American Gods

by Neil Gaiman

  And then he broke off, his brow creasing. He said “Shit. I used to know the whole thing,” and he rubbed his temples and made a face and was quiet.

  And then they were all looking at Shadow. The wind was screaming now. He didn’t know what to say. He said, “This whole thing is pitiful. Half of you killed him or had a hand in his death. Now you’re giving us his body. Great. He was an irascible old fuck but I drank his mead and I’m still working for him. That’s all.”

  Media said, “In a world where people die every day, I think the important thing to remember is that for each moment of sorrow we get when people leave this world there’s a corresponding moment of joy when a new baby comes into this world. That first wail is—well, it’s magic, isn’t it? Perhaps it’s a hard thing to say, but joy and sorrow are like milk and cookies. That’s how well they go together. I think we should all take a moment to meditate on that.”

  And Mr. Nancy cleared his throat and said, “So. I got to say it, because nobody else here will. We are at the center of this place: a land that has no time for gods, and here at the center it has less time for us than anywhere. It is a no-man’s-land, a place of truce, and we observe our truces, here. We have no choice. So. You give us the body of our friend. We accept it. You will pay for this, murder for murder, blood for blood.”

  Town said, “Whatever. You could save yourselves a lot of time and effort by going home and shooting yourselves in the heads. Cut out the middleman.”

  “Fuck you,” said Czernobog. “Fuck you and fuck your mother and fuck the fucking horse you fucking rode in on. You will not even die in battle. No warrior will taste your blood. No one alive will take your life. You will die a soft, poor death. You will die with a kiss on your lips and a lie in your heart.”

  “Leave it, old man,” said Town.

  “The blood-dimmed tide is loose,” said the fat kid. “I think that comes next.”

  The wind howled.

  “Okay,” said Loki. “He’s yours. We’re done. Take the old bastard away.”

  He made a gesture with his fingers, and Town, Media, and the fat kid left the room. He smiled at Shadow. “Call no man happy, huh, kid?” he said. And then he, too, walked away.

  “What happens now?” asked Shadow.

  “Now we wrap him up,” said Anansi. “And we take him away from here.”

  They wrapped the body in the motel sheets, wrapped it well in its impromptu shroud, so there was no body to be seen, and they could carry it. The two old men walked to each end of the body, but Shadow said, “Let me see something,” and he bent his knees and slipped his arms around the white-sheeted figure, pushed him up and over his shoulder. He straightened his knees, until he was standing, more or less easily. “Okay,” he said. “I’ve got him. Let’s put him into the back of the car.”

  Czernobog looked as if he were about to argue, but he closed his mouth. He spat on his forefinger and thumb and began to snuff the candles between his fingertips. Shadow could hear them fizz as he walked from the darkening room.

  Wednesday was heavy, but Shadow could cope, if he walked steadily. He had no choice. Wednesday’s words were in his head with every step he took along the corridor, and he could taste the sour-sweetness of mead in the back of his throat. You protect me. You transport me from place to place. You run errands. In an emergency, but only in an emergency, you hurt people who need to be hurt. In the unlikely event of my death, you will hold my vigil . . .

  Mr. Nancy opened the motel lobby door for him, then hurried over and opened the back of the bus. The other four were already standing by their Humvee, watching them as if they could not wait to be off. Loki had put his driver’s cap back on. The cold wind tugged at Shadow as he walked, whipped at the sheets.

  He placed Wednesday down as gently as he could in the back of the bus.

  Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned. Town stood there with his hand out. He was holding something.

  “Here,” said Mr. Town, “Mister World wanted you to have this.”

  It was a glass eye. There was a hairline crack down the middle of it, and a tiny chip gone from the front.

  “We found it in the Masonic Hall, when we were cleaning up. Keep it for luck. God knows you’ll need it.”

  Shadow closed his hand around the eye. He wished he could come back with something smart and sharp, but Town was already back at the Humvee, and climbing up into the car; and Shadow still couldn’t think of anything clever to say.

  They drove east. Dawn found them in Princeton, Missouri. Shadow had not slept yet.

