The Wild Hunt

by Thomas Galvin

  Miranda DuBois ran through the night. The demons followed after her.

  ***

  My name is Caden Lyndsey, and I can see the future.

  That isn’t as much fun as it sounds. I can’t tell you who’s going to win the Super Bowl, or what this week’s lottery numbers are. I couldn’t pick a stock to save my life. That stuff is governed by chance, impenetrable to my visions.

  I can only see things once a choice has been made, once a human mind has decided to put a plan into action, and even then I can only see it when the consequences of that choice are dramatic enough to ripple out through the Æther. That ham sandwich you’re going to eat for lunch, or that fight you’re going to have with your spouse? None of my business, and no offense, not important enough to trigger my gift.

  But a murder? That might catch my attention. Chaos and ruin? More likely. Wholesale slaughter? Now you’re talking. Oh, and there’s one more thing that’s almost certain to make me stand up and pay attention.

  Magic.

  Not your garden variety magic. Not the kind of magic that most people encounter, the kind of magic that blows a light bulb when a guy gets angry or teleports your keys into your sock drawer when you’re frazzled. I’m talking the real deal, big time, in your face, wish-fulfilling, reality-warping magic, the kind of stuff H.P. Lovecraft and J.R.R. Tolkien wrote about.

  The kind of magic that can get somebody killed.

  Like Dr. Matthew Warren’s fascination with, and patronage of, the Norse God Wotan.

  I knew some of the details, the same way you just kind of know things in a dream. I knew that Matthew Warren was some kind of academic, a college professor or a librarian, and I knew that he was involved in the Neopagan movement. I knew that Miranda pronounced her last name like the French would, Doo-Bwah, and that she ran a bed and breakfast with her aunt or grandmother, Ethel. I knew that they all lived near Mirrormont, a suburb of Issaquah, Washington.

  And I knew that they were all going to die.

  Unless, of course, I could do something to stop it.

  I rubbed my temple. The visions were getting easier to deal with. They still hurt like hell, but I hadn’t had blood come out of my nose (or my ears) in weeks. But they were still disorienting, and it took me a moment to remember where I was.

  “Hello? Earth to weird exorcist dude? Are you all right?” Aseelah was staring at me, her arms crossed over her chest. She was tapping her freaking toe on the slick pavement.

  “Yeah,” I muttered. “Let’s get you home.”

  I had somewhere to be.

  December 17th

  Chapter Two

  It cost a fortune to get the Jeep fixed, particularly since it was a rush job, but I needed to get on the road as soon as possible. I gave the guy an extra hundred to keep quiet about the bullet holes.

  I arrived in Mirrormont, Washington, the following afternoon. The town was small, but only about five miles from the larger city of Issaquah. The houses were nestled in trees and spaced far apart, and I got the sense that everybody here was comfortable, but not quite rich.

  The DuBois’ bed and breakfast was an old white house with a wrap-around porch on both levels and a side yard that had been converted into a parking lot. It felt like the house might have originally been built to accommodate multiple families, or multiple generations of the same family. A tasteful sign announced that there was a vacancy.

  I parked in the spot farthest from the door, grabbed my duffel bag, and rang the bell. “One moment,” a voice sang from inside. A short woman, white-haired and plump, opened the door a few seconds later. Her eyes were bright green and almost mischievous.

  “Mrs. DuBois?” I asked.

  “That’s right,” she said, “but please, call me Ethel. You must be Mr. Lyndsey.”

  “That’s right. And it’s Caden.”

  “Welcome to Mirrormont, Caden,” she said, stepping aside and ushering me in.

  The inside of the house was stately without being stuffy: hardwood floors and clean white walls, artwork that was clearly mass produced but nicer than you’d find at Walmart, and plenty of comfortable-looking chairs, sofas, and love seats. A staircase guarded by a carved railing led to the second floor.

  “Miranda!” Ethel called out, making me jump. “Come and help Caden to his room.”

