by Kevin Hearne
“All right, Mr. Collins,” Coyote said. “It’s your turn. Who was that lady?”
“Yeah,” Frank said. “I nearly crapped my pants.”
“That was Hel,” I said, “the Norse goddess of death.”
Frank turned to Coyote to see if he was buying it. “He’s not bullshitting?”
“Naw, this guy don’t usually tell stretchers about gods,” he answered. Then he asked me, “What did she want with you?”
“She, um, wanted my help, I guess.”
“Help with what?” Granuaile said, her lip curled. “Personal hygiene?”
“Um … destroying the world.” I tossed Moralltach aside and sat down heavily in the red dust next to Frank, executing a double face-palm. Saying that out loud took quite a bit out of me. What had I done when figures like Hel approached me as a potential ally? My primary reason for going through with the Asgard trip had been to preserve my honor by keeping my word. But I saw no honor in an unstained name now. If Ragnarok began because of me, no one would remember or care that I followed through on my promises. There would be no kind historians to write apologetics for me.
Usually I try to suppress any emotions that savor of regret, because they are invariably aperitifs to a main course of depression, and for the long-lived, that’s a recipe for suicide. But that doesn’t mean they can’t sneak up on me sometimes.
And, like, gang-tackle me.
I felt a slight spell of vertigo as the enormity of what I’d done hit me. I wept silently behind my hands for Mrs. MacDonagh, for Leif, for Gunnar, for Väinämöinen, for the Norse, and for the untold suffering to come because of my bad decisions. Druids were supposed to be forces of preservation, not destruction, and I could not dance around the fact that my stupid pride had turned me into a misbegotten cockwaffle.
Granuaile squatted down next to me and put a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Well, clearly she didn’t like what you had to say about that,” she said.
“Just checkin’ here,” Frank said, his voice thick. “Geologists don’t normally get invited to help destroy the world, do they?”
Behind my hands, I shook my head. “No,” I said. “No, they don’t.” I pressed my tears away with my palms and then dropped them to my lap. “But don’t ask me who or what I really am right now. I’m supposed to be dead.”
“Well, it seems to be a day for dead people to be walkin’ around,” Frank said. “And disintegratin’.” He pointed over to the draugr bodies, which were turning into ash and mixing with the dust of the plateau.
“What was the deal with that freaky knife she had?” Coyote wondered aloud.
“It’s called Famine. She said the next thing she cut with it wouldn’t rest until it had eaten me.”
“Ew,” Granuaile said.
Oberon tried to cheer me up.
Frank Chischilly narrowed his eyes. “Did she say if it works on only one thing or on as many things as she cuts with it?”
“That’s a pretty specific question. Why do you ask?”
“Because there’s a couple of skinwalkers livin’ north of here. She’s headed right for ’em.”
Granuaile scrunched up her face. “Aren’t they shape-shifters of some kind? They use an animal skin?”
Chischilly nodded. “They have to use a different skin for each shape. They keep to themselves mostly, unless you invade their territory.”
“You say there’s two nearby?” I asked.
“Up past the ranches a few miles thataway.” He pointed in the direction Hel had gone.
I shifted my gaze and glared at Coyote. “So I guess I know why you’re so anxious to have the mine here,” I said. “Its primary qualification isn’t the proximity to Kayenta’s workforce; it’s the proximity to the skinwalkers. You figured I’d take care of them for you once they show up to defend their territory.”
Coyote shrugged, not bothering to deny it. “I can’t go after ’em myself. If they killed me, then they’d just be that much more powerful.”
Frank Chischilly frowned, clearly not understanding how killing a man could make the skinwalkers more powerful. But I understood. Skinwalkers can’t use a man’s skin—they already have their own. Coyote wasn’t a man, though, and that’s what Frank hadn’t quite figured out yet: Coyote was one of the First People, and whenever he died he always left his remnants behind. If the skinwalkers got hold of a Coyote skin, as opposed to a regular coyote skin, there was no telling what kind of shredding they could do with his power. And the Morrigan, I noted, had been right about thrice-cursed trickster gods. They were torrential fucksluices spraying their happy juices on the innocent and the damned alike.
To distract the hataałii from asking an uncomfortable question of Coyote, I asked him one instead: “How would you handle a skinwalker, Frank?”
He was so surprised by the question that he started to chuckle, and that morphed into a hacking cough. When the fit passed, he said, “You can’t handle ’em. Just protect against ’em and wait for dawn.”
That made them sound like vampires. “They can’t be killed?”
Frank hawked up something green and spat on the ground. “Maybe they can, but I never heard of anyone pulling it off. Least not by any normal way you’d kill a man. They’re wicked fast.”
Granuaile asked, “They only come out at night?”
“Usually. Sunlight won’t kill ’em, but they sure don’t like it much.”
“So you’ve run into them before. You have personal experience.”
Frank nodded. “Long time ago.”
