Wyrd Gere

by Steve Curry

  I came off the ground swearing in the darkness and almost fell all over a few thorny bushes nearby. It was probably mesquite but it was hard to tell in the shadows cast by an almost full moon. They definitely felt like the rugged and painful architecture of mesquite.

  For those of you who have never experienced it except as a smokey flavoring, mesquite is a cross between cactus, a tree, and some kind of weird metal. Chopping it takes a strong-willed man and a sturdy tool. It does burn hotter than a Tijuana fan dancer, but it’s hell to cut for the fire. And finally, a mesquite tree is possessed of long nail-like thorns. I’m not talking about fingernails either. Every few inches a three or four-inch long piercing piece of hell sticks out of each branch. And the thorns are almost as tough as the tree itself.

  You would think that so soon after a brutal beating and a near-death experience at the hands of vindictive bikers, I’d be immune to a few little thorns. Well now, I think I’d rather have fought the bikers again. At least with the big leather-jackets, you can get your own licks in. That damned mesquite didn’t care if I fought back or just lay there and bled. The more I thrashed the more thorns magically appeared.

  In minutes I had undone about a quarter of the healing that had been accomplished. Which did nothing for my mood. I guess it made a little noise too because by the time I was untangled, there was a small crowd. Ok, only four people and a dog.

  “Wow! Dumbass.” Ok, make that four people a dog and a smart assed raven. Apparently, Rafe had returned to camp while I was receiving dream visitors from either myth or my subconscious. I was still a little curious where the bird was picking up his vocabulary. I rarely use that particular term. Now the Icelandic/Norse he’d spoken a time or two makes sense. He’d seen me talking to the dog in old Norse which is pretty close to Icelandic. That’s what I tend to pass it off as when anyone gets curious.

  Dumbass just isn’t one of my personal favorites. It had, however, become the bird’s phrase of choice in the last few weeks. The worst part was, he usually used the term at all too apt a time. Like now.

  I could see Maureen was going to some effort to repress any mirth. That was probably easier since she saw so much of her work undone in torn and bloody bandages. Her newest friends didn’t even make the attempt. Despite the darkness and a certain amount of blurriness from a manly watering of the eyes, I could clearly see the younger arrivals laughing out loud. Their older and supposedly wise companion restricted himself to dry chuckles and a shake of the head or two.

  Then again I hadn’t liked him much even before he started laughing at me. Maybe I should have just brushed it off and indulged in a chuckle or two at my own embarrassment. Some days I might have done just that. However, with the various aches and pains and trials and tribulations I’d been through, my temper was not at its most restrainable.

  “Oh yeah! Laugh it up at the feeble old man ripped up by mesquite. Hel is this stuff toxic or anything?” Ok, that last was a bit melodramatic. I’d yet to see a thorn with any kind of venom that could keep up with my metabolism. There are certain perks to being an escaped Einherjar, even if you have to watch out for supernatural spies. Of course someday I’d slip up and find my way back to Valhalla. Then there wouldn’t be Hel to pay, just Odin and his pets along with some really vengeful valkyrie.

  “Oh c’mon senor wedo! You ain’t as old as me.” Now, what was the likelihood this guy was over a thousand years old? Then again I cheat. I rarely have to work out and I never worried about Crepey skin or any of those anti-aging commercials you get on tv after the bars all close.

  “We ain’t been interduced. I’m Tio Guillermo. You don’t gotta worry bout them mesquite thorns either. Mesquite’s practically a sacred plant to our people. Eat it, burn it, build with it, cure anything from diarrhea to migraines and makes a passable coffee. We do gotta get the thorns out though. They say mesquite thorn lasts longer than any flesh it’s buried in. Not sure how true that is but I do know I ain’t never seen a thorn fester and disappear on its own. So we’ll get some pliers while yer lady friend makes some more of her poultice.”

  He might have said “your lady friend”, but his glance sure spoke a different message as he all but caressed her with a wistful gaze and some pretty praises. “She knows a few things, that pretty redhead. Taught me a couple of things to put in my own poultices. Once we get all the bits out of ya that ain’t s’posed to be there she’ll slather ya down. Then maybe we can talk about that messed head of yours eh wedo?”

