by Kevin Hearne
“I understand you better now. The present is always a cusp. But while you are on the cusp of adulthood, I’m on the cusp of a very different life.”
“That’s cool. I understand it happens a lot more now.”
“What happens? Different lives?”
“Yeah, I mean adults choosing to start over, swap careers and make other significant life changes. Sifu Lin told me—and Sifu Wu as well, actually—that people didn’t used to switch things up so much. They’d get a job and stick with it, do that one thing no matter how much it ground down their spirit, because changing meant taking risks and it was easier to be safe and miserable than to take a shot at happiness that might miss. Part of that is systemic, of course.”
“Systemic?”
My back was to them, so I didn’t actually see Ya-ping deliver the side-eye, but I could practically feel it.
“Yeah, systemic. Are you asking me for a definition?”
“I…no. It’s just an adjective and I don’t know what it’s modifying.”
“Systemic racism is the obvious one. But capitalism itself is a system that has misogyny and other bigotries baked into the recipe. Those systems all represent choices, of course, that people in power made. So when you are going to make a choice for yourself, you have to make that choice in the context of the societal construct you live under. Dismantling systems of oppression are therefore long-term projects we should all work toward, because that would allow everyone more freedom.”
“You learned all this in your school?”
“Only some of it. Because education is a system too. To beat it you have to first recognize it’s a system and then read outside it—just not on Internet message boards, because that’s how you get a diseased brain. Sifu Lin helped with a lot of that.”
“I confess I do not know who Sifu Lin is.”
“Oh. Right. Because you just joined. Well, she’s one of the people that the, uh, terrorists may have taken hostage, and we’re trying to find her as well as defeat the bad guys.”
“I hope we do. I would like to meet someone so wise.”
“Speaking of the bad guys, though—they might be kinda weird. Like the thing that gored you. Or those goat snakes. You look like you’re comfortable with weird so far, but they’re going to be violent too.”
“I assure you that I am extremely comfortable with violence.”
“Yeah, I should have realized that from the way you were talking about harvesting ears earlier. I’ll take you at your word. But do you have any weapons?”
“You may assume that I am the weapon.”
“Oh! You’re a martial artist, then?”
“I am. Though I am not well versed in the Chinese martial arts. Choosing to study them would be rewarding, I’m sure.”
“What disciplines have you studied, if I may ask?”
“Ancient ones from the European continent, Bronze Age and Iron Age mostly. They’ve served me well.”
“That’s fascinating! You feel like these ancient martial arts hold up well against systems that were developed later?”
“I do.”
“That is dope as shit, if you’ll pardon my language. I’d love to see a demonstration sometime.”
“I’m sure we’ll have the opportunity soon enough. Is Sifu Lin your martial-arts master?”
“No, she’s a master of ink and papermaking.”
“That sounds almost arcane.”
Ya-ping laughed. “It is.”
From pulp—utterly lifeless pulp—new life can be born. Add water and pressure and you no longer have mere pulp but a medium for the miraculous. It can carry the words of one lover to another. Express gratitude for gifts and thoughts. Invoice a client. Threaten death. Bear the light touch of poetry or the weighty prose of novels. It can be folded into an airplane, to annoy your teacher, or folded into origami, an artistic appreciation of nature made from wholesome natural ingredients. And on and on. So much can be built from the ruin of plant life.
Which is not to say that humans are noble. We ruin so much else that never gets a new life, and their dissolution—their extinction—is final.
But paper is one thing we got right.
Thea Prendergast had no doubt been a wonderful person who wished to help others, and her abrupt demise was tragic, but her flesh now held all the effective qualities of paper: Anything could be written on it, and the Morrigan held the pen. Something miraculous and wonderful could result. Something horrific was equally possible, though I had the sense that the Morrigan wished to avoid the paradox of living as a death goddess. She had already followed that story to its end. So now, presented with a fresh sheet, what would she write?
Someone had defaced my sheet of paper and all but ruined it. Was it still salvageable? Could any beauty hold up against the weight of the terrible marks on it? What would I write on the little paper I had left?
While Roxanne and Ya-ping changed the conversation to discussions of ink and paper, I tuned out and focused on how to deal with the problem ahead of me. Somehow—and soon—I needed to let Connor know what we were facing, without revealing that I knew this only because the Morrigan had come back from the dead and told me, except she was called Roxanne now and was walking thirty meters or so behind him. Try as I might, I couldn’t come up with a way to slip oilliphéist into casual conversation. What would I say?
Dragons are bad, but have ye ever met an oilliphéist? They’re the worst!
Naw.
The legends about the Loch Ness Monster have it all wrong, I could say to Connor, because I’m Scottish and that’s a thing people who aren’t Scottish might expect me to talk about. I’ll tell ye what Nessie is. She’s no dinosaur; she’s an oilliphéist!
Naw.
But the way that Oberon and Starbuck kept looking up at Connor as he walked and he looked back, obviously trading mental notes with one another, gave me an idea. It was time to encourage some eavesdropping on our own conversation.
[Buck.]
