by M. D. Massey
“Take it up with the Valkyries if you don’t like me being here,” I said, pushing my way past them as I headed for the woods.
“The Valkyries?” Máni asked.
“Yeah, Gwen was her name, I believe. Just had a meeting with her, and she’s sending a rep to help me out.”
“Oh dear,” Rós said.
“They stick their noses in everything,” Sigi hissed.
“B-b-but—” Máni stammered. “They have no right to interfere with huldufólk business!”
“I’ll be sure to pass that along,” I said as I twirled the birch “wand” in their general direction over my shoulder. As soon as I entered the tree line, I stole a quick backward glance, smiling with satisfaction as I watched them scrambling for the safety of their vehicle.
“You haven’t heard the last of this,” Máni yelled from the window of the Škoda as he peeled rubber out of the parking lot.
With a chuckle, I tucked the stick and Dyrnwyn into my Craneskin Bag. “Morons.”
Once inside the Grove, I did a quick scan to see if Click was present; he wasn’t, of course. Admittedly, I enjoyed the peace and quiet when he was gone, but I wasn’t necessarily certain that being alone was good for me at the moment.
Roscoe and Rufus greeted me soon after I arrived, not a bit unsettled at the fact that I’d more or less appeared out of thin air. I’d brought the dogs along with us for several reasons, one being that I was worried they’d be neglected in my absence. Being half-fae, Maureen didn’t enjoy being in the junkyard proper. While the touch of ferric metals wouldn’t outright harm her, she found all that iron and steel unsettling and therefore preferred to stay in the office whenever possible.
Rather than burden her with their care, I’d had the Oak retrieve the pair shortly after we arrived in Iceland. And a good thing, too. Click might’ve been an excellent, if unconventional, magic tutor, but the immortal magician was a horrible companion. Without the dogs for company, I’d be almost completely alone.
Unlike Finnegas, who’d chosen to retain much of his humanity in lieu of gaining true immortality, Click had gone the full monty. And while godhood had its privileges—and advantages—choosing immortality meant losing that certain je ne sais quoi that provided mortals with their most human characteristics. Empathy, patience, and even common courtesy were qualities that Click had in short supply. And while he was never intentionally malicious, over time I’d discovered I could only take his quirky, unpredictable personality in small doses.
In short, I missed Finnegas.
Taking a deep, shaky breath, I meandered over to where my mentor lay with Rufus at my heels. Roscoe, on the other hand, let out a low whine before laying down on the soft grass, his head resting on his paws as he watched us from a distance. From the very start, the dog hadn’t been comfortable seeing the old man in his current state. I didn’t blame him.
I’d not been able to remove Finnegas from St. Germain’s coffin, even though I found it morbid and disrespectful to leave him there. Moving him would require breaking the stasis field I’d placed him in, and that was something I wasn’t willing to risk, even for a few seconds. So, I’d set the coffin under a large maple tree, arranged and angled to ensure he got just the right amount of light and shade each day.
Of course, in his current state, comfort mattered little to the old druid, considering that he’d been comatose before I cast the stasis spell. Besides, any sunlight that entered the stasis field would take days to reach his skin, and his day and night cycles inside the bubble were so slow as to be nonexistent. But tending to him made me feel better, so I did it anyway.
As always, on approaching the coffin I scrutinized his face and expression, searching in vain for some sign of improvement—and, if I were being honest, to make sure he was still alive. That he wasn’t dead was a fact I knew empirically, because I’d instructed the Grove to monitor the old man’s condition. Through my connection to the Grove, I’d determined that his heart beat at the ponderously slow pace of one contraction every few weeks. The Grove also informed me that his cells still contained life, although he’d suffered quite a lot of brain damage in the areas affected by the stroke.
I knew all these things, but knowing the facts made it no easier to observe him in his current state. His complexion was pale as ever, save for the color that had returned to his cheeks after I’d tried healing him with water from Fionn’s hand. The fingers of his left hand were curled, claw-like, his arm drawn to his side as if he were guarding against a blow. And the left side of his mouth still drooped, a sign of damage to the right motor cortex—or so the Internet had said.
He looked so frail, helpless even. Months ago, the man had been vibrant and relatively healthy, even while entering the final years of his life. Those memories made it hard now to accept his current state. How could I reconcile the defenseless, infirm figure who lay before me with the man who’d been my rock for so many years?
It was an impossible task. Finnegas was like a father to me, filling the void that had been left after my dad had been taken from me. Losing one father had been painful enough.
A reality that was even more difficult to face was the looming threat of failure in completing my task. I’d sworn to find someone to heal the old man, yet we’d been on this island for six months with nothing to show for it. I was starting to doubt that we’d ever find Dian Cécht, even with the Valkyries’ help. Weeks prior, I’d suggested to Click that we approach one of the other gods of healing for help.
“Nay, lad—we’d never get it,” was his reply. “Even if one were willin’ ta’ help, the tasks they’d set ta’ us and the debt we’d owe’d be so great, it’d likely defeat the purpose o’ askin’ in the first place. Best we stick wit’ the god we know, who were ever a friend ta’ Finn Eces, and unlikely ta’ turn him away in his time o’ need.”
