Tricked

“Yeah, I’d be willing to believe most any monster is real—or was real at some point.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Frank said. “Guy who talks to Norse goddesses oughtta believe in a monster or two.”

“I’m going to stop at the car for a minute. Meet you up at the site,” I told Frank. He waved and started up to the mesa, but I held Coyote behind with my eyes.

“You, sir,” I said, “have all the dignity of a badger with the clap. Shark shit has more fiber than you. I’m going to tie you nuts-first to a monkey’s cage and make a mix tape of the resulting noise. Then I’m going to take a bag of marshmallows and a pair of granny panties and—”

Coyote held up his hands in surrender and spoke in low tones to prevent the departing Frank from overhearing. “I hear ya, Mr. Druid, but, look, it really don’t make any differ’nce. You wanted to make a trade and you agreed to the terms.”

“I didn’t agree to kill any skinwalkers for you.”

“And Frank didn’t agree to kill those blue-skinned zombie things.”

“No, but I didn’t lead Frank here to confront them either. Don’t expect me to give you any bonus services. The skinwalkers are your problem.”

Coyote chuckled. “Well, they might be your problem now too, if that goddess o’ death takes her knife to ’em. Can’t blame me for that, Mr. Druid. She didn’t show up here at my invitation with her hungry silverware.”

Oberon returned with Frank’s turquoise in his mouth. "One slobbery stone," he said. "Will you be paying Treat on Delivery today?"

“Thanks, Oberon,” I said, wiping the turquoise off on my jeans. “Let’s go see if we can find you one in the car.” I turned my back on Coyote without saying another word. He didn’t want to know what I was going to do with those granny panties.

Surprisingly, Granuaile did. “Sensei, what were you going to do with those marshmallows and panties?” she whispered as we walked together. “I mean, I’m sure it had to be dire, but it just didn’t sound as threatening as the potential havoc a monkey could wreak on his sack.”

“There was more to that recipe,” I admitted. “He cut me off before I could get to the Icy Hot and the gopher snake.”

“Ew. What would you do with that?”

“I will leave it to you as an exercise.”

I decided it would be best to keep Moralltach on me from now on. It wouldn’t be conducive to maintaining the fiction that I was nothing but a geologist, but that wasn’t much of a priority now, if it ever was. Frank and the rest of them could think whatever they liked about me; they’d never guess the truth.

Of more concern to me was who Hel might talk to now that she’d discovered the slayer of the Norns in Arizona a couple of days after said slayer was supposed to have died. My elaborate attempt to disappear through faking my death would all come to naught if Hel spread it around that I was still walking the earth. She needed to be faked out as well—or eliminated. But trying to invade Niflheim to take on Hel in her home territory didn’t sound like a win to me. She’d have a nearly infinite supply of draugar at her command, a moon-devouring wolf hiding in her basement and itching for action, and the original Helhound, Garm, would probably consider me to be a light snack.

Retrieving the scabbard from Granuaile’s trunk, I sheathed Moralltach and slung it over my back, fastening the leather strap across my chest. I fished out a treat for Oberon before I closed the trunk and tossed it into his mouth.

"Hey, Atticus. Do you automatically feel more like a badass with a sword strapped across your back?" Oberon asked. Using the new road, the three of us began to walk up to the proposed mine site.

I paused to think about it. Well, I suppose I do, I replied.

"A sword wouldn’t do me much good," Oberon reflected sadly. "But if I had one of those shoulder-mounted rocket launchers that Predators have, I’d feel much better. Can you get me one of those?"

Your shoulders aren’t wide enough, I explained.

"Mount it on my back. When I want to fire, I’ll lower my head."

Hmm. That sounds plausible. It would require a rather elaborate harness, though. Would the discomfort be worth it?

