“They are coming for you,” said Whiskey Jack. “They are going to revive you.”
“But I’m done,” said Shadow. “It was all over and done.”
“No such thing,” said Whiskey Jack. “Never any such thing. We’ll go to my place. You want a beer?”
He guessed he would like a beer, at that. “Sure.”
“Get me one too. There’s a cooler outside the door,” said Whiskey Jack, and he pointed. They were in his shack.
Shadow opened the door to the shack with hands he had not possessed moments before. There was a plastic cooler filled with chunks of river ice out there, and, in the ice, a dozen cans of Budweiser. He pulled out a couple of cans of beer and then sat in the doorway and looked out over the valley.
They were at the top of a hill, near a waterfall, swollen with melting snow and runoff. It fell in stages, maybe seventy feet below them, maybe a hundred. The sun reflected from the ice that sheathed the trees that overhung the waterfall basin.
“Where are we?” asked Shadow.
“Where you were last time,” said Whiskey Jack. “My place. You planning on holding on to my Bud till it warms up?”
Shadow stood up and passed him the can of beer. “You didn’t have a waterfall outside your place last time I was here,” he said.
Whiskey Jack said nothing. He popped the top of the Bud, and drank half the can in one long slow swallow. Then he said, “You remember my nephew? Henry Bluejay? The poet? He traded his Buick for your Winnebago. Remember?”
“Sure. I didn’t know he was a poet.”
Whiskey Jack raised his chin and looked proud. “Best damn poet in America,” he said.
He drained the rest of his can of beer, belched, and got another can, while Shadow popped open his own can of beer, and the two men sat outside on a rock, by the pale green ferns, in the morning sun, and they watched the falling water and they drank their beer. There was still snow on the ground, in the places where the shadows never lifted.
The earth was muddy and wet.
“Henry was diabetic,” continued Whiskey Jack. “It happens. Too much. You people came to America, you take our sugar cane, potatoes, and corn, then you sell us potato chips and caramel popcorn, and we’re the ones who get sick.” He sipped his beer, reflecting. “He’d won a couple of prizes for his poetry. There were people in Minnesota who wanted to put his poems into a book. He was driving to Minnesota in a sports car to talk to them. He had traded your ‘Bago for a yellow Miata. The doctors said they think he went into a coma while he was driving, went off the road, ran the car into one of your road signs. Too lazy to look at where you are, to read the mountains and the clouds, you people need road signs everywhere. And so Henry Bluejay went away forever, went to live with brother Wolf. So I said, nothing keeping me there any longer. I came north. Good fishing up here.”
“I’m sorry about your nephew.”
“Me too. So now I’m living here in the north. Long way from white man’s diseases. White man’s roads. White man’s road signs. White man’s yellow Miatas. White man’s caramel popcorn.”
“White man’s beer?”
Whiskey Jack looked at the can. “When you people finally give up and go home, you can leave us the Budweiser breweries,” he said.
“Where are we?” asked Shadow. “Am I on the tree? Am I dead? Am I here? I thought everything was finished. What’s real?”
“Yes,” said Whiskey Jack.
“ ‘Yes’? What kind of an answer is ‘Yes’?”
“It’s a good answer. True answer, too.”
Shadow said, “Are you a god as well?”
Whiskey Jack shook his head. “I’m a culture hero,” he said. “We do the same shit gods do, we just screw up more and nobody worships us. They tell stories about us, but they tell the ones that make us look bad along with the ones where we came out fairly okay.”
“I see,” said Shadow. And he did see, more or less.
“Look,” said Whiskey Jack. “This is not a good country for gods. My people figured that out early on. There are creator spirits who found the earth or made it or shit it out, but you think about it: who’s going to worship Coyote? He made love to Porcupine Woman and got his dick shot through with more needles than a pincushion. He’d argue with rocks and the rocks would win.