“Wot?” The hobgoblin looked exhausted. He was trudging again at this point, grimly chewing his protein bar. The Sigil of Hale Revival I’d given him earlier had already worn off, and he was feeling drained. I adjusted the volume on my phone down and played the next message closer to his ear.
[Without shouting it, without being obvious, mention the Iron Druid. We want the dog to hear it but not him. We want the dog to hang back and eavesdrop on our conversation.]
“Mention him how?”
[Something to get the dog’s attention. But then just follow my conversation as you would any other.]
“Awright. Now?”
I nodded, and Buck raised his voice somewhat. “Tell ye what, ol’ man, I’ve been wonderin’ about sumhin for ages. Does the Iron Druid’s aura apply to his cock, and if he cannae perform in the bedroom does he say he’s rusty? And that dug of the Iron Druid’s: Do ye think he’s aware of the double entendre on sausage? I’m bettin’ he doesnae, because otherwise he’s a legendary straight man and he’s the sort who would tell ye he’s legendary for sure.”
Gods below, that was much more embarrassing than I’d anticipated. Though I supposed I was at fault for assuming Buck would be civil because he was exhausted. But the gambit worked. The Irish wolfhound’s ears pricked up, and then he wandered to the side of the road to pretend to smell something, a rather obvious ruse to let us catch up to him as Connor, Officer Campbell, and Starbuck kept walking. My reply was a simple redirection, entirely ignoring Buck’s questions, but I made sure to crank up the volume on my phone before pressing PLAY. Oberon left off his sniffing as we drew even and kept pace to the side of the road, on our right.
[I’ve been wondering about these monsters. They’re neither demons nor Fae in the normal sense.]
“How so?”
[Normally, demons are summoned or brought through from the
ir plane to this one using a portal. Whenever that happens, there’s a detectable draw on the earth’s powers.]
“Yeah?”
[That’s not happening here. So that rules out normal demons, or the elemental would have noticed that draw on its power and told the Iron Druid.]
“But I thought he said the elemental believed something strange was happening out here, and that’s why he was already headed this way when he heard you wanted him to join us?”
[True. But “something strange” is different from “portals have opened.” The elemental would say for certain if a portal had opened. It’s sensing something else but isn’t sure what. And we know from experience that these aren’t normal Fae.]
“Naw, that’s for sure. Never seen or heard of a turtle dragon spider before, or a rat scorpion.”
[But I don’t just mean their appearance. I mean how they got here.]
Buck finally figured out what I was doing. I could see understanding break like dawn across his face.
“Oh, ye mean, if they’re no normal Fae, then how’d they get here from Tír na nÓg?”
[I mean they never were in Tír na nÓg, or any of the Fae planes, in the first place. If they were, they’d have to get here using an Old Way or a bound tree, or the traditional triangle of oak, ash, and thorn, which aren’t found in Australia. The only Old Way is the one we used to get to Melbourne.]
“A bound tree, then, is the only possibility?”
[Possible but unlikely, since, as you’ve said, they’re not your typical Fae. That means they’re appearing here some other way.]
“Appearing? Ye mean they’re summoned, or wot?”
[Something like that.]
“Well, what could summon all those bloody monsters?”
[That’s the question.]
“That’s one question, ye mean. The other question is about his rusty iron cock.”
[Damn it, Buck.]
“Wot?”
I simply shook my head, ending the conversation, and Oberon trotted ahead to catch up with Connor and the others. Shortly after the wolfhound had resumed his position, his head tilted up and the Iron Druid’s tilted down. The reporting, as I’d hoped, was happening, though I had no idea how much was being reported or how accurately. Roxanne and Ya-ping were still discussing papermaking and martial arts, somehow conflating the two as a process of refining raw material into something elegant.
When Connor threw back his head and laughed, I knew Oberon must have told him what Buck had said about his aura. Officer Campbell was startled and asked him what was so funny, which I just caught at the edge of my hearing.
“Hobgoblins, man.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating Buck, and the officer looked back, bemused.
“You mean that little sunburned guy? He’s a hobgoblin? Where’d he come from, anyway?” He had, of course, completely forgotten that I’d called Buck a hobgoblin earlier and that Buck had teleported away with Sara, since we’d hit him with a Sigil of Lethe River shortly afterward.
“Yeah, but be honest—he’s not the weirdest thing you’ve seen lately.”
“Well, no, that’s true.”
“Just roll with it,” Connor said. “I think you’ll be seeing plenty weirder before the day is through.”
I didn’t know what to expect next on the trail, exactly, except that it would probably be bloodthirsty and a crime against nature. Instead, I got a message on Signal. From Nadia.
Boss. Where you at?
I blinked in surprise and typed a reply: Still in Australia.
Right, but where, exactly? I’m coming tae meet ye.
But you’re in Scotland.
Naw, I’m in Melbourne.
What?
It’s no that hard tae figure. I hopped on a fucking plane after ye left.
Why?
Something’s happened with my gift. My battle-seer thing. My semi-divine divination. I can see a bit further into the future—well, at least where you’re concerned.
How do you mean?
