by Kevin Hearne
I dreamed up several different courses of manly, decisive action with muscles and swords and copious grunts of exertion, but I wasn’t sure which of the gang of nine gods would deign to join me, if any. Jesus had hinted pretty strongly that I was on my own, which made any action extremely risky. After a night spent under the stars, I leavened my meditation on Saturday with long runs through the Coconino National Forest with Oberon, during which he informed me of his plans to write a book like Miyamoto Musashi’s, except his would be called The Book of Five Meats.
Only five?
Oh, yes, I didn’t think of that. Miyamoto divided his book into five rings, or ways—The Way of Fire, the Way of Earth, and so on—and each way taught something about his approach to martial arts. What will your five ways be?
That’s a good way to group them, Oberon. Seafood and Deli encompasses a wide range of meats. I’ll be interested to hear what you have to say about headcheese. And the last?
Please do.
I think you’re on to something there, buddy.
Oh, that’s a winner. In addition to the warning against the dangers of routine, it has both rhyme and innuendo.
My phone eventually rang on Sunday afternoon. It was Sam Obrist’s number, but Owen was on the other end of it.
“Siodhachan?”
“Yes?”
“Come to Sam’s house so I don’t have to talk to this unnatural piece of shite anymore.”
“What the hell, Owen? Sam is not an unnatural piece of shite!”
“What? Gods blast it, I was talking about this fecking cell phone, not Sam!”
“Well, you should choose your words more carefully, then!”
“Ye really need to shut your hole about me word choice. Or do I need to remind ye that this isn’t my fecking native language?”
“Blow a goat!”
“You’ve already blown them all!”
“I’ll be there soon!”
“Fine!”
I pressed the button to end the call and saw that Oberon was looking at me.
I breathed out a long sigh and tried to relax. “Yeah, somehow my conversations with him always do.”
When I got to Sam’s house, I had to endure more hazing along the lines of “Fun’s over, boys. Siodhachan’s here.” Owen left them a half-finished bottle of whiskey, and the unsteadiness of his gait indicated he might have drunk the other half recently, but eventually we were able to shift to Colorado. It was his first visit to the place, and he made some effort to say nice things about it. Perhaps that was his apology for snapping at me earlier. Or perhaps it was an apology for what was to come.
A pronounced chill heralded the early onset of winter, and the birds were beginning to notice. As the sun sank below the jagged ridge of the San Juans, many of them spoke loudly of leaving soon for the south—or anyway it sounded that way to me—and at least one pair said, to hell with it, we’re leaving now. Sitting outside in canvas sling chairs with glasses of stout in hand, Owen and I listened to the song of Gaia in silence and spent a half hour pretending there wasn’t anything to talk about. Then, without preamble, Owen cleared his throat and broached the subject he’d been avoiding ever since he got back. “Look, Siodhachan, the good news is that it’s not Brighid.”
“Oh, I know. I found that out recently through a different source, but I’m glad to hear it confirmed.”
The archdruid nodded, uncomfortable, looking disappointed that there was little reason to dwell on the good news before he had to get on with the bad.
“All right, keep in mind that I haven’t any proof,” he said. “Someone else will have to get that. All I have is circumstantial evidence, though I’m convinced I’m right. I’ll walk you through it. All the business with the Fae assassins and the vampires and the dark elves started after you came out of hiding and presented yourself at the Fae Court, am I right?”
“Right.”
“So it was that appearance that triggered everything. We know it’s not Brighid, and you can eliminate all the Fae, because they don’t have the connections outside Tír na nÓg to pull this off. So it had to be one of the other Tuatha Dé Danann.”
“I’m with you so far.”
“Now you look at Brighid’s boys, and they have no motive. They’re into their respective crafts and they’re actually happy you’re back, because you make life more interesting. Ogma is spoiling for a fight, but he’s the sort who will pick one with you and leave the subtlety to others. If he’s after you, you’ll know it. Same thing with Flidais. If she wanted ye dead, then you’d be dead already with an arrow in your eye, and besides, she came to your aid against those huntresses. Nearly all the others who might be able to do this sort of thing are long gone. So, by my figuring, that leaves only two of the Tuatha Dé Danann with the power to do this: Manannan Mac Lir and Fand.”
“No.”
He slapped his chair arm with his free hand. “Fecking listen, boy! They’re both incredibly good at keeping secrets, but only one of them had the opportunity to do this. And with all his responsibilities as master of the sea and being the only remaining Irish god looking after the dead, Manannan Mac Lir doesn’t have the opportunity. Nor does he have the motive.”
“You’re saying it’s Fand? What motive does she have?”
“She’s the Queen of the Faeries, Siodhachan! The faeries who can’t stand cold iron, who hate and fear you more than anything in all the worlds, and who, I might add, you have killed in vast numbers over the years, by your own admission.”
