"You were a demolitions man in Vietnam. I can put two and two together."

Howe laughed. "Yeah? Well, your addition stinks. That explosives stuff is an ancient history. I barely remember any of that. Time marches on, right?"

Old Bob nodded, patient the way you were with a child. "So it wouldn't be your fault if there was an accident, would it?"

"Not hardly."

"An accident that would make MidCon look like a bunch of clowns, trying to reopen the mill without the union?"

"Sort of like kids playing with matches in a pile of fireworks?"

"Like that."

Derry nodded thoughtfully. "You know, Robert, the thing about fireworks is that they're touchy, unpredictable. Sometimes they don't behave like you think they should. That's how all those accidents happen, people getting their hands blown off and such. They play with explosives they aren't trained to handle. They take foolish chances."

Old Bob shook his head. "We're not talking about fireworks here. We're talking about MidCon and people getting killed!"

Derry Howe's eyes were bright and hard. "You got that right."

Old Bob looked off into the trees, into the cool shade. "I don't like what I'm hearing."

"Then don't listen." Derry smiled disdainfully. "Do yourself a favor, Robert. Sit this one out. It ain't right for you anyway. You or Mel or any of the others. You had your day. Time to step aside. Stay home on the Fourth. Watch a movie or something. Keep away from the fireworks - all of them."

He paused, and a dark, wild look came into his eyes. "It's * settled with me, Robert Roosevelt. I know what I'm about. I'm going to put an end to this strike. I'm going to give MidCon a Fourth of July to remember, and when it's over they won't be able to get to the bargaining table quick enough. That's the way it's going to be, and there ain't nothing they can do about it." He ran his fingers through his short-cropped hair, a quick, dismissive movement. "Or you either. You stay out of my way. Be better for you if you did."

He gave Old Bob a wink and walked back to his friends.

Robert Freemark stood watching after him angrily for a moment, then turned away. He moved back through the crowds toward Evelyn, his anger turning to disappointment. He supposed he hadn't really expected to change Derry Howe's mind. He supposed he hadn't really expected to accomplish much of anything. Maybe he was hoping it would turn out Mel Riorden was mistaken, that Derry wasn't really planning something foolish. Whatever the case, his failure to achieve anything left him feeling empty and disgruntled. He should have made a stronger argument, been more persuasive. He should have found a way to get through.

He worked his way back to Evelyn, burdened by both the weight of the July heat and his anger. Somewhere deep inside, where he hid the things he didn't want other people to see, he felt a darkness rise up and begin to take shape. Something bad was going to happen. Maybe Derry intended to damage the machinery at the mill. Maybe he intended to put a serious dent in the company's pocketbook or its image. But for some reason Old Bob felt like it might be even worse than that. He felt it might be catastrophic.

He moved up to Mel and Carol Riorden, Al Garcia, Penny Williamson, and Evelyn, smiling easily, comfortably to hide his concerns. They were still talking about the new grandbaby. Mel gave him a questioning look. He frowned and shook his head slowly. He could see the disappointment in his friend's face.

Evelyn took him by the arm and pulled him away. "Come with me," she directed, steering him through the crowd. "I have a little business of my own to take care of."

He let himself be led back toward the horseshoe tournament, back toward Derry Howe. Old Bob glanced quickly at her, thinking, No, it can't be about Derry, can it? Evelyn did not return the glance, her gaze directed forward, intense and immutable. He had seen that look before, and he knew that whatever she had set herself to do, she would not be dissuaded. He kept his mouth shut.

The crowd observing the horseshoe contest parted before them. Evelyn veered left, taking Old Bob with her, striding down the line of spectators toward the partic.i.p.ants at the far end.

"Just stand next to me, Robert," she said quietly. "You don't have to say anything. I'll do the talking."

She released his arm and stepped in front of him, taking the lead. He caught sight of George Paulsen staring at them from among the compet.i.tors, but Evelyn seemed oblivious of him. She moved, instead, toward Enid Scott, who was standing with her youngest, Bennett, to one side.

Enid saw Evelyn coming and turned to face her, surprise reflecting in her pale, tired eyes. She was dressed in matching shorts and halter top that had fit better when she was twenty pounds lighter. She brushed back a few loose strands of her lank, tousled hair and dragged out an uncertain smile.

"h.e.l.lo, Mrs. Freemark," she greeted, her voice breaking slightly as she caught the look in Evelyn's dark eyes.

Evelyn came to a stop directly before her. "Enid, I'll come right to the point," she said softly. They were alone except for Bennett and Old Bob; no one else could hear what was being said. "I know you've had some rough times, and that raising five children all alone is no picnic. I think you've done better than a lot of women would have in your circ.u.mstances, and I admire you for it. You've kept your family together the best you could. You've got five children you can be proud of."

