by Tom Deitz
Twenty-twenty hindsight, he supposed. Of which he had God’s plenty.
Honk-honk-honk!
That had been a car horn, and with that, he levered himself to his feet, noting how sore he was in odd places, how painfully hollow his stomach felt, and that a fox squirrel had been staring at him with wary interest until he’d moved. A pause to retrieve the backpack that contained most of Sandy’s clothes—minus the jeans that were his only garment (too loose in the hips, too short in the leg, and so snug in the waist he had to leave them half unzipped), and he pushed through the screen of thick, shiny leaves.
And immediately got another shock, coupled, this time, with a chill.
He had stepped out into fog—a disturbingly thick fog that was oozing up the bank from the river very rapidly indeed. So rapidly, in fact, that it rose from ankle-deep to calf-deep even as he gaped at it. A glance west showed light but no sun, which meant he hadn’t slept as long as he’d feared—but also revealed that the far shore was obscured by a bank of mist. Only his side was clear, and that not for long, for by then the fog had reached his knees, which finally set him moving.
It wasn’t natural, he knew that already. Fog simply didn’t act like this: flowing steadily up and out, with a tangible front that seemed to herd him on as he frantically stumbled upslope through more laurel, more generic undergrowth, and finally into the relative openness beneath a several-acre stand of hardwoods.
And always it moved faster than he—had already flowed around him, so that he now waded up to his waist and could discern the ground but dimly. Beyond—around—oaks and hickories rose out of the white like cypresses in a swamp. The sky beyond their branches was white, too, though it should have shown the richer shades of dusk, and the wind had kicked up and was blowing hints of cooler weather, and of serious thunder. The air at nose level was tense and nervous; that below his waist, cool, calm, and still. It was as if he was already in two worlds, he thought tiredly, and suppressed another chill.
Two minutes later, he could not see at all, but could still approximate his direction by the slope of the land and the relative quality of the light: pale to the west, darker to the east.
Three minutes later, he could see even less—hardly more than his hand before him, but the ground had leveled, and he got a sense of fewer trees.
And then he tripped on something solid and rough-barked, and fell forward onto another something that was soft and slick and moved beneath his hand. He jerked it away abruptly, but not before he glimpsed a thick-bodied serpent wearing scales in a diamond pattern. He didn’t need to see the rattles as it slithered away.
He slowed then, both from fear of tripping again, and of stepping on something that might actually bite this time. Even so, he felt two more scaled shapes slide away from his bare feet before he found himself slogging through damp, knee-high grass, and an instant later, with no warning at all, stumbling across yet another log—and into clear air.
It was the Power Wheel that fronted the asi, he knew that instantly.
His friends were there, too: wary captives of a cylindrical wall of roiling white mist that rose twice as high as their heads. Still, he gasped out his relief as reflex identified Dave, Liz, Alec, and Brock, with enough joy on their faces to override the apprehension they likewise must be feeling. Snakeeyes was nowhere in sight—he’d pretty much expected that. But where was Sandy? And who was that other guy, who rose from where he’d been sitting wearily on a log, with his head propped on elbows that rested on knees? Only, he already knew; was already swallowing shock as his too-tired brain recalibrated enough to tell him that was Sandy, still wearing his shape—which was odd, given how spooked she’d said she felt when she first put it on. It took some getting used to, too; seeing his own body in three dimensions, from angles he never had—and seeing that body move and breathe without him being in control.
She looked up at him—but not with the relief he’d expected. Rather, her expression was one of despair—utter resignation.
“I’m stuck,” she said simply, finally meeting his eye, though she didn’t rise. “I tried just now to shift back, and couldn’t.” And with that she held out her hands. Both palms were crimson with blood, and that substance likewise showed as a red stain on the scale that glittered on his—her—bare chest.
Calvin was already reaching to enfold her, so sick at heart as to be almost in shock, when the whole world turned to light and heat and noise. Lightning he identified automatically, even as he felt himself flung forward—straight into Sandy’s too-muscular arms and hard, unyielding chest. He oofed—or she did—but by then reality had stabilized. The air was thick with the scent of ozone.
