Divine by Choice

by P. C. Cast

  “Back pasture. They’ll be fine if they stay together under the shelter. Have enough hay to last for a couple days.” He gestured to the levered faucet that jutted up from the barn floor. “Bugs, you can top off their water buckets. Clint, fill up those hay nets hanging in the stalls while I get this grain measured out.” He stopped and looked at Clint. “If your back can stand it.”

  “My back’s always willing to work in country air,” Clint assured him.

  “Good. And dogs, get!” He gave the pups within reach several resounding thumps with the bucket in his hand. “Go on out there and stretch your legs! You’re too damn much in the way in here.”

  All of us did as we were told.

  The barn was filled with the companionable sounds of people doing chores, talking to horses, and the mewing of a stray cat here and there that jumped in, ready for attention now that the dogs had been temporarily banished from what was usually the cat domain. The mares were good-looking quarter horses, all well built and good-natured. The two yearlings were gangly and big-headed, reminding me of fifteen-year-old boys (minus the zits and goofy smiles). I pushed through the door to one of the colt’s stalls, checking on the half-filled water bucket. This colt had a neatly wrapped bandage that covered most of his right foreleg.

  “Whoa,” I said, feeling down the length of the limb. “Leg feels good, Dad,” I called. “Not warm at all.”

  “Yep, he’s doing well.” Dad’s head appeared over the half door to the stall. “You can help me change the dressing tonight.”

  I had just nodded at Dad when I noticed an odd sound. It was a bizarre cross between a howl and a whine. It sounded panic stricken, and like no dog noise I had ever heard.

  “What the hell?” Dad asked aloud to himself as he started toward the barn door.

  “Clint!” I yelled, but he had already heard it. He threw down his bale, and started to move to me. We were only a step behind Dad when he reached the door.

  Oddly enough, in the time we had been working in the barn, the wind had completely stopped, but the snow had picked up. Thick flakes obscured all but a veil of morning light. Looking around, I was reminded again of Colorado and a weekend I’d been trapped at a lovely lodge in Manateau Springs because of a snowstorm much like what was now carpeting Oklahoma. Amazing.

  We stood there trying to locate the direction from which the noise was coming.

  “Those two new pups have probably gotten themselves caught somewhere in the snow, and they don’t have enough sense to get out.”

  Dad’s piercing whistle split the air.

  “Fawn! Murphy! Come here, pups!” He whistled again.

  Suddenly from around the east corner of the barn flew a tangle of hounds. They ran to Dad, shivering and whining. They couldn’t get close enough to him.

  “What’s wrong with you knot-heads?” he asked affectionately as he stroked heads and tickled ears.

  “Dad, the dogs are terrified,” I said, then added, “And you’re missing two of them.”

  “Those two pups. Thought so—they’re just stuck in the snow. Sounds like the howling is coming from over there by the pond. I’ll go out and pull their silly asses from the snowbank they’ve tangled with.” Dad started out into the pasture, but Clint’s voice stopped him.

  “Wait.” His tone set the hair on the back of my neck on end. “Something’s out there.”

  “Speak clearly, son,” Dad ordered.

  Instead of answering him, Clint looked at me. “Do you feel it?”

  The moment he said it, I realized I did feel it. It hadn’t been Clint’s voice that had roused my neck hairs.

  “I feel it,” I said with difficulty around a mouth that was fear dried.

  “Is it that creature?” Dad asked.

  “Yes, it feels like Nuada,” I told him.

  The frantic howling intensified. Now the direction was clear. It was coming from the pasture just east of the barn where a large pond held plenty of drinking water for the horses, and lots of fish for any neighbor who had a mind to cast a line.

  “Well, the damn thing is doing something to my dogs, and that pisses me off. Shannon, the rifle’s in the tack room where it’s always been. And it’s loaded, so be careful.”

  “We stay together,” I heard Clint telling Dad.

  “Then you better be damn sure Shannon stays safe,” Dad said shortly.

  “Sir,” Clint countered, “Shannon has more power inside her than that gun has inside it.”