"Thank you," Enid stammered, surprised.

"I'm not finished. The flip side of this particular coin is that you've made a whole bunch of decisions in your life that testify to the distinct possibility that you have the common sense of a woodchuck. Sooner or later, some of those decisions are. going to come back to haunt you. Your choice in men, for example, is abominable. You've got five fatherless children as proof of that, and I don't see much improvement of late. Your frequent visits to the bars and nightspots of this community suggest that alcohol is becoming a problem for you. And it is no shame to be unemployed and on welfare, but it is a shame not to want to do anything about it!"

Robert blinked in disbelief, hearing the fire in his wife's voice, seeing the stiff set of her back rigid within her flowered dress. Little Bennett was staring at Evelyn, her mouth open.

"Well, I don't think you have the right to tell me ..." Enid Scott began, fl.u.s.tered and angry now.

"Understand something, Enid. I'm not standing here as an example of how a woman ought to live her life." Evelyn cut her short, brushing aside her attempt at defending herself. "Matter of fact, I've made some of the same mistakes you're making, and I've made them worse. I'm closer to you than you realize. That gives me not only the right to talk to you this way, but the obligation as well. I can see where you're headed, and I can't let you walk off the end of the pier without shouting out a warning of some sort. So this is that warning. You can make a lot of mistakes in this life and get away with it. We both know that. But there's one mistake you can't make - not ever, if you want to live with yourself afterward. And that's not being there for your children when they need you. It's happened several times already. Don't say anything, Enid. Don't say it isn't so, because that would be a terrible lie, and you don't want to add that to your catalogue of sins. Point is, nothing bad has happened yet. But sooner or later, it will. If it does, that will be the end of you."

Evelyn held the other woman's gaze, took a quick breath, and stepped forward. Enid Scott flinched, and Bennett jumped. But all Evelyn did was reach down and take Enid's hand in her own, hold it, and then pat it gently.

"If you ever need anyone, you call me," she said quietly. "Any time, for any reason. You call me. I'll be there. That's a promise."

A few people were looking over now, sensing that something was going on, not sure exactly what it was. George Paulsen detached himself from the horseshoe compet.i.tors and sauntered over, mean eyes narrowing. "What's going on here?" he snapped.

Evelyn ignored him. "Are you all right, Enid? I didn't speak too harshly, did I?"

"Well," whispered Enid Scott uncertainly.

"I did, I expect." Evelyn continued to pat her hand, to hold it between her own, her voice soothing and calm. "I speak the way I do because I believe it is best to be direct. But I would like to be your friend, if you would let me. I know you have no family here, and I don't want you to think that you are alone."

"She ain't alone, she's got me!" George Paulsen declared, coming up to them.

Gran fixed him with a withering gaze. "Having you for company is not something I would think she would be anxious to brag on!" she snapped.

Paulsen flushed angrily. "Listen here, old woman..."

Old Bob started forward protectively, but Evelyn was too quick for him. She moved right up against George Paulsen, the index fingers of both hands aimed at him like the barrels of guns.

"Don't you mess with me, George," she hissed. "Don't you even think about it. You haven't the iron. Now, you listen to me. You can stay with Enid or not - that's between you and her. But if I hear one more story about you striking that woman or any of her children, if I see one bruise on any of them that I don't like the looks of, if I so much as see you raise a threatening hand against them, you will think that G.o.d must have reached down out of heaven and squashed you like a bug. Do you understand me, sir?"

George Paulsen flinched as her fingers slowly extended to touch his chest.

"And don't you believe for one minute that you can hide anything from me, George," she continued softly. "Even if you think I won't find out, I will. I'll come affer you, no matter how fast or how far you try to run from me." She lifted her fingers away. "You remember that."

For a moment Old Bob thought George Paulsen would strike Evelyn. But he must have seen something in her face or found something in his own heart that told him it would be a mistake. He tried to speak, failed, shot a venomous look at Enid, and stalked away.

There were a lot of people staring now. Evelyn ignored them, was oblivious of them. She turned back to Enid Scott and Bennett, gave Enid a rea.s.suring nod and Bennett a smile. "You come by for ice cream, little one," she invited. "Nest and I would love to have you any time. Bring your mother with you when you do."

"Mrs. Freemark," Enid Scott tried, but was unable to continue.

Evelyn met her gaze, her own steady and fixed. "My name is Evelyn. That's what all my friends call me. You think on what I've said, Enid. I'll be looking in on you."

She walked back to Old Bob then, took his arm in hers, and turned him back toward the river. "Shame to waste a nice day like this standing about in the heat. Why don't we go sit out by the river and wait for Nest."

