by Kevin Hearne
On the fourth day, after I appeared to be at least cosmetically okay, I summoned the west wind using Fragarach. Shortly thereafter we were paid a visit by Hermes, who informed us that Bacchus was under control and that all the Olympians would swear to leave us alone, whenever I was free to hear their oath. Both Flidais and Perun had survived their fit of madness, and Flidais had pledged herself to find some way to restore or replace Herne’s hunters. In nautical news, Poseidon and Neptune had reached out to Manannan Mac Lir in a new spirit of brotherhood to search the sea together for Jörmungandr, in hopes of giving us an advantage before the onset of Ragnarok.
That was so hopeful and so much better than the way things could have turned out that I allowed myself to feel a smidgen of hope. Yes, Loki and Hel were probably plotting some intensely evil shit now where we couldn’t get to them, hiding themselves from the eye of Odin, but it wasn’t just me trying to fill Thor’s shoes anymore. The Olympians could be counted on to jump in with gusto.
Aside from that visit, we spent our days either in Zenlike calm in natural surroundings, healing and relaxing, or else baffled by Japanese television at night, which offered more “what the fuck?” per hour than anything in the United States.
“I don’t understand a word they’re saying, but I can’t look away,” Granuaile said as we lounged in a very tiny hotel room on the fifth day, a Tuesday morning. There was space to sleep and little else. “What are they going to do with that badger and the shaving cream?”
“I don’t know,” I replied, shaking my head. Even though I could speak Japanese, I didn’t quite understand what the two fast-talking young men in skinny jeans and Muppet T-shirts intended. “Something crazy.”
“Forget French. I need to learn Japanese next.”
Oberon yawned at the foot of the bed and said,
I blinked repeatedly to break the spell of the show. “Oberon’s right. We need to get out of here.”
Granuaile’s eyes hadn’t moved from the TV screen. “Wait, what’s happening? Is that a baby? That’s a baby! Atticus, what the fuck are they doing with a baby?”
“Come on, let’s go.” I thumbed the power switch, and Granuaile flinched as the picture winked out.
“No! They had a badger and a baby! I need to know what happens!”
“Listen to yourself. It’s already happened and it’s pointless. We have more important things to do.”
“What Oberon said,” I agreed. “You’re all healed now, and I’m probably eighty percent. Let’s get some exercise.”
We escaped our cubicle room, checked out, and fled Tokyo for Mount Fuji, hiking along one of several well-trod paths to the summit. Though there were plenty of other hikers making the trek with us, birdsong wafted amongst the leaves of maple and beech trees in the broadleaf zone near the base, and we discovered that we were smiling without knowing precisely why. Oberon’s tail wagged and his tongue drooped out to the side as he loped alongside and occasionally paused to sniff something next to the trail.
We climbed all the way to the top, thinking we could use a stunning vista to banish the effects of ultra-urban Tokyo. The trees thinned out after a while, then disappeared altogether, leaving a rocky ascent to the summit. Once we were there, a stone post carved with kanji informed us that we had made it to the top, as if we could not figure it out from the fact that there was no more mountain to climb. But that post made me drop my jaw anyway.
Granuaile noticed. “Atticus, what is it?”
“The Morrigan’s parting gift,” I said. “I forgot about it until now.”
“What? You never mentioned that before.”
“Because I forgot about it. There’s something—or someone—waiting for us on one of the Time Islands in Tír na nÓg.”
“Well, if they’re stuck there, then they can probably just wait longer, can’t they?”
“I’m sure they can. Not so sure about me, though. Aren’t you curious? Who does the Morrigan have stashed away there?”
Granuaile sighed. “We’re going to run downhill and shift away right now, aren’t we?”
“Yep. Well, I’ll kind of limp and stagger instead of run. But we’ll go as fast as we can.”
Granuaile insisted that we take a few moments to enjoy the view first, since we’d spent so long climbing to appreciate it. The Pacific Ocean caressed the green curves of Honshu’s coast and sparkled with reflected sunlight. As long as I didn’t look toward the cities, I could glimpse the Japan of long ago, still dangerous and beautiful, where the serenity of Zen and Shinto always had an edge to it—the blade of a katana or wakizashi, usually. Often only a single person’s will decided whether the day would be washed in blood or the tranquil ink of calligraphy.
We sent messages of love and harmony to the elemental, and then I tried my best to keep my pace dignified as we descended to the broadleaf zone tethered to Tír na nÓg. Once the trees surrounded us again, we took the earliest opportunity to leave the trail and get out of sight before we shifted away.
We chose a specific destination in Tír na nÓg: the tree nearest the home of Manannan Mac Lir, as safe a place as any for us in the land of the Fae. He and Fand welcomed us, feted us, and, once they heard of our intent to visit the Time Islands, offered the use of a singular canoe that would hold its position in a current without the use of an anchor.
“That island is fairly well known,” Manannan said. “I am fascinated to hear that the Morrigan put someone there.”
It was the first time either of us had spoken of the Morrigan. Manannan carefully avoided my eyes, and I could sense that he didn’t want to speak of her death. I respected his wishes and didn’t go there.
