The Gypsy Morph by Terry Brooks Page A

be changed. What would the world be like then? What shape would it take in the aftermath? Would the people and creatures led to safety by Hawk be all that were left? Would anything else survive, anything outside the protection of the safehold? How long would it be before they could reemerge from hiding?
    So many questions, and no answers to be had. He wondered if even the Lady knew how things would turn out. He thought that maybe she knew better than he did, but perhaps not so well as he imagined.
    He wondered suddenly if he would live to see any of it, or if he was fated to go the way of the other Knights of the Word. Whatever the case, he had been promised a chance to settle matters with that old man, that demon that had destroyed his family. It would be enough if he were given that. He had always known it would be enough.
    Morning crawled toward noon. He was on the freeway bypass, a broader, less cluttered stretch of pavement. Buildings began appearing on either side of him, clusters of residences and businesses, some collapsing, some shuttered and barred, all abandoned. He kept looking for someone who might be his guide, kept looking for Trim, but no one appeared. He assumed that whichever way he went, whatever road he chose, he would be found. Nonetheless, he found himself wondering how long he would have to walk before that happened. He guessed he shouldn’t worry, but he didn’t like the uncertainty of traveling toward an unknown destination.
    Toward a city of Elves.
    Elves, he thought again, still astonished by the idea.
    He shook his head. What would they look like? He remembered fairy creatures from his childhood from stories read to him by his mother. But he couldn’t picture them. They were little people, weren’t they? Tiny and argumentative? But magical, too? He thought about it, trying to remember something more, but couldn’t. It would have to be a surprise.
    Like almost everything else in his life.
    Just after midday, he crossed a bridge over the Columbia River and entered Oregon. More hills awaited him, and in the distance to the east a huge peak loomed over everything. He kept walking, eyeing fresh clusters of buildings separated by broad stretches of grass and fields withered almost to dust. The landscape spread away like a still life.
    A shadow passed over him, causing him to flinch. He looked up in time to see an owl swoop down out of the sunlight and glide into the trees ahead. He stared, surprised. What was an owl doing out in the daylight? What was an owl doing out at all? He hadn’t seen one in years. He had thought them all extinct.
    He walked on a little farther and then stepped off the side of the road to sit and eat something before continuing on. There were buildings all around him by now, flat-sided, weather-beaten, and crumbling, but there was no sign of life. The air was heavy and still, and the smells of oil and decay permeated everything. He tried to ignore them as he ate, but it was impossible to do.
    He was midway through his meal when he heard a sound behind him and turned to find a girl standing ten feet away. She was maybe fifteen, ragged and dirty, thin to the point of emaciation, her brown hair lank and uncombed. She wore an old coat that hung open over a dress. Both were of indeterminate color, the leavings of some better time and place, the discards of a better world.
    “Got any food to spare, mister?” she asked him. She did not look at him as she spoke, her eyes lowered as if she had no expectation that he would even respond. “I’m awful hungry.”
    He looked past her for others, for the ones who might have sent her out here to distract him, predators seeking to take anything he had on him. But he saw no one.
    “Where is your family?” he said.
    She glanced up briefly, shrugged. “Dead. Mama died last week. I’m the only one left.”
    “It’s dangerous, being out here alone like this.”
    Another shrug. “The compounds won’t have me. They wouldn’t have any of