  Nancy said, “Anywhere you want us to drop you? If I were you, I’d rustle up some ID and head for Canada. Or Mexico.”

  “I’m sticking with you guys,” said Shadow. “It’s what Wednesday would have wanted.”

  “You aren’t working for him anymore. He’s dead. Once we drop his body off, you are free to go.”

  “And do what?”

  “Keep out of the way, while the war is on,” said Nancy. He flipped his turn signal, and took a left.

  “Hide yourself, for a little time,” said Czernobog. “Then, when this is over, you will come back to me, and I will finish the whole thing.”

  Shadow said, “Where are we taking the body?”

  “Virginia. There’s a tree,” said Nancy.

  “A world tree,” said Czernobog with gloomy satisfaction. “We had one in my part of the world. But ours grew under the world, not above it.”

  “We put him at the foot of the tree,” said Nancy. “We leave him there. We let you go. We drive south. There’s a battle. Blood is shed. Many die. The world changes, a little.”

  “You don’t want me at your battle? I’m pretty big. I’m good in a fight.”

  Nancy turned his head to Shadow and smiled—the first real smile Shadow had seen on Mr. Nancy’s face since he had rescued Shadow from the Lumber County Jail. “Most of this battle will be fought in a place you cannot go, and you cannot touch.”

  “In the hearts and the minds of the people,” said Czernobog. “Like at the big roundabout.”

  “Huh?”

  “The carousel,” said Mr. Nancy.

  “Oh,” said Shadow. “Backstage. I got it. Like the desert with the bones in.”

  Mr. Nancy raised his head. “Every time I figure you don’t have enough sense to bring guts to a bear, you surprise me. Yeah, that’s where the real battle will happen. Everythin’ else will just be flash and thunder.”

  “Tell me about the vigil,” said Shadow.

  “Someone has to stay with the body. It’s a tradition. We’ll find somebody.”

  “He wanted me to do it.”

  “No,” said Czernobog. “It will kill you. Bad, bad, bad idea.”

  “Yeah? It’ll kill me? To stay with his body?”

  “It’s not what I’d want at my funeral,” said Mr. Nancy. “When I die, I just want them to plant me somewhere warm. And then when pretty women walk over my grave I would grab their ankles, like in that movie.”

  “I never saw that movie,” said Czernobog.

  “Of course you did. It’s right at the end. It’s the high school movie. All the children goin’ to the prom.”

  Czernobog shook his head.

  Shadow said, “The film’s called Carrie, Mr. Czernobog. Okay, one of you tell me about the vigil.”

  Nancy said, “You tell him. I’m drivin’.”

  “I never heard of no film called Carrie. You tell him.”

  Nancy said, “The person on the vigil—gets tied to the tree. Just like Wednesday was. And then they hang there for nine days and nine nights. No food, no water. All alone. At the end they cut the person down, and if they lived . . . well, it could happen. And Wednesday will have had his vigil.”

  Czernobog said, “Maybe Alviss will send us one of his people. A dwarf could survive it.”

  “I’ll do it,” said Shadow.

  “No,” said Mr. Nancy.

  “Yes,” said Shadow.

  The two old men wer
e silent. Then Nancy said, “Why?”

  “Because it’s the kind of thing a living person would do,” said Shadow.

  “You are crazy,” said Czernobog.

  “Maybe. But I’m going to hold Wednesday’s vigil.”

  When they stopped for gas Czernobog announced he felt sick and wanted to ride in the front. Shadow didn’t mind moving to the back of the bus. He could stretch out more, and sleep.

  They drove on in silence. Shadow felt that he’d made a decision; something big and strange.

  “Hey. Czernobog,” said Mr. Nancy, after a while. “You check out the technical boy back at the motel? He was not happy. He’s been screwin’ with something that screwed him right back. That’s the biggest trouble with the new kids—they figure they know everythin’, and you can’t teach them nothin’ but the hard way.”

  “Good,” said Czernobog.