"Of course it would! There is always a price to pay for badassery. Neo was a badass in The Matrix and The Matrix Reloaded, but the price he had to pay was The Matrix Revolutions. Still, the benefits outweighed the drawbacks, and I hypothesize that would also be the case here. Think of what I could do to those insufferable cats that prowl on top of fences and taunt dogs worldwide! For the price of some discomfort and chafing, I’d be a legendary canine hero!"

Yes, Oberon, I imagine you would, but, unfortunately, those rocket launchers exist only as props and CGI.

"Aww. You could have said so at first. I was getting my hopes up and then you ruthlessly smooshed them."

Hound 4, Druid 2, I said, glad to finally score a solid point.

"Hey, wait! I won yesterday!"

You didn’t call it, so the game continues.

"Fine. I’m calling it tonight and you’re going to owe me a porterhouse."

The workers on the mesa noticed the sword, and so did Darren and Sophie, but no one said anything about it; they were too polite.

Asking Oberon to stand sentinel outside, I entered the hogan with Granuaile to survey the interior. Hogans are not particularly large buildings, only about 250 square feet inside, but they’re important to ceremonial life and thus crucial to the beginnings of large enterprises like this one. This hogan was one of the more modern plans, built in an octagonal shape; the walls were fairly free of gaps, since they were constructed with precut logs, and the roof was a latticework of beams covered over with black plastic sheeting at this point, a four-plane design. Tomorrow the roof would be finished and covered with mud, insulating it well, and the exterior walls would be covered too. I thought it interesting that this particular hogan included no windows; circulation came solely from the door and the round chimney built at the meeting of the various beams. In the center of the floor was a fire pit, and Frank Chischilly was hunched down over it, tending a small fire. Lava rocks were arranged closely around it, and Frank had sprinkled some herbs on them. The burning herbs sent fingers of fragrant white smoke up through the chimney.

He shot a glance up at me and then spoke to Granuaile. “We’re going to stay in here tonight,” he said. “Safer that way.”

Granuaile noted the profound lack of facilities. “Guess I’d better visit the privy before sundown, then.”

“Yep. We’ll be startin’ the sing as soon as everyone’s ready.”

“Anything I can do to help?” she asked.

Frank’s eyes flicked over to me. “Well, if you happen to know any way to keep out or repel evil spirits,” he said, perfectly serious, “that would be helpful.”

That was an interesting challenge. “What kind of evil?” I asked, not knowing precisely what to ward against.

Frank stared at me in disbelief and then spat into the pit before asking, “Ain’t there only one kind?”

“No, there’s all kinds of evil, just like there’s all kinds of good. What I need to know is where the source is. We’re not dealing with the Christian hell here or rakshasas from the Vedic planes. Where is the evil coming from? This plane or somewhere else?”

“Oh, I see what you mean now. The spirits come from First World.”

“That’s Black World, right?” I asked. I knew some of the basics of the Navajo faith, but I was by no means an expert. Their creation story follows the Emergence pattern, where people emerge into this world after climbing through several subterranean levels, evolving as they go. According to what little I knew, our plane is Fourth World, which is sometimes called Glittering World or White World. Granuaile appeared lost but didn’t interrupt to ask.

“Yep, that’s Black World,” Frank said.

“How’d they get all the way up here?” I wondered.

“Answer to that depends on who you ask. You want my guess?”

“Absolutely.”

“I think they been here all along, since the world was first bein’ made. We know that monsters an’ spirits from the lower worlds came here to Fourth World in the beginning. But Changing Woman sent her sons, Monster Slayer and Child-Born-of-Water, to kill ’em all. I think they got most of the monsters—they left old age, hunger, cold, and poverty behind on purpose.”

“Ah, but they didn’t take care of all the spirits, right?”

“Right. Those spirits from First World, they were spirits of the air, but mostly ornery insects—angry beetles, ants, locusts, dragonflies, and the like. They got kicked out of all the other worlds for fightin’ all the time, always wantin’ to dominate someone else. Most of ’em got turned into real bugs, but some didn’t and remained spirits. And the way I figure it is, when a soul turns as black as Black World, these old spirits find them a comfortin’ touch of home, and if they’re called to move in, they will. That’s what a skinwalker is: a mean a**hole with a meaner spirit squatting inside.”