“Really?” I said. “What’s so unusual about it? I know it’s way upstream, but I don’t remember seeing anything there when I was young.”
“You wouldn’t have. We didn’t start putting people in there until—well, it was around the time you retrieved Dagda’s cauldron for Ogma down in Wales. Remember that?”
“Yeah. Back in the sixth century.”
“Right. Well, you never did hang around Tír na nÓg very much until recently, so it’s no wonder you haven’t heard of it before now. Some of the Tuatha Dé Danann—myself included—call it Zealot Island. We were bloody sheltered back in the old days, you know. Once we began to have contact with the rest of the world, we were gobsmacked by the intensity with which some people denied the existence of other gods. Lots o’ those people are dangerous, but some o’ them are so bad they’re kind of ridiculous.” Manannan smiled with nostalgia. “My favorite character there is the red-faced Puritan who looks like he’s a biscuit away from an aneurysm. When I snatched him, he was shouting this frothy sermon about the sublime grace of his god’s love, completely unaware of how his body language and voice contradicted every word he said. I know that others have contributed to the island from time to time, but I didn’t realize the Morrigan was one of them.”
That only increased my curiosity, but we spent much of the time relating the details of our run across Europe. I neglected to mention my visit to Brí Léith, however; since Manannan didn’t bring up news of the shocking death of Midhir, I wasn’t going to volunteer the information. He knew, of course, that Midhir was dead—Manannan would have escorted his spirit to his final rest. But that didn’t mean Manannan knew the details of what had happened or had investigated, or that Midhir’s death was public knowledge. It was best to keep silent.
I insisted on cooking in the morning, preparing my signature cheese and chive omelets and serving them with sausages and parsley potatoes. Fand had Blue Mountain coffee from Jamaica that she had sent faeries to harvest on the sly, s
o it was one of those rare breakfasts you remember long afterward. Bellies full and loving life as we bid our hosts farewell, the three of us set out on the river in the canoe, which Oberon discovered was not designed with a wolfhound in mind.
“Best to lie down and just enjoy the scenery, then,” I said. There was quite a bit to see. Zealot Island was about as far upstream as one could get; time moved slower there than almost anywhere. Though narrow, the island sprawled for a decent distance, so there was a rogues’ gallery lined up on the beach who would most likely fight to the death if they were left enough time to do so. An English crusader stood right next to a fighter for the Caliphate, for example, and they didn’t even know it. Millennia would pass before they could turn their heads and register that an enemy stood nearby.
Metal posts offshore rose all the way around the island, supporting an elaborate system of catwalks and machinery far above it. I didn’t know what the contraption was for, but I was sure Goibhniu had something to do with it. We’d go see him next.
On the northern side of the island, at the edge of the beach but by no means under the canopy of trees that dotted the center of the island, a craggy, stooped figure pointed an accusing finger at us, mouth wide in accusation and eyes burning with rage. The Morrigan had obviously plucked him from a cold environment, since he was bundled up in warm clothing and wearing gloves with the fingers cut off. He looked utterly alien standing on that balmy beach.
“Gods below,” I whispered. “What in nine hells was she thinking?”
“Who is it?”
“I can’t …” I trailed off, my mind spluttering to a halt like an AMC Gremlin. Granuaile paused the boat in the river, using the binding Manannan had taught us. She let me stare for a while to get my thoughts in order before she asked again.
“Atticus? Who is it?”
I shook my head. “No. I don’t know how this is going to go. I mean, now that I see him there, of course I need to get him out, but it might turn out to be a terrible idea. Or a great idea. Depends on whether he wants to help us or not. But if it winds up being a terrible idea, I don’t want you involved. It’s safer that way.”
Granuaile crossed her arms. “No. That’s not going to fly. I can take care of myself, as you well know. Tell me who it is.”
“You misunderstand. I know you can take care of yourself, and I’m not worried about that at all. I’m more worried about you killing him than the other way around. He’ll say something atrocious and you’ll have no choice but to destroy him. No, I’m sorry. This is a private matter, and I’m going to keep it private until I know his state of mind.”
Granuaile cocked an eyebrow and bobbed her head at him. “You can’t tell his state of mind by looking at him?”
I gazed at his snarling expression again. “It’s not as easy as you might think,” I said. “He kind of looks like that all the time. That could be joy we’re looking at. I simply don’t know.”
We returned to shore and found Goibhniu at his smithy, working on a personal project. Swirling rods of wrought iron outlined a threatening figure with flowing black hair.
“Is that …?”
“The Morrigan,” Goibhniu said. “Aye. Me mum isn’t too happy about me makin’ a memorial, but she can get stuffed. The spirit feckin’ moves me, y’know. The Morrigan gave me nightmares all the time, but I already miss her. Gonna put rubies in the eyes and enchant Fae lights behind ’em to make ’em glow.”
“Outstanding.”
“Kind of you to say.” He removed his goggles, wiped his hands on a cloth, and came over to shake my hand with a smile on his face. “Good to see you alive, Siodhachan. Heard a bit about that business with the Olympians, owing to your friend there.” He nodded to indicate Granuaile and then turned his grin on her. “Hello, you. And, Oberon, it’s always a pleasure.”