In other words, the gods generally didn’t mix well with those from other pantheons, except in the case of the tricksters. Apparently, those fuckers got along famously—even to the point of helping each other plan schemes to hatch on their unsuspecting fellow deities. Or, on humankind.
After making sure for the thousandth time that Finnegas’ condition was, if not improving, at least not worsening, I plopped down next to him under the maple tree. Exhaling heavily, I leaned back against the massive trunk, staring at the verdant beauty of the Grove’s interior while not enjoying a bit of it. Rufus laid down beside me, resting his head in my lap with a small whine of shared despondence.
I scratched him behind his ear, grateful for his presence. “I know, boy. I don’t know what I’m going to do if we lose him, either.”
3
I fell asleep under the maple tree, but it was a fitful, restless sleep. I awoke hours later to the sight of Click standing over me with his hands on his knees, staring at me like a cow at a new gate.
“Ya’ talk in yer sleep.”
I rubbed my eyes, yawning as I stretched.
“An’ yer breath stinks,” he added, waving his hand in front of his nose.
“If you don’t like the show, change the channel,” I said as I began to work the kinks out of my neck.
Click’s presence meant it was time to train, so I immediately went into my warm-up routine, a series of yoga poses and druidic breathing exercises. The semi-immortal magician looked on as I completed the sequence of movements, never showing the least bit of impatience. Time was irrelevant to a chronomancer of his caliber, all the more so considering we were inside the Grove.
“Click, I’m curious about something,” I said as I flowed from downward dog into upward dog, and then into child’s pose.
“Yes, lad?”
“Do any of the gods know time magic?”
“Aye, plenty can look forwards an’ backwards in time. And a few are capable o’ walking the Twisted Paths. Chronos, fer’ instance. But none do so. Too dangerous.”
“Except for you,” I remarked, standing to transition into warrior’s pose.
“Ah
,” he said, holding his index finger aloft, “but I’m no god.”
“As you keep saying. But from where I stand, you’re the closest thing to a deity from one of the pantheons.”
“Gods require worshippers, lad. An’ ya’ hafta be a first-class horse’s ass ta’ set oneself up ta’ be worshipped, tradin’ minor magical favors in exchange fer’ the adulation o’ the masses. When all is said an’ done, I’m jest a magician who stole some o’ their tricks.”
I clucked my tongue. “Please. You think I haven’t figured out that you’re the goblins’ great and mighty clown god?”
The quasi-god affected a pose of mock indignation, drawing himself erect as he clutched at an imaginary string of pearls. “I’ll not stand here an’ be accused o’ such chicanery by the likes o’ ye, lad.” He paused with a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “An’, theoretically, if I did pose as a minor, obscure deity in such manner as ta’ gain the worship o’ the goblin clans, I can assure ya’ it was merely fer’ laughs an’ nothin’ more.”
“Theoretically speaking, of course,” I said with a smug grin as I arched backwards into reverse warrior.
“Eggs-zactly,” he replied with a wink. “Now, are ya’ done wit’ yer’ cat stretches an’ ready ta’ train?”
“Just a sec’,” I said, sneaking behind a red alder tree to take a leak. Then, I walked over to a nearby stream, kneeling to wash my hands and take a few gulps of clear, pure water. Drying my hands on my shirt, I stood. “Alright, now I’m ready.”
The magician formerly known as Gwydion looked at me askance. “If ye’d let me show ya’ the ways o’ immortality, ye’d never have need ta’ do such things again.”
“As I’ve said many times, Click, I rather enjoy the human rituals of elimination and taking sustenance. And living for thousands of years doesn’t interest me all that much.”
“Ya’ could be like me, ya’ know—ya’ have it in ya’, lad.”
I laughed. “Click, I’ve hardly mastered the first circle of chronomancy spells. Why you think I’m capable of becoming the next Gwydion is beyond me. But no matter your opinion, the answer is still no.”
He frowned and shrugged. “Lemme know if ya’ change yer’ mind.”
“You bet. Shall we get started?”
“O’ course.” Click snapped his fingers, and suddenly we were no longer in the Grove. Instead of the lush green interior of my sentient pocket dimension, we stood in a scene straight out of Heinlein.
The first thing I noticed was the harsh, hilly landscape, painted in red and black as far as the eye could see. Obsidian crystalline shards thrust up from the earth in random patterns, like large ebony knives. In places where the red dusty soil clung to those structures, it gave them the appearance of sharp, bloody teeth.
There were mountains in the distance, also ochre red, with black dots that I assumed were the same irregular rocky protuberances that jutted up from the ground all around. On closer inspection, I noticed that smaller shards of the black crystalline substance were scattered everywhere, mixed in with the fine, sandy soil. On a whim, I scuffed the dirt beneath my feet, kicking up a puff of fine red dust that hung in the air like smoke.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“One o’ the worlds the Great Race o’ Yith destroyed, eons ago. Not even in the same reality, in fact. The fookers fought a war that killed this world, then they cut a rift into our own, castin’ their minds forth ta’ escape the destruction they’d left behind.”