  Shadow was stretched out full length on the seat in the back. He felt like two people, or more than two. There was part of him that felt gently exhilarated: he had done something. He had moved. It wouldn’t have mattered if he hadn’t wanted to live, but he did want to live, and that made all the difference. He hoped he would live though this, but he was willing to die, if that was what it took to be alive. And, for a moment he thought that the whole thing was funny, just the funniest thing in the world; and he wondered if Laura would appreciate the joke.

  There was another part of him—maybe it was Mike Ainsel, he thought, vanished off into nothing at the press of a button in the Lakeside Police Department—who was still trying to figure it all out, trying to see the big picture.

  “Hidden Indians,” he said out loud.

  “What?” came Czernobog’s irritated croak from the front seat.

  “The pictures you’d get to color in as kids. ‘Can you see the hidden Indians in this picture? There are ten Indians in this picture, can you find them all?’ And at first glance you could only see the waterfall and the rocks and the trees, then you see that if you just tip the picture on its side that shadow is an Indian . . .” He yawned.

  “Sleep,” suggested Czernobog.

  “But the big picture,” said Shadow. Then he slept, and dreamed of hidden Indians.

  The tree was in Virginia. It was a long way away from anywhere, on the back of an old farm. To get to the farm they had had to drive for almost an hour south from Blacksburg, to drive roads with names like Pennywinkle Branch and Rooster Spur. They got turned around twice and Mr. Nancy and Czernobog both lost their tempers with Shadow and with each other.

  They stopped to get directions at a tiny general store, set at the bottom of the hill in the place where the road forked. An old man came out of the back of the store and stared at them: he wore Oshkosh B’Gosh denim overalls and nothing else, not even shoes. Czernobog selected a pickled hog’s foot from a jar on the counter and went outside to eat it on the deck, while the man in the overalls drew Mr. Nancy maps on the back of napkins, marking off turnings and local landmarks.

  They set off once more, with Mr. Nancy driving, and they were there in ten minutes. A sign on the gate said ASH.

  Shadow got out of the bus and opened the gate. The bus drove through, jolting through the meadowland. Shadow closed the gate. He walked a little behind the bus, stretching his legs, jogging when the bus got too far in front of him, enjoying the sensation of moving his body.

  He had lost all sense of time on the drive from Kansas. Had they been driving for two days? Three days? He did not know.

  The body in the back of the bus did not seem to be rotting. He could smell it—a faint odor of Jack Daniel’s, overlaid with something that might have been sour honey. But the smell was not unpleasant. From time to time he would take out the glass eye from his pocket and look at it: it was shattered deep inside, fractured from what he imagined was the impact of a bullet, but apart from a chip to one side of the iris the surface was unmarred. Shadow would run it though his hands, palming it, rolling it, pushing it along with his fingers. It was a ghastly souvenir, but oddly comforting: and he suspected that it would have amused Wednesday to know that his eye had wound up in Shadow’s pocket.

  The farmhouse was dark and shut up. The meadows were overgrown and seemed abandoned. The farm roof was crumbling at the back; it was covered in black plastic sheeting. They jolted over a ridge and Shadow saw the tree.

  It was silver-gray and it was higher than the farm-house. It was the most beautiful tree Shadow had ever seen: spectral and yet utterly real and almost perfectly symmetrical. It also looked instantly familiar: he wondered if he had dreamed it, then realized that no, he had seen it before, or a representation of it, many times. It was Wednesday’s silver tie pin.

  The VW bus jolted and bumped across the meadow, and came to a stop about twenty feet from the trunk of the tree.

  There were three women standing by the tree. At first glance Shadow thought that they were the Zorya, but no, they were three women he did not know. They looked tired and bored, as if they had been standing there for a long time. Each of them held a wooden ladder. The biggest also carried a brown sack. They looked like a set of Russian dolls: a tall one—she was Shadow’s height, or even taller—a middle-sized one, and a woman so short and hunched that at first glance Shadow wrongly supposed her to be a child. They looked so much alike that Shadow was certain that the women must be sisters.

  The smallest of the women dropped to a curtsy when the bus drew up. The other two just stared. They were sharing a cigarette, and they smoked it down to the filter before one of them stubbed it out against a root.