But another odor rode an odd new wind as well: that of wood smoke, of distant campfire’s burning. He’d smelled that before, too, and recently. But where?
But before he could decide, Sandy had thrust him away from her, and he saw.
A single bolt had struck the asi dead center, scorching blankets and scattering his friends like cordwood. As best he could tell from the way they were already picking themselves up, none were injured—which was fortunate, since by then he had other cause for alarm. For even as he stared at the smoldering rags of what had been the door flap, a figure emerged. He thought for a brief, despairing moment, that it was Snakeeyes born again, for all he could see initially was long black hair and piercing eyes in a dark face.
Only…the face was too dark and the eyes wrong. But before he could speak, the man stepped out among them, and Calvin knew him. It was Asgaya Sakani: the Black Man of the West. His face was grim, unreadable. “Siyu, Utlunta-dehi,” he grunted tersely.
“Siyu,” Calvin stammered back, stunned. “I—uh, that is—what brings you to the…the Lying World.”
The Black Man’s eyes flashed like distant lightning. “Lies! Lies are what bring me to the Lying World! You came into my Quarter unbidden. And there you wore shapes not your own, and practiced deception after deception on those who are sworn to uphold my commands!”
Calvin swallowed, but stood straighter, too tired to do aught but blunder ahead. “Yeah, well, we’ll talk about that in a minute,” he sighed. “But first, it might interest you to know that Sandy here’s just destroyed a master of lies. One who stole lives and practiced deceptions, and would have one day been a threat to Galunlati—and perhaps to the Darkening Land as well. And besides, we came ’cause one of your…subjects asked!”
The Black Man’s reply was to lock gazes with Calvin. And then, abruptly, the arrogance and accusation melted away—and the Black Man smiled!
“You trespassed in my Quarter without leave,” he said, his voice like a fading storm. “You passed where no living man should have. Yet a moment ago, I heard a newly arrived soul screaming out its madness on my borders and cursing your name. Naturally, I hastened there, but on my way, I met many souls—many, many souls, all of whom had been trapped on the edge of my Quarter by their own uneasiness at having years of their lives usurped. Like your father they were, Utlunta-dehi: incomplete, and so unable—or unwilling—to go on. But when you caused Snakeeyes to be killed, those years came back to them, and they could rest. They will yet enjoy those unspent years, when they ride the wheel in your World again.”
Calvin could only nod out his relief. Behind him, he sensed the warmth of Sandy’s body shadowing his own. David, Liz, and Alec looked wary. Brock was simply gaping, wide-eyed. “I—I’m glad to have been of service,” Calvin began. “And I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped my bounds in your land. Yet—”
“Yet what?” another voice thundered—this one from the fog-veiled east. That same mist had muffled it beyond recognition. Calvin swung around to face that way—and could just make out the dim outline of a tall man-shape darkening the swirls and tendrils there. It did not step through to join them, however, but remained where it was: a clotting in the mist.
“Yet what, Edahi?” that voice repeated sharply. It was closer this time, and lower; and he recognized it.
“V
isitors,” that voice rumbled back. “I do not like visitors, Utlunta-dehi,” it continued. “I do not like them when they come from the Lying World without command or invitation. And I especially do not like them when they know you, whom I have forbidden to contact me until a year has passed, which it has not. Were I so inclined, I could accuse you of flaunting that prohibition.”
Calvin hung his head. “I’m sorry…master. I was under an obligation. It seemed like the best thing to do at the time.”
“Best for you, perhaps!” Uki snapped, still from the mist. “Not necessarily for me!”
Silence. Then, from Brock. “So, screw you!” the boy cried. “Cal did what he had to. If he hadn’t sent ’Kacha away when he did, old Snakeeyes would’ve had her power to draw on and he might’ve been able to beat ’em then—or Sandy, or whoever. And if he’d done that, he’d have got Cal’s scale and war club, and the ulun-whatsi, and there’s no telling what he’d have done with ’em! ’Cept one thing I do know is that ’Kacha was afraid he’d try to use ’em to get where you were.”
“And if he had?” Uki challenged from the fog.
