“I don’t, actually. It’s a mystery.”
“You often see the good you do as bad and just as often make terrible decisions in service to what you think is good. You are so wonderfully damaged.”
The same could be said for the Morrigan, but I didn’t think it politic to say so aloud. “Ah, and you think you can fix me up?”
“Why would I want to fix you? I like you this way.”
“Well, thanks, I guess? Despite your acceptance of my many flaws, I’d like to work on some things for a while. And may I ask: Why are we naked?”
The Morrigan snorted and waved a dismissive hand. “I think it better to ask why these people are dressed. You have spent too long in the company of prudish mortals.”
“That’s a fair question. You’re probably right.”
“I’m right about a great many things. You would be happier with us in Tír na nÓg. With me.”
I nodded to buy myself some time to choose my words carefully. “Most likely. But I don’t feel I deserve such happiness yet. Let us stay in touch. Perhaps through these strange dreams you’ve visited me with a couple times now. Let us drink many more of these fabulous dream pints together, naked, in front of a congregation of strangers. In the waking hours I’ll continue to observe the rites as I always have, of course, but those are one-sided affairs, not ideal for conversation. If you wish us to have a relationship deeper than what we’ve had thus far, then let us have a proper courtship. Perhaps something will grow from that.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Well, then, I suppose it doesn’t. We still get to have fun together in the meantime. The thing is, Morrigan, I need some time. If I may—please forgive me, as I’m still processing quite a bit of this and sort of thinking aloud here—before you decided to face both Artemis and Diana in combat, you thought about it for a good while, yes? It wasn’t an impulse of the moment?”
“No. Or yes. To be clear: My exit was planned. I had considered it for centuries.”
“Centuries! Ah. Then consider that I have only begun to consider it in the past few days. I need to think it through. Set my many affairs in order. And perhaps write it all down. You know what the catalyst was that brought us here, to this moment in this dream? The day you flew into my shop in Tempe and told me that Aenghus Óg had found me.”
The Morrigan tilted her head, her eyes edging toward red. “Is this…blame?”
“No, not a shred of blame. It’s mere recognition of cause and effect. If there’s any blame to be cast, be assured I’ll cast it on myself. I am simply saying that I need time. There will be time, yes—I beg your pardon, but might you be familiar with the poet T. S. Eliot?”
“No. Was he Irish?”
“Alas, he was not. The British and the Americans both claim him. But our conversation reminded me of one of his poems, where he said there would be time: Time for you and time for me, /And time yet for a hundred indecisions, /And for a hundred visions and revisions, /Before the taking of a toast and tea. After all, you had thousands of years beyond mine to consider, am I correct?”
“I do hope, Siodhachan, that you are not asking me to specify my age.”
“No, merely confirming that you lived longer than me, which should be obvious.”
“Yes.”
“That being given, I hope you will understand: I need a while to think this over. And it may be a good long while, just as you took a long while to make your decision.”
“I do understand that, Siodhachan. I respect it and will do my best to be patient. But perhaps you are forgetting something: You have no reason to fear death. There is only pleasure awaiting you in Tír na nÓg. That is something I can guarantee.”
“You can?”
“Yes, of course! Siodhachan…I love you.”
Perhaps at another time, her plain speaking would have affected me differently. But after dwelling on the many manifest flaws that had caused me to be maimed and alone, I could not fathom how that could possibly be true. “Gods below, Morrigan, why?”
She shifted in her seat and fidgeted with her beer glass. “As one of the gods below that you just invoked, allow me to have my reasons. I am not…accustomed to sharing such sentiments.”
“I understand and withdraw the question.”
“Is your reluctance…because of Granuaile?” She held up a hand to forestall an early reply. “I am not jealous of her and have never been. I ask merely for information.”
I sighed. “Perhaps that is a part of it. But it is by no means the sum. I have amends to make. Regrets I must own, and many seasons of peace I must sow and harvest. One day—I hope, anyway—we will feel the sadness peel away from our past and stand justified, knowing we could not, as imperfect beings, have made any other choices than the ones that haunt us in this moment. I know, intellectually, that this must be true. But my heart is incapable of feeling it right now. With sufficient time and the daily practice of kindness, I hope to stroll someday into that soft green glen where I can finally be free of my own wretched self. That’s going to be a victory like nothing I’ve ever felt, and I want to make it to that space and live there a while. And I know that you will say I could spend that time in Tír na nÓg. But here I can spend that necessary time and still do some good for Gaia.”
The Morrigan nodded slowly. “I too have much to work on. This suits me well. So I will wait. And we will, as you say, visit and drink and court.”
