Trapped

Granuaile was yanking goodies out of her pack with increasing force and tossing, then throwing, them down on the ground. She was working herself up for something; the whistle on the old pressure cooker was about to go off.

“Fire away whenever you’re ready,” I said quietly.

She did not appear to hear. She still had a few more items to yank out and slam down, and I approved. Violent unpacking should never be interrupted or unfinished.

“Those weren’t gods!” she finally exploded.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean the Tuatha Dé Danann. Frigg was fine. But I expected something a bit nobler from the Irish, you know? Not a festival of pettiness and gamesmanship and freezing people in time, staring at them morbidly before they die. Why should I pray to them?”

“That’s an excellent question. You don’t have to.”

Her expression, full of challenge, morphed into confusion. “I don’t?”

“No, of course not.”

“I thought all the Druids worshipped the Tuatha Dé Danann.”

“They do.” I smiled wryly. “But that’s because I’m the only Druid right now.”

“No, I meant … in history. When there were more of you around.”

“It varied a bit. The Druids on the continent tended to like Cernunnos, for example, more than those of us who came from Ireland. The Wild Hunt was bigger on the mainland too. There was no central doctrine for all the Celts.”

“So I can worship who I want? Or not at all?”

“Of course. Gaia doesn’t give a damn who you worship; when the Tuatha Dé Danann became the first Druids, you can bet they didn’t worship themselves. You’re going to be bound to the earth, Granuaile, not to a religion. You can dress like a pirate on Fridays and worship the Flying Spaghetti Monster if you want. Gaia won’t care as long as you protect her.”

“Oh.” Granuaile settled back on her haunches but then gave that up and carefully arranged her legs in the lotus position. She rested her hands lightly on her knees, kept her back straight, and fixed her eyes on mine. I recognized the posture; she was about to argue with me.

“Please explain why you continue to worship the Tuatha Dé Danann when you have no need to do so and you are clearly aware they are flawed beings.”

I settled myself so that my posture mirrored hers before answering.

“Your question assumes that gods must necessarily be perfect. That is a prejudice of monotheism. People of pagan faiths are not upset by gods that reflect human foibles. In fact, it’s rather comforting.”

“I grant you the prejudice, but the question remains. If you are not required to worship them—if you retain all magical powers regardless of your faith or lack thereof—why do you persist?”

“I’m in it for the afterlife, same as anyone else.”

She frowned. “Are you throwing some sort of pagan Pascal’s Wager at me?”

“Catch!”

“Thpppt.”

“Don’t be so dismissive. Where is the downside to spending eternity in Mag Mell, or even in Tír na nÓg? Both are beautiful places.”

“So are most versions of paradise.”

“Hence the reason I encourage you to believe what you wish. The heaven of the Pastafarians is supposed to have beer volcanoes, which sounds like a fantastic idea to me. Imagine eruptions of a mellow chocolaty stout. There might be all-you-can-eat hot wings.”

Granuaile’s tone turned accusatory. “You’ve been training me in the rituals of your faith for twelve years and allowing me to believe that worshipping the Tuatha Dé Danann was bound up with being a Druid.”

“For me, it is. My own prejudice. I apologize for the omission.”

“They were once merely Druids, you say. The Tuatha Dé Danann.”

“Yes. But they were skilled in their own magic even before that.”

“How did they become gods? What powers did they accrue when they did?”

“They became gods once people worshipped them as such. They became vessels for Celtic faith, tuning forks for our yearnings, keepers of our hopes and prayers. And the powers they gained were those assigned to them by worshippers. Manannan Mac Lir was not a psychopomp until people thought he was; he was only a Druid with some extra powers in the sea.”

“So why don’t cult leaders achieve godhood?”

“Because they’re megalomaniacs drenched in douche juice.”

“But so was Thor, right? And let’s not forget that there was certainly no shortage of douchebaggery in Tír na nÓg today. I’m asking seriously. Some cult leaders inspire fervent devotion in their followers. Shouldn’t they gain godlike powers?”

“No, because they all die in thirty to fifty years and their cult dies with them. Godhead transcends generations and requires the concerted belief of a large number of people.”

“How does your belief in Manannan Mac Lir as a psychopomp give him the powers of one?”

“Figuring that out is one of the reasons I’m hanging around. I think the Large Hadron Collider might yield some clues.”

“You’re talking about particle physics now?”

“Yep. They’re slowly discovering why we have more matter than antimatter in the universe. Smash a proton, and you don’t get simple matter and antimatter. Some particles degrade and change very quickly.”

“Change into what?”

“Damn it, Jim, I’m a Druid, not a physicist!”

Granuaile rolled her eyes at the allusion. “I understand, but what’s the connection with godlike powers?”

“The connection is that there are clearly some powers and processes in the universe we simply don’t understand yet. They are ineffable—for now. I don’t know how it’s possible for Gaia to have a magical nature. And the Tuatha Dé Danann cannot tell you how, precisely, they gained the powers of gods on top of the powers of Druids. But they can tell you they didn’t always possess them. Some grew slowly, and some were discovered abruptly. And it’s no different with any other gang of gods. Some of them have bought into their own origin myths, which is distilled shite on its face—the world can’t have been created in hundreds of different ways—but the smart ones will tell you they’re not sure how they got the gig they got and they don’t remember creating humanity, much less the world. For most of space and time, they weren’t there; and then, one day, they were, complete with a small but hopefully growing collection of praying humans.”

Granuaile slumped and let her lotus position tumble apart. Her face was sad and haunted.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nobody has the answer, do they?” she asked quietly.

“No. I’m sorry.”

Chapter 7

Oberon returned from scouting and declared the area safe for now. "Safe for us, I mean. Not safe for rodents. They’re all chittering out their last will and testaments."

