by Dyrk Ashton
Entranced as he is by the bewitching allure of The Leech, the ordinarily ultra-vigilant Bear doesn’t notice the breeze that ruffles the fur on his back, is barely conscious of the shadow that flits past his shoulder to form an inky blot on the cavern wall beside him. The soft voice is his first real clue that anyone is there at all.
“Matunos...”
Bödvar’s consciousness twitches in its hypnotic haze. Someone has spoken his Truename, which none have used in a over a millenium. Altar stones raised by the earliest Brythonic Celts still stand in honor of that name in High Rochester and Risingham here in England. He considered visiting them after this mission is over, if time and duty permitted, just for old times sake. The name Bödvar Bjarki is a recent appellation, one he took when he fought as a sellsword for a Norwegian king after the fall of Attila the Hun. He’s kept it ever since, having always liked how it rolls off his floppy bear’s tongue.
Who said that? His eyes try to focus on the shadow. Who’s there? He’s turning to see what might be blocking the light of the moon when a thin blade pierces his chest. Pierces deep. Without a grunt or moan, he slumps to the floor.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Flowers & Figs 10
Fi and Zeke have barely touched their burgers and fries. They’re seated at a table in a downtown establishment that calls itself an Irish pub and boasts the “best burgers in town.” Peter obviously thinks they’re good enough. He’s devouring the second of two giant jalapeno cheeseburgers. Three empty beer mugs sit in front of him and the fourth is nearly gone. Zeke hunches in his chair, the bank manager’s cashmere overcoat wrapped tightly around him, sucking soda through a straw. He isn’t as chilled as he was, but his color hasn’t fully returned.
They haven’t spoken a word since they ordered, Peter having spent the intervening time between then and the arrival of the food chatting up a couple of attractive and well attired businesswomen at the bar. Since then he’s been busy eating but incredibly alert, scanning TV screens above the bar and the crowded tables, studying everyone and everything. Every once in awhile he’d close his eyes as if listening.
He’s watching people texting on their smart phones at the next table when Fi leans forward and speaks quietly, “Peter, you shouldn’t...” He looks at her inquisitively. “It’s rude.”
“Just catching up on the latest patois,” he responds, unabashed. ““Lol, lfmao, rotfl, those I know, or can figure out. But, YOLO!” he shouts. Nearby patrons look at him. “I’m assuming it means ‘you only live once,’ correct?”
Fi answers, embarrassed, “Yes, it does.”
“Not entirely true, but...” He waggles his head, thinking about it, then stuffs his face with the remainder of his chili fries.
Fi takes a sip of her water. She loves a good burger, but she isn’t hungry. Just exhausted and overwhelmed. She’d like nothing more than to wake up from this bizarre nightmare in her comfy bed, wrapped in her favorite quilt, and start the whole day over again. Without realizing, she lets out a dramatic sigh.
Peter pops the last bit of burger in his mouth and washes it down with the rest of his beer, some of which dribbles into his beard. He clunks the mug down and lets out a loud wet belch of satisfaction. “Pardon me,” he says with a grin.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Fi retorts. “That was disgusting.”
He watches her languidly stirring ketchup with half a fry. “Fiona?”
She drops her fry onto the plate and gives him a squint-eyed, dirty look. Only her Uncle Edgar and Mrs. Mirskaya call her Fiona, and she likes it that way. “Finished?” she asks briskly.
“You’re not tired, are you?” Peter asks, ignoring her question.
She sits back, wiping her hands on the napkin in her lap. “Well, yeah. I am.”
Peter gives her the same scrutinizing look he gave Zeke earlier. “Hmm...”
“Hmm yourself!” she snaps, tossing the napkin on her plate.
Peter grins wide, greatly amused for some reason. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve then notices the two women he was talking to earlier shooting furtive glances his way. “If you’ll excuse me, and stay put, I need to use the little boys’ room.” Without waiting for an answer he drops a 100 dollar bill next to his plate and walks away along the bar.
Fi and Zeke sit quietly. There’s so much to say. And nothing at all.