The strangers dissolved into mist and the Morrigan melted into shadow. I woke up from my nap without an arm or a beer and with the same hollow dread for the future. But I got up and told the hounds it was time for me to get back to work.
I turned away from the ocean, intending to walk inland some distance before contacting the elemental about where to find the next den of Tasmanian devils, only to find a woman standing perhaps fifty yards away, clearly waiting for me.
I did not immediately recognize her. She appeared middle-aged, had tawny brown skin, and wore a navy blue dress, modestly cut, with a white headscarf to shield her from the sun. A pleasant smile on her face welcomed me as I approached, but she wasn’t going to call out until I drew nearer. One could tell by her bearing that she was not the sort to raise her voice. She had her hands clasped loosely in front of her, and from her fingers dangled an ivory envelope.
“Hello, Siodhachan,” she said once I was close enough to hear at a normal volume. “Do you know me?”
“I don’t recognize you, sorry,” I replied, shaking my head.
“I look different now.” Her brown eyes gleamed above a generous nose, and there were laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. “The last time you saw me was in Arizona, and I was white because I manifested from the mind of Katie MacDonagh. I blessed some arrows for you.”
That could be only one person. “Mary?”
She beamed at me. “You do remember!”
“Of course! It’s wonderful to see you again. I hope nothing is wrong?”
“Oh, no, child, all is well, and Katie sends her love. I’ve come to give you a message from my son. A letter, in fact.”
“Jesus wrote me a letter?”
“Yes, I thought it was a bit eccentric, for we haven’t so much as a book of stamps in heaven, never mind a postal service, but he likes to keep us guessing, you know.” She held out the letter to me and I took it.
“He does have a reputation for that. Thank you.”
“Quite welcome, my child. I shall leave you to it; he’s not expecting a reply, and there are some people in town who require my attention. But I am so glad to see you safe. Peace be with you.”
“And also with you, Mary.” I looked at the envelope, which bore my name on it without an address. “Ha! He wrote it in red ink?”
Mary tittered. “He thought it was funny and said you might appreciate the joke.”
“I do. Please give h
im my best regards.”
“I will. Farewell.” She turned toward town, headscarf billowing gently in an afternoon breeze, and I turned my attention to the letter. There was a wax seal on the back in red, imprinted with the silhouette of a dove in flight. I pried open the seal, unfolded a single sheet, and began to read.
Dear Siodhachan,
Welcome to one of the timelines in which you survived. If you’re wondering if there’s one in which you’re happy right now, the answer is no. You are universally miserable, and this is the moment where I could say I told you so, but we are friends and I wish to remain your friend. Instead, since you did not heed my advice earlier, I hope you will heed it now: Live in peace. Do not pick up a sword again, and harmony will find you.
By the way, your fly is open. It was totally open in front of my mom, and yes, she saw.
Yours in joy and whiskey,
Jesus
I looked down to confirm and, yes, indeed, my fly was open. “Oh, crap!” I hurriedly zipped it and looked up at the sky. “Sorry,” I mumbled, then flapped the letter a couple of times in the air. “And thanks for the advice. I’m ready to listen now and I will live in peace. If I don’t die of embarrassment first.”
Oberon, alert as ever, did not miss an opportunity to tease me.
a week after the Morrigan’s visitation and my mortifying faux pas in front of Mary, I sat under a swamp gum eucalyptus with Oberon and Starbuck, taking a modest lunch break from healing Tasmanian devils. Without my healing triskele tattoo it took a while longer to do the first healing, because I had to craft the bindings free-form, but once I created a macro for it the process worked just fine with Tasmania’s help. We’d finished our salame and crackers and I was giving Oberon a lazy, distracted belly rub.
“I’m sorry, buddy.”
My hound rolled over and sat up, his tail wagging, excited about whatever had just occurred to him. Starbuck leapt to his feet and crouched, in case Oberon was ready to play.
“Which guy, Oberon?”
“Oh! You mean Ogma!”
“Yes, that’s right.”
He tilted back his head to howl mournfully and Starbuck joined in, albeit in a much higher register.
“Oberon, please—you made a good point and then you got sidetracked. I can’t explain wanton cheesesteak abuse any more than I can explain why some people watch other people fishing on television. Those are inexplicable mysteries. But Ogma’s favors do deserve some consideration. I put my life in jeopardy both times. That means they’re pretty big favors.”
“Whales are not snacks, Oberon.”
“Well, let’s see how it works out first. Let me think about this.”
I called to the Morrigan that night, wondering if she would be willing to grant the favor. Her breathy whisper sounded pleased at first.