  Miranda appeared at the top of the stairs, and I did a double take. It was still strange to see something from one of my visions in the flesh, but that wasn’t the only reason I was surprised. Miranda was beautiful, absolutely stunning. She was tall, five-ten at least, maybe a little more, and dressed in nice blue jeans and a red sweater over a white collared shirt. Her bright, fiery red hair hung over her shoulders and down her back in thick curls, and her eyes were the same sparkling green as her grandmother’s.

  Miranda smiled at me as she came down the stairs, and my heart nearly broke. Not because of her ineffable beauty or anything like that. I’m not that sappy, and I don’t write romance novels. No, my heart broke because she looked like a genuinely nice person, and I suddenly remembered that her life was in danger.

  That’s how I live, surrounded by people who will die if I screw up.

  “She’s pretty, isn’t she?” Ethel asked, smiling with faux-innocence.

  “Grandmother,” Miranda said.

  “And she’s single!”

  “Grandmother!”

  Ethel chuckled to herself and tottered off toward the kitchen.

  “Caden,” Miranda said, holding out her hand. I felt a tiny shock when I touched her skin. Not static electricity, but a latent Ætheric charge. She wasn’t a magic user, but she had potential. Interesting. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise.”

  “I’m sorry about my grandmother. She’s desperate to marry me off before I turn into an old maid.”

  “Well, time has clearly ravaged you, so you better hop on that.”

  Miranda laughed. “Come on, I’ll show you your room. Do you need help with your bag?”

  “No thanks, I’ve got it.” I grabbed the duffel and slung it over my shoulder.

  Miranda led me upstairs. “Here you are,” she said, “first door on the left. There’s a bathroom attached to your room, and another one across the hall. My room is all the way at the end of the hall on the left, if you need anything, and my grandmother is across from me.”

  “Got it,” I said, walking into the room. It was small but not cramped. The bed was complimented by a love seat against one wall, a writing desk, and an armchair. A pair of double doors led out to the wrap-around porch.

  “The porch goes all the way around to my room,” Miranda said. “I sleep with a rolling pin, so don’t get any ideas.” Her eyes gleamed when she spoke.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said. “I hope I’m not bothering you guys, being here around Christmas.”

  “Honestly,” Miranda said, leaning against the doorway, “it’s kind of a relief. We get a pretty steady stream of people looking to visit one of the parks, but it drops right off between Christmas and New Year’s. We do meals here, too, and that’s always busy, but having you here for a couple of weeks will definitely help make ends meet.”

  “Good,” I said, depositing my bag at the foot of the bed. “I really hate imposing on people.”

  “Grandma said you’re working on a book?” Miranda asked.

  “Yeah,” I answered. “I’m working on a thing about Norse mythology.” That story, I hoped, would explain some of the weirder behavior they might see over the next few days, like my stacks of books or pads filled with hastily-scrawled runes.

  “Master’s thesis?” Miranda asked.

  “No. I was pre-law, but I dropped out when …” My voice trailed off.

  “Yeah,” Miranda said. “I was pre-med, but when my parents died I dropped out to help Grandma run the B&B.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  Miranda shrugged. “It’s okay. It was a few years ago. I don’t really … well, I do miss them, but …”
<
br />   “You’re used to it?” I asked softly.

  “Yeah,” Miranda said, just as softly, looking past me and out the window. “You’ve lost someone, too?”

  “Yeah.” I knelt down and opened my bag.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. It was a few years ago.”

  Thankfully Miranda changed the subject. “So Grandma says you like to hike?”

  “Yeah. I like to get out and clear my head sometimes.”

  “You’re really in the right place for that. There are a bunch of trails nearby. I can show you if you want.”

  “I’d like that, thanks.”

  “Well,” Miranda said, pushing off the doorway, “I’ll let you get settled in. You missed lunch, but I can whip something up if you’re hungry.”

  “No, thanks,” I said, smiling. “I ate on the way over.”

  “Suit yourself. Dinner is at six, breakfast is from seven until ten, and lunch is from noon to two.”