“So, yeah, my people figured that maybe there’s something at the back of it all, a creator, a great spirit, and so we say thank you to it, because it’s always good to say thank you. But we never built churches. We didn’t need to. The land was the church. The land was the religion. The land was older and wiser than the people who walked on it. It gave us salmon and corn and buffalo and passenger pigeons. It gave us wild rice and walleye. It gave us melon and squash and turkey. And we were the children of the land, just like the porcupine and the skunk and the blue jay.”
He finished his second beer and gestured toward the river at the bottom of the waterfall. “You follow that river for a way, you’ll get to the lakes where the wild rice grows. In wild rice time, you go out in your canoe with a friend, and you knock the wild rice into your canoe, and cook it, and store it, and it will keep you for a long time. Different places grow different foods. Go far enough south there are orange trees, lemon trees, and those squashy green guys, look like pears—“
“Avocados.”
“Avocados,” agreed Whiskey Jack. “That’s them. They don’t grow up this way. This is wild rice country. Moose country. What I’m trying to say is that America is like that. It’s not good growing country for gods. They don’t grow well here. They’re like avocados trying to grow in wild rice country.”
“They may not grow well,” said Shadow, remembering, “but they’re going to war.”
That was the only time he ever saw Whiskey Jack laugh. It was almost a bark, and it had little humor in it. “Hey Shadow,” said Whiskey Jack. “If all your friends jumped off a cliff, would you jump off too?”
“Maybe.” Shadow felt good. He didn’t think it was just the beer. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so alive, and so together.
“It’s not going to be a war.”
“Then what is it?”
Whiskey Jack crushed the beer can between his hands, pressing it until it was flat. “Look,” he said, and pointed to the waterfall. The sun was high enough that it caught the waterfall spray: a rainbow nimbus hung in the air. Shadow thought it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
“It’s going to be a bloodbath,” said Whiskey Jack, flatly.
Shadow saw it then. He saw it all, stark in its simplicity. He shook his head, then he began to chuckle, and he shook his head some more, and the chuckle became a full-throated laugh.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” said Shadow. “I just saw the hidden Indians. Not all of them. But I saw them anyhow.”
“Probably Ho Chunk, then. Those guys never could hide worth a damn.” He looked up at the sun. “Time to go back,” he said. He stood up.
“It’s a two-man con,” said Shadow. “It’s not a war at all, is it?”
Whiskey Jack patted Shadow’s arm. “You’re not so dumb,” he said.
They walked back to Whiskey Jack’s shack. He opened the door. Shadow hesitated. “I wish I could stay here with you,” he said. “This seems like a good place.”
“There are a lot of good places,” said Whiskey Jack. “That’s kind of the point. Listen, gods die when they are forgotten. People too. But the land’s still here. The good places, and the bad. The land isn’t going anywhere. And neither am I.”
Shadow closed the door. Something was pulling at him. He was alone in the darkness once more, but the darkness became brighter and brighter until it was burning like the sun.
And then the pain began.
Easter walked through the meadow, and spring flowers blossomed where she had passed.
She walked by a place where, long ago, a farmhouse had stood. Even today several walls were still standing, jutting out of the
weeds and the meadow grass like rotten teeth. A thin rain was falling. The clouds were dark and low, and it was cold.
A little way beyond the place where the farmhouse had been there was a tree, a huge silver-gray tree, winter-dead to all appearances, and leafless, and in front of the tree, on the grass, were frayed clumps of colorless fabric. The woman stopped at the fabric, and bent down, and picked up something brownish-white: it was a much-gnawed fragment of bone which might, once, have been a part of a human skull. She tossed it back down onto the grass.
Then she looked at the man on the tree and she smiled wryly. “They just aren’t as interesting naked,” she said. “It’s the unwrapping that’s half the fun. Like with gifts, and eggs.”
The hawk-headed man who walked beside her looked down at his penis and seemed, for the first time, to become aware of his own nakedness. He said, “I can look at the sun without even blinking.”