"I’ve run into some of those at the dog park," Oberon said. "They’re usually attached to Chihuahuas."

“Hmm. All right, I’ve never dealt with anything like this before, but I’ll see what I can do.”

The hataałii didn’t say anything, merely nodded and turned his attention back to the fire. Granuaile and I exited and rejoined Oberon outside. We walked off a short distance and spoke in low tones so that no one could hear, save perhaps Oberon.

“You have a way of warding against skinwalkers, sensei?” Granuaile asked.

I shook my head. “Not specifically. I’ve never been down to First World or run into a skinwalker before. It’s been centuries since I’ve had to deal with any sort of Native American magic. I’ve been hiding in cities to stay away from the Fae, and all the shamans or holy men are hiding out on the reservations.”

“When was the last time you dealt with any?”

“Well, there was this rain god of the Maya who gave me a bit of trouble.”

“The Maya! Do you know what happened to them?”

“Not for certain, but they might have left this plane. They had a priest who could do it. But this is a completely different belief system,” I said, waving back at the hogan, “and so the rules of the magic are different as well. If I wanted to work up something to ward specifically against a skinwalker, I’d have to confront it first and see the pattern of it in the magical spectrum. General wards against magic from another plane may or may not work. And that’s the problem with wards, Granuaile.” I figured I might as well embrace the teachable moment. “You can’t ward against everything, and sometimes the bad guys will win through or around it despite your best efforts. So you know what happens in that case?”

“The bad guys win?”

“What, automatically? Getting past your wards means you’re instant toast?”

“Well, no, I’d fight first.”

“Exactly. You fight. The problem is you don’t know how.”

Granuaile huffed, her pride wounded. “I’ve taken some kickboxing lessons.”

I grinned at her. “Ah, you have? Bring it.” I set myself in a defensive stance.

My apprentice scowled at the idea. “You’ll use magic.”

“I promise I won’t. Not even a little—”

She didn’t lack for initiative. She pivoted and shot a kick at my gut before I finished the sentence. I pivoted as well and her toes grazed my belly, no more. I knew she was the athletic sort, but I hadn’t seen her exert herself until now. She was fast. Lunging in, I socked her in the stomach before she could recover and she staggered back, wheezing. I didn’t press my advantage, and she didn’t seem eager to continue.

“You know a bit more than kickboxing, don’t you?” she said.

I nodded. “Considerably more. We could do the whole Pai Mei thing if you want, but I’d rather not hurt you and I don’t have the flowing white beard to pull it off respectably.”

"If I grow out the hair underneath my chin until I look like Pai Mei, will you brush it to keep it silky yet intimidating?"

It will drag on the ground and get dirty every time you go to smell something or eat. It will be a mess.

"Oh. Good point."

Thank you. Hound 4, Druid 3.

"Awww!"

“That’s all right, sensei, I’ll take your word for it,” Granuaile said, clutching her stomach. “Do I have to carry water up the mesa or something? Wax my car? Paint the rocks?”

“No,” I said, smiling at the movie tropes. “I don’t think I need to break your will. But we do need to train your muscles and get you accustomed to fighting with weapons.”

“I’m going to need a sword, then?”

“We will train with swords, yes, but I don’t think that will be your best weapon. Your size and reach will put you at a constant disadvantage in a sword fight. I think a staff would be better for you, and we will see what you can do with a throwing knife.”

“How will a staff and some throwing knives help against some brute who bull-rushes me with his shield up? Or a smart guy with a gun?”

“An excellent question. Every weapon has its drawbacks. We’ll prepare you for all kinds of antagonists.”

“What about automatic weapons? Can you pull a Neo and dodge bullets?”