by Kevin Hearne
For five whole minutes.
“Hola, amigo,” a voice called from behind me, just as I was proposing hypotheticals to myself. Startled, I rolled left and turned, old instincts taking over, and searched for the owner of the voice. A short Latino man with a wide smile waved at me, a gold wristwatch band shining on his arm. He also had a gold crucifix on a thick chain hanging around his neck, and this rested on a button-up linen shirt that was entirely out of place on this cold mountaintop in Montana. Of course, I wasn’t dressed for the weather either.
Oberon barked once, as startled as I was.
I don’t know, buddy.
The stranger’s smile was friendly and infectious. He had large, kind eyes. A thin, wispy mustache rested on his upper lip, but a fuller beard ran along his jaw, and his dark hair was long and gently wavy, tied back in a queue. I looked down at the bottom of his chinos and noticed that he had made the impossible decision to wear flat sandals. I wear sandals most everywhere but get strange looks for it—especially in a place like this, where one expects to see hiking boots.
“Hola,” I replied, on my guard. He continued to smile and speak in Spanish.
“Es un placer volverte a ver, Siodhachan.” Then he switched from Spanish to English, speaking with a subtle accent in a rich, confident voice. “To answer the question you were thinking, I did not hike up here at all. I used … other methods. The last time we spoke, we enjoyed fish and chips and a very fine whiskey together in Arizona. I also healed a rather grievous knife wound, after which I gave you some advice that you chose not to follow.”
Whoa. I squinted at him. “Jesus? Is that you?”
He laughed and put his hands in his pockets. “Well, during this particular visit I suppose you should call me Jesus,” he said, pronouncing it the Spanish way, hay-suse. “But, yes, it is I. Do you not like this body I have chosen to wear? I got it from a delightful Mexican woman living in Whitefish. Her name is Gina and she worries about her son a lot, prays that he would love me the way she does. Very few love me as purely as she does, however.” He removed a hand from his pocket and swept it from his chest down toward the ground, presenting himself like a gameshow prize. “This is how she sees me, and I tell you truly, I like the way she thinks. It is an uncommon visualization, and I appreciate the modern quirks. I have this wristwatch, for example. I do not truly need it, and Gina herself is unsure why I’d have one, but she thought it would look nice on me and I cannot argue the point.”
Yes. He’s the Christian god, Jesus. You weren’t with me the last time we met.
Jesus was always quick to identify himself using things only he and I would know, so that I wouldn’t hurt myself looking at him in the magical spectrum. Most of the old gods seared my sight a little with the bright white of the magic suffusing their bodies; one of the current A-listers like Jesus would probably blind me if I tried to check him out.
“It is good to see you, indeed,” I said, returning his smile and stepping forward to shake hands. “A very pleasant surprise.”
“Shall we sit and have a drink? This time the drinks are on me.” He reached into his right pocket and pulled out a tall bottle of amber Milagro, an extra añejo sipping tequila, which could not possibly have been waiting there before. From his left pocket he produced two small crystal goblets lined with a gold frosting along the rims, which also could not have been clinking around in there previously. He handed them to me while he uncorked the tequila.
I almost dropped the goblets. Gods, Oberon, it’s a good thing no one can hear you. It’s not polite to ask if a man has a big salami in his pants, okay? Especially this guy.
Laughter bubbled forth from Jesus as he poured two generous shots for us. “I like your hound, Siodhachan.” He turned his head a bit to address him. “Hello, Oberon. I can hear what you say as well, and I tell you truly, I have nothing against salami itself. It is best to know when to keep your salami in your pants and when to pull it out, however, and even my priests have had some difficulty with that issue. Fortunately for us, there is little doubt regarding the right course of action in this situation.” He pulled a long soppressata from the same pocket that had produced the goblets. “I imagine this should take the edge off your hunger. Siodhachan, would you oblige us both and unbind the casing so that he may eat it?”
Jesus laughed again. “You are welcome, Oberon. And, if I may answer, I rarely visit, so your friend did not have the opportunity to introduce us before now.”
I unbound the casing so that it fell away from the meat, and Jesus gave it to Oberon. With my hound happy, the two of us strolled back to the edge of Bird Woman Falls and sat cross-legged on the ground with our tequila, admiring Heaven’s Peak. We said cheers and clinked glasses.
“This particular drink did not exist the first time I walked around on the earth,” he said. “But, then, neither did Mexico exist as a nation. Have you not noticed, Siodhachan, that for all we lose and regret in the long course of history, there is always something new to love?”
“I have.” The tequila was certainly new and lovable, a smooth mellow burn down the throat, not like the sharp punch of blancos. We might have licked our chops, except that Oberon was doing enough of that for all three of us.
“So tell me why you are here, Siodhachan,” Jesus finally said.
“I was going to try to figure out what you are up to, because I learned that you are one of the heavy hitters in a gang of gods that was asked to look after me. You’re the guy who told Inari where to find me in the Pyrenees.”