  That probably should have mollified me. Then again I can’t say I’d been very rational for the last few days. Instead, I let my mouth have free rein. Instead of directing any vitriol at this new character though I spouted off at Maureen. “What’s so damned funny to you? I thought you were here to help, not to laugh at me for being half dead. Is that why you came? To laugh at whatever new predicament the stupid bouncer got into?”

  In retrospect, I might have wanted to tone that down a little. That thick mane of red hair was no lie. Her eyes flashed and her face flushed as she turned a curiously emotional eye towards me. I can’t say that I’d ever seen eyes flash with heat and yet regard someone with such an icy disdain. I’d also never heard her develop quite so severe a broguish Irish accent. “I came because I thought we’d started something special belike. Yon freakishly smart pets started having worrisome fits. When I asked that villainous bird what was wrong I thought I was talkin’ t’ meself. Imagine my start when the black ruffian answered. Och yea and it was just “Dumbass! Trouble! Go!” but it was all too apparent that he knew more than nary a bird should ken.”

  By the end of her tirade, which by the way sounded amazing in her lovely Irish brogue, Maureen had started stalking towards me with a certain amount of mayhem inherent in her expression. I mean it really was somewhat captivating to listen to her. That did not mean I was unaware of the threat of violence. The sad part was, deep down I knew I deserved whatever she delivered. I could no more have stopped her from undoing all of the bandages and poultice work than I could have stopped the world from spinning.

  On the other hand, my ego still had control of my tongue. “So you got the bird to track me down because he’s special or magical or something? And the dog helped too I suppose. I’m not buying it, lady. I’ve spent a lot of time and energy making sure I can’t be tracked down by some pretty powerful beings. So how’d you do it? And don’t try and sell me on my own bird and dog tracking me down across state line... NO, make that international borders!”

  Oh, I was in the groove. Accusations and insults were flying faster than I could keep track. “You know what? Forget it. Take the animals if you want to and go shack up with Uncle Bill in his Yaqui hippy hut. You two can chew on some peyote and do body shots with mezcal or something. I’ve got too many real problems to worry about.”

  It’s hard to stalk away indignantly when you’re limping and tangled up in both ragged bandages and a thorned bush from the depths of hades or muspelheim or some other fiery inferno of the damned. I started to give indignation my best effort though. She never gave me the chance.

  I’ve probably mentioned it, but Maureen is taller than my modest height. She had broad enough shoulders to intimidate a lot of men. On the other hand, I’ve never been too concerned about whether a woman was taller than me and I’ve got broad enough shoulders to intimidate the guys she can’t.

  All of which means, normally I’d have either brushed her off or just gone stoically immovable when she yanked on my shoulder. That apparently did not work the same when I was half my normal strength, bleeding rather impressively and hallucinating about divine carrion birds. I’m not sure if it was her intention, but rather than just spin me around to face her full ire, she spun me around and dropped me on my sprung and bloody ass.

  The sudden jarring of assorted semi-healed injuries and barely closed wounds had the bonus of earning an involuntary grimace along with groans. It also caused a few arteries or veins or something to spurt more blood onto my bandages. At leas
t some of them quickly got a little redder.

  Rather than invoking any level of sympathy, Maureen seemed to take the additional injuries as a personal affront. Standing over me with one hand on her hip and the other shoving my shoulder back and forth she set me straight on a few...misperceptions.

  “Ok smart guy, first things first. I found you…” She ripped a bandage off of my chest and pointed to a spot I could barely see without going cross-eyed trying to look down. “Because I added a little something of my own to your colorful collection of tattoos and scars.”

  That wasn’t fair. I didn’t have that many scars. Very rarely did Kara leave me with a scar after she started running my group through various missions and forays. Oh, she could be a little vindictive if she felt like her “boys” embarrassed her or needed a reminder. For the most part, though, we all uniformly woke up with any damage from our latest adventures all healed up and easily forgotten.