Zeke notices she’s chewing her nails. “I didn’t know you bite your nails.”
Fi flashes him a look and shoves her hand in her lap. “I don’t. Or, I didn’t.”
He changes the subject to what’s really on his mind. “Well, what do you think?”
“About what?”
“Anything. Everything.”
“You don’t believe any of that stuff he told us, do you?“
“I honestly don’t know what to believe. He did say he never lies.”
“Which is exactly what every pathological liar says.”
“I know, but still...” He leans closer. “Who do you think he is, I mean really?”
“Every time I think about it my stomach ties up in knots.”
“Yes! It’s exactly the same with me.”
“Yeah?”
“Hell yeah. But... I can’t help but think...”
Fi watches, waiting.
“I mean, there was a moment there, after we first did that slipping thing,” he makes the sliding motion with his hand, “when he came out of that ocean of memory, or whatever it was. I thought maybe...” he laughs uneasily, “he could be God.”
Fi feels like she’s going to retch—out of anxiety, disgust, or both. She’d considered the same thing. But Peter? God? No way!
Zeke sees it on her face. “Or... you know, he could be some kind of god. He said he gave Billy the Axe of Perun—that grew out of a necklace, by the way—you saw it too. Perun was a Slavic deity who saved the world by defeating a dragon named Veles. But he also said that thing he got from the bank is Odin’s Spear. Odin! The supreme god of the Norse pantheon, the All-father—“
“I know who Odin is,” she retorts, holding her stomach. ”I’m not completely clueless.”
“Sorry.” Zeke knows he’s grasping at straws, but there has to be some explanation. “An angel? Or an alien—maybe?”
She shakes her head, incredulous.
“I mean, he can’t be a man. Not a normal man, anyway. Can he?”
“I’m still trying not to think about it too hard,” she groans. “I’m really hoping I’m just having, like, the most messed up dream ever.”
Zeke reaches under the table and pinches her leg.
“Hey!” she shouts, jerking in her seat.
“Did that hurt?”
She gives him the dirty look. “No. You just startled me.”
He tries a different tack. “Think about when he first came out of that sea of mist—”
“Naked,” Fi interjects.
“Okay, naked,” he concedes, “but changed. What was your first thought?”
“I’m pretty sure it was ‘AHHHHHHH!’ Just like yours.”
“Well, yeah. But seriously, the first real thought, or word, that came to mind?”
Fi thinks about it. What was it? What did I think?
Zeke looks over his shoulder to check and see if Peter’s coming back. All clear. “Come on, we’ll say it together, on three, ready, one—two—three—
At the same time, both of them say—“Beautiful.”
They stare at each other.
“Really?” she asks. “You thought that?”
“Yeah. But I almost said ‘perfect.’”
Fi remembers—she thought that too.
They gaze at each other for what seems a very long time, then realize what they’re doing and look at their plates.
“Zeke,” she says softly after a few moments. “This has to be a dream. Otherwise, the world’s completely different from what we’ve always thought it was. What anybody thinks it is. And... a lot of people are dead.” He looks at her with empathy and rem
orse, then focuses on his hands in his lap.
Fi stares at her plate. Peter... What happened to her special old man? The gentle dementia patient who loved flowers and figs and gazing at the stars? The quiet helpless guy who could brighten her whole week with an occasional faraway smile? It’s strange, but she misses him.
She takes a deep breath, scans the restaurant. “Where is he?”
* * *
Fi and Zeke squeeze down the narrow hall of the pub to the restrooms. They come to the women’s room first. “I’m going to stop in here,” says Fi. Zeke nods, then halts. From the other side of the door comes a distinct smack and a woman’s muffled groan. They share a look of alarm and Fi shoves the door open.
At the far end of the galley-style restroom Peter and the two women from the bar are pretzeled in a way that seems almost physically impossible—yet somehow Peter manages to hold both women up with a little help from the sink. Clothes are strewn everywhere. There’s the same groan as before—but it isn’t a sound of distress.
Fi and Zeke just stand there, gawking.