Oberon barked and wagged his tail as Goibhniu rubbed his head.
“Looks like you’ve healed up well,” he said to Granuaile, then included me with his next sentence. “Will ye be havin’ a beer with me? There’s a lot of rumors swirlin’ round about what exactly happened, but I’d like to hear it from you, and, besides, we have business to discuss.”
He must mean the bounty on the vampires. “That would be wonderful.”
“Delighted,” Granuaile said.
“Brilliant. Don’t worry, Oberon,” Goibhniu said, “I have something proper to eat over there too.”
We followed Goibhniu out of his smithy to his brewery and taproom next door, which was decorated in dark wood and brass. There were a few Fae hanging out inside, but they exited quickly after they saw me. I shared a condensed and edited version of our escape from the Olympians while Goibhniu pulled draughts for us and ladled out some bowls of lamb stew from the kitchen. We three ate at a booth, while Oberon ate his behind the bar. I finished with the uneasy truce struck with Zeus and Jupiter, as we sopped up the remainder of the stew with some bread.
Goibhniu shook his head in wonder and raised his glass. “Sláinte, laddie. I love the way you make everybody dance.”
We clinked glasses and then I said, “What do you know about Zealot Island?”
The smith blinked. “I know it’s feckin’ tough to get anybody off it once they’re on.”
“Why?”
“Time moves so slowly there that when you swoop in to pluck them out you’re likely to break their bones. Some o’ them haven’t blinked in hundreds of years.”
“So why put anyone there?”
“We only put assholes there, until I could figure out a way to get ’em out safely.”
“Oh, so you can get them out?”
“Wait. Are you saying you killed a bunch of people to experiment?” Granuaile asked at the same time, a hint of outrage in her tone. Goibhniu answered her rather than me.
“Well, yeah, but, like I said, they were assholes. Vikings, mostly, what were going around raping and pillaging the Irish coast back then. But, come to think of it, we’re still putting assholes there. Only now we can get ’em out without killing ’em. Mostly.”
“What do you mean, mostly?” I asked.
Goibhniu shrugged. “It’s a tricky business. Have you been out there and seen the rig I set up?”
Thinking of the bizarre machinery erected over the island, I nodded.
“Well, I can snatch ’em out with that. The time bubble has a low ceiling. We sweep what amounts to an ultrasoft mattress in behind ’em and then scoop ’em up. Thing is, you’re practically guaranteed to break their legs, because we hit them first to make ’em fall backward and usually they have their legs locked up. Sometimes we get additional breakage, but it’s hardly ever fatal anymore.”
“Can you get someone out for me?”
“Who?”
I shot a glance at Granuaile, who was listening intently. “I’d rather not say,” I replied, “but he was left there by the Morrigan.”
Goibhniu’s eyes rounded. “She said someone would come asking about that someday, but I never thought it would happen now. And I certainly didn’t think it would be you.”
“Do you know the person I’m talking about?”
“No, I don’t. She only told me that she left someone there and that far off in the future somebody—not her—would ask to get ’im out. She paid me in stupid huge pots of gold to get this guy off the island and make sure he healed up all right.”
“But you don’t know who it is?”
“Nope. She said whoever asked about it would identify him.”
That gave me pause. Considering how long ago she must have put that man on the island, she had been flirting with the idea of her own death for a very long time. Or she had divined some purpose for him far beyond his own era.
; “All right, I need you to go around to the north side and look for an old man in winter clothes pointing at the shore in mid-shout. Can’t miss him. Epic eyebrows. That’s the guy.”
“Done,” Goibhniu said. “Or it will be in a couple of weeks. Takes that long.”
“Good enough,” I said. “What news from the yewmen?”
“Ah! I’m thinkin’ we need another beer for that. This is good.” He collected our glasses and went back to the tap and checked on Oberon, who had fallen asleep behind the bar after wolfing down his lamb stew.
“You heard what they did the first night, right?” the god of brewing said as he deposited the old glasses in the sink and fetched some fresh ones. “Took out every vampire in Rome. It was a sort of cooperative enterprise from several different pods. They split up from there and took a day to find new targets. Meantime, the rest of the world’s vampires wake up at night and some of them realize that they’re hearing nothing from their leaders. A few go to find out what’s happened, and then it’s chaos. Lots of different reactions. Some are battening down the hatches and increasing security until they know more. Some are sending minions to Rome to seize the city for them and take control. Others are claiming that fighting over Rome is a moot point, as it’s no longer the center of vampiric power—which is a fair point—and then they claim that their city should be the new capital, or whatever you want to call it.”
“Huh. Which cities?”
“Istanbul, Las Vegas, and Paris are the names I’ve heard.” I’d half expected to hear Thessalonika in there, which would mean Theophilus was making a play, but then it made sense that he would let others step forward. He was the sort of leader who moved in the shadows, safely out of reach. In that he was very similar to his mysterious counterpart amongst the Tuatha Dé Danann.