  Compared to scars I had a lot more ink. A few had personal meaning or were put on to lend “color” for my disguise back in various third world boonies. Most of them were rune workings that I had carefully and meticulously added.

  Each tattoo had more than ink added to my skin. There were rare plants, minerals, metals, and other things I won’t mention. All of them had been infused into the dyes on my flesh at one time or another. Cleansing and rituals were followed by chanting or drumming. Finally, a truly potent piece could take hours or even days to complete.

  I also had a number of less permanent bits. Henna dye and other markings were adequate for short term bolsterings and runic work. Whatever energy was stored in the markings tended to eat them away and destroy them in the process of being activated and doing their work.

  Apparently, Maureen had taken a page from my book. The spot she indicated was almost bare except for a faint, almost invisible tracing of some Celtic figures and knots. They were done in Henna but with some vines and other marks in brighter colors. In fact, they were dimmed but had probably been bright enough that I wondered how I’d managed to miss the addition every time I looked in a mirror. I suspected that part of their “job” had been to remain hidden.

  “What in Hel’s name was that?! And how’d it get there?” I was not angry so much as just surprised. How had she managed to put enough time and energy into a sigil like that without getting caught? I mean I’d felt a touch thick-witted of late. But that had been the work of a recently deceased Brujah witch. Right?

  “Well, you probably remember our little late-night picnic before you left town? You always get sleepy after we...enjoy each other so enthusiastically. I just waited until you were asleep and made sure there was a way to locate you if needed. Not like a stalker or anything…” She couldn’t quite hide the blush that made that a little less credible.

  “It was probably a good precaution as things turned out.” At least her voice had lightened from semi-homicidal to mere frosty anger.

  “You’re telling me you managed to tattoo me in my sleep?” My own tones were much more reasonable than hers. I could hardly hear any hint of anger or hysteria. I mean if I had been feeling any anxiety I personally didn’t hear it in my voice. By the look in Maureen’s eyes though she seemed to imagine something like fear (which I was NOT subject to) came forth in my speech.

  “Not a tattoo at all mo chroi, just henna and some other herbs I had in my bag. You can tell it’s already fading, unlike a tattoo.” That goes to show how much she knew about tattoos. My own runic ink can fade in days or even hours if I use the magick stored in them recklessly. The more I use the enchantments cast into such runes, the quicker they burn out and fade away. The kind of healing I needed would require some decent tools and focus and would probably erase the markings from my skin in a matter of days.

  That wasn’t as immediately important to me as the decreased hostility from my mercurial redhead though. I found myself wondering how to retreat without sounding like either somebody’s meek mare or a complete douchebag. While I wondered, I remained silent. It turns out that perhaps I should remain silent more often.

  “ Ok, so we’re mad at each other.” Not only had her tone softened but the curve of her full soft lips had grown rather warm and intriguing as well. “We’ll work that out later. You need to hear what Guillermo has been telling me.”

  She had definitely lost the worst of her anger. Maureen gently lowered me back to the blankets I’d been resting on. When I was settled and at least more comfortable than incoherent from pain she continued.

  “I don’t know how much I believe about his methods and philosophies, but he’s amazingly accurate in his divinations and dream work. You don’t need to know what he saw that convinced me. Just know that he did indeed convince me. Which is important because he told me a couple of things about you that explains some things I’d been wondering. Like why you never talk about your past or your family or anything really personal. I’m not even completely sure why you’re so damned tough and hard to kill. Eachan and I decided to assume it’s part of those tattoos and whatever energy work you do.”

  She paused long enough to brush a thick lock of hair from her forehead and give me her most earnest look. “Oh, I thought you were just being all stoic and masculine at first. But even an old British soldier breaks the stoic mold every once in a while. You had me wondering if I’d misunderstood the nature of our...well, of us. You could have told me you had amnesia. Of course, you probably don’t know how you got it. Guillermo said you’ve, let me think how he said it. You’ve got many doors locked in the houses of your past. But he thinks he can help you learn to unlock them.”