  I handed Dad the rifle as he mumbled a nonresponse to Clint. The three of us plowed through the snow around the side of the barn, Dad first, Clint next, then me. We followed the fence line until we came to a chained gate. Dad unhooked the lock and the two men heaved together against the drifted snow until there was enough space for each of us to slip through.

  An abandoned horse feeder loomed in front of us. It looked eerie with its open arms filled with white powdery snow, like it was a moon vehicle that had escaped the pages of a Bradbury novel. In the distance, probably twenty yards behind the feeder, we could barely make out the smooth outline of the snow-covered pond.

  The terrible howling was definitely coming from the pond.

  Even though Dad was breaking through the new snow crust himself, and was more than twenty years older than us, he was pulling away from Clint and me as he rushed to cut the distance between himself and the pups. Every few seconds he’d give another whistle and call out to them.

  “Fawn! Murf! Here pups!”

  Then my foot caught on the edge of a buried rock and I fell face-first into the snow. I barely had time to blink and Clint was at my side. He pulled me to my feet and brushed snow from my face.

  “You okay?”

  I nodded, looking over his shoulder at Dad. He had come to a halt at what must be the western edge of the pond. I remembered it as the only side of the pond where the bank was not steep and crowded with trees and brush. It’s where the horses drank and where we waded in to escape the blazing Oklahoma summer. Dad was staring out at the smooth expanse of white. The pristine surface was only interrupted by two rows of tracks that began on the north edge of its surface. I followed those tracks, and my eyes widened in horror as I saw that they led straight to the middle of the pond, where the two pups were floundering within a dark circle of water. Their heads were barely visible as they struggled to stay afloat. Every few seconds a panicked howl would break from one of them. I watched as the silver male threw a paw up and tried valiantly to heave himself out, but he could find no hold and he plunged back into the freezing water. The jagged ice that framed them was spattered red with blood from their desperate pawing.

  “Oh, Clint. It’s awful.”

  Then my attention was pulled from the struggling dogs as I saw a figure moving out onto the surface of the ice-covered water. It was Dad. He had dropped to his belly, and he was crawling crablike toward the break in the pond.

  “Dad!” I screamed. Clint and I plunged ahead again.

  “Stay back!” Dad ordered, but he kept inching forward.

  “Stop, Dad! It’ll break and you’ll fall in, too!” I felt a sob build in my throat.

  Dad didn’t answer, he just kept moving forward. I could hear him speaking in a soothing tone to the pups, who responded by reducing their terrified howls to fearful whines.

  Then I felt the color drain from my face as I watched the water ripple and move with a dark life of its own. First it lapped eagerly around the tan pup, closing over its head with an oily sound. The water surged briefly, but the brown head didn’t resurface.

  “Fawn!” I heard Dad yell.

  Then the inky wetness began to lap thickly around the stronger silver pup.

  “It’s Nuada. He’s out there.” Clint’s voice sounded calm. I pulled my eyes from the macabre scene before me. Clint was outlined in his aura’s metallic glow of sapphire. “Get to the tree line that rings the pond, Shannon.” He pointed to a huge, snow-encrusted willow whose branches hung out over the pond’s frozen surf
ace like the white hair of a resting giant. “Be sure you’re touching the tree—and be ready.”

  I didn’t ask ready for what—I took off, sloughing my way through the entrapping snow. I couldn’t waste energy watching what was happening on the pond. I kept my focus on the enormous old willow and pumped my arms, frantically trying to hurl myself to it more quickly.

  “Murphy! No!” I heard Dad’s shout when I was almost to the tree.

  Then a hideous cracking sliced the air. I stumbled and fell through the curtain of branches, and caught myself against the rough bark of the willow’s trunk. I turned in time to see the ice beneath my dad’s outstretched body split by a dark, watery fist. Then he was submerged in the freezing water.

  “Dad!” My scream echoed with a hallow sound in the unnatural quiet that had fallen over the pasture.

  I watched helplessly as he struggled against the weight of the water and his clothes. One of his fists shot out, slamming down on the thick ice that ringed him, while he tried to punch a hole and grab on to something firm. But his hand sliced sideways and a line of blood spurted from his palm.

