by Pam Uphoff
Her little sister whispered. "Actually she said 'and be normal, not a man-hating old hag.' Lillian's bought that hill to the northeast. She says it's for witches ceremonies, but only for her kind of witches."
"Holy moly. I thought all the witches would stick together." Dane whispered, half hiding behind Chris. "I am so out of here."
"Good idea." Chris retreated, and the Itas followed them.
"That nonsense is enough to make me glad I don't have any power genes." Benita grinned up at Chris. "What are you guys going to do, if they won't have anything to do with men?"
"Heave a sigh of relief and date normal girls, like you two."
Dane wrinkled his nose. "We have to marry women with no power genes, to have sons to carry on the magic. Actually they're doing us a favor."
Chris blinked at him. Because witches can't have boy babies, and if I want a son to teach all these cool things to . . . I have to stop feeling for Iris the way I do. "Oh, crap. That's right. What a horrible . . . damn those stupid . . . genetic engineers for putting the power genes on the sex chromosomes."
Benita sighed. "Are they prettier than we are?"
"Not on the inside." Chris said. "Nor the outside, now that you mention it. But they sort of glow, magically, and draw us like flies. Lillian really is doing us a favor, showing us the poison in the honey."
The girls nodded, then headed around to the back door. "We've got kitchen duty tonight. We'll probably hear about nothing but the fight all night long."
Chris stayed away for another hour, and returned to find the witches had claimed two separate seating areas, and the two groups were both speaking loudly while pretending to ignore the other group. Chris caught a wave from Lance and tried to stroll nonchalantly to a table in the demilitarized zone. Jamie and Mallory came home from the hospital, and got a recap loud enough to fill everyone in. Or at any rate make their eyes glaze over. Apparently Lillian had the most supporters, barely, among the witches from the bus. The rest of the town's witches out numbered them. The older witches, Phaedra and Muriel, were sitting at Milly and Ariel's table. Lillian had Iris and two other girls from outside the bus gang with her. Roslyn, Katy, Karen and Elinor sat at the next table, more outsider women at another.
"So we're going to have two separate pyramids. Regular and extra-man hating." Milly called over from the far side of the dining room.
"So, where do you stand." Lillian stared at Mallory, glanced at Jamie.
"Ugg. I stand for mental health. You always have had a screw loose, Lillian. Your mother filled you with poison from her three divorces, then sent you here alone while she married yet another man." Mallory turned away, then lifted her chin and walked to Lance and Chris's table, Jamie following. Lance edged out a chair in unspoken invitation.
"Thanks guys. I can believe we're doing this."
Chris shrugged. "You know, for the level of civilization we've got, we're getting pretty close to the carrying capacity of the local region. Splitting up may be a good idea. Although I don't really think there is any need to be so confrontational about it."
Jamie nodded. "You guys are hunting just about everyday, and it goes straight from the butcher to the kitchen."
Lance snickered. "And we don't even want to think about how many septic tanks we've got crowded into this small an area."
"Eww!" Malory wrinkled her nose. "But where would we go? To start over? Or do we try to kick out the people who came after the walls were up?"
"There's a whole world out there." Chris waved, vaguely. "How about South Africa? Gold and diamonds, and isn't it supposed to have a good climate . . . well, maybe not during an ice age, but there's a whole continent. Or cross the Pacific and settle in California."
Leo Harding looked over, from another table. "No need to go that far, there's most of India, Indonesia, Australia, Or how about the Asian east coast? Catch a warm current up the coast like the Gulf Stream, live in Japan."
"Moving livestock would be easy, just get a god to fix up a bubble for you." Vito joined the general conversation. The witch split was fast moving into second place.
"I wonder how big a town can get, before you start having trouble with sanitation and hunting issues." Chris frowned. "What's the population of Tripoli, now?"