After you left in the middle of the night, I got a vision of booby traps ahead, and ye cannae avoid them without me there. It’s a meat grinder. And some truly dodgy stuff beyond that even if ye skate through somehow. I got on the first plane and left the foreman in charge of the shop. We owe him for this business if we survive. Unless he steals everything, and then we hunt him down. So just wait, will you? It’ll take me some time to get there, but you’ll be alive. Where are you, exactly?
On the Bicentennial National Trail. Past Mount Monda.
Okay, got it. Stay where ye are, and I’ll be there as soon as I can to get ye through the rest. Ye have to leave the trail there anyway.
We don’t have time to wait.
You’ll be permanently out of time if ye don’t! And I can get there pretty fast. Car will get me there in a couple of hours if I approach from the opposite direction on that dirt road you’ve been walking.
You can really see where I am?
Not precisely—I did need some help! But the visions keep refreshing and updating. Things are different now.
Right enough, I typed, her words reminding me of Gladys Who Has Seen Some Shite. I wondered if she was nearby, following us.
But keep an eye out while ye wait, Al. Something’s coming for you.
What?
Heads up, it’s coming now!
Something a bit more like what I was expecting erupted from the bush. It was a trio of bloody yak badgers.
Yaks and badgers are no fun all by themselves if they decide they don’t like your face. But put a giant badger head on a yak body and you have a one-ton angry juggernaut on your hands. Or, in this case, three of them—one for each pair of us on the road, not counting the dogs.
We heard them coming in time for me to shout a warning and try to get out of the way, but I didn’t have time to apply any sigils. As a result, I narrowly missed getting my throat torn out by badger jaws but didn’t miss getting knocked over by a yak shoulder. My cane, which I’d been carrying in the crook of my arm as I used my phone, clattered away out of my reach, together with my phone. And my breath evacuated my lungs and seemed reluctant to ever return.
Falling down as a pensioner, I have noted before, is zero fun. It hurts more than it should, and it contains a nonzero risk of never getting back up again. Especially with murderous Fae creatures on the loose.
Besides my own wheezing gasp for air, I heard the thunder of yak hooves and the furious ratchet growl of irate badgers. One screamed behind me—presumably Ya-ping had scored a hit already—and then another shrieked in front, where Connor had no doubt employed his hatchet. But the one who’d bowled me over halted and turned around for another pass.
I tried to focus on my cane. If I could pull myself to it and extend it in front of me, the Sigil of Iron Gall might convince the yak badger not to trample me or chew my face off.
“Urrk…” I managed, and maybe closed the distance a few inches. My strength had left me along with my breath, my muscles refusing to work. Or maybe I had broken bones and my limbs refused to work, the pain on a time delay to my brain while it was trying to think without oxygen.
The hooves trampled closer; the badger snarled in anticipation. Ya-ping shouted a warning, as if I hadn’t seen the danger. And then my vision blurred in khaki and pink as something swept through, my cane was gone, and a whoosh of displaced air followed by the dull thud of a blunt force impact tore a cry of pain from the badger’s throat. Buck had saved me. The hooves that would have churned my guts into mud rumbled past.
“Here, ol’ man,” he said, dropping the cane into my grasp. “I don’t like yer cane, even tae hold the safe end. The iron vibrates intae ma skeleton. Let’s get ye up.”
The yak badger was making noises that sounded the way I felt, frustrated and angry and in pain. I wondered if Ca
oránach wept for these children of hers, being sent out into a world that would try to kill them on sight. Or did the chimeras understand, at some level, that they did not belong in the world and would never be accepted, and as such they should make others suffer like them? Was there a happy place for them—or did they even get the time to think about what would make them happy? It seemed they were unleashed from the bush with the instruction to feed on whatever they found, and I wished it could be different, that they could gambol happily about with the dogs, like a wombat, that we could feed them sausages and comb their badger fur, but their attacks made self-defense a necessity. Except I had no energy to rise, because I was still fighting to breathe. Buck tried to lift me up from my left armpit, but I just gasped and wheezed.
Ya-ping came next to my rescue, first distracting the yak badger from charging me again and then slaying it with her sai. She even popped a Sigil of Hale Revival in front of me, and that gave me the energy to stand and recover my breath.
Buck returned my phone, and I typed out, [Thanks.] The others came to make sure that I wasn’t seriously injured, and after reassuring them I would be fine after a few minutes—no bones were broken, though I expected bruises—I told them that we needed to wait.
[My manager, Nadia, is coming from Melbourne.]
Buck brightened. “Nadia’s coming? That’s good news, by Lhurnog!”
Ya-ping disagreed. “How is it good, Buck? There’s going to be police and SES coming through anytime now, according to you. We can’t wait around.”
“If ye’re gonnay be in a fight, ye want Nadia on yer side, trust me,” Buck said, while I typed a longer response.
[She says we have to leave the trail here anyway and there are myriad traps waiting for us. She can lead us through them. We can wait off the road, out of sight.]
“How can she lead us through them, exactly?” Connor asked.
[She’s a battle seer. She can reliably lead us to the bad guys from here. It’s not yet noon, so we can afford to wait a bit. Especially since not waiting and going it alone could be fatal. She’s had a vision.]