“That’s very clever of you,” Easter told him, reassuringly. “Now, let’s get him down from there.”
The wet ropes that held Shadow to the tree had long ago weathered and rotted, and they parted easily as the two people pulled on them. The body on the tree slipped and slid down toward the roots. They caught him as he fell, and they took him up, carrying him easily, although he was a very big man, and they put him down in the gray meadow.
The body on the grass was cold, and it did not breathe. There was a patch of dried black blood on its side, as if it had been stabbed with a spear.
“What now?”
“Now,” she said, “We warm him. You know what you have to do.”
“I know. I cannot.”
“If you are not willing to help, then you should not have called me here.”
She reached out a white hand to Horus, and she touched his black hair. He blinked at her, intently. Then he shimmered, as if in a heat haze.
The hawk eye that faced her glinted orange, as if a flame had just been kindled inside it; a flame that had been long extinguished.
The hawk took to the air, and it swung upward, circling and ascending in a rising gyre, circling the place in the gray clouds where the sun might conceivably be, and as the hawk rose it became first a dot and then a speck, and then, to the naked eye, nothing at all, something that could only be imagined. The clouds began to thin and to evaporate, creating a patch of blue sky through which the sun glared. The single bright sunbeam penetrating the clouds and bathing the meadow was beautiful, but the image faded as more clouds vanished. Soon the morning sun was blazing down on that meadow like a summer sun at noon, burning the water vapor from the morning’s rain into mists and burning the mist off into nothing at all.
The golden sun bathed the body on the floor of the meadow with its radiance and its heat. Shades of pink and of warm brown touched the dead thing.
The woman dragged the fingers of her right hand lightly across the body’s chest. She imagined she could feel a shiver in his breast—something that was not a heartbeat, but still . . . She let her hand remain there, on his chest, just above his heart.
She lowered her lips to Shadow’s lips, and she breathed into his lungs, a gentle in and out, and then the breath became a kiss. Her kiss was gentle, and it tasted of spring rains and meadow flowers.
The wound in his side began to flow with liquid blood once more—a scarlet blood, which oozed like liquid rubies in the sunlight, and then the bleeding stopped.
She kissed his cheek and his forehead. “Come on,” she said. “Time to get up. It’s all happening. You don’t want to miss it.”
His eyes fluttered, and then they opened, two eyes the gray of evening, and he looked at her.
She smiled, and then she removed her hand from his chest.
He said, “You called me back.” He said it slowly, as if he had forgotten how to speak English. There was hurt in his voice, and puzzlement.
“Yes.”
“I was done. I was judged. It was over. You called me back. You dared.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes.”
He sat up, slowly. He winced, and touched his side. Then he looked puzzled: there was a beading of wet blood there, but there was no wound beneath it.
He reached out a hand, and she put her arm around him and helped him to his feet. He looked across the meadow as if he was trying to remember the names of the things he was looking at: the flowers in the long grass, the ruins of the farmhouse, the haze of green buds that fogged the branches of the huge silver tree.
“Do you remember?” she asked. “Do you remember what you learned?”
“I lost my name, and I lost my heart. And you brought me back.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “They are going to fight, soon. The old gods and the new ones.”
“You want me to fight for you? You wasted your time.”
“I brought you back because that was what I had to do,” she said. “What you do now is whatever you have to do. Your call. I did my part.”
Suddenly, she became aware of his nakedness, and she blushed a burning scarlet flush, and she looked down and away.
In the rain and the cloud, shadows moved up the side of the mountain, up to the rock pathways.
White foxes padded up the hill in company with red-haired men in green jackets. There was a bull-headed minotaur walking beside an iron-fingered dactyl. A pig, a monkey and a sharp-toothed ghoul clambered up the hillside in company with a blue-skinned man holding a flaming bow, a bear with flowers twined into its fur, and a man in golden chain mail holding his sword of eyes.