Larita winked at him as she whisked by dropping off plates of what might well be the game they'd killed today. We need a whole lot more cows. We ought to be having wild cattle roundups once a month. And horses. Breed wild mares to our stallions and turn them loose, get the domestic genes into circulation. How many vets do we have? Maybe we could do artificial insemination of wild cows or something. I wonder if the gods can stun the cows, and from how far away? I wonder if I can do it?
"Anyway, what we probably need to start thinking about is having half of us move out to our farms, now that we've got the predators knocked well back. That will spread the strain on water, septic and the wild herds."
He looked over at Lillian's witches and shook his head. They can do whatever they want to do. I have other things on my mind. His eyes slid toward Iris, and he jerked them back toward dinner. Damn Ira Penner and his sexual repressions. Does Iris have any chance of a healthy relationship? Hanging around Lillian isn't going to help.
Lillian sneered. "I've filed for a hill to the north east. We may just have our ceremonies there, or we may move. But that will be our decision, not yours."
Chris nodded. "Yep. Nobody has to move, but anybody can move, to any open area." Like that nice little bay about twenty miles to the east. A snug little winter harbor and refuge. Careen a boat on the beach and scrape the barnacles and all that.
Chapter Twenty
December 21, 2118
"I thought being a god was bad when it was sarcasm." Wolf shook his head. "It never occurred to me that being the real thing would be worse." He paced a bit, his attention on the shortwave, and the quiet hiss of dead air. The High Sheriff of Gibraltar was off the air, at the moment, outside with the beacon. It was probably too early for a new gate to have been finished, but running the beacon for a couple of weeks hurt nothing.
"I don't understand why it's just some of us. Is it that we aren't guessing the right God and Goddess? Or are the God of Love and Goddess of Women just not summonable?" Harry sipped his hot tea, and wondered how long Wolf and Romeau's automated kitchens would last. Good thing we've found tea and coffee trees. And cocoa trees or bushes or whatever it grows on.
He thought about the kitchen in the bus. Funny, how they hadn't used it in so long. He ought to seal it up and preserve it for emergencies.
Wolf was looking grumpy. "I seem to remember Edmund saying he could be summoned. Why does the collective subconscious think the God of Vice would need to be summonable?"
"So people would get their orgies right?"
They all glared at Romeau. He shrugged. "Maybe you can't summon me because you don't really really need a wedding performed Right Now."
"Point. Maybe the circumstances weren't right. I came when summoned in the middle of a battle, Harry came when that wretched wagon broke down. I was cursing by the 'God of Travelers and asking for Triple A service. And voila, there he was. Just long enough to make a sarcastic remark."
"Then I popped back home. Just like you return right back where you'd been, after the fights are over. God of War."
"This really stinks. I don't believe in magic, you know? And I don't like the idea of being hauled into every damned battle in the World."
Harry nodded. "At least we showed up with armor. That was interesting. Weird, but interesting."
"But we're not invulnerable." Wolf ran a finger along the scar down his arm. "Bummer, to get killed in someone else's battle."
Harry nodded slowly. "We were summoned, but not controlled. Barry called you, but you helped me. You summoned me, and all I did was twit you about your poorly made wheels. I didn't have to help you. You didn't have to help Barry."
"I suspect we'd better start writing this down, and analyzing it all. And I think I'
d better start giving you some lessons in fighting with that spear, in case you start getting summoned for bandit attacks."
"The spear disappears with the armor."
"I'll make you one to practice with." He cocked an ear toward the shortwave. Still nothing but dead air on the Gibraltar channel.
Phaedra molded an ornate iron spearhead for him, and Harry heated it red hot in charcoal. The "normal" witches tended to gather here, at her cabin for practice, and she had a lot of metal-working tools in the yard, including this little forced air forge.
"I read about how they case hardened chain mail. The carbon combines with the iron to form a hard but rather brittle outer layer, and the interior iron is unchanged. It stays more flexible." Harry fished the glowing spear point out of the fire. "Maybe this will harden it. I really don't know much about making steel."
"I wish I could heat things up with a thought. Not that I need to melt metal much, anymore. All the tools I brought with me, I swear I just tap the metal to focus my thoughts." Phaedra slipped a hand through the crook of his elbow. "What are you thinking about?"
