by Kim Fielding
Even as Grant cried out, Chernobog swung his weapon down and gutted Hors, who crumpled to the ground with a soft groan.
Grant let out a scream and surged toward them, coming to a skidding halt when Chernobog swung around and pointed the sword at him. “It is done,” Chernobog thundered. “As it must be done every year.”
Too horrified to be frightened, Grant shouted back. “Murderer!”
“Yes. Is my job.” Then something softened in Chernobog’s face, his dark eyes growing warm and sympathetic. “My job to kill, his to die. No beginnings without endings. But tomorrow we begin again.” He nodded. “Is good, even with pain.”
Then Chernobog wiped his blade on an oversized leaf, slid the sword into its scabbard, and strode away. The darkness swallowed him at once.
Finally able to move again, Grant rushed to Hors’s side. He was relieved to find his eyes open, his chest still moving with uneven breaths. But Hors had been split open, and the ground eagerly drank his flowing blood. Grant would never be able to summon help in time—and he was certain that even if every ER doctor on the island magically appeared, they would be no match for the fatal wounds.
Not knowing what else to do, Grant sat beside Hors and repositioned the dying god so his head was in Grant’s lap. Hors gazed up at him.
“What was your name?” Grant asked. “When you were human.”
After a long pause, Hors croaked, “Predimir.”
Grant ran his fingers through the long hair and watched the glow of Hors’s skin subside. “I’m here with you now, Predimir. You won’t die alone.”
Tears washed some of the blood from Predimir’s face, but he smiled. “I would so have liked the chance to know you better.” For a moment his light flared, and instead of an old man, Grant cradled a youth with soft brown hair and eyes the color of a clear sea. “Good beginnings to you,” Predimir whispered.
Then the light extinguished, and Grant was alone in the dark forest.
GRANT AWOKE in the comfortable bed in his luxurious little bungalow, his hands and clothing crusted with dried blood. The windows remained open, but the dark sky showed no signs of dawn.
He shuffled into the bathroom, where he shed his clothing and shoved it into the trash can. Hoping to avoid traumatizing the housecleaning staff, he covered the discarded clothes with a layer of the previous day’s New York Times. Then he put on the resort-supplied flip-flops and walked into the stone-walled enclosure that contained the shower. He stood under the warm spray for a long time, scrubbing until all the blood was gone.
With a towel tied around his hips, he surveyed the fruit basket and then decided he wasn’t hungry. Instead he brewed a cup of coffee to take out onto the lanai. With the cup cradled in his hands, he leaned against one of the lanai posts and watched the sky.
The moon was long gone, and soon the stars began to disappear as the sky lightened to indigo, then violet, then went briefly white before taking on an orange tint. Grant knew he’d have to look away in a moment, when the sun topped the distant hills. But as the first strong and vibrant ray burst toward him, he lifted his coffee mug. “Happy birthday, Dazhbog.”
DESPITE THE simplicity of the impending wedding ceremony, preparations somehow ate up most of the day. There was one memorable moment shortly after lunch when Grant glanced at Uly—standing against a wall with a phone in his hand—and noticed that his twin’s complexion had gone a peculiar shade of green. Grant quickly tugged Uly to the nearest restroom.
“What is it?” Grant demanded.
“I just realized I still have all those hookup apps on my phone. You know, Jack’d, Scruff, Grindr….”
Grant stared at him in bewilderment. “Are you using any of them?”
“Of course not! Not since the day I met Filip.” That had been almost two years ago in a parking-lot fender bender—a meet-cute story so adorable it used to make Grant gag.
“Then why do you look like you’re going to puke?”
Uly stared at him wide-eyed, his face almost a mirror image of the one Grant saw every time he combed his own hair or shaved. “Why didn’t I delete them? What if this means I subconsciously intend to cheat on Filip? Oh God. What if I break his heart?”
Stifling a laugh, Grant drew Uly into a hug. “You won’t cheat,” he said, ruffling Uly’s hair the way he knew would irritate the hell out of him. “You two will still be married and making everyone horribly jealous when the next century rolls around.” Grant noogied him for good measure.