Beautiful Antinous, who was the lover of Hadrian, walked up the hillside at the head of a company of leather queens, their arms and chests steroid-sculpted into perfect shapes.
A gray-skinned man, his one cyclopean eye a huge cabochon emerald, walked stiffly up the hill, ahead of several squat and swarthy men, their impassive faces as regular as Aztec carvings: they knew the secrets that the jungles had swallowed.
A sniper at the top of the hill took careful aim at a white fox, and fired. There was an explosion, and a puff of cordite, gunpowder scent on the wet air. The corpse was a young Japanese woman with her stomach blown away, and her face all bloody. Slowly, the corpse began to fade.
The people continued up the hill, on two legs, on four legs, on no legs at all.
The drive through the Tennessee mountain country had been startlingly beautiful whenever the storm had eased, and nerve-wracking whenever the rain had pelted down. Town and Laura had talked and talked and talked the whole way. He was so glad he had met her. It was like meeting an old friend, a really good old friend you’d simply never met before. They talked history and movies and music, and she turned out to be the only person, the only other person he had ever met who had seen a foreign film (Mr. Town was sure it was Spanish, while Laura was just as certain it was Polish) from the sixties called The Manuscript Found in Saragossa, a film he had been starting to believe he had hallucinated.
When Laura pointed out the first SEE ROCK CITY barn to him he chuckled and admitted that that was where he was headed. She said that was so cool. She always wanted to visit those kinds of places, but she never made the time, and always regretted it later. That was why she was on the road right now. She was having an adventure.
She was a travel agent, she told him. Separated from her husband. She admitted that she didn’t think they could ever get back together, and said it was her fault.
“I can’t believe that.”
She sighed. “It’s true, Mack. I’m just not the woman he married anymore.”
Well, he told her, people change, and before he could think he was telling her everything he could tell her about his life, he was even telling her about Woody and Stoner, how the three of them were the three musketeers, and the two of them were killed, you think you’d get hardened to that kind of thing in government work, but you never did.
And she reached out one hand—it was cold enough that he turned up the car’s heating—and squeezed his hand tightly in hers.
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Lunchtime, they ate bad Japanese food while a thunderstorm lowered on Knoxville, and Town didn’t care that the food was late, that the miso soup was cold, or that the sushi was warm.
He loved the fact that she was out, with him, having an adventure.
“Well,” confided Laura, “I hated the idea of getting stale. I was just rotting away where I was. So I set off without my car and without my credit cards. I’m just relying on the kindness of strangers.”
“Aren’t you scared?” he asked. “I mean, you could be stranded, you could be mugged, you could starve.”
She shook her head. Then she said, with a hesitant smile, “I met you, didn’t I?” and he couldn’t find anything to say.
When the meal was over they ran through the storm to his car holding Japanese-language newspapers to cover their heads, and they laughed as they ran, like schoolchildren in the rain.
“How far can I take you?” he asked, when they made it back into the car.
“I’ll go as far as you’re going, Mack,” she told him, shyly.
He was glad he hadn’t used the Big Mack line. This woman wasn’t a barroom one-nighter, Mr. Town knew that in his soul. It might have taken him fifty years to find her, but this was finally it, this was the one, this wild, magical woman with the long dark hair.
This was love.
“Look,” he said, as they approached Chattanooga. The wipers slooshed the rain across the windshield, blurring the gray of the city. “How about I find a motel for you tonight? I’ll pay for it. And once I make my delivery, we can. Well, we can take a hot bath together, for a start. Warm you up.”
“That sounds wonderful,” said Laura. “What are you delivering?”
“That stick,” he told her, and chuckled. “The one on the backseat.”
“Okay,” she said, humoring him. “Then don’t tell me, Mister Mysterious.”
He told her it would be best if she waited in the car in the Rock City parking lot while he made his delivery. He drove up the side of Lookout Mountain in the driving rain, never breaking thirty miles per hour, with his headlights burning.
They parked at the back of the parking lot. He turned off the engine.