"We're going to start our relaxing way down there with the tips of your toes. Think about your toes. Do you have a picture of them in your mind? Now if you try, you can feel them start to tingle and relax, one at a time. Little toe first, then the next, and the next, and now the big toe. Doesn't that feel good? Nice and comfortable. Now your feet, Malcolm. Relax your feet and let that nice warm feeling flow slowly up your ankles. It's like easing your legs into a tub of nice warm water. So comfortable... so relaxed..."
Ramsay was leaning back, enjoying the relaxed, comfortable feeling in his legs, when Milo Fernandez stuck his head through the door and hissed at him.
"Sheriff... hey, Sheriff."
Holly looked up and put a finger to her lips. Ramsay got up and stepped out into the hall. In a moment he returned and spoke softly to Holly.
"I've got to go."
"Trouble?"
"It could be. I'll talk to you later."
When he was gone Holly turned back to Malcolm, who sat propped against the pillows, a dreamy expression on his face.
"All right, Malcolm. Let's go back now into the forest. There are trees all around. Tall and cool. A soft wind is blowing, making the branches sway and rustle. Let's go back there and remember, Malcolm. Listen to the sounds. Sniff the air. Remember the forest..."
CHAPTER
FOUR
Memories of the forest came back to him in fragments.
The cushiony feel of pine needles under his feet.
A whisper of rain in the high branches of the trees.
Dappled sunlight filtering down on a summer afternoon.
Fresh smells of evergreen and of flowers.
Night-sounds: monotonous song of a tree frog, the hoot of an owl, the cry of some small creature caught in its talons.
A childhood in the forest village of Drago, with carefree days, deep, dark nights, surrounded by people whose faces were blurred now in memory, but who loved him and cared for him.
Then, without any warning, childhood ended. The years that followed were a jumble of strange schools, narrow beds, cold faces of people who were paid to teach him and feed him and give him a place to sleep. The memories were jagged, like pieces of a broken mirror. A face, a schoolbook, a forbidding house in a strange town. Nothing fit together. It was a lost time.
Then the lost time was over and he was back. Back in the forest. Back in Drago. But it was not the same. The days were troubled, and the nights full of danger. Malcolm was apart from the others of the village. They possessed some secret knowledge that had been withheld from him. Knowledge wondrous and terrible, knowledge he must have. This much he learned when he was brought before Derak, the leader of the village.
Malcolm could not even guess at the age of Derak. Not old, certainly. Not in years. Yet it seemed he had always been there. Derak was strong and vigorous, but there was in his eyes something older than time.
The house where Derak lived was small. It was his alone. The other people of Drago lived in groups - four or six or eight of them to a house. Derak lived alone because he was the leader.
Sometimes a woman stayed there with him. Malcolm seemed to remember a woman from before. When he was little. The woman was dark and lithe and smelled of warm wildflowers. Her eyes were the same deep shade of green as Malcolm's. She was gone now. He wondered about her, but he was too timid to ask.
Malcolm felt ill at ease sitting alone with Derak on a sofa in the small house. He perspired, and he did not know what to do with his hands. Derak smiled. When he spoke, his voice was soft, but Malcolm could sense the strength within the man. A strength that could have broken Malcolm like a dry twig, had he wanted to do so.
"Relax, boy," said Derak, as though he had read Malcolm's thoughts. "I'm not going to hurt you. No one here will hurt you. This is your home. Do you understand that?"
"Y-yes."
"Good. I suppose you want to know why you have been brought back."
"I don't even know why I was sent away."
"It is the way of our life. You have seen, I suppose, that there are no children in Drago, except the very young."
"Yes."
"You, too, were here when you were very young."
"I remember. A little bit."
"A child reaches an age where he asks questions. Questions with answers he is not ready for. When that time comes we have to send him away. To the outside, where he can learn about the world out there. When he is ready to know about us and about Drago, we bring him back."
"Am I ready now to know those things?"
Derak smiled at him. A strange, sad smile. "You are more than ready, Malcolm."
"I don't understand."
"Have things been happening to you? To your body? Things you can't explain?"
"Y-yes. Sometimes... in the night."
"It is usually in the night at first. Or when you are afraid. Or hurt. Or very angry. We always try to bring the child back and explain these things to him before the changes occur. Because of troubles here, we could not bring you back at your proper time. So you are late, Malcolm, through no fault of your own. You have already experienced some of the things that will happen to you, things that you cannot understand."
"Will there be more?"
"Oh, yes. Much, much more."
The boy's throat constricted with a rush of emotions. Finally he got out, "Why?"
"It will all be explained to you, Malcolm. Who you are, what you are. What we all are, and what our lives must be."
"When?"
"Tomorrow. There is a ceremony. Nothing big, just our people - your people - gathering around you to show you our secrets and teach you our ways. You will spend tonight alone. After tomorrow, you will know who you are, and you will never be alone again."
"Why do I have to wait? Why can't we do it now?"
Derak looked out the window at the deepening shadows. "Tonight there is something else we have to do. After tomorrow all of our lives will be changed. You will join us then."
There was a finality in Derak's tone that would permit no further discussion. Malcolm was taken to a small cabin at the edge of the village. There was a low cot of wood and canvas with a woolen blanket, a single candle for illumination, and nothing more. The door closed behind Malcolm, and he was alone.
He could hear them outside, the people of Drago, as they walked toward the big building at the center of the village. The big building was sometimes a barn and sometimes a meeting hall. And there were times of celebration when the people danced and the music was something to hear. Tonight there was no music. The voices of the people as they walked were somber and subdued. Malcolm lay awake shivering on the stretched canvas of the cot and waited.
Inside the building Derak stood in the center of the wooden door. The others entered and took their places in a circle around the leader. The quiet talk among them faded and finally died as they waited for Derak to speak.
"My friends... my family. We have lived in Drago without trouble for many years. Longer than our people might have hoped when first they settled here. Our history is not one of places; it is one of movement. From the Carpathians to the Urals to the Andes. From the icy lands of the far north to the steaming jungles of the equator. Always there comes a time when we are forced to move on. Here in Drago we have lived well, but it is over. Now we must move again. There are people, outsiders, who suspect what we are. They fear us, and in their fear they will try to destroy us. As always before, that means we must go."
Derak turned slowly and looked at the people ranged around him in a circle. Shadows from the flickering lanterns danced and skittered over their faces.