by Kevin Hearne
The Monkey King is glorious and impressive, to be sure, but as Erlang Shen descends from the heavens, I think he could practically slay people with how badass he looks, a mixture of flowing red and white silks and hardened-leather armor inlaid with gold and accents of jade. Steel armor is not necessary for him, since even without a stitch on he is practically impervious to weapons. His chosen weapon is sort of like a spear, except the head is three-tipped and double-bladed. Rumor has it that the weapon functions much like Fragarach and can cut or punch through armor as if it were cotton. It certainly seems to have no trouble slicing through the damned as if they were cucumbers instead of flesh and bone.
And once he lands and introductions are made and the plan is revealed to him, I am brought forcefully to the question once again: Why am I here? Because Erlang Shen and the Monkey King can obviously take care of this on their own. Both are more skilled and powerful than I and would easily be able to defeat King Taishan without my help. I am not even needed for them to shift planes—it’s in fact they who must shift me to the seventh court! So for what purpose have I been sent here by Brighid? I worry about her motivation more than these Buddhist deities, because the First among the Fae didn’t get that title granted to her. She earned it by being stronger and smarter than everyone else. And it has to be something significant, doesn’t it, if she’s gotten the Monkey King to agree to her scheme? It can’t be simply to help Taipei by battling these poor souls. I mean, I’m sure she’d want me to minimize the damage here as much as possible, but if that were all, there would be no need to have Flidais bring me here with code phrases and magic apples and have Sun Wukong lay down mystic riddles on my brow. She could have simply said to minimize the damage and I would have done it.
It’s an uncomfortable feeling, knowing that gods are playing a game with you as a prominent piece but you’re not able to see the board or even know the rules.
And then the puzzle turns and clicks into place for me like a Rubik’s Cube—or at least a part of it does. I have not been viewing events from the proper perspective. I’ve been a Sunday-afternoon sports spectator, looking at all the action from my couch and involved in what I’m watching, unaware that people can watch me in turn from the kitchen or hallway or even outside and laugh because I am so engrossed by minor happenings in my narrow vision and cannot see the bigger picture.
This is not about Taiwan. I’ve certainly not been sent to save it, because it’s in perfectly capable hands. This is about whether I can step outside my own exquisite narcissism and serve a greater cause. This is about my field of vision. About my judgment. About how someone obviously felt I wasn’t able to judge for myself where my talents would best serve Gaia, so I was sent here to be safe—oh, my. That’s it!
I’ve been packed off on a milk run, faced with just enough danger to make me feel like it was something real. No wonder Flidais didn’t feel like there was any hurry to tell me about this caper; she knew she was essentially escorting me to the kiddie pool to splash around in shallow waters. And she knew that’s what she would be doing in Japan too. The Shinto deities would need us no more than the Taoist or Buddhist ones. The question becomes, why would Brighid do this to us?
To save Druidry. An obvious answer once I ask the question. In case everything goes wrong in Sweden and Loki’s forces prevail, I’ll still be around, as will Flidais and whoever else they’ve sequestered in undisclosed locations. Owen, perhaps—where’s he, I wonder? Keeping his grove safe, I hope.
The two immortals have stopped fighting, I notice, and Wukong’s clones have circled around us to provide a sphere of protection. Apparently I’ve spaced out a bit and they’re waiting for me to come around.
“Wukong.” He merely raises a bushy eyebrow at me. “Did Brighid ask you to keep me occupied during Ragnarok?” His eyes slide over to Erlang Shen and they share a tiny smile. They’d either been waiting on this or they had a bet going as to whether I’d figure it out.
“I think perhaps our American friend is finally challenging her assumptions,” he says to Erlang Shen, which is not precisely an answer but confirms my suspicion.
“Damn it. Then you don’t need me here? I can go help somewhere else and you can end this on your own?”
“Of course.”
“But you’ll shut down King Taishan and the others soon? The earth is being harmed every time the portal opens.”
“We will,” Wukong assures me. “But are you finished learning, then?”
Oh, shit. I’ve missed something important or he wouldn’t prompt me like that. I look around and see nothing obvious—so it must be that I have made yet another assumption.
“Wait. When Brighid made this arrangement with you, did she say why?”
“I’m afraid I’m not allowed to recall.”
“Not allowed?” Brighid must have extracted a promise not to reveal any details of their conversation. But there was clearly something to reveal that Wukong thought I should know. I shudder at a sudden suspicion, a thrill of cold fear coursing down my spine. “Did someone put her up to it?”
The Monkey King shrugs, helpless.
“Wukong is bound by oath not to answer. But I am not,” Erlang Shen replies. “Brighid made these arrangements with us at the urging of Siodhachan Ó Suileabháin.”
I gasp audibly, shocked and saddened to have my suspicion confirmed. I didn’t want it to be true. But he knew when Ragnarok was going to begin. He had advance warning and time to set this up. And he probably thought he was doing the right thing. That’s when heat flushes my cheeks.