Stunned, I managed only a lame protest. “But Fand has been so kind to us.…”
My archdruid lost what little composure he had left. “Of course she has, you giant fecking tit! You had the favor of the Morrigan and her husband and even Brighid, so she had no choice but to smile in your face! But she hates your guts in sympathy with all the Fae who love her so. The Fae both respect and fear Brighid, Siodhachan, and they follow her, but it’s Fand that they adore. And the very last thing Fand wants, lad, is another Iron Druid. One is far too many for her, don’t ye see? So both you and Granuaile had to go, but go without anyone figuring out who was responsible. Manannan was often not at home, and her mum was off having thunder sex with Perun in the forest, so Fand had plenty of time to scheme and leave and come back without anyone being the wiser. She met Granuaile at the Fae Court when you introduced her, which means Fand knew her name and shook her hand, maybe swiped a hair or two or something to help her with divination, and that was all she needed. She could track you through Granuaile and send in the assassins of one kind or another almost immediately, but it took her some time to set up that arrangement with the Romans and shut down your ability to shift planes.”
“So she was the one who killed Midhir and Lord Grundlebeard and left that manticore in his home.…”
“Aye. And that manticore told ye he was captured by someone masked, with an odd voice, correct?”
“Correct.”
“I’ll bet ye three grandmas and all their cookies that she was masked like that when she killed Midhir. That way, when Manannan arrived to take Midhir’s shade away to wherever he was bound, Midhir couldn’t tell him that Fand had done the deed.”
“Gods, Owen. She’s Manannan’s wife and Flidais’s daughter.”
“I know, lad.” He burst into a wide grin and leaned back into his chair, taking a sip of Guinness and smacking his lips. A line of foam trai
led along the bottom edge of his mustache. “Oh, that’s right delicious, that is. But you’re fecking doomed, and that’s no lie.”
“I don’t think that’s necessarily so.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
“Because I can see where she’s coming from. If someone was out there killing people I cared about, I’d be going after them myself. I can’t blame her, because I’d do the same thing in her position. There has to be something I can do to fix this.”
“Ah, so you’ll be lyin’ down and presenting your belly, then, and askin’ her to kill ye straightaway, because she’s justified?”
“Of course not. But this isn’t a kill-or-be-killed situation yet. We can still talk.”
My archdruid scoffed. “Aye, lad. I’m sure she talked to Midhir for a nice long while before she wrapped him up in iron and cut his throat.”
“I’m in a very different position than Midhir was. I just … don’t … want to jump to violence.”
“Why not? It will solve the problem, and you’re good at it.”
“No. Every time I think I’ve solved a problem with violence, more problems grow in their place, like a hydra.”
“A hydrant, ye say? One of those yellow things ye pointed out to me?”
“No, a hydra. Greek monster. Cut off a head and two grow back in its place.”
“Oh. Well, then, ye don’t cut off its head. You take out the heart or the kidneys.”
“Yes, Owen, that’s my point. I’d rather approach this a different way.”
“All right, approach it on your knees if ye must. I’ll be tellin’ ye I told ye so later.”
I quelled the retort on my lips and instead replied with, “Tomorrow’s Samhain. Celebrate it with me here?”
Owen took his time in responding, wondering if perhaps I had an ulterior motive, but finally he said, “Aye, lad. I’ll do that.”
“Good. With any luck, we’ll be celebrating it with Manannan Mac Lir.”
The brief text exchange with Atticus leaves me feeling much better and hopeful that the day will yield something positive. After finishing breakfast, I let the hotel know I’ll be staying another day or two, then return to the banana grove simply because we won’t be bothered there. Once situated in the grove in the lotus position, I close my eyes and stretch out my thoughts to contact the elemental Kaveri. The conversation goes on for hours, long enough that Orlaith lies down for another nap, but gradually we isolate a place underground where a chamber existed in ancient days but is now filled in.
Kaveri explains that it is a //Place of magic / Long dormant / Dangerous / Slivers of air trapped inside//
It might not be the resting place of Vayu’s arrows, but a place of magic sounds interesting, and in lieu of any other leads on Logan, I ask Kaveri to lead us there. We trek north from the grove until Kaveri tells me to stop in the middle of a rice paddy that’s lying fallow for the season. We are all alone.
//Here// she says. In front of my feet, a black square of earth opens up, crumbling away like a sinkhole. A pungent scent of dirt wafts skyward, and steps leading down into the dark beckon me forward to discover wonders or uncover horrors. Something about it disturbs me, and I hesitate.
Orlaith?
I don’t really want to go down there, but I feel that I must. You should probably wait here for me. The elemental said it would be dangerous.
In truth I wouldn’t mind her company, but I can’t bear to risk her. Oberon got hurt once when he was trying to protect Atticus from a vampire, and it nearly destroyed us both. I know you are, Orlaith, but it is smarter to have you wait here so that you can come help me if needed. Please stay. I will return as soon as I can.
She doesn’t like the idea one bit, but she obeys, ears drooping. I pad cautiously down into the black, step by step, and tell myself that the foreboding I feel means nothing, because this space was solid earth a few moments ago. There can’t be anything down here that can hurt me. But I also remember from my education in horror movies that girls who wander alone into dark places without a flashlight tend to make messy ends. Halfway down—and it’s a long stairwell that Kaveri has made, for the chamber is deep—I cast night vision and hope the ambient light from the surface will guide me below.