He stared at her. "You amaze me, Evelyn," he told her, not bothering to hide the astonishment in his voice. "You really do."

A faint smile played at the corners of her mouth, a hint of mischievousness that appeared and faded all at once. "Now and then, Robert," she replied softly. "Now and then."

Chapter Twenty-Two.

Though he had not admitted it to Nest Freemark, John Ross had met O'olish Amaneh before. It was O'olish Amaneh who had given him his limp.

"Your old life is finished, my brave knight-errant," the Lady had whispered that night in the Fairy Glen as she held him to her, accepting the pledge of his faith, taking the measure of his strength. All about them, the fairies darted in the blackness of the water and the cool of the shadows, rippling with the sound of her voice in his ear. "Now, for as long as I deem it necessary, you belong to me. You will care for and be faithful to no other. You will forsake your home. You will forsake your family and your friends. Do you understand?"

"Yes," he had said.

"You will be asked to sacrifice, of your body and your soul, of your heart and your mind, in this world and the world to come. Your sacrifice will be great, but it will be necessary. Do you understand?"

"Yes," he had said once more.

"I brought you to me, John Ross. Now I send you back again. Leave this country and return to your home. It is there that you are needed to do battle in my service. I am the light and the way, the road you must travel and the life you must lead. Go now, and be at peace."

He did as he was told. He went from the Fairy Glen to his cottage in Betws-y-Coed, packed his bags, traveled east into England, and caught a standby flight to the States. He did so in the firm belief that his life had been changed in the way he had always antic.i.p.ated it one day would and with the hope that here, at last, was the purpose he had sought. He did not know yet what he was supposed to do. He had become a Knight of the Word, but he did not know what was expected of him. He carried inside him the blood of Owain Glyndwr, and he would be the Word's champion and do battle with the Void as his ancestor had before him. He did not know what that meant. He was terrified and exhilarated and filled with pa.s.sion. The visions of the future that the Lady had shown him were burned into his mind forever, and when he recalled them they brought tears to his eyes. He was just a man, just one man, but he knew that he must do whatever was asked of him - even if it meant giving up his life.

But it was not real to him yet. It was still a dream, and as he traveled farther away from the Fairy Glen and that night, it became steadily more so. He went home to his parents, who were still alive then, to let them know he was well, but would not be staying. He was purposefully vague, and he told them nothing of what had befallen him. He had not been forbidden to do so, but he knew that it would be foolish to speak of it. His parents, whether they believed him or not, would be needlessly worried. Better that they thought him a wanderer still when he left them. Better that they lived without knowing.

So he waited, frozen in time. He tried to envision what his life would be like in service to the Lady. He tried to resolve his doubts and his fears, to settle within himself the feelings of inadequacy that had begun to surface. What could he do, that would make a difference? What would be required of him, that he would be able to respond? Was he strong enough to do what was needed? Was he anything of what the Lady believed?

He waited for her to speak to him, to reveal her purpose for him. She did not. He visited with friends and acquaintances from his past, marking time against an uncertain future. Weeks went by. Still the Lady did not appear. Doubts set in. Had he dreamed it all? Had he imagined her? Or worse, had he mistaken her intent? What if the great purpose he had envisioned, the purpose for which he had searched so long, was a lie?

Doubts turned to mistrust. What if he had been deceived? He was beset by nightmares that woke him shaking and chilled on the hottest nights, sweating and fiery in the coldest of rooms. Something had gone wrong. Perhaps he was not the champion she had been looking for, and she had realized it and abandoned him. Perhaps she had forsaken him entirely.

Strong belief turned slowly to fragile hope, the Lady's whispered promise echoing through the empty corridors of his mind.

Your way lies through me. I am the road that you must take.

Then the Indian came to him. He was sitting on the bed in his room, alone in the house, his parents gone for the afternoon. He was staring at words on a paper before him, words that he had written in an effort to find reason in what had happened to him, when the door opened and the Indian was standing there.

"I am O'olish Amaneh," he said quietly.

He was a big man, his skin copper-colored, his hair braided and black, his eyes intense and probing. He wore old army clothes and moccasins and carried a backpack and bedroll. In one ma.s.sive hand, he gripped a long black staff.

He came into the room and shut the door behind him. "I have come to give you this," he said, and held out the staff.

Ross stared, saw the sheen of the wood, the rune marks cut into the shiny surface, and the way the light played over both. He sat there on the bed, frozen in place.

"You are John Ross?" O'olish Amaneh asked him.

Ross nodded, unable to speak.

"You are a Knight of the Word?"

Ross bunked rapidly and swallowed against the dryness in his throat. "Do you come from her?" he managed.

The Indian did not answer.