  And the oily water lapped around his neck.

  “Shannon!” Clint yelled. He had positioned himself at the edge of the bank, which was down an incline and directly in front of me. He stood sideways, with his arms stretched away from his body, like Christ on the cross. One of his outstretched hands pointed at me, the other pointed at my father. “Reach into the tree. Use its power to send your energy to me, just like you did in the grove when our hands were touching.”

  I took a step backward so that all of my body was pressed against the old willow.

  Welcome, Beloved of the Goddess.

  The ancient voice sounded softly in my head.

  “Oh, help me!” I sobbed.

  We are here for you, Chosen, but you must have the courage to call forth our power.

  We? What was it saying? I looked back at it and noticed that its branches were entwined with the tree closest to it. And that tree’s branches touched the next tree over. All around the pond there was a living chain of willows, a superhighway for squirrels, broken only at the shoreline where the horses came to drink.

  “Now! Shannon!” Clint’s voice was raw with desperation.

  I snapped my eyes shut. Don’t think about Dad. Don’t think about Nuada’s evil. Don’t think about what’s happening out there. Just think about the warmth, and what it was like to channel it in the grove. Suddenly I felt heat pulsing against the length of my back. Squeezing my eyes shut even more tightly, I concentrated on Clint, much as I had concentrated on finding ClanFintan through the louvers of the dimensional divide. Against my closed lids I could see the pulsing of his spectacular aura, and with that foremost in my mind I took the heat building within me and hurled its power from my fingertips like I was throwing an imaginary ball of flame.

  “Yes, Shannon! That’s my girl!” Clint’s voice sounded amplified.

  I took a deep breath, relaxing into the sense of limitless energy behind me.

  “I am the Chosen of a Goddess.”

  My whisper was picked up in the branches of the willow, which began a rustling that had nothing to do with the absent wind. It shimmered from one tree to another, like the greeting of a missing friend rediscovered. I could feel the energy building with that joyous whisper and I focused it, imagining I was holding it like a bright ball within my fingertips. Then in one quick motion, I flung the ball away from me to where I sensed Clint’s aura.

  I opened my eyes. A shaft of pure, silvery white light shot from my hands. It was a color I recognized instantly because I had seen it many times reflected in the shining mane of Epi. The shaft of light streaked the distance between Clint and me, which I now saw was much greater than when I’d first closed my eyes, because he was steadfastly making his way to the hole in the ice in which my dad was still struggling. The ice directly under Clint’s feet had taken on an unearthly luminescence that was spreading with each of his steps. The glow that surrounded Clint made the darkness that encircled the gash in the ice even more obscene and obvious.

  An oily wave crawled over Dad’s head, and with a sucking sound he was pulled under the surface.

  Clint reacted with blurring speed. “More, Shannon!” He leaped forward as he yelled.

  I felt a sickening tug within me like my soul was being emptied. My teeth ground together and I pushed myself harder into the solid bark of the tree.

  “I am the Chosen of a Goddess, and I call forth your power!” This time it wasn’t a whisper but a shout that burst from my lips. The answer was swift in coming, and a column of brilliance cascaded from my hands, wrapping around Clint so that his sapphire aura blazed with a light that caused me to blink away tears.

  Dad’s bloody hand was the only thing above the water. Clint grabbed it, and blue fire sparked down the length of his arm to the slick water, igniting it in an ethereal flame. An agonized shriek sounded from the bowels of the pond, and Dad’s body was suddenly vomited from its dark surface. Clint’s blue aura spread to encompass Dad’s still body.

  I wanted to run down the sloping bank and help Clint drag Dad to firm ground, but Clint must have felt a wavering in my channeled power because he yelled up to me, “Stay there! Keep feeding me more power. I’ll take care of your dad.”

  I obeyed, struggling to stay focused on being a conduit for the ancient energy, but instead of pulling Dad to safety, Clint crawled closer to the gaping hole in the ice. I wanted to scream at him to stop, but an intuitive tremor within me stilled my words. Silently, I watched Clint stretch out his hand until it was only a foot above the surface of the deadly water. He bowed his head and withdrew within himself. Then, with a sound like a thunderclap, sparkling blue shot from his open palm, filling the break in the ice and covering the evil blackness totally like the vacuum-sealed lid of a canning jar.

