Small Magic, page 32
Next time they encountered Panamon, he promised himself, he would do the same.
It would be almost three years before that happened, and when it did Flick would find himself struggling to keep this promise.
But that’s a story for another time.
Introduction to “Last Ride”
This is a new story set in the Shannara world—my first in quite a while. After forty years of writing the books in the series, there are plenty of choices for expansion. As I have said, I pay close attention to which characters readers want to hear more about. I don’t begin to fulfill all their wishes, given time constraints and my overall plan for the series, which consists of always moving forward. (Although I violated that by writing about the prehistory some years back with the Genesis of Shannara set.) Anyway, when the stars align on a new story, it is always exciting—even if it involves throwing myself off a cliff in writing another short story.
So what we have here is a story about the Wing Rider Elves and a character named Tiger Ty, who first appeared in the Heritage of Shannara series way back in the early 1990s. I’ve wanted to come back to the Wing Riders for a long time, but never really found the story I was looking for. Then I began to wonder what had happened to Tiger Ty after he had taken Wren Ohmsford to the volcanic island of Morrowindl, where she had found the missing Elven nation and with the Wing Rider’s help had returned it to the Four Lands. What did happen to Wing Riders as they grew older? What happened if their birds died before them, if they died first, if they grew too infirm to ride any longer? I imagined it might mirror our own experience with growing old and the limitations it put on us. How well do we handle being told we are no longer able to work the jobs we have worked for most of our lives? What do we do when we are sidelined by age and infirmity? It is a real question for all of us—myself in particular as I stumble into my seventies with the larger part of my writing life behind me.
In this story, I offer a few possible answers and a tale that once again involves Tiger Ty—this time with his family closely involved in providing a resolution to his reluctance to admit what we all come to face: Old age will find us sooner or later.
LAST RIDE
Tiger Ty was old. Sitting in his rocker on the porch of his cottage, staring out across the choppy gray surface of the Blue Divide, he was more acutely aware of it than ever. It preyed on him—a weight of certainty that his life was numbered no longer in years but in months. If he was lucky. He was not normally one to brood, and did not spend his days in regret or despondency over the inevitable ending of his life. He was far too practical and tough-minded for that.
But today was different. Today, he was feeling less accepting and more regretful than he had felt in some time.
On the western horizon, dark clouds were gathering. A storm was coming on. Such weather caused his joints to ache and his bones to grumble, so perhaps that was what was affecting his mood. Dark and gloomy skies were never as welcoming as blue and sunny ones.
Yet he was not one to manufacture excuses, and he was not about to change now. He rose from his chair to look about for Grey, but the boy was nowhere to be seen. Off somewhere in the company of that girl with whom he was so besotted, perhaps. Never saw a lad so in love, he mused. Sometimes he wondered why he had never felt such an attachment to Jessa when she was alive, but he hadn’t. The nature of his calling, he supposed. A Wing Rider couldn’t afford the luxury of attachments that might cloud his or her judgment. He had to add her to the assessment now, since women had become active members of the Wing Hove in the last few years, intent on doing more than bearing and raising men’s children. Not that this was a bad thing, of course. Women were good with the Rocs—sometimes better at bonding and controlling the great birds than the men. It was a step in the right direction. But it was still a change, and sometimes he had to remind himself of it when his thinking strayed to the old days.
Grey troubled him, he admitted, the gloom returning. Had for a while now. His grandson was a rebel. Grey had his grandfather’s and his father’s stubbornness clear through, but had chosen another path entirely. Tiger Ty shook his head. He still hadn’t come to terms with it. His son had, but Tahere had a milder nature. He was settled comfortably within himself and thought Grey should be the same. If Grey didn’t want to be a Wing Rider, he shouldn’t have to be. It didn’t matter what he was. Or who his famous grandfather might be.
Maybe so, Tiger Ty mused, but it still hurt.
He gave himself space for a few moments to ruminate on his legacy. It was almost twenty-five years ago now that he had carried Wren Ohmsford from the Four Lands to the island of Morrowindl—and then brought her back again, along with the missing Land Elves whom she had rescued, restoring them to the Westland where once they had been presumed extinct. His part in making this possible was almost universally celebrated—especially since Wren Ohmsford had become a great queen.
Still fighting his unexpected despondency, he left the porch and began to walk toward the business section of the Wing Hove. Well, began to hobble might be more accurate; the hitch in his movements was the result of a leg injury he had suffered five years back that had taken him off the Rocs for good. If you can’t steer, you can’t ride. And you can’t steer if you don’t have the strength in your legs to make the bird respond. The injury put a decisive end to his career as a Wing Rider, and there was no way to get it back. He was forbidden from riding Rocs—and in particular, his beloved Spirit—which left him with nothing much that mattered.
Friends and neighbors greeted him as he made his way into the village, according him a certain deference because of his fame—a recognition he appreciated but thought old news. Always short but now stout as well, his head grizzled and white, his hair cut short and turned to a mix of bristle and bald—though his beard was still as bushy as ever—he looked to be something of a forbidding figure and he knew it. He didn’t desire this look, but he didn’t try to hide it, either.