I took my sandals off and said hello to the Olympian elemental. I’d never found one so happy to hear from me—and they’re happy as a rule. The emotions flooded up from the sole of my foot and made me smile.

she said. By prior arrangement, Granuaile and I had agreed to call her Olympia rather than Olympus.

If elementals could pee from excitement, Olympia would have done so when she heard that. I had to weather a torrent of gushing before I could interject a request.

I laid my right hand on Oberon’s back.

A small white marble—actually made of smooth, cloudy marble—appeared between my toes. I picked it up and presented it to Granuaile so that she would be able to speak to Olympia. She smiled as she closed her fist around it and introduced herself. Her expression was always beatific when she spoke with elementals. I wondered if my face still held that same sense of peace and joy after two thousand years.

Introductions complete and satisfied that my magical tracks would be covered, I let Oberon take us for a walk around the cave’s neighborhood. I went barefoot and asked the earth to ease the way for us, including Oberon, while we were in the area. The thick undergrowth—including thornbushes—moved aside to let us pass and then closed behind us so that we could move freely, while anyone else would have to fight their way through, as we had the first time. Oberon was establishing a patrol route for the area that couldn’t be readily seen from the cave entrance, showing me that the easiest way for someone to approach us without much warning would be upstream to the west. There was a flat stretch where the stream slowed and widened, creating some pools deep enough to swim in. It was a popular watering hole for deer, judging by the tracks. Oberon would no doubt hunt here.

Speaking aloud so Granuaile could hear my side of the conversation, I told Oberon, “We’re going to hike into town to grab supplies to make some snares, so that we can hopefully add some variety to our diet. We’ll be staying the night and coming back in the morning.”

"Well, can’t I stay here and hunt?"

“No, we need you to come along so that we’ll look cool. Without you, we’ll look like stupid foreigners.”

"Oh, yeah, I forgot. Irish wolfhounds are the ultimate accessory for humans."

“You’ll have plenty of time to hunt when we return. Like, three months.”

Oberon’s tail wagged. "Great lakes of gravy! That sounds like a long time! Is it?"

“It’s longer than I’ve ever given you before.”

"Wow! Wait. What’s the catch?"

“The catch is, if you don’t catch anything you have to eat jerky. It’s either fresh tender meat or dried, tough, and salted.”

"A stark choice! And yet a challenge worthy of the noble wolfhound."

“Careful with that ego. You could knock somebody over. Let’s go.”

We stopped back at the cave to pick up our packs, now empty and ready to be refilled with additional supplies. Making our way down was much easier with Olympia smoothing the way for us. By the time the trail led us to town, we had no trouble looking like we’d been hiking all day. I placed a call to my attorney, Hal Hauk, and had him wire some money to us from the States. We found a restaurant with dog-friendly patio seating and shoved down some gyros and spanakopita. Oberon approved.

"I like this country. I can eat in the open with you guys, and the meat is good. What’s that white stuff you’re putting on it? It’s not horseradish, is it?"

Tzatziki sauce. It’s a cucumber–yogurt concoction.

"Can I try a little?"

Sure. I slathered a bit on a piece of gyro meat and fed it to him. He ate it noisily, his tongue flapping around as he tried to taste his food instead of inhaling it.

"Eh. It’s not terrible or anything, but it cools down the temperature and mutes the flavors of the meat. I’ll take mine plain."

We relaxed and spoke of Granuaile’s upcoming binding as the sun set. There was a decent sporting goods store in the small town catering to the many tourists who wished to hike Olympus, and we planned on visiting it shortly before closing time. We extended our supper into something of a feast, reasoning that we wouldn’t have the opportunity to eat like this again for quite some time.

Half an hour before closing time and a bit besotted with a fine bottle of pinot noir, we walked the two blocks to the sporting goods store. Oberon spotted a park nearby full of people walking their dogs, so I cast camouflage on him, gave him my best wishes, and told him to listen for my call.

The store had aisles of cooking pots and meals in silvery pouches, along with plenty of shoes that were designed to look like they could vault boulders without the assistance of feet inside them. And the tents! My goodness, tent architecture has come a long way since the old days. But we were looking for simple materials like wire and wire cutters or, failing that, string and scissors with which to make some snares for squirrels, rabbits, and the like. There would be no problem finding enough branches to hold tension for the springs.

Thanks to the influence of Olympia and perhaps the wine, Granuaile was now in a very good mood, and it was impossible not to love life when she smiled so often.

My own smile evaporated when I saw the pale spooky bastard eyeing her from the next aisle over. He didn’t have enough sun on his skin to qualify as a hiker; what was he doing in here?

I flipped on my faerie specs and suppressed a shudder when I saw the dull gray aura of a vampire about his head, with an ember of red in the center.

Taking a calculated risk that he would be unable to understand Old Irish, I spoke in it to Granuaile. There is no word for vampire in that language, so I said, “Do not look up, but there is a walking dead man in the next aisle, staring at you. He is stalking us. You, actually. Do not look him in the eyes for any reason. Your iron talisman will not prevent you from being charmed.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked in the same language.

“Chat with him. Remain here and keep your eyes down. Say something in a cheerful tone of voice to me now and smile.”

“Okay, just leave me here all alone, then!” she said joyfully. I moved away from her, down the aisle, and then turned around an endcap of handheld beer coolers to walk up the aisle in which the vampire stood. His eyes flicked to me, a shadow of nervous worry in them, but he quickly returned to pretending to look at water purification tablets. I muttered bindings under my breath that would increase my speed and strength for as long as the magic stored in my bear charm lasted.

The vampire was dressed in a white linen shirt over blue jeans and expensive running shoes. I noticed with some amusement that he had stayed away from the aisle where they sold wooden tent stakes.