“Of all the bullshit patriarchal moves he could pull—well. He and I are going to have a talk. Perhaps even a spirited fracas,” I add, after thinking that this is precisely the sort of thing that got Flidais in trouble with Perun. You don’t make plans for someone else and not consult them.
Which is not to say I haven’t enjoyed my time here. I feel like I have learned and grown, and I was led to it in a much different way than I’m used to. And as much as I was frustrated by the leading questions and the vague statements at first, I can appreciate with hindsight how effective they were. It’s a way of thinking I should cultivate.
“Sifu Sun,” I say, bowing to the Monkey King, “may I return at a later date to learn more?”
“What is it you wish to learn?”
“Whatever you wish to teach me. How to make perfect bubble tea, more about Buddhism, how to fight. But I also wish to learn Mandarin. I am nearly ready to add another headspace.”
Sun Wukong smiles at me. “Very well. You know where my shop is. I will be there when you are ready.”
“Thank you. And I am very grateful for the training you’ve already given me.”
“Do not let it go to waste.”
“I won’t.” I bow again, and also to Erlang Shen before taking my leave, fighting through the damned to get to the bound tree. True to the Monkey King’s word, King Biancheng lands a short distance away, armor shining and face snarling, eager to have a go at the Druid who killed King Wuguan. He draws his weapons and advances, but I put my hand on the bound tree and shift away, leaving him to Erlang Shen. There’s a fight going on in Sweden, and once I get there, I don’t know if I’ll go after Loki or Atticus first.
i’m so fecking tired after the swim that I might need to try one of those superfoods modern humans are always on about. Thinking I might try kale, even if Greta’s right and it’s somehow worse than old man balls. Or maybe I’ll be set right by some pancakes drizzled with maple syrup and a hot mug of coffee. Sounds less risky to me, more of a sure thing.
The elementals tell me I have applied the Second Law of Owen as much as Gaia requires: There are still all sorts of fires to put out, but others are seeing to it, and the primary shite festival in Sweden is still happening, but that’s not a fight for me own fists. I hope Siodhachan and Granuaile are all right, but all I can get from the elementals
is an assurance that they’re still alive. I’m given leave to return to Flagstaff and a rare gift: In return for saving Bavaria and Amazon and more, the elementals ask what I’d like to be called from now on instead of Avenging Druid, and I tell them Oaken Druid would suit me fine.
//Oaken Druid it is / Harmony//
//Harmony// I says, and ask Slomo if she’d like to visit me home before returning to her jungle in Peru. I give her a mental picture of what the trees look like there, the Ponderosa pines and the alligator junipers and the white-barked aspens.
I think so.
I shift to a bear once more and give Slomo a ride out of the lake area. Some people are starting to appear on the shores, and I’m afraid they’re going to notice us soon. I’m pretty sure they would have some questions about why there’s a Peruvian sloth in Poland. After we shift to the bound tree on Greta’s property, where it’s late evening of the night before, Slomo drops off me back to barf quietly on the forest ground. She staggers a bit to the right afterward.
I give her a bit of energy from the earth.
It’s only a few minutes’ work to shift back to Peru, gather some leaves from those trees she likes, and return.
And they are. They’ve all switched out their spheres from Tasmania in their lockets with Colorado’s sandstone, so they’re able to communicate with Slomo much like me, in images and feelings. Everyone is delighted. Slomo establishes First Dangle on an aspen near the house and eats leaves while the kids laugh and talk with her. A couple of parents stay behind while I go inside with Greta and the rest of the pack to fill them in on what’s been going on with me, and they catch me up with what happened in Tasmania after I left.
“We obviously decided to return home since we didn’t know how long you’d be gone.” Greta speaks from the kitchen because she’s trying to make my dream of pancakes come true. It was time for breakfast in Poland, but it’s bedtime in Flagstaff, and I realize with a yawn that I don’t properly know what day it is or when I last slept for more than a couple of hours.
Sam and Ty, the co-leaders of the Flagstaff pack, arrive after a few minutes and look mighty pleased to have me back, since it probably means we can resume tearing the hell out of each other in sparring matches. They don’t often get to unload against anyone who can challenge them, and they like it. Truth is, I do too. Sometimes I win and sometimes they do. It’s good to have some mates who will beat the shite out of ye in the friendliest manner possible and don’t get sore when ye beat the shite out of them. And those lads are an example of how to be lovers. They’ve been together more than a hundred years and they still think the man they married is the best man on earth. But after we catch up, they start talking about wine for some reason, and that’s a subject about which I know very little. In fact, I don’t know Jack Shite.
That’s an expression Siodhachan taught me, but I don’t rightly understand it. I have so many questions. Sometimes people leave off the surname and say, “Ye don’t know Jack,” but everyone knows you’re not talking about Jack Black or Jack Daniel’s or Jack Be Nimble—nay! When someone says, “Ye don’t know Jack,” it’s automatically understood that they’re talking about Jack Shite. But it makes ye wonder why anyone would walk around this world with the surname of Shite. If ye have such an awful name, wouldn’t that be a fine excuse to change it to Jones or something common and boring and unrelated to feces? And what’s really confusing to me is whether we should know a lad named Jack Shite or not. Sometimes people say, “Ye don’t know Jack Shite,” and ye can tell by their tone that you’re practically the only person that doesn’t. But sometimes people sneer at ye and say, “You know Jack Shite,” and the scorn in their voice lets ye know that ye should have never been introduced to him, even by accident. Well, I don’t know Jack Shite yet, and I’m mighty conflicted about whether I want to meet him or not. He’s a controversial figure. I’m wondering if Sam and Ty know Jack Shite and I realize they must because they know so much about wine, so I don’t ask them out loud.