  “Got it. Thanks.”

  “I’ll be around if you need anything,” Miranda said, then shut the door behind herself.

  I put my clothes in the dresser and my books on the desk, then took a small black box out of the duffel bag and set it on the bed. The police scanner was about the size of a paperback novel. The surface was smooth black plastic, marred only by the power button on the front. There were no dials or switches; the whole thing was controlled by my laptop. I plugged it in and hooked it up, then played around until I picked up the local police band.

  My visions aren’t perfect. They always come true–unless I stop them–but they aren’t always detailed, or even literal. I knew about Matthew Warren and Wotan and Miranda, but I wasn’t yet clear on how they were connected or where exactly everything was going to play out. The police scanner would help me keep track of anything happening in Mirrormont, particularly anything involving explosions or mass murder. You’d be amazed how much of my life revolves around explosions and mass murder.

  But I wouldn’t be in my bedroom or in front of my laptop all the time, so I browsed around for a few local news sites, too. There was some kind of pie festival the next day, a holiday party at the Mirrormont Community Association, and a couple of warnings to get your cars off the road so the snow plows could do their jobs.

  Two of the sites offered to send you a text message if anything important happened, so I gave them my phone number and hoped they’d let me know if a spectral Viking in a horned helmet charged down main street on an eight-legged horse, killing people with a spear the size of a telephone pole.

  That was the kind of thing that would warrant a text message, right?

  I looked at the clock, turned off and stowed the police scanner, locked my laptop, and left my room.

  “Going hiking?” Miranda called when my hand was on the door.

  “No, I’m heading to one of the colleges.”

  “What for?”

  “I’m hoping to catch one of the professors. He’s a sociologist, and I want to talk to him about the parallels between modern religious thought and some of the Norse cultic practices.”

  Miranda raised her eyebrows. “You must be amazing at parties.”

  I gave her what I hoped was a wry smile. “You should see me try to dance.”

  “Who are you going to see?”

  “Guy named Matthew Warren. You know him?”

  “Nope. Where’s he teach?”

  “Green River Community.”

  “Oh, yeah, no, I went to U-Dub.”

  Huh. I still didn’t know why Miranda was being pulled into all of this. My first thought had been casual contact, like being in one of his classes or something, but apparently there was some other connection.

  “I’m probably going to miss dinner,” I said.

  “That’s too bad. Grandma is making meatloaf. The entire town shows up when she makes meatloaf. It’s that good.”

  “Maybe there’ll be leftovers.”

  “Don’t count on it,” Miranda said, her eyes still shimmering.

  “The sacrifices I make for my work,” I said, and headed out to the Jeep.

  ***

  I don’t know how private investigators found people before Google. I suppose I could have wandered around town, gaining people’s trust and hoping that one of them had heard of the mysterious Norse college professor, but that would involve talking to people, and talking to people is second only to being dipped in honey and fed to fire ants on my list of things I hate to do.

  But Google? Google is magic. I just typed in his name and there was his bio, right on the Green River Community College web site. My phone even gave me turn-by-turn directions.

  I pulled into the parking lot twenty minutes later. It was the last day of classes before Winter Break, and the campus was mostly deserted. There was a nice big map at the entrance, and I parked just outside the building where Dr. Warren was holding his lecture, according to the syllabus summoned from the eldritch depths of the Internet. It only took me a few minutes of wandering to find the right room.

  The lecture hall was a modest size and had stadium seating. Only ten or eleven people were in attendance. At the front of the room a giant projection screen displayed a picture of a Christmas tree. An old fashioned Christmas tree, the kind that was decorated with candles and chestnuts rather than LEDs and ornaments. A table on the side of the room held a stack of cookies and some kind of steaming drink, a ladle, and a stack of red Solo cups.

  I really didn’t miss college.

