RUNNING WITH THE DEMON by Terry Brooks

He trailed off, as if he didn’t quite know where to go next. In the silence, Nest could hear the old clock ticking down the hall.

After a moment, her grandfather said quietly, his voice filled with sadness, “I just don’t understand”

She nodded without offering a reply, thinking that she understood better than he did, but didn’t know how to explain it to him.

His hand tightened on her shoulder. “You might have heard some comments last night, loose talk about your grandmother. You’ll probably hear more. I don’t want you to pay any attention to it. Your grandmother was a special person. A lot of people didn’t understand that. They thought she was peculiar. I guess she was, but she was good-hearted and caring and she knew how to look after people. You know that. And I don’t care what anyone says, she wasn’t out there shooting that shotgun at nothing. Your grandmother wasn’t like that.”

“I know,” Nest said quickly, hearing the despair build in his voice.

She twisted about so that she could see his face. It looked careworn and tired, the age lines more deeply etched, the thick white hair mussed and badly combed. When she looked into his eyes she could tell he had been crying.

His voice shook. “She was fine when I left her, Nest. She was worried about you, of course, but she was fine. I just don’t know what happened. I don’t think she would have brought out the shotgun if she wasn’t in danger. She hasn’t even looked at it in years.”

He paused, his eyes searching her face. He was waiting for her to speak, to respond to his comments. When she stayed silent, he cleared his throat, and his voice steadied again.

“Your young friends said something strange when they came by the house to ask me to help look for you last night. They said you were chasing after someone who was poisoning trees in the park, someone I’d told you about. But I don’t know anything about this.” He looked away a moment. “The thing of it is, Nest, I get the feeling I don’t know anything about a lot of what’s going on. It wasn’t so important before.” His eyes shifted back to her. “But after what happened last night, I guess now it is.”

His eyes stayed locked on hers. Nest felt like a deer caught in the headlights. She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t even know where to begin.

“Can we talk about this a little later, Grandpa?” she said finally. “I just can’t do it right now.”

He considered her request a moment, and then nodded. “All right, Nest. That seems fair.” He rose, his eyes traveling about1 the room as if seeking something. “Will you come out and eat?”

She raised herself to a sitting position and forced a smile. “Sure. Just give me a minute, okay?”

He went back through the door and closed it softly behind him. Nest sat in the bed without moving, staring into space. What could she say to him? She got up finally and went into the bathroom and took a shower. She let the water wash over her for a long time, her eyes closed, her thoughts wandering off to other times and places, then returning to focus on what lay ahead. She dried off and began to dress. She had just finished pulling on shorts and a T-shirt and was bending down to tie her tennis shoes when she heard a scrabbling sound at the window.

“Nest!” Pick called urgently.

“Pick!” she exclaimed hi relief, and rushed over to push aside the curtains.

The sylvan was standing on the sill looking disheveled and grimy, as if he had been rolled in dirt. His leafy head was soiled and his twiggy feet were caked with mud. “I’m sorry to be late, girl. I’ve had a dreadful night! If I don’t get some help, I don’t know what I’m going to do! The balance of things is upset in a way I’ve never seen! The feeders are all over the place!” He caught his breath, and his face softened. “I heard from Daniel about your grandmother. I’m sorry, Nest. I can’t believe it happened.”

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