Tiger Ty was who he was, and it was way too late to change it.
A tall, athletic figure came rushing up the path to meet him, and he slowed accordingly. It was Pharis, the Hove’s headman and the ostensible leader of its council, his face flushed and his expression etched sharply with concern. “Ho, Tiger. A moment, if you please.”
Tiger Ty came to a stop as the other reached him. “You look frazzled,” he said, furrowing his brow. “Has something happened?”
The other Elf, flushed and out of breath, nodded quickly. “Spirit just flew in. Without Tahere. There’s no sign of him, Ty. Nothing to indicate what might have happened.”
Tiger Ty nodded, holding his fears in check. Once he had been grounded, he had passed Spirit to his son, as was frequently done between fathers and sons. The passing had come at Tahere’s urging, since his own Roc, Feltsen, had developed an unfortunate stiffening of the wing joints. A new Roc was required, and Spirit was the logical choice. Grey had thought it a dubious pairing. But still. “A search, then?”
“One is already under way. Fromme is leading the party, riding Spirit. He thinks the bird might lead them to wherever he and your boy parted ways. But that Roc’s been a handful ever since you quit riding her, so I’m not sure it will help. But I thought you should know.”
Pharis turned away quickly and was gone; no point lingering after giving bad news, Tiger Ty thought. Well, nothing was sure yet. Tahere was skilled and capable. He would find a way to bring the search party to him. No point in worrying.
But he couldn’t help himself. He would worry whether he wished to or not. This was his son.
He set out to find his grandson and share the news.
* * *
—
Grey was sitting on the edge of a headland south of the Hove, facing out toward the wide expanse of the ocean, when he saw his grandfather approaching. It was hard for Gramps to walk these days—hard for him to move around much at all—but he was moving at what, for him, was an accelerated pace, and it brought his grandson to his feet at once.
“Got some bad news,” Tiger Ty announced, the way he always did. Whenever he wanted to talk to Grey, he always began by opening with good news or bad news. It was kind of annoying, but Grey understood it was just his grandfather’s way. So he nodded without thinking too much about what sort of bad news Gramps was bearing, or even if it really was bad news at all.
He was a tall, athletic boy, which he knew made it all the harder for his grandfather to accept his disinterest in being a Wing Rider. He was expected to follow in the family tradition, and when it became apparent he had no intention of doing so, a rift had developed between them. He understood the reasons. Both Gramps and his father had given their entire lives to becoming and then serving as Wing Riders. It was the highest achievement a member of the Wing Hove could attain, and no one—least of all those two—could fathom why someone so obviously born to it and so well situated to achieve it would choose any other way.
But sometimes your heart wouldn’t embrace what others believed was right, and when that happened you had to make a choice. Certainly, his infatuation with Alethea had influenced that choice, but not as much as Gramps and his father believed.
No, what had decided him was something else entirely.
“Your father is missing,” Tiger Ty now said, coming up to him and stopping a few feet away, breathing hard. “I just learned. Spirit came back without him, and they’ve sent a search party.”
Without asking me to go with them, Grey thought, stung.
“I told him not to trust that Roc,” Grey muttered. It was natural that the Roc should pass from father to son, but Spirit was an unusual bird. He was wedded to Tiger Ty. Hard and fast.
“No, Spirit’s right enough. Tahere just needed to spend more time with him, keep after him until he settled down and accepted his place. It was already beginning to happen.”
His grandfather was wrong, but there was nothing to be gained by pointing it out. Spirit had become contrary and unpredictable in the way of a willful child, and had refused to come around despite constant efforts by both his father and himself.
For all that he didn’t care to embrace the life of a Wing Rider, Grey was interested in the care and training of the Rocs. Ever since childhood, he had been fascinated by the great birds and wanted to know more about their behavior. By the time he was ten, he was a regular at the pens, watching and listening to the older trainers as they worked with the birds and talked about the particulars of their work. After a time, they began noticing he was always around, so a few began showing him a little of what was necessary to turn the Rocs from wild creatures into obedient companions. He went from feeding and grooming and cleaning up to working directly with a couple of the younger mounts, learning how they were taught to respond to their rider’s movements—everything from leg and hand pressure to tugging on and slapping with the bridle reins. He discovered how the birds could be persuaded to react in predictable ways to small touches and soft words. He saw the benefits of treats—distributed and withheld, as rewards or punishments.
At fifteen, he was training Rocs on his own, an accomplished flier and handler both, becoming a welcome and respected member of the support staff. His talents were extraordinary, and his career path seemed determined.
Although not to his grandfather, who would regularly remark, “Your skills as a trainer are useful, Grey. It is a good and necessary thing to be able to connect with your Roc on every level—to understand how it thinks and know how it will react. But remember your calling. You are meant to be a Wing Rider, and it is to this end that you must direct the use of your talents. Our family are Wing Riders, and you will be one, too.”