"Are you in service to the Lady?" he pressed.

"The staff belongs to you," O'olish Amaneh insisted quietly, ignoring him. "Take it."

Ross could not do so. He knew with sudden, terrifying certainty that if he did, there would be no turning back. The clarity of his knowledge was appalling. It was the staff, something in the way it gleamed, in its blackness, in the intricacy of its carvings. It was in the implacable way the Indian urged him to take hold of it. If he did so, he was finished. If he did so, it was the end of him. He was not ready for this after all, he saw. He no longer wanted to be a part of what had happened in the Fairy Glen, in Wales, in the realm of the Lady's magic.

The Indian was a rock, standing, before him unmoved. "Your faith must be stronger than this," he advised in a whisper. "Your faith must sustain you. You swore to serve. You cannot recant. It is forbidden."

"Forbidden?" Ross repeated in disbelief. He was nearly in tears, filled with contempt for himself, for his weakness, for his failing resolve. "Don't you understand?" he breathed.

The Indian gave no sign as to whether he did or not. "You are a Knight of the Word. You have been chosen. You have need of the staff. Take it."

Ross shook his head slowly. "I can't."

"Stand up," O'olish Amaneh ordered.

There was no change of expression in the big man's face, no sign of disappointment, of anger, of anything. The eyes fixed on John Ross, calm and steady, as dark and deep as night pools, bottomless pits within the shadow of the great brow. Ross could not look away. Slowly he rose to his feet. The Indian came forward and held the staff out to him, before his terrified face, the carved markings, the polished wood, the gnarled length.

"Take the staff," he said quietly.

John Ross tried to step away, struggled to break free of the eyes that held him bound.

"Take the staff," O'olish Amaneh repeated.

Ross brought his hands up obediently, and his fingers closed about the polished wood. Instantly, fire ripped through his body. Oh, G.o.d! His left foot began to cramp, pain seizing and locking about it, working its way down to the bone. Ross tried to scream, but found he could make no sound. The pain intensified, growing worse than anything he had ever experienced, than anything he had imagined possible. His hands fastened so tightly about the staff that his knuckles turned white. He felt as if Ms fingers were imprinting the wood. He could not make himself let go. His foot jerked and twisted, and the pain climbed up his leg, cramping his muscles, tearing his ligaments, setting fire to his nerves. It bore into his knee, and now his mouth was open wide and his head thrown back in agony.

Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the pain was gone. John Ross gasped in shock and relief, his head sagging on his chest. He leaned heavily on the black staff, letting it support him, relying on its strength to hold him erect. My G.o.d, my G.o.d! My G.o.d, my G.o.d!

Slowly O'olish Amaneh stepped away. "Now it belongs to you," the Indian repeated. "You are bound to it. You are joined as one. You cannot give it up until you are released from your service. Remember that. Do not try to put it from you. Do not try to cast it away. Ever."

Then O'olish Amaneh was gone, out the door and down the hall, as silent as a ghost. Ross waited half a breath, then took a quick step toward the door to close it. He collapsed instantly, his foot turning in, his leg unable to bear the weight of his body. He struggled back to his feet, leaning on the staff for support, and fell again. He sprawled on the floor, staring down at his leg. Once more he climbed to his feet, gritting his teeth, squeezing shut his eyes, so fearful of what had been done to him that he could barely breathe.

He was finally able to stand, but only with the aid of the staff. He was going to have to learn to walk all over again. He leaned against the wall and cried with rage and frustration.

Why has this been done to me?

He would have his answer that night when he dreamed for the first time of the future that was his to prevent.

"Penny for your thoughts, John Ross."

It was evening, the daylight gone hazy and dim with twilight's slow descent, the heat lingering in a thick blanket across the broad stretch of the park. Ross was sitting alone on the gra.s.s beneath an old hickory just back from where the band was setting up for the dance in the pavilion. People were milling about, watching the proceedings, eating popcorn, ice cream, and cotton candy and drinking pop, lemonade, and iced tea. Ball games were still under way on the diamonds, but the last of the organized races and the horseshoe tournament had come to a close. Ross had been lost momentarily in the past, in the days before he understood what the Lady required of him and what it meant to be a Knight of the Word.

The familiar voice brought him out of his reverie. He looked up and smiled at Josie Jackson. "A penny? I expect that's more than they're worth. How are you?"

"I'm fine, thank you." She stood looking at him for a moment, openly appraising him. She was wearing a flower-print blouse with a scoop neck and a full, knee-length skirt cinched about her narrow waist. She had tied back her blond hair with a ribbon, and wore sandals and a gold bracelet. She looked fresh and cool, even in the stifling heat. "I missed you at breakfast this morning. You didn't come in."