Peter smacks one of the women on the butt.
“Ohhh, yes!” she groans. “Say it again!”
“You really like that?”
“I do! Do it! Say it!”
“Okay then, Who’s your daddy?”
“You are! You are!”
Zeke reaches past Fi and pulls the door shut.
“We’re leaving,” she says firmly.
“But...”
“Now.”
* * *
Fi storms out of the pub, Zeke stumbling after her. Daylight has given way to night and it’s begun to drizzle. Oblivious to the wet and cold, Fi darts across the street, weaving through traffic.
Zeke calls after her, “Fi!” then mumbles, “shit.” He raises the collar on his coat and follows, dodging angry drivers who hit their brakes and honk.
“Fi!” he shouts again. “Come on! Think about—”
She halts on the sidewalk and spins on him so abruptly he almost runs into her. “I’m going home, to find my uncle. You can come with me, or you can stay with...” she waves back toward the pub, “him.” Zeke runs his hands through his hair apprehensively while she glares up at him. Having waited long enough, she figures, she turns and hurries up the sidewalk. Zeke groans and follows.
“Okay!” he says, catching up to her as she crosses the street at the next corner. “But, maybe we can come back, after...”
“Maybe,” she says brusquely, without slowing.
“Look, we could get a cab—”
“Just wave one down? In Toledo? Good luck with that!”
“You know, your uncle sounds like an interesting guy and all, but can you really tell him about all this?”
Fi keeps striding along, making her way through downtown, headed toward home. She hadn’t considered what Uncle Edgar’s reaction might be. She’s just assumed he’d believe her, and would know what to do about it. Now she wonders.
She wipes her eyes, glances up without stopping. At that moment there’s a break in the gray sky and the moon glares down upon the world. The clouds blink it away and she shrugs off the eerie feeling of being watched.
“Fi,” Zeke puffs as he jogs to keep up. “What if Peter really is somebody—important—and we just left him—”
“I think he’s doing fine all by himself,” she responds harshly. “And he isn’t really all by himself, is he?” She checks for traffic and crosses another street. In spite of her mood, she hopes Zeke didn’t see her almost twist her ankle in a pothole.
“But what if he is telling the truth?” he asks.
“What truth? He hasn’t really told us anything. Nothing that makes sense! And if you want to think of it that way, have you considered your angel or god or whatever, might actually be a demon?”
“Those people who are after him,” Zeke counters, “they sure don’t seem like good guys to me!”
“Yeah? How do you know? Maybe they are demons, but maybe there’s some sort of coup going on, a fight for control over hell or something!”
“Come on, Fi...”
“Well?! It isn’t any crazier than—OH!!!” In her haste, she trips off a curb and stumbles into the entrance to an alley. A car slams on its breaks and comes skidding right for her on the wet pavement.
“Fi!” Zeke shouts, sprinting to tackle her. They tumble onto the far sidewalk as the car squeals to a stop.
The driver’s door flies open. Fi swipes at the damp hair clinging to her face, shields her eyes from the headlights and rain. Out steps an elderly man in a windbreaker and slacks, with a hooked nose, braided ponytail and mutton-chop sideburns.
“Uncle Edgar?”
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Mendip Hills 5
Myrddin Wyllt is having the most wonderful dream. It must be a dream, because he’s making sweet love to his beloved Nyneve.
Or is it his sister, Lamia? It doesn’t matter. Then, through the fog of carnal lust, he sees something watching. A pitch black shadow, hovering over... a bear?
Yes, a dream, but what a dream. And like all good dreams, he knows it will be interrupted before he can finish. It’s already happening.
The shadow floats toward the pair in their lovers’ embrace, flings a handful of sparkling crystal powder. His dream-beloved jerks away and screams the most horrible scream.
Myrddin crumples to the floor. Nyneve!
* * *
It’s about time. Bödvar should be fighting for his life, lashing out at his attacker with his final breath. But he isn’t. He’s just lying there, blinking at the dim ceiling of the cave. It’s about damn time.