I scanned all around, awestruck. The landscape was completely alien, yet it also felt somehow familiar. Click had taken me to some odd places to train, but never to a place so foreign and un-Earth like. The light was wrong somehow, and what I had thought to be a stormhead in the distance was actually the sky above the horizon.
Spinning slowly in a circle, I made out a dense band of darkness that seemed to hug the edges of the planet where the land met the sky. Then, I craned my neck to look up. Directly above us, that blackness thinned out, allowing a view of the stars overhead. They were also completely unfamiliar, arranged in constellations I did not recognize.
Based on previous such “outings” with Click, I cast a cantrip that allowed me to see the world in the magical spectrum. There was magic here, tons of it, but it was tainted somehow. Also, there was a thirty-foot domed shield surrounding us that had the quasi-god’s magical signature all over it.
“Was it a civil war?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“Not exactly.” He held a hand up to his ear. “Speakin’ o’ which, the subject o’ today’s lesson approaches. By-the-by, air’s not fit ta’ breathe, lad—leastwise, not in yer current state. I’ll be back in about an hour, more or less. Have fun meetin’ the locals.”
“Click, wait!”
The fucker snapped his fingers and vanished, taking the atmospheric bubble he’d apparently cast along with him. My mouth and throat began to burn, making me wheeze and gag with every inhalation.
Son of a bitch.
Initiating a full shift, I held my breath and strained to detect whatever it was that my substitute magic tutor had brought me here to face. Off in the distance, I heard something approaching. And whatever it was, it was huge.
As I shifted, I turned to face the coming danger. Of course, I didn’t empirically know that something dangerous approached, but it was a given considering who’d brought me here. Click’s lessons nearly always involved a perilous encounter with some strange new environment or creature. He was the sort of teacher who believed in trial by fire, basing his approach on the assumption that impending doom could spur instinctive leaps in a student’s magical ability.
That would’ve been fine if I had a decent grasp of time magic, or if I was even half the magician he was. Druidry was nature magic, and it worked best on Earth and in dimensions that were modeled after it. However, most of the locations where our lessons took place were so exotic that they made the magic I’d learned from Finnegas nearly useless.
Given enough time to acclimate, I could use the principles of druidic magic to adapt to any environment. Ironically, Click always structured my lessons to ensure I was never afforded that luxury. Clearly, his intent was to force me into situations where I had to use the arts he was teaching me—chronomancy and chronourgy.
Chronomancy was the easier of the two to use, as it was a form of divination. The art simply involved looking ahead into potential alternate futures, scanning probabilities to determine which “fork” had the greatest possibility of occurring. It took skill, certainly, but not a great deal of effort, especially if a chronomancer only looked a short time into the future. However, anything beyond a few minutes involved scanning so many probability branches that only the most skilled chronomancers could know what might happen days, weeks, or months in advance.
Chronourgy was the greater challenge by far, as it involved the actual manipulation of time. All magic defied nature’s laws to an extent, even druidic magic, and it required a certain strength of will to perform. Yet wielding the elements and influencing the forces of nature was nothing compared to manipulating time.
All these things ran through my mind as those ponderous, ground-shaking footsteps grew nearer. I was only halfway through a full shift when the creature’s footsteps came to a halt maybe thirty yards away, in the direction of a large hill topped with a cluster of those strange shard-like structures. Whatever it was, it had chosen to remain hidden, but I had the distinct sensation that I was being watched.
No matter how many times I shifted, it was always agony, as it required a complete muscular and skeletal restructuring of my body. Adding several hundred pounds of mass along with several feet in height and girth to my lean six-foot-one frame was no walk in the park. Every single time, my skin would split and my muscles would tear away from my bones, reattaching and mending even as they grew denser and more resistant to damage. The pain was excruciating, yet I kept my eyes on the hill as I focused on speeding up my transformation.
Yet those features paled in comparison to the absolutely freakish and utterly grotesque appearance of its head and face. For one, its skull was shaped all wrong, almost like it had grown upside down atop its neck. Pink eyes set on short, bony protrusions stared at me from where its ears should be, and it lacked a jaw entirely, instead displaying a huge mouth that split its skull cap vertically down the middle. When it opened that orifice to reveal a double-row of razor-sharp teeth, I found myself wishing I’d skipped today’s lesson.
The thing was coming at me with a speed that contradicted its size, halving the distance between us in a few short seconds. It’d easily reach me while I was still in the midst of my transformation, and while I’d been known to fight in that state, I doubted my chances in doing so against this creature. Thus, I’d need to improvise a strategy that would give me enough time to complete my shift.
A dozen different spells and tactics ran through my mind in an instant. Druidry was out of the question, since I’d had little time to adjust to the strange, eldritch magic of this planet. Besides, Click had obviously left me in this situation to force me to use time magic, and since he was much better at chronomancy, I could only assume that was my best option. A stasis spell would work, but it was hard to cast on a fast-moving target.
