Game . . . over? At first the notion was incomprehensible. He wanted to keep going, keep scoring, and keep winning. But alas, pulling the trigger produced nothing. I guess it is over.
In the lobby the players were clustered around the big screen, waiting for the scores. The computer must still be adding it all up. Dobie was dripping with sweat, but the berserker rage was thinning, and he started to calm down. Gelcap and his buddies were under the screen, casting furtive scowls in his direction.
Then the scores came up. The Hound won the game with 1100 points. Gelcap was second, with 909. Half the players looked his direction now; they knew who The Hound was.
Pride threatened to burst through his chest, like the little lizard thing in Alien.
Gelcap came over and extended his hand. "Congrats, Hound," he said, and Dobie saw this was another small, geeky kid, much like himself. "You play a mean game."
Dobie extended his hand, without thinking. Gelcap hesitated before shaking it; he saw the seven fingers. But he shook it, anyway, and smiled. "See you in there again."
Dobie didn't know what to say. Not only was he victorious, his seven finger deformity had become irrelevant. He realized then this was what he wanted all his life, just to be acknowledged as a peer. Being a triumphant peer was icing on the cake.
Life is good.
"You even got third high score of the day," Gelcap pointed out, as the screen switched to the daily tally. "Hot damn. You must play this a lot. And you're a member, too," Gelcap said, and scrutinized the member key hanging around Dobie's neck. "A silver tag?"
Dobie contemplated telling him he was boink—er, dating the manager of this place, but stopped himself. It wouldn't be cool, and besides, the kid probably wouldn't believe him anyway. He would be surprised if Gelcap wasn't still a virgin.
Like I was once.
"They must be expensive," Gelcap commented.
Dobie didn't know, and didn't say. "You can get the silver tags at the desk," he suggested, though he wasn't sure if this were true or not. His impulse now was to divert attention from the silver member's tag; it might seem like an unfair advantage to the others.
That seemed to be all the explanation necessary. Gelcap shrugged and wandered off with his buddies, in search of a silver tag, or another victim.
Thirsty, Dobie went over to a water fountain and drank. He looked up, conscious that someone was looking at him. He wouldn't be at all surprised if someone had it in for him, even if that someone was Gelcap. But no, Gelcap and his buddies were now at the air hockey table, intent on slamming a plastic puck into a goal. Perhaps it was paranoia, he reasoned, but the feeling persisted, and at one point he felt a warm itch on his spine, between his shoulder blades.
He turned around expecting to see another teenager, but instead he saw an older gentleman standing off in the corner. At first glance he didn't seem to be with anyone, though if he were with friends, or his children, could have been playing in the arena. There was no doubt in Dobie's mind that the older man was staring directly at him.
His look was not stern or angry, but slightly bemused, the kind of look one would expect of an older, distinguished gentleman in a room full of noisy teenagers.
Is this a come on? wondered Dobie, but only briefly. The overtones of their silent exchange were anything but sexual. Deep in the man's gaze, Dobie felt like he was at the outskirts of yet another universe, looking in, much as he had done here the previous evening at the glass doors. Yet this world which lurked beyond this man, wherever it was, was nothing like this one.
How do I know this? How can . . . ?
A glimmer in the man's expression, a subtle change that, by itself, amounted to little. Yet it had the effect of changing the man's appearance.
I know him. I've seen him before. He must be a teacher, but from what class? Yes, a teacher. From sometime before, perhaps even long before.
With some apprehension Dobie watched the man slowly meander through the crowd, towards him.
Maybe I'm about to find out.
* * *
Alfred Mackie arrived at Tulsa International earlier that day, jet lagged and fuzzy, but coherent, excited, and ready to go to work. The local universities who had already set up shop at the Parking Lot Megaliths, as they were starting to be called, had little experience with European archeology, and had welcomed Alfred with open arms. Also, having been the discoverer of the theft in England gave him enormous influence, not to mention the jump he had on the other British archeology schools; Alfred was on a jet bound for the states before half the British population knew what was going on.
