from out of the woods. It swept down to the bench in a long glide and settled on the back rest, folding into itself. It was an owl, and on its back rode a sylvan, twiggy legs and arms entwined within the feathers of the great bird’s neck.

The sylvan jumped off the owl with a quick, nimble movement, slid down the back rest, and stood facing her on the bench seat. She peered through the gloom in an effort to make out his features. He was younger than Pick, his wooden face not so lined, his beard not so mossy, and his limbs not so gnarled. He wore a bit of vine strapped about his waist, and from the vine dangled a small tube.

“You Nest?” he asked perfunctorily.

She nodded, coming forward several steps, closing the distance between them to six feet.

“I’m Boot, and this is Audrey.” The sylvan indicated the owl. It was a breed with which she was not familiar, something a little larger and lighter coloured than the barn owls she was used to. “We’re the guardians of this park.”

“Pleased to meet you,” she said.

“You grew up in a park like this, I understand. You’re friends with another sylvan.”

“His name is Pick.”

“You can do magic, too. That’s unusual for a human. What sort of magic can you do?”

Nest hesitated. “I’m not sure I can do any magic. I haven’t used it for a while. I have some problems with it. It hurts me to use it sometimes.”

Ariel came forward, a delicate white presence in the night, dark eyes shifting from one to the other. “Tell her about the demon, Boot,” she whispered anxiously.

The sylvan nodded. “Don’t rush me. There’s plenty of time to do that. All night, if we need it, and we don’t Where demons are concerned, you don’t want to rush things. You want to step carefully. You want to watch where you go.”

“Tell her!”

The sylvan harrumphed irritably. Nest thought of Pick. Apparently sylvans became curmudgeons at a young age.

Audrey ruffled her feathers against a rush of wind and damp, and resettled herself on the bench back, luminous round eyes facing an Nest. Boot folded his skinny arms and muttered inaudibly into his beard and gave every appearance of refusing to say another word.

“I have a friend who is in danger from this demon,” Nest announced impulsively, not wanting to lose him to a mood swing. “Whatever you can tell me might help save his life.”