Only he wouldn’t, he had decided. Because it was not his calling. Because even though he was not yet fully grown, he did not think this was meant to be his life’s work.
“Spirit is a trained Roc,” his grandfather continued, with a stubborn insistence. Gramps, he had long since discovered, heard only what he wanted to hear and believed only what he wanted to believe. “He bonded with your father just as he bonded with me. He will lead the searchers to Tahere.”
Grey frowned. “Even in training, Spirit showed a strong streak of independence where Father was concerned.”
Too often, he had ignored what Tahere had commanded. Grey had watched their interactions and knew it to be so. His father had accepted Spirit as his own because Gramps had wanted it, but that hadn’t changed how the bird responded. “I think something more should be done,” Grey now added.
Tiger Ty gave him a look. “And what more would you do? What more can anyone do? Tahere’s Roc is his lifeline to the Hove. This responsibility is instilled in every single Roc from day one. It was no different with Spirit. He’s reliable and well trained. He will respond.”
“He never demonstrated sufficient responsibility to me.”
“But apparently he did to other, more seasoned, trainers. Do we ignore their assessment in favor of your own?” Tiger Ty made a dismissive gesture. “Besides, what difference does it make now? He’s all we have to work with. What matters is that we find Tahere, and Spirit’s our best chance for doing so.”
Gramps was clearly trying to convince himself. Grey didn’t say so, but he knew his grandfather was thinking about what would happen if they lost Tahere. He would have to live with the possibility that it was his fault for forcing Spirit on his son, trying to relive his own experiences as a rider by doing so. Grey understood, but he thought Gramps was being overly hopeful.
Nevertheless, he nodded in agreement. “You’re right. They’ll find him. Father is experienced enough to help them, and Spirit will respond to his training.”
His grandfather nodded silently and turned away.
* * *
—
But the search party didn’t find Tahere. They returned that night having found nothing, disgruntled and discouraged by their failure. And Spirit had indeed proved to be unreliable. He had flown them first one way and then another, and no amount of urging or cajoling from Fromme had been enough to persuade him to settle on a course that would lead to his missing rider. A new search would begin in the morning, it was decided—this time without Spirit, so that a fresh approach might yield something more concrete.
No one said what everyone was thinking: that perhaps there was no possibility of finding Tahere alive. That perhaps he had suffered a catastrophic fall or injury in the course of his work and he was lost to them for good. That would explain why Spirit could not lead them to him. That would explain why he could not be found.
For the first time, Grey was worried. His father’s death seemed an impossibility. They were not living in a time of war, so the chance that he had been brought down by an enemy was remote. Besides, his father was an experienced Wing Rider and a cautious scout. That he had fallen from Spirit seemed unlikely. That he had been knocked off was even more difficult to accept.
No, Tahere was alive, and he was in need of help. And Spirit was still their best chance for finding him. He just needed the right rider.
And the right rider, of course, was Tiger Ty. Rocs bonded tightly to their riders. However, it was true that when their riders were lost to age or death, most Rocs eventually created a new bond with another rider. But Spirit was not most Rocs. Gramps was the rider Spirit had bonded with all those years ago—and Spirit, it seemed, bonded for life. For all that he was well trained and skillful and had proven himself over and over, he was also high-strung and temperamental. He was very much a one-man bird. Tiger Ty was his rider, and his bond with Tahere had always been suspect. At least to Grey, if not to his grandfather. Had it been anyone else, the trainers would have refused his grandfather’s request to have his Roc bequeathed to his son. But he was Tiger Ty, a legend and a hero among the Wing Hove, and who was going to say no to him?
Grey had thought to speak up at the time, but he was younger then, and still learning. What he knew was more from instinct than training, and adults did not often listen to the advice of boys. So he had kept his mouth shut, telling himself it would work out, that his father would find a way to make the bond strong enough.
He thought about that at length that night while cuddled with Alethea. They were not yet partnered, but for them it was only a formality to be settled by this time next year, and sleeping together seemed natural enough when you were young and so much in love.
Alethea was small and willowy, only seventeen but mature for her age, and absolutely the most beautiful girl Grey had ever met. He had known what real love felt like the moment he had first seen her. He had known she was meant to be with him even before they were formally introduced. Within days, it was clear she felt the same about him. Now they were together constantly, planning for their future, imagining life once they had taken their vows, talking about a home and family and everything they would do for the rest of their lives.
Presently they were rolled up together in the blankets they had carried down to the oceanside, stealing away from their families as they so often did to be alone. In other circumstances, this time would be theirs, their dreams and their love for each other all that mattered, but not tonight. Grey was thinking instead about his father, and Alethea was watching him, knowing his thoughts as well as she knew her own.
“Maybe you need to go with them,” she said after a long silence. “It might make you feel better.”
He nodded into her shoulder. “I was thinking that, too.”