Later in the afternoon, Filip nearly bumped into Grant on the stretch of lawn where the wedding would take place. “Uly tells me you calmed him,” Filip said. “Thank you.”
“My job. When we were in college, I had to talk him down every finals week. Also before he started law school and again before he took the bar. He freaks out when he’s stressed, but he gets over it eventually, don’t worry.”
Filip grinned. “I have permission to call you next time he stresses?”
“Anytime, man. I’ll give you lessons on getting him to chill.”
“Very good.” Filip’s expression turned serious. “But who calms you?”
“I’m usually good on my own.”
“And how do you feel today?” Filip cast a significant look in the direction of the rain forest.
“I saw him last night. I saw him get killed. I… I held him while he died. Jesus, I’m sorry. This is your day, and I shouldn’t be talking about stuff like—”
“Stop. I am happy you were with him. You eased his way. And today, sun is joyful, is it not?”
“I suppose it is.” Grant glanced at the perfectly blue sky, then back at Filip. “I am really glad you and Ulysses found each other, and I’m so happy you’re joining our family.”
“And you are joining mine. I think you will find this is adventure.”
More hugs ensued. It was going to be cool to have another brother, Grant realized. One who led a considerably more interesting life than Grant.
The women wore sundresses to the ceremony, while most of the men were in Hawaiian shirts and shorts. Uly and Filip had matching white linen trousers and red shirts patterned with white flowers. They stood under a canopy festooned with jasmine, and a breeze gently flapped their clothing as the sun dipped toward the Pacific, painting the sky behind them in exuberant reds, pinks, and oranges. Grant didn’t cry as Uly and Filip exchanged vows. Well, not very much.
Afterward the newlyweds and their guests celebrated with a luau on the beach. A band played Hawaiian-tinged versions of eighties pop tunes, a genre for which Filip held an inordinate fondness. Grant danced with almost everyone, male and female, and felt especially proud when he deftly fended off the groping hands of a cousin’s drunken boyfriend. A little sloshed himself, he raised toasts—some of them bawdy—to the new couple.
At some point the cute waiter appeared, apparently just off duty. He and Grant danced. “What was in that drink?” Grant asked as they stepped to “Karma Chameleon.”
“Magic.”
“Okay.”
The song ended, followed by a mellow ukulele version of “Jesse’s Girl.” Grant and the waiter continued dancing until Grant couldn’t hold back the questions anymore. “So you were born in Cusco, Peru?”
“Yes.”
“How long ago?” Because there was something about this handsome man that reminded him of Perun. Something… uncanny.
“Long.”
Hmm. “What’s your name?”
“Manco Cápac,” replied the waiter with an impish grin. “It’s Quechua, not Spanish.”
Grant knew very little about South America, but he hazarded a guess. “Is Quechua what the Incans spoke?”
“It is.”
Nearby, Filip and Uly swayed in each other’s arms, oblivious to the rest of the world. Love was its own kind of magic. Grant wondered if maybe Venus wandered the earth, or perhaps Freyja. Or what was that Hindu goddess’s name? Parvati. Grant looked around at the guests and was slightly disappointed none of them was m
ulti-armed.
“What’s your story?” Grant asked as the band segued into “The Power of Love.” Too bad Huey Lewis and the News didn’t feature slack-key guitar.
Manco gazed at him before answering. “A sacrifice to Viracocha in hopes he’d keep the volcano quiet. It wasn’t so bad. They took me up the mountain and gave me coca and chicha, and I simply fell asleep in the cold.” He said it matter-of-factly, like someone rattling off the details of a dentist appointment, and he didn’t slow his dancing. He seemed genuinely happy, a man pleased with his place in life. Probably he didn’t get sacrificed every year.
“How did you end up in Hawaii?” Grant asked.
“Warmth sounded good. Besides, like all sacrifices, I was chosen because I was beautiful. Inti the sun god took a shine to me. A shine, get it?” He giggled at his own joke. “He adopted me. Manco Cápac is a sun god as well.”
“Seems like there are a lot of sun gods.”
