He’d moved closer then, and his wizened face had furrowed with delight and his voice had lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “Feeders, my young friend, devour people!”
Nest’s eyes had gone wide, and Pick the sylvan had laughed like a cartoon maniac.
She still remembered him saying it. Feeders devour people. There was more to the explanation, of course, for the complexity of feeders could never be defined so simply. There was no mention of the feeders as a force of nature, as sudden, violent, and inexorable as a Midwest twister, or of their strange, symbiotic relationship with the humans they destroyed. Yet it was hard to get much closer to the heart of the matter. Pick’s description, provocative and crude, was still the most accurate Nest had ever heard. Even now, six years later, his words resonated with truth.
The pungent smell of spruce filled her nostrils, borne on a momentary breeze, and the memories faded. She turned and jogged quickly to the end of her yard, slipping smoothly into the gap in the hedgerow. She was almost through when Pick appeared on her shoulder as if by magic, springing out of hiding from the leafy branches. At six inches of height and nine ounces of weight, he was as small and light as a bird. He was a wizened bit of wood with vaguely human features stamped above a mossy beard. Leaves grew out of his head in place of hair. His arms and legs were flexible twigs that narrowed to tiny fingers and stubby toes. He looked like a Disney animation that had been roughed up a bit. His fierce eyes were as hard and flat as ink dots on stone.
He settled himself firmly in place, taking hold of her collar. “What have I told you about provoking the feeders?” he snapped.
“Not to,” she answered dutifully, swinging west down the service road toward the park entrance.
“Why don’t you listen to me, then?”
“I do. But it makes me angry to see them nosing about when it’s still light out.” She darted a quick look at the ballplayers to make certain that Danny Abbott wasn’t among them. “They didn’t used to be like that. They never showed themselves when the sun was shining, not even where the shadows were deepest. Now I see them everywhere.”
“Times change.” Pick sounded disconsolate. “Something’s happening, that much is sure, but I don’t know what it is yet. Whatever it is, it’s caused the balance of things to tip even further. There’s been a lot of bad things happening around here lately. That’s not good.” He paused. “How’s the little Scott girl?”
“Fine. But George Paulsen stole her cat, Spook.” Nest slowed to a walk again. “I promised Bennett I’d try to find it. Can you help me?”
Even without being able to see him, she knew he was tugging on his mossy beard and shaking his leafy head. “Sure, sure, what else have I got to do but look for someone’s lost cat? Criminy!” He was silent a moment as they passed behind the backstop. The spectators grouped at the edge of the ball field were drinking beer and pop and cheering on their favorite players. “Batter, batter, batter-swing!” someone chanted. No one paid any attention to Nest.
“I’ll send Daniel out, see if he can find anything,” Pick offered grudgingly.
Nest smiled. “Thanks.”
“You can thank me by staying away from the feeders!” Pick was not about to be mollified. “You think your magic and that big dog are enough to protect you, but you don’t know feeders the way I do. They aren’t subject to the same laws as humans. They get to you when you’re not expecting it!” She could feel him twisting about angrily on her shoulder. “Creepers! I don’t know why I’m telling you this! You already know it, and I shouldn’t have to say another word!”
Then please don’t, she thought, hiding a grin. Wisely, she swallowed her words without speaking them. “I’ll be careful, I promise,” she assured him, turning up the blacktop road toward the cliffs.
“See that you do. Now, cut across the grass to the burial mounds. There’s an Indian sitting up there at one of the picnic tables, and I want to know what he’s up to.”