Officially, they weren't calling the site Stonehenge, though the Americans had said openly it could be nothing else. With the help of one of the TU professors, Alfred delivered the textbooks he'd found in the severed Subaru to the befuddled law student, questioned him briefly about the night in question, and then came directly to the site.
It was a most uncomfortable situation. By the time he reached the site, word had spread that an expert from Britain was en route, and reporters mobbed him before he had even set foot on the lot. Once the media realized he hadn't seen the site yet they got out of the way, but stayed close behind, recording every move he made. Amid flashing strobes and whirring cameras, Alfred Mackie made a slow walk around the megaliths. Once he completed the preliminary inspection he declared that this was, indeed, Stonehenge.
"How did it get here?" a reporter shouted.
"Who bloody knows," came his reply.
He was ready for a bit of jet lag, perhaps even two or three sleepless days, but he was not prepared for the ghastly humid heat. One of the locals noticed his discomfort and pointed to what he had thought was a closed shopping mall. One store, Lazerwarz, was open. It had air conditioning and water fountains. That was all he needed to hear.
Before seeking sanctuary however, Alfred scanned the skies for any raptors that might be about; Lugh had chosen to appear as a golden eagle, but he could just as well be anything else. He was, after all, a god.
He recalled his excursion to the former Stonehenge site on the Salisbury plain, and the conversation he'd had with the god of light.
The Foevors are intent on setting fire to the realms, Lugh had told him. The Foevor Morca is their leader. They seek to conquer the underworld, and this realm . . . to rule, without question, without responsibility.
And then, the strangest part of all: My son is in danger. You know my son, druid. You are part of his past, you are part of him. You helped make him what he is, you are what he is. He needs your help. I need your assistance, Cathad.
Go to the stones, and you will find him. Aid him. Fulfill your duties as a druid. Help him remember who he is.
It was a request no druid could refuse, even if he wanted to.
Lugh said he would be here, with the stones. An incarnated human. How am I supposed to know which one he is?
His confusion on this point concerned him greatly; he was out of practice.
And I am an old man.
These depressing musings ended abruptly as he entered the store, and the ice-cold air took his breath away. He had been out in the heat too long, he knew, and decided to stay here as long as he could. It would not do to faint on international television. As he glanced around he saw this wasn't really a store, but an arcade of some kind. A demo on a video screen gave him additional hints to what this was all about.
Most interesting. A laser game. Laser is . . . amplified light. What an ideal place for the god of light to manifest!
He'd heard the rumors that this arena had just opened, and the stones had been brought here as some sort of publicity stunt. He wondered now if perhaps there was some truth to this. Business didn't seem to be hurting, that much was certain. And the youth here seemed as fascinated with piercing their flesh with steel as those in his homeland, without the Midwestern, American accents he found himself surrounded with, the scene might just as easily have been in London. But if Lugh was running around here in jeans and a Mossimo T-shirt, his
presence wasn't yet obvious. Alfred remembered his thirst, and searched the premises for the promised water fountain. Wasn't that one over there, in that dark hallway?
Someone was standing next to it. Alfred's eyes blurred as his latent druid sight returned, and as he focused on the young lad he saw something odd about him . . . or rather, his aura. In a crowd of mortals it is easy to detect a person with divine origins. The lad's aura blazed like fireworks. When their eyes met, he shuddered as he recognized him.
Lugh was right, he thought excitedly as he made his way towards the water fountain. His son Cu Chulainn is here, with the stones. But is he in trouble?
Would a god ask a mere druid for help if he wasn't? What if the lad doesn't know who he is?
Highly likely, that. But how to approach him without scaring him off? In another time and place, it would have been perfectly acceptable to openly discuss druidry, magic and gods, but such was not the case here.
First things first. I can't converse with a god's offspring with a dry throat. The boy watched warily as Alfred went over to the water fountain and took a long drink of cold water. Afterwards he felt revived, as if this were a sacred spring, and turned to the lad who thankfully had not scampered off.