“How’d you deal with that one?”
“We reversed a curse on it. We never woulda stood a chance otherwise. But it shot a bone bead into someone and then came back to make sure it was working the next night. We got it then, when it was standing still.”
I squinted at him. “Got it how?”
“Shot it with the same bead. The bead was cursed. They’re basically witches, and if you know how they worked a spell on someone, you can probably turn it back against them. These two ain’t like the ones I’ve seen in the past, though. They don’t use ceremonial magic. They just physically punish people. Can’t fight back against ’em that way.”
“Well, if they tend to come out at night, we’d better get inside before sundown.”
“Yep,” the hataałii agreed, and then he patted his chest as Coyote helped him stand. “Damn. Where’d my bolo tie go?” he said.
“It kind of popped off and sailed away over there,” Coyote said, pointing.
As everyone looked around uncertainly, I shot a quick thought to my hound.
Oberon, think you can find it and bring it to me?
I rose from the ground and retrieved Moralltach, but Frank stopped me before I could take a step back toward the hogan site. “Whatever you are, Mr. Collins—if that’s your name—I get the feeling that you were brought here as Plan B.” His eyes shifted to indicate Coyote. “Except now you’re Plan A.”
I favored Coyote with another glare. “Yeah, the plan is sort of revealing itself to me as we go,” I said. “How many of the others are in on this plan, Frank?”
“Oh, you mean Darren and Sophie and everybody? They all know about the skinwalkers.”
“Damn it, Frank,” Coyote grated softly.
“What? He wasn’t supposed to know? Then why’s he here?”
“Too late now. Tell me everything,” I said.
“Well, Mr. Benally says we’re buildin’ a mine and stuff, but we’re also baiting the skinwalkers with where we’re buildin’ it. Not everyone believes in them, you know. Lot o’ people think they’re just myths—I mean a lot o’ the Diné who buy into the idea that there ain’t nothin�
� in the world but science. And they also think I’m crazy and oughtta be locked up for sayin’ they’re real. But Mr. Benally believes me, and so does Sophie and the rest of this crew. What about you, Mr. Collins? Would you be willing to believe in skinwalkers?”
“Yeah, I’d be willing to believe most any monster is real—or was real at some point.”
“Yeah, I figured,” Frank said. “Guy who talks to Norse goddesses oughtta believe in a monster or two.”
“I’m going to stop at the car for a minute. Meet you up at the site,” I told Frank. He waved and started up to the mesa, but I held Coyote behind with my eyes.
“You, sir,” I said, “have all the dignity of a badger with the clap. Shark shit has more fiber than you. I’m going to tie you nuts-first to a monkey’s cage and make a mix tape of the resulting noise. Then I’m going to take a bag of marshmallows and a pair of granny panties and—”
Coyote held up his hands in surrender and spoke in low tones to prevent the departing Frank from overhearing. “I hear ya, Mr. Druid, but, look, it really don’t make any differ’nce. You wanted to make a trade and you agreed to the terms.”
“I didn’t agree to kill any skinwalkers for you.”
“And Frank didn’t agree to kill those blue-skinned zombie things.”
“No, but I didn’t lead Frank here to confront them either. Don’t expect me to give you any bonus services. The skinwalkers are your problem.”
Coyote chuckled. “Well, they might be your problem now too, if that goddess o’ death takes her knife to ’em. Can’t blame me for that, Mr. Druid. She didn’t show up here at my invitation with her hungry silverware.”
Oberon returned with Frank’s turquoise in his mouth.
“Thanks, Oberon,” I said, wiping the turquoise off on my jeans. “Let’s go see if we can find you one in the car.” I turned my back on Coyote without saying another word. He didn’t want to know what I was going to do with those granny panties.
Surprisingly, Granuaile did. “Sensei, what were you going to do with those marshmallows and panties?” she whispered as we walked together. “I mean, I’m sure it had to be dire, but it just didn’t sound as threatening as the potential havoc a monkey could wreak on his sack.”
“There was more to that recipe,” I admitted. “He cut me off before I could get to the Icy Hot and the gopher snake.”
“Ew. What would you do with that?”
“I will leave it to you as an exercise.”
I decided it would be best to keep Moralltach on me from now on. It wouldn’t be conducive to maintaining the fiction that I was nothing but a geologist, but that wasn’t much of a priority now, if it ever was. Frank and the rest of them could think whatever they liked about me; they’d never guess the truth.
Of more concern to me was who Hel might talk to now that she’d discovered the slayer of the Norns in Arizona a couple of days after said slayer was supposed to have died. My elaborate attempt to disappear through faking my death would all come to naught if Hel spread it around that I was still walking the earth. She needed to be faked out as well—or eliminated. But trying to invade Niflheim to take on Hel in her home territory didn’t sound like a win to me. She’d have a nearly infinite supply of draugar at her command, a moon-devouring wolf hiding in her basement and itching for action, and the original Helhound, Garm, would probably consider me to be a light snack.