“It’s an important job, isn’t it?”
Grant nodded. Just like it took more than one manager to run his company. “But you don’t, uh… like Hors….” He couldn’t talk about it, not with the taste of blood still on his lips.
“I’m from South America, remember? My winter solstice is in June. But yes, death is part of the job description. But then so is rebirth. I take the good with the bad, and I enjoy my time on the island very much.”
Manco left eventually, but the party lasted the entire night. Dawn found Filip, Uly, Grant, and a few others sitting on the cold beach with towels around their shoulders. Sand had worked its way into every nook and cranny of Grant’s body. He was exhausted but in a good way. And just as the sky began to lighten, he realized he’d made a decision.
He looked over at Uly and Filip, drowsing against each other, and nodded to himself. Then he raised his face to the sky. “Hello, Dazhbog.”
FILIP HAD warned him, but Grant hadn’t taken the warning seriously enough. Now he knew better. Filip was apparently related to half of Croatia, which meant Grant—now related by marriage—was obligated to pay a visit to every one of those family members while he was in the country. Not only that. Each household plied him with wine and brandy and stuffed him with sausage, cheese, pasta, and desserts. And they wouldn’t let him leave until he was firmly encased in coat, hat, boots, and scarf. He tried to explain he was from Minnesota, where the winters made those of Central Europe look like a walk in the park, but his new relatives wouldn’t listen.
However, there were benefits to his situation. Since everyone insisted on feeding him and having him stay the night at their place, he spent little of his carefully hoarded money on meals or hotels. He was gratified to see firsthand that Filip’s relatives didn’t seem perturbed Filip had married a man. Some of them knew Grant was gay too, but they didn’t make a big deal of it. He also got to see the country really well. Not just the regular tourist stops like Zagreb and Split, but also villages where families had inhabited the same houses for centuries.
He was in one of those villages now, not far from the Bosnian border. Its name, with so many consonants in a row, was impossible for him to pronounce correctly. The terrain was surprisingly rugged, mountainous karst with forests and rivers. Beautiful even now, in the depths of winter.
Grant sat with Miro—one of Filip’s distant cousins, home for Christmas break from the university in Zagreb—in the town’s only bar, an ancient kavana with stone walls and heavy beams along the ceiling. Miro was eager to practice his already excellent English with a native speaker. He was smoking a cigarette, which Grant thought was illegal. But since almost everyone else was smoking too, he concluded carcinogen-free air was apparently not a priority of local law enforcement.
“You had a good job and you quit?” Miro asked incredulously.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
Grant sighed. He knew the unemployment rate among young people in Croatia was over 40 percent. This kid would likely be thrilled to be hired as a human resources manager, with a salary generous enough to allow a comfortable life. “It was sucking my soul away,” Grant explained. “It was turning me bitter and angry.”
Miro took a long drag from his cigarette. “So what will you do now?”
“Bum around Europe until I run out of money. Then I don’t know. There’s this resort in Hawaii where they’d probably hire me to do something. I, um, know a couple people who work there.” He might even be happy waiting tables or running drinks to tourists. It was worth a try, anyway.
“All right. But why come here now, in December? It’s cold.”
“Seemed like a good time to me. I was in Zagreb for Christmas and that was fun.” He’d enjoyed the festive lights hung above the streets and the booths in and around the main square selling handicrafts, snacks, and warm wine.
Miro muttered something skeptical in Croatian and shook his head. Then he changed the topic to American politics, wondering why Americans insisted on owning guns but resisted universal healthcare. Grant sipped his beer and struggled to explain.
An hour or so later, Grant glanced at his watch. “Shit. I need to go catch my bus.”
“To where?”
“Karlovac.”
“Why would you want to go there?” Miro asked, as if Karlovac were the end of the world. It wasn’t. Grant had already passed through it three times, once spending the night with a branch of Filip’s family.
“I reserved a soba there.” A room for rent in someone’s house. They were dirt cheap, especially off-season and away from the coast, and mostly run by Croatian grandmothers who spoke little English but happily gave him cake, cookies, and strong coffee. “Then I thought maybe I’d head to Istria for a little while.”