  From under the ice rose another shriek, and the gurgling words “It is not over, female.”

  Clint’s blue aura had faded to a barely visible sky-colored outline, and he crawled back to Dad’s body, rolling him over on his stomach while he began CPR for a drowning victim.

  Dad hadn’t been under very long, I kept telling myself as Clint worked on his still form. My vision blurred and I wiped unnoticed tears from my eyes. It seemed that a long time passed, but it was probably only minutes or seconds, and Dad coughed then vomited mouthfuls of pond water. As soon as he was breathing on his own, Clint rolled him over onto his back. In one smooth motion he lifted him into a fireman’s carry. Clint staggered off the frozen pond, laboring under the considerable weight of my dad’s limp body.

  “He needs a doctor, Shannon. Come on!” Clint’s voice sounded strained.

  Quickly, I stroked the side of the willow. “Thank you for my father’s life.”

  You are well and truly welcome, Epona’s Beloved. The answer was a gentle farewell echo in my mind as I stumbled and half fell my way to Clint’s side.

  Without hesitation I grabbed Clint’s free hand, willing strength and warmth into him. My palm burned as energy passed between the two of us.

  “No,” he gasped. His pallid face was set in deep lines of pain. “Save it for him. I’ll be fine.”

  Reluctantly, I dropped his hand and we struggled our way back to the barn.

  The three remaining dogs were silent and withdrawn as we entered the barn. A groan of pain escaped from Clint’s rigid lips as he lay Dad gently in a pile of hay near the door.

  “Give me your scarf.”

  I yanked it off and handed it to him. He wrapped it tightly around Dad’s still-bleeding hand.

  “Get a blanket from the tack room,” Clint ordered. I sprinted off while he checked Dad’s pulse.

  By the time I came back with several horse blankets clutched in my arms, Clint had Dad’s coat and sweater stripped off.

  “Cover him and talk to him while I bring the Hummer here.” Before he turned to go, he said, “Now is the time to share the tree’s healing po
wer.”

  I nodded and began wrapping blankets securely around Dad. I was horrified by the blue-gray color of his skin and his stillness. I took his uninjured hand in mine. Quickly centering myself, I focused all the warmth from the willows I had stored within me into that hand. I felt the familiar burning tingle through my palm.

  “Dad, can you hear me?” I took an edge of one of the blankets and rubbed at his water-soaked hair. The ends were brittle and frozen. Please be okay. Please be okay. “Dad, you have to wake up now.” I poured all the heat I could from my body into his.

  His eyes flickered and opened, but they had an odd, glassy look.

  “Dad!”

  “Bugs?” His voice was gravelly and faint, like he had a terrible case of laryngitis.

  “It’s me. You’re okay.”

  He blinked and looked around like he didn’t know where he was, then the light of remembrance returned to his eyes.

  “The pups?” he rasped.

  I shook my head. “There was nothing you could do.”

  “Mama Parker’s going to be upset.”

  I wanted to say that she’d be much more upset if he’d gotten himself killed, but I decided that this was one of the times I should keep my mouth shut.

  His eyes were closed again, and I squeezed his hand frantically, worried that he’d fade away. But he squeezed back and I resumed breathing.

  “I believe you now.” I almost missed his hoarse whisper. “About Partholon. I believe you.”

  The Hummer roared up. Clint moved quickly but stiffly back to Dad’s side. Dad looked up at him.

  “Ready, big guy?” Clint asked.

  “Just give me a minute. I can walk,” Dad whispered.

  “Maybe another time.” Clint chuckled, and then heaved him back over his shoulder, staggering the few feet to the vehicle, where he deposited Dad in the back seat. I saw the grimace of pain flash over Clint’s face as he tried to straighten, but he was all calm authority when he spoke.

  “Shannon, get in the back with him. Keep channeling into him all the power you can spare.” He smiled grimly at me. “Just be sure you don’t drain yourself like you did in the grove. There’s not much opportunity for you to recharge right now.”