The Dark Is Rising by Susan Cooper Page B

know.”
    â€œPrecious few,” the Walker said bitterly.
    â€œI could shut my eyes, if you’d let me go.”
    â€œPah!” the old man said.
    Will said, “You carry the second Sign. Give it to me.”
    There was a silence. He felt the man’s hands fall away from his own arms, but he stood where he was and did not turn round. “I have the first Sign already, Walker,” he said. “You know I do. Look,I’m undoing my jacket, and I’ll pull it back, and you can see the first circle on my belt.”
    He pulled aside his coat, still without moving his head, and was aware of the Walker’s hunched form slipping round at his side. The man’s breath hissed out through his teeth in a long sigh as he looked, and he turned his head up to Will without caution. In the yellow light from the steadily-burning branch Will saw a face contorted with battling emotions: hope and fear and relief wound tightly together by anguished uncertainty.
    When the man spoke, his voice was broken and simple as that of a small sad child.
    â€œIt’s so heavy,” he said plaintively. “And I’ve been carrying it for so long. I don’t even remember why. Always frightened, always having to run away. If only I could get rid of it, if only I could rest. Oh, if only it was gone. But I daren’t risk giving it to the wrong one, I daren’t. The things that would happen to me if I did, they’re too terrible, they can’t be put into words. The Old Ones can be cruel, cruel. . . . I think you’re the right one, boy, I’ve been looking for you a long time, a long time, to give the Sign to you. But how can I be really sure? How can I be sure you aren’t a trick of the Dark?”
    He’s been frightened so long, Will thought, that he’s forgotten how to stop. How awful, to be so absolutely lonely. He doesn’t know how to trust me; it’s so long since he trusted anyone, he’s forgotten how. . . . “Look,” he said gently. “You must know I’m not part of the Dark. Think. You saw the Rider try to strike me down.”
    But the old man shook his head miserably, and Will remembered how he had fled shrieking from the clearing the moment the Rider had appeared.
    â€œWell, if that doesn’t help,” he said, “doesn’t the fire tell you?”
    â€œThe fire almost,” the Walker said. He looked at it hopefully; then his face twisted in recalled alarm. “But the fire, it’ll bring them. boy, you know that. The rooks will already be guiding them. And how do I know whether you lit the fire because you’re a new-awake Old One playing games, or as a signal to bring them after me?” He moaned to himself in anguish, and clutched his arms round his shoulders. He was a wretched thing, Will thought pityingly. But somehow he had to be made to understand.
    Will looked up. There were more rooks circling lazily overhead now, and he could hear them calling harshly to one another. Was the old man right, were the dark birds messengers of the Dark? “Walker, for goodness’ sake,” he said impatiently. “You must trust me — if you don’t trust someone just once, for long enough to give him the Sign, you’ll be carrying it for ever. Is that what you want?”
    The old tramp wailed and muttered, staring at him from mad little eyes; he seemed caught in his centuries of suspicion like a fly in a web. But the fly still has wings that can break the web; give him the strength to flap them, just once. . . . Driven by some unfamiliar part of his mind, without quite knowing what he was doing, Will gripped the iron circle on his belt, and he stood up as straight and tall as he could and pointed at the Walker, and called out, “The last of the Old Ones has come, Walker, and it is time. The moment for giving the Sign is now, now or never. Think only of that — no other chance will come. Now, Walker.