At the bottom, it’s clear that the ambient light won’t suffice, even with night vision. I ask Kaveri to open a trench and she complies, creating a narrow slit in the overhanging earth through which sunlight can filter and provide some weak illumination. It’s a large room for ancient days—forty by forty, I guess, with only pieces of the original walls and floor mixed in with the earth. It makes me wonder how Kaveri remembered this shape—but I don’t get a chance to take a closer look at anything, because the light begins to fade almost immediately. The trench isn’t closing, but something dark is passing between it and the rest of the room, as if someone put the entire room in a black bag.
//Query: What is happening?//
//Old creature wakes / Long hidden / Forgotten / Hates light / Air//
I almost cry out for Orlaith but quash it because I don’t want her to run into this. Something unseen slams me backward, something fingerless and formless but undeniably exerting force, pressing me into the hard earthen floor. And it continues to press, crushing air out of my lungs but also crushing everywhere else—my legs, arms, and head—a claustrophobe’s nightmare.
There is nothing to fight and no leverage to gain. It’s like being in a compactor, I suppose, but without the hard walls of steel and the astromech droid at the other end of a communicator who can shut it down. This is more of a soft but inexorable weight, like a pillow pressed down by a very credible hulk, and the smothering darkness and weight serve to fuel a rising panic inside. I’ll be smooshed soon, if I don’t finagle an escape. I cast magical sight and see no change at all—only pitch black and nothing at which to strike, nothing to bind. Yet something is undeniably attacking me.
I cannot raise my arm to deliver so much as a blind punch. I use the limited strength stored in Scáthmhaide’s silver metal-work, because none of my tattoos currently touch the earth—one of the few pieces of remaining ancient stone floor rests underneath my right arm where my tattoos wrap completely around the biceps, so I’m cut off. I quickly discover that even my boosted strength is insufficient to win freedom from this oppressive weight. But in struggling to lift my arms, I find that some lateral motion is possible.
My collarbone snaps—the first of many bones to go. It will be only seconds before my stronger bones give way and then I collapse like a submarine that dived too deep, fragments of calcium swimming in a skin bag full of bloody soup.
I move my left hand to the side of my thigh. An epic effort from my thumb flips off the thong holding Fuilteach in its scabbard. I draw the whirling blade, and the edge is immediately pressed into the dirt as it comes out, the pressure increasing every second. Once the blade is free, I try to angle the tip upward by using my wrist, but my wrist snaps instead. So does my right one, and my shins follow, low down near the ankles. Then my nose. I don’t have breath left to scream, and I can feel my throat is ready to cave in, anyway. My fingers are pressed so tightly around the hilt that I can feel the stress fractures spreading, and they’ll snap soon. Everything will. Having no other option and grinding my teeth against the pain, I shove the knife back down in the direction of the scabbard, except it’s lower now and won’t go in. But against a creature that somehow blankets its victims, any thrust is a thrust into its body. The tip of the whirling blade punctures something, the air pops audibly back into the room, and the pressure lifts.
The darkness shrinks away and light from the trench returns, but I can’t move beyond a twitch and to take in gasping lungfuls of air. Too much is broken, and my entire body is bruised. But I’m alive, for the moment. Letting go of both Fuilteach and Scáthmhaide, I flip my right forearm over so that I can get some contact with the earth and begin to heal, and I also check
on my hound.
Orlaith?
No. Please stay.
I need to make sure it is safe first. I ask Kaveri: //Query: Any more old creatures here?//
//No//
So the threat is gone. Truly gone. I don’t see a body of any kind, but my range of vision is limited. When I try to raise my head, my neck doesn’t want to move. It’s not paralyzed, just strained beyond functioning at the moment. I’ll have to wait.
My ears are ringing as if I’d just enjoyed a metal concert, and they’d need some healing, no doubt, but nothing had torn loose.
Paying closer attention to my condition, I realize that more bones had broken than I first thought, and almost everything, including my skull, has stress fractures. My entire body would be a giant bruise for quite a while, and though I could heal my bones in miraculous time, I wouldn’t be moving or climbing those stairs out of the room soon. Thinking of the stairs, I worry that someone will stumble across them during the day and investigate—especially if there’s a large hound loitering nearby. I would have difficulty explaining what I was doing down here and how I had come to be injured so badly. Before I can invite Orlaith to join me, however, she speaks up with a note of surprise.
What? Orlaith, is he nice? I hear the soft mumble of a male voice, obviously talking to her, but get no answer to repeated queries and begin to worry. Then a shadow occludes the square of sunlight representing the opening of the stairwell, and Orlaith descends, saying nothing to me. Someone follows behind her, whistling.
At first I think it’s a very tall person, but then, as the body keeps lengthening past the point of tall into impossible territory, I see that it’s not really a person at all. And when the head finally drops into view and the hair ignites above a narrow face, and he stops whistling and laughs instead, I flail desperately with my ruined arm to find Scáthmhaide, in hopes that I can turn invisible before he sees me. I’m not nearly quick enough.
One hand blooms into flame and the other extends my way, wagging a finger. “No, no, don’t get up. And none of that muttering. Try anything, move at all, and your hound will be set on fire. Refuse to answer my questions, and your hound will be set on fire. Are we clear?”