  I was about to discount dear uncle Guillermo entirely when the sense of that last statement hit me. Was there something there? I mean I’d been assuming it was the Brujah from weeks ago that had scrambled my melon. But was there some other magick related effect dulling my senses and shrouding memories? I had to admit, that would fit in with some other stories about old one-eyed Ygg.

  Maureen had continued all but gushing about her new buddy’s discoveries while I mused. When the deeper voice of the native shaman broke in it caught my attention again.

  “I said I’ll try to help him. Without a journey together though I’m not sure.” His shrug was fairly eloquent. I hadn’t decided if I was going to believe the smarmy runt yet though. “No sign anything in his head’s broke. More like somebody locked pieces away. Maybe he got some memories he ain’t too keen to remember too. Not much I can do about that without breakin some rules I take serious.”

  It took about half an hour of her pleading while the medicine man looked on impassively. To be honest though, I never had a chance. Between the weakness, pain, and guilt from my accusations, she had too many tools to work with. Add my reluctant curiosity to the mix and I might as well have saved time and given in right from the start. When I acquiesced the shaman and his buddies produced some worn clothes that didn’t exactly fit but they were lots better than running around in the buff.

  As a reward for my agreement to whatever this guy did on a “journey”, I had my bandages changed by gentle hands and was made as comfortable as I’d felt in days. The feel of clean clothes even if they were drab an ill-fitting was its own blessing. I got dressed bit by bit as my lady fair finished her work on bits of anatomy. A grey cotton sweatshirt with its sleeves cut off joined some pants that were probably baggy on Guillermo but fit me like yoga pants. Finally, I was given some sandals that looked like they were made from old tire rubber.

  Maureen explained to me as she worked. “Don’t think this means you’re forgiven. But if you’re distracted by all the wounds and pain you’ll never be able to focus and follow his instructions.”

  Whatever her reasons, I couldn’t stifle a moan or two as she tended the various hurts my flesh had endured. And of course, the combination of her presence and those gentle hands made me recall other more pleasurable moments we’d shared. Despite the general weakness and sundry aches and pain, I felt an almost predictable response to h
er touch on my skin.

  By the sudden catch in her breath, I knew she felt it too. It hurt when I turned under her attentions to see what I hoped was in her eyes. My searching gaze never found those eyes though. Instead, I was met with her mouth coming down to lock onto mine in a writhing volcanic jolt of need and desire. I did my best to jolt her right back. Despite pains here and there I managed to roll over and pull her down beside me. When my lips found her neck she arched her back against me. My own desires found their answer in a breathless growl of need as she ground herself back against me. I held her with one arm while the other hand slid around her waist and rose to cup a full and tautly tipped breast.

  That of course was the exact moment when a dirty old charlatan of a medicine man snapped his tent flap open and called out into the darkness. “Come wounded warrior, let us open the closed places in your thoughts.”

  I might have hauled the girl into the brush all caveman style. Except she went from pleasantly sinuous in my arms to awkwardly stiff and uncomfortable. In my many many years of life, it has become clear to me that only one person in such a situation should strive for stiffness, and it usually isn’t the girl.

  With an almost inaudible growl, I slowly released my clasp of the young lady. It might have been my preference to ignore the old man and continue with our own cures for my maladies. Unfortunately, it was quite clear that she had other priorities. My Maureen rolled to her feet and lifted me to stand beside her with little assistance or enthusiasm on my part.

  With a quick and almost chaste kiss, she turned me around and gently pushed my shoulders towards what I assume had become a medicine tent. “Good luck mo chroi.”

  In many rituals and forms of magick or religion, people are advised to rid themselves of negative emotions and energy before they enter the “sacred space”. If that were the case in this particular instance, then we were probably going to summon an eldritch god of jealousy, hate, and agony. Not only was I bearing an inordinate amount of pain., but I also had a huge helping of salted ass for my “guide” on this journey. Given the opportunity, I’d merrily show him exactly what it felt like to brush his nethers clean with the aforementioned mesquite thorns. And just to make sure he got the message I think a nice antiseptic tequila bath for his punctured danglies would be in order.