Retrieving the scabbard from Granuaile’s trunk, I sheathed Moralltach and slung it over my back, fastening the leather strap across my chest. I fished out a treat for Oberon before I closed the trunk and tossed it into his mouth.
I paused to think about it. Well, I suppose I do, I replied.
Oberon reflected sadly.
Your shoulders aren’t wide enough, I explained.
Hmm. That sounds plausible. It would require a rather elaborate harness, though. Would the discomfort be worth it?
Yes, Oberon, I imagine you would, but, unfortunately, those rocket launchers exist only as props and CGI.
Hound 4, Druid 2, I said, glad to finally score a solid point.
You didn’t call it, so the game continues.
The workers on the mesa noticed the sword, and so did Darren and Sophie, but no one said anything about it; they were too polite.
Asking Oberon to stand sentinel outside, I entered the hogan with Granuaile to survey the interior. Hogans are not particularly large buildings, only about 250 square feet inside, but they’re important to ceremonial life and thus crucial to the beginnings of large enterprises like this one. This hogan was one of the more modern plans, built in an octagonal shape; the walls were fairly free of gaps, since they were constructed with precut logs, and the roof was a latticework of beams covered over with black plastic sheeting at this point, a four-plane design. Tomorrow the roof would be finished and covered with mud, insulating it well, and the exterior walls would be covered too. I thought it interesting that this particular hogan included no windows; circulation came solely from the door and the round chimney built at the meeting of the various beams. In the center of the floor was a fire pit, and Frank Chischilly was hunched down over it, tending a small fire. Lava rocks were arranged closely around it, and Frank had sprinkled some herbs on them. The burning herbs sent fingers of fragrant white smoke up through the chimney.
He shot a glance up at me and then spoke to Granuaile. “We’re going to stay in here tonight,” he said. “Safer that way.”
Granuaile noted the profound lack of facilities. “Guess I’d better visit the privy before sundown, then.”
“Yep. We’ll be startin’ the sing as soon as everyone’s ready.”
“Anything I can do to help?” she asked.
Frank’s eyes flicked over to me. “Well, if you happen to know any way to keep out or repel evil spirits,” he said, perfectly serious, “that would be helpful.”
That was an interesting challenge. “What kind of evil?” I asked, not knowing precisely what to ward against.
Frank stared at me in disbelief and then spat into the pit before asking, “Ain’t there only one kind?”
“No, there’s all kinds of evil, just like there’s all kinds of good. What I need to know is where the source is. We’re not dealing with the Christian hell here or rakshasas from the Vedic planes. Where is the evil coming from? This plane or somewhere else?”
“Oh, I see what you mean now. The spirits come from First World.”
“That’s Black World, right?” I asked. I knew some of the basics of the Navajo faith, but I was by no means an expert. Their creation story follows the Emergence pattern, where people emerge into this world after climbing through several subterranean levels, evolving as they go. According to what little I knew, our plane is Fourth World, which is sometimes called Glittering World or White World. Granuaile appeared lost but didn’t inte
rrupt to ask.
“Yep, that’s Black World,” Frank said.
“How’d they get all the way up here?” I wondered.
“Answer to that depends on who you ask. You want my guess?”
“Absolutely.”
“I think they been here all along, since the world was first bein’ made. We know that monsters an’ spirits from the lower worlds came here to Fourth World in the beginning. But Changing Woman sent her sons, Monster Slayer and Child-Born-of-Water, to kill ’em all. I think they got most of the monsters—they left old age, hunger, cold, and poverty behind on purpose.”
“Ah, but they didn’t take care of all the spirits, right?”
“Right. Those spirits from First World, they were spirits of the air, but mostly ornery insects—angry beetles, ants, locusts, dragonflies, and the like. They got kicked out of all the other worlds for fightin’ all the time, always wantin’ to dominate someone else. Most of ’em got turned into real bugs, but some didn’t and remained spirits. And the way I figure it is, when a soul turns as black as Black World, these old spirits find them a comfortin’ touch of home, and if they’re called to move in, they will. That’s what a skinwalker is: a mean asshole with a meaner spirit squatting inside.”
“Hmm. All right, I’ve never dealt with anything like this before, but I’ll see what I can do.”
The hataałii didn’t say anything, merely nodded and turned his attention back to the fire. Granuaile and I exited and rejoined Oberon outside. We walked off a short distance and spoke in low tones so that no one could hear, save perhaps Oberon.
“You have a way of warding against skinwalkers, sensei?” Granuaile asked.
I shook my head. “Not specifically. I’ve never been down to First World or run into a skinwalker before. It’s been centuries since I’ve had to deal with any sort of Native American magic. I’ve been hiding in cities to stay away from the Fae, and all the shamans or holy men are hiding out on the reservations.”