The conversations fade until Greta shouts me name and I startle straight up. “Eh? What?”
“You need to go to bed,” she says. “You’ve drifted off twice now.”
“I have? When was…first time?”
“Just go. You’ve been mumbling about not knowing Jack Shite.”
“But Slomo—”
“She’ll be fine. The kids will let us know if she needs anything, and if she does, we’ll wake you. She probably needs to sleep too, and there’s nothing out here that will mess with her.”
“No, ye definitely don’t want to mess with her,” I says.
Greta asks Thandi’s dad, Sonkwe, to finish up the pancakes and store them while she pulls me from my seat and escorts me to the bedroom. Me limbs feel like lead weights and me vision’s all blurry. Me brain knows I’m somewhere safe and it just wants to shut down and recover.
“Don’t want to mess with me either,” Greta says, which is all too true. Once I collapse on the bed, I feel her lips press against mine briefly. “Thanks for coming back safe to me, Teddy Bear.”
“Oaken,” I mumble, on the edge of slumber.
“What?”
“ ’M Oaken now.”
“All right, Oaken Teddy Bear.”
Something about that isn’t quite right, but it’s not worth climbing back to consciousness to figure it out. I have a wee space to meself to enjoy some peace and I’m going to wallow in it as long as I’m allowed, because after that, we have so much fecking work to do. And puppies to raise. Can’t forget Orlaith’s puppies. Me grove will be so pleased…
for the record, and at risk of stating the obvious: Looting corpses is nothing like the way it’s presented in video games. You click, get a little sound effect and a tiny hit of serotonin, and coins are automatically put in your purse and items go into your giant bag of holding, possibly to be equipped, possibly to be sold later to an NPC for meager ducats. It’s fast, bloodless, and carries little risk of disease or septicemia. No interaction with an actual corpse is necessary. Which is true of every aspect of games—there’s no actual anything. But looting has always been a casual pastime in games, one of the fun parts, and I guess I wish it wasn’t, because it turns us into vultures.
If you want to loot a corpse, make sure you know from the start that it’s going to be literal deadweight and that you might pull a muscle. There’s going to be blood and there’s going to be shit—not the mere stink of shit, but actual shit. Might be some brains lying around too. It’s going to take far longer than a mouse click to get the job done, and when you finally get the armor that you need off the corpse, you will probably find it doesn’t fit well. And the weapon won’t be a legendary blade like Fragarach either.
So it was that I searched several Fae corpses for adequate replacements. I settled for the third, finding a sleeveless shirt to wear under a cuirass and some basic breeches, over which I secured a hardened leather skirt to protect the legs, fastened by a belt. Boots that fit took another three tries. I did find a sword with a whiff of magic about it, and a look at the bindings in the magical spectrum revealed that it was an unbreakable blade. I picked up a shield too. Considering myself to be at least partially protected, I sought out Brighid.
I couldn’t wait to finish this, to bring an end to the danger I’d
put everyone in by making two disastrous trips to Asgard years ago. The people fighting Surt’s fires around the world or who may have perished in them—that was on me. Everyone who’d fallen here, or who fell elsewhere in some battle provoked by Loki’s allies—that was on me too. Fand and Manannan and the three yeti and so many more. There was really no way I could ethically walk away from this, despite my attempts to rationalize doing just that. To be fair, I should be facing Ragnarok all alone. I was the one who killed the Norns and set this snowball rolling, so I should be the one who stood in the path of the avalanche.
It took some time to make my way to the front without killing any of the Fae with my iron aura. The yewmen had no such vulnerabilities, however, and it was they who protected Brighid on either flank as she swung her sword at the necks of draugar and let her armor take the occasional hit. On her immediate left, however, was a curious figure in green and silver livery, one of the Fae, who held no weapon nor tried to attack. He simply existed and had some incredible kinetic wards. Every time the draugar tried to attack him, their force was returned upon them with degrees of magnitude. I came around to Brighid’s right to make sure I didn’t disturb him.
“Brighid! It’s Siodhachan!” I had to repeat this several times to get through to her, but once she spared a glance my way, she pulled back and let the yewmen close up the gap.
“Siodhachan. What has happened? Why does Loki have your sword?”
“I had to leave it where we killed Hel.”
“Ah. I wondered if he spoke true when his voice rolled across the field and said you’d killed his children. But who are ‘we’?”
“One of the Native American Coyotes helped me. He’s the forward-looking sort, didn’t want this mess coming to his continent. He’s had enough of being invaded.”