"Hello," Alfred said congenially. "I'm with the archeologist out there, investigating the megaliths. Do you know about when this happened?"
The boy considered the question carefully before he replied "The stones? Everyone knows it happened a few days ago. Where are you from?"
"Britain," Alfred replied. "My name is Alfred Mackie, and I am a professor of archeology in England."
Now that Alfred's name and identity was confirmed, the lad seemed to relax. "I am The Hound," the boy replied.
Alfred stared at him. Perhaps he knows who he is after all. Few young men of this culture would know that Cu Chulainn translates to "The Hound of Culann."
"Are you really here to study the stones out there?" The Hound asked. He gestured towards the site, and in that brief movement Alfred saw that the lad had seven fingers on his hand. "You would know if that's Stonehenge or not."
Alfred forced himself to not stare at the boy's hands; he probably got enough gawking anyway. "It is Stonehenge," Alfred replied with certainty. "What remains to be shown is how it happens to be here. Do you have an explanation?"
The Hound shrugged. "I haven't really given it much thought, lately. I suppose a group of college students might have done it in the middle of the night," he suggested, with a deadpan expression.
Alfred couldn't help but laugh. "If a freshman class could figure out how to do it, they would. Are you attending school?"
The Hound seemed surprised. "Me? No, I graduated." To Alfred's puzzled look, he explained, "High school. Haven't gone to no college yet."
Alfred nodded, but cringed inwardly at the mutilation of the King's English. An earthy type, like he's always been. But is he a warrior?
"So tell me, what is this game all about, then?"
A broad grin spread on the youth's ruddy face. "Why don't you sign up for the next game and I'll show you."
"You will? How kind of you. I think I will. Do you have . . . what I mean, is there a currency exchange?" The youth's blank look answered the question. "Never mind, I believe I have a few U.S. notes."
"Here," The Hound said, pulling several pink slips of paper out of a pouch. "Free passes. First day they're open. They give 'em away."
Alfred was relieved; he hadn't really wanted to use school expense money for the diversion, even if it was to study the present day incarnation of Ireland's greatest mythological hero. Some board members just wouldn't understand. He had more cold water, and queued up for the next round, the delta game.
When the delta game was up the judge called them into the small darkened room. The Hound hurried in after them.
In the presence of the divine offspring Alfred felt things change around him.
Lugh is here, after all.
The god made his presence known by pulling Alfred back to another time and another place, long ago and distant. The players faded from sight, and the station became a round room with wattle and daub walls. A cold wind blasted and shook the lodge. In the center an iron spit brandished the remnants of a boar over a smoldering fire pit. The thatched roof tapered to a smoke hole at the top, where melting snow dripped and hissed on dull, red coals sunk below in the pit. The place smelled like sweat, winters-old animal remains, and burnt meat. Spring was long overdue.
The lodge belonged to Cathbad, Chief Druid of the court of Ulster. The vision of Alfred's former life took over and conquered his senses—soul memories were like this, the druid knew, all encompassing and total.
Around him were sleeping bodies huddled together for warmth. That year Cathbad had welcomed two other families whose house had collapsed under the snow. On hearing of this the King's nephew, The Hound of Culann, went into the lowlands to hunt. He returned with the boar, some rabbits, and the news that the ground was thawing to the south, a good sign that winter was nearly over.
As druid, Cathbad's responsibility was to stay in touch with the Otherworld and communicate with the gods. He had appealed to them on the tribe's behalf, and on spring equinox he'd performed a special ritual which his own teacher had used to banish winter. The results of his work were already evident. Again, the Order of the druids had turned the wheel of the seasons . . . spring had reached the lowlands!
In the doorway of the lodge the air was still frosty, but Cathbad felt the changes in his spirit, which was opening up to the Great Mother stirring beneath his feet.