Brock shrugged, shifted his weight. “He’d—well, I don’t know what he’d have done, but I know he’d have found out some stuff you might not want somebody like him to know. ’Sides, didn’t you guys hide from us once already? Seems to me like you might even be afraid of us. And if you’re afraid of folks like me and Cal and…and Sandy, what about folks like Snakeeyes, who’re really bad?”
The boy broke off then, his sudden fury abated. He stood glowering at the darkness in the mist.
Silence, again.
And more silence.
Then: “You are correct, boy—or at least in many ways you are—as I would have said had you given me time! But I wanted my student to taste the foul before I fed him the fair—except that you preempted me!”
Brock flushed. “S-sorry.”
Unexpectedly, Uki laughed. “Utlunta-dehi has spoken of you,” he chuckled. “He says you would learn the secrets you call magic. Is that still your wish?”
Brock glanced up warily, abruptly all attitude and bright eyes again. Calvin felt his heart skip a beat. What was Uki doing? No way he should offer something like that to a kid like Brock. No way!
But the boy squared his shoulders and shook his head. “I—can’t say I won’t be curious,” he murmured, and Calvin could tell the effort cost him, that he knew he was cutting himself off from something at once wonderful beyond imagining and dreadful beyond his darkest dreams. “In fact, I’m gonna be curious,” he continued, more loudly. “But no, I think I’ve seen enough—for a while. I need to think about all this and then…I guess I need to think some more. And then”—he glanced at Calvin—“we’ll see.”
“A careful answer that wasn’t,” Uki laughed again. Calvin saw the Black Man glower.
“You were about to speak, Brother-in-Thunder?” Uki prompted.
The scowl darkened. “Will there be feast or fight?” Asgaya Sakani asked sharply. “We promised these—most of these—a feast and a giving of gifts if they used the things they know appropriately during the last year. Part of me is not sure they have done so, yet another part thinks they have. A man should be of one mind about such things.”
“If it’ll help any,” Alec broke in unexpectedly, “it doesn’t matter much to me either way—though I thank you for your hospitality and your honors in the past. But on the other hand, you just mentioned divided choices, and—well, isn’t that what Cal’ s been putting up with here? He didn’t want to teach Brock magic, but he’d made a promise, so he did—after a lot of soul-searching about the right thing—the safe thing—to teach. And everything he’s done since then—well, he’s tried to do the right thing, which I’m sure wasn’t always the thing he wanted to do. I—”
“Sandy,” Liz interrupted simply. “What about poor Sandy?”
Calvin felt his cheeks burning at having overlooked so fundamental a crisis in the midst of arguing dinner dates with demigods. His hand sought hers automatically—wincing but barely when he found it larger and harder. He swallowed, stared at the misty shadow that was Uki.
A grunt made him turn again. “I was not able to finish my message,” the Black Man snapped. “Nor was I able to deliver one I was given by a certain soul I met.” And with that, he reached to a pouch at his side and drew out something that glittered bright when he held it out in his palm. “You father bade me send you this, Utlunta-dehi,” he said—and passed Calvin a now-familiar uktena scale. Calvin, in turn, slipped it to his dopplegänger. Her hands folded upon it, but she did not squeeze. Which showed admirable self-control. “Thank you,” she replied simply.
The Black Man nodded. The fog, Calvin noted, had begun to disperse. And he wasn’t certain, but he thought he could discern the ruined dome of the asi through the Black Man’s torso, as though through a thick cloud of smoke.
Thunder rumbled.
No! Not thunder: an engine—a healthy American V-8, if Calvin heard it right. An instant later, headlights lanced through the fog. The engine roared louder—too loud; then, abruptly, brakes squealed—or tires did—and a low burgundy-and-chrome prow poked through the wall of mist. It swirled away. Thunderbird, Calvin identified automatically: ’66 Town Landau. Could it be…?
The engine died, a heavy door slammed, a figure took form, sprinting toward them. An instant later, it bounded into the open space. Calvin moved automatically to stand in front of Sandy, who had not yet resumed her own shape—and probably wouldn’t until things died down a little. But then he was running forward, instead, to embrace…his cousin.