How good you smell.
Her mouth twitched, as if she'd heard that. "When you heat metal."
"Umm, vibration, that's what heat is, after all."
"Hmm. And you men heat huge volumes of air when you make weather, don't you?"
"Umm, yeah." He was having a hard time concentrating on much of anything except her, and he certainly didn't protest when she steered him inside her cabin.
***
Michael only had one dog with him, when he walked into town. The big boxer lay down on the porch of the Fire Mountain Inn, and growled at a cattle dog that trotted by at a horse's heels. Michael grinned at that sign of normality, and sauntered into the Inn.
A couple of kids were stacking chairs sideways, apparently making a fort for some sort of game. Or perhaps the construction was the game.
"Is Harry around?"
The nearest boy shook his head. "He's off canoeing."
"Canoodling," the other boy rolled his eyes. "At least that's what Chris said."
"What's the difference?" The first boy turn his attention back to construction.
Michael managed to keep his face straight, and headed back out. Red was watching some young men, hackles half raised. "Take it easy, Pup, we're trying to make friends here."
The boxer twitched an ear his direction, but kept his eyes glued on the men.
Michael glanced their way. They didn't seem to be doing anything. Loitering with intent. He frowned. Intent to what? Where had that phrase come from? He headed for the winery. So long as he could keep Red outside, and really it wasn't like Wolf deserved any bad karma. His main fault was being too damned good at everything, including being a hero, being nice, being handsome . . .
One of the young men stepped away from the group, walked up and kicked Red.
In one elongated moment Michael saw inside the young man's mind. Jason. A muddle, ill sorted, full of discontent, spitefulness, hunger for trouble, hunger for sex. A flash memory of fights, of sex, of frightened women, of rape. Waiting for a particular woman to leave the Inn. Predatory anticipation.
The dog turned and leaped for the man.
Michael grabbed a hind leg in mid-jump, jerked the dog up sharply. Teeth clicked closed inches from the man's throat.
"No! Down!"
Red crouched, teeth showing in a soundless snarl.
Jason jumped back, face bloodless in shock. "That dog tried to kill me!"
Michael straightened. "Do not tempt me to let him."
He stared down the man's blustery attempts to save face, then turned and walked away. "Heel!"
Red leaped into position, the hair still up on his shoulders and back. Teeth still bared.
Old Wolf was out on the porch, frowning his direction.
"So, are you the local sheriff?"
"Afraid not. Or maybe that's a good thing." He frowned down at the dog. "What's his problem?"
"Like I told Harry, I get flash impressions from people. I just got one from that fellow. Jason. Knife fights and rape."
Wolf looked cynical. "Because the dog doesn't like him? Your dogs don't like anyone but you, and in fact, I think they may be the only creatures on this world that care about you."
Michael bit back an angry retort. They are, god help them. "Because I stopped Red, another something will happen to him. Something he deserves. Pity about any women he rapes, between now and then."
Wolf pinched the bridge of his nose. "We're all being . . . controlled, to some degree, by the collective subconscious. You've got the worst of it. Because you get the blame for everything that happens around you. And I really hate the idea of four big dogs attacking everyone who deserves it."
"Shall I move even further from town, live as a hermit?"
"That may be the only way the collective will let go of you." He shifted then, stepped back. "How about some really bad wine and dinner? You can tell me about Jason. Perhaps I will be the thing that happens to him."
"I thought you were the God of War, not Policemen." Michael pulled Red along with him, and shut the door behind him.
"The town has gone and elected an idiot for their sheriff. He says rape is the fault of the women, wearing short skirts and flirting."
"Oh. What fun. Shall I stroll past his house? I'm not sure just what his Just Deserts might be, so be careful what you wish for."
"I shudder to think of it. Please don't."
He watched the Old Wolf pull the cork on a bottle. "I never figured you for a, oh, farmer of any sort, let alone the upscale snobby sort." He frowned suddenly. "Didn't you run away and join the army, something like that?"