Jesus finished his drink and poured himself another, topping off mine while he was at it. “I have always appreciated your ambition.”
“Ambition?”
“Yes. You may have heard before now that I tend to work in mysterious ways. To try to figure out my designs is ambitious.”
“Shall I simply ask you what they are instead? Jesus, what do you have planned for me?”
“The irony of all those people saying that I have a plan is that I do not plan so very much. Other gods have their plans as well, and so does every creature walking the earth, and they all have free will. It ensures that virtually no one will ever get to say, ‘It’s all going exactly as I planned.’ Instead, let us say that I can see multiple futures and prefer that certain ones come to pass while others do not. It so happens that your decisions and your actions play a vital role in ensuring that the best futures of a poor lot come to pass.”
“I remember you saying something similar to me before. You also said that had I remained meek, I would have inherited the earth.”
“Yes.”
“That haunts me.”
“I understand. But if I may make a suggestion, my friend, let it rather instruct you. We are far past the time when everything might have turned out well. We are now in crisis management, hoping that things will turn out badly instead of much, much worse.”
That was a sobering message, even under the influence of fine tequila. “But Inari said I must act now, not remain meek. Move against Loki and Hel.”
“She did not expressly say that. She said you are free to move against them if you wish. You are also free to do nothing. We merely removed our injunction. I thought that may have not been made clear enough by Inari; hence, my visit.”
That was a mite exasperating, but I understood his position. Free will is hardly free if you go about commanding people to behave as you wish. Still, Jesus wouldn’t be here if he didn’t hope to help me somehow. He could have had Brighid or Odin tell me, or Inari could have sent a kitsune or used any number of methods to clarify that I could do whatever I wanted. So this was my chance to ask him anything.
I could perhaps nibble at the edges of this problem until I could see a way to take a larger bite out of it. “What about your adversary?” I asked. “Does he not have a role to play?”
“He is indifferent in this matter, which is fortunate for us. Ragnarok is not his preferred apocalypse, you see. His ego requires that things go according to his plan, and thus he is already thwarted. He is sulking and sitting this out, as are the dark forces of some other pantheons who do not wish to follow Loki’s orders.”
“Good news. Speaking of which, maybe you could give me some more. What ever happened to the widow MacDonagh? Hel told me her soul went on to the Christian lands, but I’m not sure I should trust Loki’s daughter.”
“You should not. But in that particular case she spoke the truth. Let it not trouble you; Katie is at peace and with me.”
I sighed and felt lighter. That burden had been taken away. “Please give her my love. I miss her.”
“I will. She misses you too. You were a blessing to her in the sunset of her life.”
We started in on round three, and I felt the buzz coming on. Jesus didn’t appear to be affected by the drink at all. I began to worry that I would fail to ask the right question. You always think of the perfect thing to say after the moment’s passed, and I could sense that this moment would end soon. So of course I asked something pointless.
“Jesus, why involve Inari at all? Why didn’t you visit me earlier?”
“She wished to meet you. When you had need of healing and could literally go anywhere in the world to do it, she was flattered that you chose Japan. She likes you.”
I didn’t think she had expressed any affection for me, but said, “All right. What I can’t wrap my head around is your ultimate goal—the nine of you together. You’re obviously working toward something big, but I don’t know what it is. I mean, Odin has sacrificed a lot. Heimdall and Freyr and Thor, all dead, his Valkyries too—”
“Is Thor truly dead?” Jesus interrupted.
“What? Are you kidding me?”
“I am asking a question. You know that certain members of the Irish pantheon have been able to act from beyond the veil, and you suppose that the Morrigan can as well. Their active worship by humans gives them the power to manifest at will, even though their flesh has passed on. And I, too, am an example of this truth. I died more than two thousand years ago, yet here I sit, drinking tequila with you. I can manifest when I wish in any form chosen by a worshipper—I am a god created in many images. Why do you suppose it would be any different with Thor? He is still actively worshipped throughout Scandinavia and in pockets of Iceland. The same is true for Heimdall and Freyr. So what has Odin lost, truly?”
If Odin could still count on Thor to come back and fight in Ragnarok but had also recruited me to fight in his place, then he had snookered me pretty good. It made me wonder, though, why Thor hadn’t shown up yet—to bash my head in, if nothing else. “But … where is Thor? Valhalla?”
“That’s a question you should ask Odin.”
“Oh!” The answer came to me—or at least part of it. Thor probably wouldn’t show up at all until it was over. Those dead gods were lying low as a matter of long-term survival. It would be impossible to return after Ragnarok if large portions of their believers were wiped out. Odin had them on a Die Now, Live Later plan—and he’d been open with me in sharing his hope that I would die horribly in Ragnarok, as a matter of justice. And if he himself fell in the final battle, why, then, Thor and the others would remain and carry on if they just sat it out. Since the old prophecies of the Norns weren’t in effect anymore and Odin didn’t know who’d be left behind afterward, he wanted insurance that someone from the Norse pantheon would survive.