  Czernobog opened the back of the bus and the biggest of the women pushed past him, and, as easily as if it were a sack of flour, she lifted Wednesday’s body out of the back and carried it to the tree. She laid it in front of the tree, about ten feet from the trunk. She and her sisters unwrapped Wednesday’s body. He looked worse by daylight than he had by candlelight in the motel room, and after one quick glance Shadow looked away. The women arranged his clothes, tidied his suit, then placed him at the corner of the sheet and wound it around him once more.

  Then the women came over to Shadow.

  —You are the one? the biggest of them asked.

  —The one who will mourn the All-Father? asked the middle-sized one.

  —You have chosen to take the vigil? asked the smallest.

  Shadow nodded. Afterward, he was unable to remember whether he had actually heard their voices. Perhaps he had simply understood what they had meant from their looks and their eyes.

  Mr. Nancy, who had gone back to the house to use the bathroom, came walking back to the tree. He was smoking a cigarillo. He looked thoughtful.

  “Shadow,” he called. “You really don’t have to do this. We can find somebody more suited.”

  “I’m doing it,” said Shadow, simply.

  “And if you die?” asked Mr. Nancy. “If it kills you?”

  “Then,” said Shadow, “it kills me.”

  Mr. Nancy flicked his cigarillo into the meadow, angrily. “I said you had shit for brains, and you still have shit for brains. Can’t see when somebody’s tryin’ to give you an out?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Shadow. He didn’t say anything else. Nancy walked back to the bus.

  Czernobog walked over to Shadow. He did not look pleased. “You must come through this alive,” he said. “Come through this safely for me.” And then he tapped his knuckle gently against Shadow’s forehead and said, “Bam!” He squeezed Shadow’s shoulder, patted his arm, and went to join Mr. Nancy.

  The biggest woman, whose name seemed to be Urtha or Urder—Shadow could not repeat it back to her to her satisfaction—told him, in pantomime, to take off his clothes.

  “All of them?”

  The big woman shrugged. Shadow stripped to his briefs and T-shirt. The women propped the ladders against the tree. One of the ladders—it was painted by hand, with little flowers and leaves twining up the struts—they pointed out to him.

  He climbed the nin
e steps. Then, at their urging, he stepped onto a low branch.

  The middle woman tipped out the contents of the sack onto the meadow-grass. It was filled with a tangle of thin ropes, brown with age and dirt, and the woman began to sort them out into lengths, and to lay them carefully on the ground beside Wednesday’s body.

  They climbed their own ladders now, and they began to knot the ropes, intricate and elegant knots, and they wrapped the ropes first about the tree, and then about Shadow. Unembarrassed, like midwives or nurses or those who lay out corpses, they removed his T-shirt and briefs, then they bound him, never tightly, but firmly and finally. He was amazed at how comfortably the ropes and the knots bore his weight. The ropes went under his arms, between his legs, around his waist, his ankles, his chest, binding him to the tree.

  The final rope was tied, loosely, about his neck. It was, initially, uncomfortable, but his weight was well distributed, and none of the ropes cut his flesh.

  His feet were five feet above the ground. The tree was leafless and huge, its branches black against the gray sky, its bark a smooth silvery gray.

  They took the ladders away. There was a moment of panic as all his weight was taken by the ropes, and he dropped a few inches. Still, he made no sound.

  The women placed the body, wrapped in its motel-sheet shroud, at the foot of the tree, and they left him there.

  They left him there alone.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Hang me, O hang me, and I’ll be dead and gone,

  Hang me, O hang me, and I’ll be dead and gone,

  I wouldn’t mind the hangin’, it’s bein’ gone so long,

  It’s lyin’ in the grave so long.

  —old song

  The first day that Shadow hung from the tree he experienced only discomfort that edged slowly into pain, and fear, and, occasionally, an emotion that was somewhere between boredom and apathy: a gray acceptance, a waiting.

  He hung.

  The wind was still.

  After several hours fleeting bursts of color started to explode across his vision in blossoms of crimson and gold, throbbing and pulsing with a life of their own.