“Churchy!” he gasped, as Kirkwood Thunderbird O’Connor bear-hugged him, then thrust him away.
“You son-of-a-bitch!” Kirk gritted. “What the hell’s goin’ on here, anyway?” He indicated the fading wall of fog. “This ain’t natural, is it? ’Course it ain’t natural when you wake up from your afternoon siesta and find a blessed peregrine falcon sittin’ on the foot of your bed, either—one that screams out ‘Calvin!’ exactly once, then just sits and waits on you to finish dressing, and then flies out and lights on your hood, and then flies in front of you until— Oh, shit! What the fuck?”
Kirk staggered back automatically, having evidently just realized that the person whose face and body had heretofore been shielded by his cousin bore an uncanny resemblance to his cousin.
Calvin reached out to brace him, torn between concern and a terrible desire to giggle. “Remember what I told you about the scale?” he asked carefully. “Remember when you asked if I could turn into a real pretty girl? Well, uh, Sandy thought she’d try it the other way round first—which just coincidentally saved our asses.” He looked around at his friends for reassurance.
Kirk swallowed hard and slumped back against the hood of his car. “I…hope so,” he managed. “One of you’s plenty enough.”
“Gives a new meaning to ‘walk a mile in my shoes,’ though,” Sandy laughed—which filled Calvin with vast relief. He squeezed her hand. “Any time, babe.”
Calvin glanced around—which took his gaze to where Asgaya Sakani had last stood glowering. He was gone: dissipated like so much black smoke. A glance the other way showed the merest fading glimmer of the shape that had been Uki. “One more for dinner—if there is one?” Calvin called.
And from the fog came a voice, faint but clear. “There will be, but in the meantime, I suppose I must consult the others concerning yet more war names. Perhaps I will consult the woman you sent me as well.”
Brock perked up. “’Kacha? What about her? You gonna keep her?”
“No,” Uki replied, very faintly as the night wind began to unravel the fog, “but I very well might marry her.”
Sandy looked at Calvin and raised an eyebrow dangerously. “If you say a word about Thundercats, I’ll kill you.”
“I won’t,” Calvin smirked. “Now, why don’t you go change, and I don’t mean just your clothes.”
When Calvin met her in th
e woods a few minutes later, she was wearing starlight, and her eyes were shining.
Very soon he was wearing starlight, too.
And the only raptor that roamed the night between Lebanon Church Road and Athens was the emblem on the grille of Kirkwood O’Connor’s Thunderbird, bearing weary travelers home.
About the Author
Tom Deitz grew up in Young Harris, Georgia, a small town not far from the fictitious Enotah County of the David Sullivan series. When he was a teen he discovered J.R.R. Tolkien, a writer who awakened his interest in fantasy and myth. He pursued his fascination by earning two degrees, a Bachelor of Arts and a Master of Arts, from the University of Georgia. His major in medieval English literature led Mr. Deitz to the Society for Creative Anachronism, which in turn generated a particular interest in heraldry, historic costuming, castle architecture, British folk music, and all things Celtic. Readers will also quickly realized that Tom was—as he said—a car nut who loved automotive details.
In Windmaster’s Bane, his first published novel, Tom Deitz used his interests and background as he began the story of David Sullivan and his friends, a tale continued in Fireshaper’s Doom and more books in the series. He won a Georgia Author of the Year award and a Lifetime Phoenix Award from Southern fans for his work. In addition to his writing, Tom was also a popular professor of English at Gainesville State College (today the Gainesville campus of the University of North Georgia), where he was awarded the Faculty Member of the Year award for 2008.
On the day after his birthday in 2009, Tom suffered a massive heart attack from which he never fully recovered, and in April of that year he passed away at the age of 57. Though he was never able to realize his dream of owning a small castle in Ireland, Tom had visited that country, which he loved, and at the time when he was stricken with the heart attack he was in the planning stages for a Study Abroad trip to Ireland that he would have led. The trip took place, and to a dirge played by an Irish musician on the uilleann pipes, some of Tom’s teaching colleagues scattered his ashes in a faery circle.