I realized I’d gotten sidetracked. “Okay, okay, sorry. Back to your ultimate goal.”
Jesus shrugged. “It is not so very complicated. There’s a big fight coming, and we want the good guys to win.”
“I remember that you said I had a whole lot of pain coming.”
“Yes.” The kind eyes turned to me and filled with sympathy. “I am sorry, but it is still to come.”
It had already been cold on that mountaintop, but I shivered for the first time.
There is a certain desolation to waking up alone, especially when one is emotionally vulnerable, and I wake up missing Atticus. So much has happened to me since he’s been out of touch, and I don’t think his tattoo will be finished until later today or maybe tomorrow. My father’s death replays in my head, and waves of regret and anger and helplessness rise up, crashing against the inside of my eyelids. I open them and let the sunlight streaming through the grass burn the negativity away. The waves will keep coming unless I distract myself, though, so I take action. Rolling over and pushing myself up, I find Orlaith curled next to me, and I wake her with a nuzzle and a squeeze.
Good morning, sweet hound.
I’ll stretch with you. We stretch together, arms and legs, a thoroughly delicious exercise, and not for the first time I reflect on what a blessing it is to have a hound. Already she is helping me through this, showing by example that life goes on and it is a thing to be enjoyed.
Yes. We must definitely run.
I was far too wrecked to manage it last night, but now I really need to escape this property. I was fortunate not to have run into my stepfather, and I didn’t want to risk meeting him now. I pick up my weapons, then we run the long miles back to the Osage Hills, where we can shift away. Orlaith and I are both famished by the time we get there, and I take us back through the tethers to our cabin above Ouray, where the first order of business is breakfast.
Once I sit down at the table, I see the note I wrote for Atticus before I went to pick up Fuilteach. It’s a hopeful note, so I leave it alone. Let Atticus find it and feel that hope, as I did, that all would turn out well. There is no need to burden him with worry.
I’m sure Atticus will have plenty to do with his archdruid when his tattoo’s finished, anyway. The two of us would catch up soon enough, the threads of our lives intertwined once more, and we would both be stronger for it.
In the meantime, I still need some answers regarding my dad, and perhaps I can get them. Laksha had mentioned in passing that the vessel containing the raksoyuj had come from a dig north of Thanjavur. Maybe some answers will be waiting for me—like, why was he there in the first place? He’d never been a particular expert on artifacts from the Indian subcontinent. Had he been looking for this thing intentionally, or was it an accidental find? And even if I can’t satisfy myself that this was all accidental, the very least I can do is try to help out somehow as the city recovers from what must seem like the most mysterious plague ever.
I shower and pack a small bag, including a touchpad and my passport for the Nessa Thornton identity. I throw Laksha’s necklace in there as well, even though I haven’t heard from her yet and am not sure what to do with her. With Scáthmhaide in hand and Fuilteach strapped to my left thigh, I shift with Orlaith back to that familiar banana grove outside Thanjavur.
It is strange to be back in India so soon. It is a raw wound into which I have plunged my fingernail before the scab can grow. The smell of the air is enough to bring prickly tears to the corners of my eyes. Unfortunately, the time difference means it’s already dark here; it’s the end of the day rather than the beginning of it.
I speak to the elemental Kaveri in hopes that she can tell me where the humans are digging in the earth to the north of town. After casting night vision on Orlaith and myself, I follow her directions to several sites. The first four of these are merely construction of some kind, but the fifth is an archaeological dig. Noting its location, I set off with Orlaith in search of lodging. We find a hotel, and I camouflage her through the lobby; once in my room, I flip open my laptop and start to look for news.
English newspapers report in subdued tones the miraculous overnight recovery of every ill person
from what health officials had worried would be an unstoppable pathogen. Though I never saw the headlines while it was getting worse, I presume they made much more noise about people growing ill and quickly dying. Doctors are still baffled about what caused the disease and caution that it might not be over and people should continue to take basic precautions against contagion.
I do a search for my father coupled with the key word Thanjavur and discover a brief article reporting him missing a week ago. His disappearance was flagged by a couple of members of his team who were in India on a short-term visa. They were colleagues of his from the university. That might be an angle worth exploring.
More searching on the university and its archaeology faculty. It appears that the department chair—who would presumably be the one to approve such digs and perhaps help secure grant money—is still in the States, teaching classes for the fall semester. I remember the name: Michelle Liu. She’s an old friend of Dad’s who preferred the lecture hall and the cozy office to the heat and dust of digs. They often published findings together. I think they kind of had a deal: She’d minimize his teaching responsibilities and the agony of academic bureaucracy, and he’d brave the mud and the icky bugs to dig for treasure. Each thought the other one was doing all the dirty work. I’d drop her name if I had to; I figured I had enough to proceed now and a safe place to keep my stuff.
“Ready to head back out?” I ask my hound. Orlaith is curled up on top of the bed, hogging all of it.
