The Elves of Cintra (Book 2 of The Genesis of Shannara)

But it is a theft nevertheless, and his father is quick to act on it. He searches Bear’s space in the house first and questions him anew.

Bear has been too visible, too much in the family eye, to commit these offenses, yet neither his father nor his siblings seem to notice. Even his mother, who still loves him as mothers will their disappointing children, does not stand up for him.

It is as if their perception of his character has been determined and cannot be altered. Stung by this injustice, Bear feels the distance between himself and his family widen.

But three nights later, he catches the thief. He has taken to patrolling the grounds and buildings at night, keeping watch in his slow, patient way, determined to prove to them that he is innocent. The thief is trying to steal a box of old tools when Bear comes on him unexpectedly and throws him to the ground. It is a boy, not much older but much smaller than Bear. The boy is dirty and ragged, a wild thing. He admits that he is the thief and that he stole to help his family, a small group of vagrants who have taken up residence in an old farm not far away. He pleads with Bear not to give him up, but Bear has made his decision.

Bear takes the boy to his father. Here is the real thief, he announces. He waits for his father to apologize. He cares nothing for the boy who stole from them beyond redeeming himself. He has not given any thought to the boy’s fate beyond that. It is his belief that the boy will be whipped and released.

Bear is neither angry nor vengeful. He does not think that way.

His father does. Thieves are not to be tolerated. The boy begs and cries, but no one listens. Bear’s father and his uncles take the boy out into the small stand of woods at one end of their property and do not bring him back. At first, Bear thinks they have released him with a warning. But small comments and looks tell him otherwise. They have killed the boy to provide an object lesson to his family and others of what happens to thieves.

Bear is stunned. He cannot believe his father has done this. The other members of his family support the decision—even his mother. It does not seem to matter to any of them that this was only a boy. When Bear tries to put his thinking into words, he is brushed aside. He does not understand the nature of their existence, he is told. He does not appreciate what is necessary if they are to survive. He finds them all alien and unfamiliar. They are his family, but they are strangers, too. He sees them now through different eyes, and he does not like it. If they can kill a small boy, what else are they capable of? He waits for understanding to come to him, but it does not.

Then, one night, without thinking about it, without knowing it is what he intends until he does it, he leaves. He packs a small sack of food, water, and tools, straps his knife and stun gun to his waist, and sets out. He walks west without knowing where he is going, intending to follow the sun until he reaches the coast. He has no idea what he is going toward, only what he is leaving behind. He has misgivings and doubts and fears, but mostly he feels sadness.

Still, he knows in his heart how things will end if he stays.

He is twelve years old when he crosses the mountains and enters Seattle for the first time.

BEAR CAUGHT SIGHT of movement out of the corner of his eye, a slight shifting in the shadows. It was almost directly behind him, all the way back by the shed in which Owl slept with River and Fixit. If he hadn’t looked that way at just the right moment, he would have missed it entirely. He remained motionless, watching the darkness, waiting for the movement to reappear. When it did, it had spread from a single source to several, a clutch of shadows emerging from the darkness and taking on human form. But the movement was rough and jerky, slightly out of sync with that of humans.

Bear felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle.

Croaks.

He shifted the Tyson Flechette so that it was pointing toward the shadows, already thinking ahead to what he would have to do. The Croaks were weaving their way through the darkness, coming from the direction of the city, heading for the outbuildings and the sleeping Ghosts. He counted heads quickly, at the same time trying to make certain of what he was seeing.

But there was no mistake. There were more than a dozen of them, too many to be anything but a hunting party. He had no idea what had drawn them here or if they knew yet that his family was directly in their path. But the end result was inevitable. In seconds, they were going to stumble over the sleeping forms.

He released the safety on the flechette and brought up the short, blunt barrel, leveling it. But his family lay on the ground almost directly between himself and the Croaks. He couldn’t fire without risking injury to them. The killing radius of the flechette was too wide and too uncertain. And, he added quickly, the distance was too far for the weapon to be accurate.