Siodhachan. I didn’t expect to hear from you again so soon.
“I admit that I was hoping to get your help with a couple of favors that Ogma owes me.”
I don’t understand. You want me to repay favors that Ogma owes you or force Ogma to grant you the favors he owes?
“Neither. One of the favors requires him to find Miach, who was slain by his father, Dian Cecht, and learn from him how he performed the feat for which he is still famous.”
I think I see. You are asking a favor of me so that Ogma can perform a favor for you.
“I’m not exactly asking in the binding contractual sense. I am wondering if you will do this for me without expecting to be paid later.”
Why would I do that?
“Because it would demonstrate to me that you can behave in ways to which you’re unaccustomed. It would be proof of your personal growth.”
Perhaps it would demonstrate that. Or perhaps you are using my professed feelings against me to your advantage. Manipulating me.
“Perhaps. But you don’t have to continue to think of every transaction or exchange as having a winner and a loser.”
I only think of it that way because it’s true.
“It’s not true if you want to build a relationship based on trust with someone. Both people can and should win.”
Is that so? How would I win in this case?
“I would be grateful and think of you fondly.”
Are you saying you would love me?
“No, that’s not what I said. But believing you will do something for me without payment in kind—that’s a big step along that path. It’s crucial, in fact.”
And have you ever done something like that for me?
“I have worshipped you and observed your rites for more than two thousand years. I have prayed to you, honored you, and I took you to a baseball game once just to enjoy your company. Bought you a cute baseball cap and everything.”
Ah, yes, I remember. The despair in the dugout was delicious. Very well. Have Ogma call me when he is ready and I will take him to the shade of Miach, expecting no favor in return.
“That’s very kind, and I appreciate it.”
Getting Ogma to visit me took several days of prayer and calling upon him and relayed requests through elementals. He hadn’t participated in the fighting of Ragnarok, being one of the gods Brighid had decided to sequester, and he was not anxious to return from wherever he was. He appeared to be in a poor mood when he arrived. The hounds and I were finishing up an early dinner on the beach of the Mayfield Bay Conservation Area when he emerged from the eucalyptus forest. The undersides of clouds were lit in orange and magenta and bruised with purple higher up as the sun set. He pointedly crossed his arms, something I could no longer do.
“Hello, Ogma. I once retrieved the Dagda’s cauldron for you and raided the library at Alexandria, both for favors to be named later.”
“I’m aware. This is quite a bit later.”
“The favors had no expiration dates. I’m ready to call them in now.”
“I assumed as much. What are they?”
“First, I’d like you to contact the Morrigan and have her lead you to the shade of Miach, who healed the arm of Nuada, and learn from him how it was done.”
“That’s more than one favor.”
“It’s only one: Learn from Miach how he healed Nuada. I’m only
suggesting you contact the Morrigan because you’ll find him faster that way and she’s already agreed to do this.”
“And if he refuses to teach me?”
“You keep trying until he does, of course. Though I will note that the Morrigan can be very persuasive when she wishes.”
Ogma grunted, looking at my stump. “I think I already know what the second favor is.”
“Yes. Heal me the way Miach healed Nuada. Regrow flesh and bone so that I can be whole again and get my binding to the earth restored.”
The god’s lip curled in a snarl. “You’d better not ask me to complete that binding.”
“I won’t.” I planned to ask Brighid to restore my bindings, should I be so fortunate to possess an arm again. She had said she would grant me a boon.
“Why are you even bothering? You’ve done enough. Granuaile and Owen will make sure Druidry endures. Go to Tír na nÓg and take your rest.”
“I’ve lost a lot, Ogma, but not my will to live. Nor did I lose my sense of responsibility. I still have plenty of work to do on Gaia’s behalf.” And I had a bet with Owen that I wanted to win.
Ogma hawked up something gross from his throat and spat it on the beach, a nonverbal hint at what he thought of my reply. “This will take some time, if it can be done at all. Where will you be?”
“Somewhere on the island. I obviously won’t be shifting around anytime soon. You can ask Tasmania where I am.”
The god grimaced as if he’d just swallowed a mouthful of sour milk, but didn’t say anything else. He couldn’t simply kill me to make the problem go away—not without severe consequences. Dropping the Morrigan’s name ensured that. And refusing the attempt or claiming it was impossible was equally unworkable. I have often thought the economy of favors-to-be-named-later is the shadow economy by which history is funded; nothing important would get done without such favors. He muttered a farewell and departed, and I didn’t know if I’d see him again next week or next month or next year, or, indeed, ever again. The same could be said, I supposed, for Granuaile. There was no guarantee that anything would work out.