With tremendous effort, he turns his head to the cave entrance. He sees the moon as if for the very first time—and it seems to be looking back.
His thoughts are becoming startlingly clear, as if a sediment stirred by hate has always clouded his mind and is now settling away with his newfound stillness. The strangest thought occurs to him. I wonder if I actually prefer the company of men?
Gods know, most Firstborn will hook up with anything. They get it from their father. But Bödvar doesn’t mean it that way. Here at the end of things, he realizes he’s always preferred the company of parvuli—humans—real men. How strange...
Maybe he’s spent his entire life, a life of epochs, fighting on the wrong side, pretending he believed something he didn’t, that he was someone he was not. Unlike most Firstborn, he was born when the parvuli were already around. Thinking back, he can’t imagine his life without them. He doesn’t hate the humans. He loves them.
Bödvar’s sister, his only littermate, always adored the humans. She lived among them often, taught them things, even carried them around on her back, something Bödvar would never tolerate. They adored her. Bödvar they respected, even admired, but always feared.
Their mother belonged to a long extinct species the humans have named the South American Short-faced Bear, also called a Bulldog Bear, of the genus Arctotherium. She stood eleven feet tall when raised up on her hind legs and was mean as hell, always smacking Bödvar around at the slightest provocation. He’s sure he deserved it. His sister was just as tall as their mother when full grown, and born before Bödvar by a few minutes. As big as he is, he’d always been the runt, the “little brother,” in size and birth order.
His sister was the polar opposite of their mother in disposition, and of him. Good and kind. Too much so, he always thought, to the point of weakness. She was ferocious when riled though, whew! It just took a hell of a lot to make her mad. They’d never come to blows on the battlefield, Bödvar is glad of that. She was stronger than he. Female Firstborn always are, given the same breeding and age.
For millennia he and his sister were inseparable. He tried to drive her away many times but she wouldn’t leave him, no matter how miserable he made her. Then, one night, she’d finally had enough of his shit—his foul demeanor, his cruelty to the humans—and she deserted him.
Deserted? Where did t
hat come from? I wanted her to go, to leave me be! Didn’t I?
He came in contact with her only once after that, the day she died. As his Firstborn lifeblood drains away, Bödvar sees her clear as day.
It was twenty-thousand years ago. The last Great Ice covered much of the planet, and the final battle of the Second Magnificent Holocaust raged. She’d sided with Father, of course—she was always Deva, his sister, Devi to the core. Her Truename was Artio, but at the time she was known by the humans as the Vanir giantess Jörd. When Bödvar saw her she was armored in a massive breastplate, with great golden wings on her helmet, spattered with gore—but beautiful.
She was kneeling in the mud, clutching the broken body of her dying child, the boy she’d named Thor. She cast up her eyes, seeking aid for her son, and looked upon Bödvar for the first time in many myria. There was no hatred in those eyes, no blame, just the tears of a mother wracked with grief. She spoke only one pleading word. “Brother.” He saw his Asura comrades approach her from behind. He did nothing, gave no warning. Her head fell from her shoulders. Blood sprayed scarlet plumes over the snow, speckling Bödvar’s face and fur...
That’s odd. Spreading from the wound in his chest is not just blood—there’s also a radiating warmth, a comforting sense of relief. He’s gotten what he deserves. It’s over. The unease, the depression, the hate, the regret, and yes, the fear that’s been part of him since he can remember, is leaving him. He feels at peace for the first time since he was a cub, settling down to sleep on feathery ferns, his face nuzzled in his mother’s fur. The only tears The Bear has ever known well up in his eyes.
He wonders if there really is an afterlife, of any of the varieties that humans believe in. At that thought a soft sound that might be a laugh escapes his lips. How trite I am! He’s pretty sure there will be no fluffy clouds, no fanfare of trumpets or plucking harps, and he knows that the horror stories of a burning, torturous hell are just primordial memory fragments of the rule of the first Master and other terrible times in the pre-history of the parvuli. But who knows? Who is The Bear to say? Is it possible he will see Wiglaf once again? Or Valentine?