Wolf paused, then poured the wine. "I . . . really don't remember."
"I can't remember doing anything but playing video games and stuff." He glanced at Red. "I don't even remember where I got the dogs."
Wolf frowned, shook his head. "Anyway. You say Jason is our rapist?"
"One of them. That whole group had nasty vibes. Or auras or something. If I'd had all four dogs here, there'd have been a slaughter. I mean it. The dogs will kill, if the person deserves it."
"Dogs? Hell Hounds, more like."
Michael took a sip and grimaced. "Harsh." He's right about the dogs. "Needs to age about four more years."
Wolf sipped and sighed. "It seems to be lacking subtle overtones of cherry or vanilla."
"Edmund and Barry have those bubbles, you know? Major time dilation, and if you think really hard about it, you can change the time ratio. They speed aged some fruity stuff."
Wolf paused again. "Really? How . . . useful. I think."
Michael grinned. "It not traditional, but the results are better than a total lack of aging."
Wolf's autokitchen had a different suite of programming, a welcome change of menu. And it produced wine much more drinkable than the Old Wolf's first attempt, which was about all that could be said for it. And even a faux bone with raw meat attached, for Red.
And not a single glass or plate was broken.
Behind the winery, outside the walls, the Wolf had chairs scattered about a flagstoned patio. And people, friends, came and sat and chatted.
Mostly about the lack of a gate, this solstice. There was an interesting mixture of distress and relief coming from various people.
They all watched the sun set. Michael sat back and listened, wistful. One lady was staying close to Wolf, and had sounded happy at the failure of the beacon to summon contact with Earth. Michael kept a hand on Red's ruff. He felt the dog bristle a couple of times, but apparently no one here was bad enough to compel action.
There was music playing, somewhere back in the village, laughter. Mooing cows.
Red's mouth dropped open and he panted contentedly.
Oh, crap. Someone just got their just deserts.
Abrupt silence. Then voices raised.
Old Wolf and two other men stood and listened. As the volume of distant voices increas
ed, they headed back through the winery.
Michael pried himself out of his chair and walked off into the night. He didn't want to spoil the memory of a nice evening with whatever had just happened. Even though all those nice people had been Wolf's friends, and not his, it had still been pleasant. He needed all the pleasant he could get.
***
Inside, Mallory was singing, with Darren and Neil playing guitars and too many people improvising drums. Some people were even dancing.
Chris was out on the porch, more or less part of the group that included Iris. It was getting pretty argumentative.
". . . don't care what your stick-in-the-mud father says. I'll wear whatever I want. And you'd better believe that when the next election comes around, a good solid definition of rape, and the punishment is going to be on the ballot." Milly crossed her arms and scowled at Iris.
Iris was wearing a skirt that hit her mid-calf, and a blouse that buttoned all the way up her neck. She was still spectacular. Glowing. "Go ahead. I'll bet most of the men vote against it, so they can't be victimized by some slut who changes her mind, after."
That got so many confused and angry replies from enough people that no one was coherent until Ariels' shrill voice rose over the rest. ". . . clout over the head. That's hardly foreplay. Even you can see that violent, forcible rape is rape. She had a concussion."
Snort. No words, just contempt.
Sickened, Chris turned away. So he was the first one to spot the staggering figure. Gasping and crying, her hair yanked out of its usual coif, bloody nose. Lillian.
He jumped down and reached for her. She jerked away in a near panic and threw herself into Milly's arms. "I think I, I think I . . .killed him!"
"I was helping in the public barn. I didn't like the way a couple of the guys kept looking at me, so I hurried out, ahead of them and then there was someone right there. He grabbed me by the hair and pulled me back behind the barn. I tried to bite his hand, he had it over my mouth, and I kicked, and I couldn't, and he was so strong! I tried to fight him, and he . . ." her hand went to her nose. "And he, and he . . . I think he had a heart attack . . . I shoved him off me and ran."