Miro made a tsking noise and ground out his cigarette. “You can’t stay in a stranger’s house in Karlovac. My sisters can share a bed tonight, and you’ll sleep in Ivana’s room.”
“I don’t want to inconvenience you,” Grant said. But he knew from previous experience and Miro’s expression that he’d already lost this battle.
“It’s not inconvenience. My sisters can practice their English and interrogate you about American fashions.”
“I don’t know anything about fashion.”
Miro shrugged and grinned. “Make things up. They won’t know the difference.” He threw some kuna bills onto the table and pushed back his chair to stand. “I’m going to tell Mama you’re joining us for dinner. Do you want to come with me now?”
“Actually I’d like to look around town a little, if that’s okay.”
“Not much to see. Just a village. If you want to take a little hike, there’s a path up the mountain. I’ll take your rucksack so you don’t have to carry it.”
“Thanks.”
At the door to the kavana, Miro looked Grant up and down—probably so he could report to his mother that Grant was dressed warmly enough—and nodded. “It’s that house over there,” he said, pointing.
Grant had been there already, and there weren’t many houses to choose from in the small village. “Okay. I’ll be there in a couple of hours, if that’s all right.”
“It’s fine.” Miro waved and walked away, Grant’s heavy backpack slung over his shoulder.
Grant was slightly relieved to have avoided another bus ride. Besides, he liked Miro’s parents and sisters. Their family had lived in the village as long as anyone could remember, and they had a lot of interesting stories to tell. Some of them were sad, like the ones about the war in the nineties, but many were funny.
He made his way up the village’s main street, trying to puzzle out the signs in the scattering of shops. He paused in front of a round stone church that looked as if it had been there since the time of the Holy Roman Empire. As he considered going inside to see potential frescoes or tile work, he noticed a figure carved into one of the exterior walls. It was age worn and slightly grimy, but because it was placed inside a deep niche, it had been somewhat protected from the elements. It depicted a large man holding a
battle-ax and standing next to a wide-branched tree as the sun beamed down from overhead. Perhaps he was officially supposed to be a saint or an ancient Croatian king, but Grant knew better. Even when people adopted Christianity, they didn’t necessarily let go of the gods they’d known before.
Grant gently stroked the carved figure.
The sky that afternoon was pearl gray, promising rain or perhaps even snow, yet the sun was making a hearty effort to break through. Grant calculated the number of days since the solstice: seven. Was Predimir still fulfilling Dazhbog’s role, or was he now Perun?
Behind the church a dirt-and-gravel trail led up the steep slope. Grant began to climb slowly, stopping at breaks in the trees so he could admire the view. He walked in solitude without even a bird’s chatter for company, and despite his exertion, the cold worked its way under his clothes.
“Propuh,” he muttered. “The draft. Maybe it’s as dangerous as everyone here seems to think.” He zipped his coat slightly higher and rearranged the scarf one of Filip’s aunts had given him.
He didn’t pass any signs of human habitation. No discarded food wrappers or cigarette butts. Just rocks and trees—some leafless, others bearing dark green pine needles. The sun watched him, waiting.
When Grant came to a fork in the path, he stopped. The right-hand route appeared to continue along the edge of the mountainside, rising in switchbacks toward the summit. The left-hand route was less clear, curving around a slope and disappearing into thick trees. The wind teased his hair as he considered. And then he glimpsed a flash of color to his left—orange against the grays, browns, and dull greens—so he went that way.
This path didn’t offer much in the way of views, but at least it was downhill, making the going much easier. He was so glad to give his legs and lungs a break that he didn’t notice when the trail disappeared completely. He suddenly found himself in a small, bowl-like valley with steep slopes all around. The trees here were bare, their skeletal limbs reaching upward in supplication, the ground deep with twigs and crumbled leaves. And acorns. Jesus, a lot of acorns, all of them seemingly fallen from the enormous tree in front of him. The tree was leafless, yet its shape echoed the oak in the rain forest almost exactly. As if they were twins.