The valley lay beneath a blanket of snow, yet there was The Hound, out hunting again; the druid wondered if Lugh's son was making the wheel turn. His presence commanded the attention of every living thing, and while his intense body heat was not melting the snow from his path, as certain bards were starting to proclaim, to behold The Hound of Culann was to feel the presence of someone more than mortal.
Only thirteen, and the boy not only had a man's strength, but could wield a spear, sword and sling better than any Ulsterman. That he was a direct cousin of their King, Conchobar mac Nessa, was incidental to his spreading reputation, which had begun with his first battle: the smith, Culann, had accidentally left a fierce guard hound outside his lodge when Setanta, as the boy was then called, was due to arrive. The smith remembered the boy only too late, for the hound was already attacking him. Afterwards they found the dog dead, suffocated when Setanta shoved a shinty ball down its throat—Setanta apologized for the loss, and volunteered to protect the smith's herds and property himself while he raised another pup. Thus Setanta became Cu Chulainn, The Hound of Culann.
Cathbad saw the omens, and as The Hound continued to grow into a mighty warrior his strength and abilities knew no limit. As a druid, Cathbad's duty was to impress upon his tribe the knowledge of reincarnation. To know that you never truly die can make for fierce fighting men. The Hound was already fierce; what could he gain from knowing there is no death? The tribe as a whole would reap the benefits.
To know there is no death, thought Alfred as all around him the soul memory evaporated, and he found himself in the darkness of Lazerwarz. But The Hound was still with him, ready to play laser tag.
"I'll show you some place most people don't know about," The Hound whispered.
"Yes, I'm sure you can," Alfred replied as The Hound helped him with the vest. It occurred to the druid that since he was about to go into battle with Cu Chulainn he should be concerned for his physical safety but no, the rules seemed clear on that point. No physical contact was allowed.
Kids swarmed towards the rising door as the game countdown began, and The Hound led Alfred to the right, into the darkness.
"You get to the upper level down here," he continued, in the solemn overtones of a shared, important secret. "You want to get off the floor as soon as possible. Down here you're an easy target," The Hound explained as they wove swiftly through the maze, leaving the other acolytes stumbling ar
ound behind them. Then up a ramp, to another level. Alfred saw the players wandering aimlessly down on the floor below.
"See," The Hound said, pointing at the sea of lighted targets. "Easy meat. Now, have fun," The Hound said, and was gone.
The game began, and once he had a live weapon, Alfred started shooting at the targets below. In no time they returned fire, and now Alfred was the easy meat.
The Hound had moved to the other end of the upper level. Silhouetted by blood-red light beams, the warrior incarnate fired with great accuracy at the five opponents teaming up against him. The druid remembered what happened to The Hound when he was outnumbered unfairly, and stepped back, watching from a discreet distance.
As expected, a fighting fury consumed The Hound; in the dim light his face was hard to make out, save for a few hideous expressions distorted with ultraviolet light. Yes, this was the Cu Chulainn he remembered, and if by chance the lad had anything more lethal than a toothpick they were all in terrible danger.
As Alfred observed it occurred to him that he was seeing a rebirth of sorts; before the game the youth had been a modest adolescent, unimpressed with his own abilities. Perhaps this laser tag was a long awaited outlet? If so, this would make the sacred task of bringing The Hound to an awareness of his past life easier. Or, The Hound's success here might bind him even deeper to this culture's ignorance of the matter. Why believe an old man that he was a great warrior in the distant past when he was becoming one in the present, with all the attention and adoration that goes with the honor?
In any event, he would have to try.
* * *
Towards the end of that game, something changed in The Hound.
Yet another team was taking him on, five this time, and they were good. There was something viscerally threatening about the vest going down, as if one's manhood had suddenly failed at a crucial moment, pushing buttons he didn't know he had, prodding him into a murderous, fighting frenzy. It sharpened his vision and focused his mind like nothing else. An absolute concentration, an absolute Zen. A piece of a puzzle clicking violently into place.
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