  I slid into a seat in the far back, hidden in modest shadows, and watched. Doctor Warren stood at the front of the room. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a light blue, button-down shirt tucked into his jeans, and he wore a pair of weathered hiking boots. His hair was dark, his eyes seemed intelligent, and a three-day beard covered a strong jawline. His hands looked rough and calloused. Everything about him indicated a man that was comfortable working outdoors.

  “Even the Christmas tree,” Warren said, “was stolen from the Pagans. Evergreen trees, wreaths, garlands, they were all used to symbolize eternal life well before the Christians came to town. And that’s true of the Egyptians, the Hebrews … almost every culture in the world recognized that there was something special about trees, some kind of secret power.”

  Well that was an interesting lecture. Maybe if I stayed through the end he would reveal his nefarious plans.

  “The Pagans believed that trees were alive, that they actually had souls. They would talk to them, commune with them, even worship them. Even in Christian times, trees were first brought inside because the magic they contained was thought to ward off the Devil.”

  He clicked something in his pocket and the screen changed, now showing a giant oak tree. “This is Jove’s Tree,” Warren said. “Or, as it was originally called, Thor’s Oak. German Pagans held this tree as sacred. They would gather around it to worship, to celebrate, to feast … very similar to the role it plays in Christmas celebrations today.”

  Another click and the screen showed an angry guy in a funny hat taking an axe to Thor’s Oak. “This is Saint Boniface, a Christian Evangelist. Legend says that he cut down Thor’s Oak because it honored the wrong god. But Christianity already had a fine tradition of borrowing our–their traditions. The idea was to wrap Pagan religion in Christian trappings, to make the transition to the ‘right’ religion easier. So when Boniface cut down Thor’s tree, he replaced it with something else. Anyone want to guess what?”

  “A Christmas tree?” A guy in the front row asked.

  “That’s right,” Warren said. “Specifically an evergreen, because it had a triangular shape, representing the Christian Trinity, and because it pointed toward the sky, where the Christian God was thought to live.”

  The screen changed to show an elaborate tree, the branches reaching up and wrapping back around, forming a semi-circle, and the roots mirroring the image. Nine globes hung from the tree. “To the Pagans, the oak tree represented Yggdrasil, the World Tre
e. When it became a Christian symbol, the references were changed to the Tree of Life.” The screen switched to a similar, but less elaborate, mirrored tree. The design looked like a Celtic tattoo I’d seen once.

  “Christmas itself stemmed from Saturnalia, a Roman feast, and even earlier from the festival called Yule,” Warren said. “Yule was a Germanic celebration, beginning right around the end of our calendar year and lasting about two months. It was a time dedicated to the ‘Yule-beings,’ to the Pagan gods, particularly Wotan or, as he was sometimes called, Jolnir. And Wotan, of course, would go on to become the Odin that everybody knows and loves, who eventually morphed into Santa Claus. It was thought that Yule corresponded with the running of Wotan’s Wild Hunt.”

  The screen changed again, showing spectral riders running through the air. A chill ran down my spine as more pieces of my vision came into focus. Warren was a Pagan, and apparently a well-informed one, too. Teaching comparative religion was a logical outlet for his beliefs, and he apparently wasn’t shy about teaching, or at least alluding to, his more esoteric practices, either. If this was one of his sacred times, if he was planning to celebrate a festival to Wotan around the time the Wild Hunt was expected …

  “King Haakon the First, from Norway, was the one who began transforming Yule into the Christmas we know today. Haakon became a Christian before he arrived, but he hid his religion in order to be accepted by the people there. He slowly introduced laws that made Yule more and more Christian, and eventually used the festival as a means of preaching his Gospel.”

  The screen changed to clip art of a Christmas tree captioned with a big red banner that said Happy Solstice! “And that’s it for the year, folks,” Warren said. “Enjoy your holiday, get some rest, and I’ll see most of you next semester.”

  The class broke and the students started streaming out of the lecture hall. I watched Dr. Warren pack up his belongings, stowing them in a worn leather satchel. He looked like a hippie, not like someone who was about to bring the wrath of the Viking god of ass kicking down on Mirrormont.