by Dyrk Ashton
“Any of us could run with it for days, weeks even,” says Myrddin Wyllt. “And some, forever.”
The screech of a falcon, though deeper and louder, rings through the forest and echoes from nearby cliffs.
Fintán dives from the sky and banks between the trees, turning this way and that with effortless grace. He swoops low and then up, to flap down, stirring pine needles, and grip the earth with his talons. He strides toward them, folding his claws under to walk more easily, then dons his human cloak as he looks them over with his citrine eyes, a tall handsome figure of a man once again.
“Good greetings, Fintán mac Bóchra,” pipes Myrddin.
“Greetings, yes,” says Fintán. “But not all is good.”
“Pray tell, then.”
The group gathers.
“Freyja is aware you are coming.”
“How is the old witch faring?” Pratha asks.
“She is in a mood.”
“When is she not?”
“What of the Cats and Dogs?” says Peter. “Are they preparing for our arrival?”
“No,” Fintán replies. Groans of disappointment and apprehension ripple through the group. “That is why I have come. They are coming here.” They all share a look.
“They haven’t ventured beyond their lands since before The Deluge,” says Myrddin.
“Freyja demands it,” Fintán explains. “They may be an unruly bunch, but they do not defy The Mother, and recent events have forced them to put aside their differences. They’ve been under attack for days, in their underground temples, the mirage city in the desert, and their mountain abodes. In Egypt and across into Libya. There are Blues, and Shadow Blues, armed with fell weapons of Astra grade. Crude, but poisoned, and effective. Asura Firstborn brought back from the dead as well. Ziz was there for one assault, and Xecotcovach. Battles have been brief, but brutal. All has been veiled in sandstorms and other natural disasters, so the watoto are unaware of the truth.” He pauses. “There have been losses. The details I will leave to them. All who have survived are gathering. They will be here within the day.”
“Anubis and Sekhmet?” Myrddin asks.
“They live.” There’s a communal sigh of relief.
“Then we must be going,” says Myrddin, “with all speed.”
Fintán says, “I will inform Freyja of your progress.” He looks over the camp and sees the litter. “You look to have things well in hand, but is there anything I can do?”
“Now that you ask,” Peter says, putting a hand on Zeke’s shoulder, “take young Zeke here, if you would. We can travel more swiftly.”
“Consider it done,” Fintán replies.
Zeke gives Fi a look. “Should I take my pack?”
“Just go,” says Peter. “We’ve got it.”
Fintán morphs into the form of a bird, as he did when he carried Zeke to chase after the Nidhogg that made off with Peter.
Zeke says, “Wait, can I take one thing?”
“Of course,” says Peter.
Zeke runs to the litter and retrieves the guitar case Peter gave him back at Peter’s house. Despite all they’ve been through, it looks no worse for wear.
Peter helps Zeke onto Fintán’s back.
“What about Fi?” Zeke says. “She could come too.”
Peter sees her rubbing her leg. “What do you think?”
As much as she’d like to experience what it’s like to ride on the wings of Horus, Lord of the Sky, it also scares the crap out of her. And seeing the others finishing packing up, and knowing they have to carry it all, she’d feel guilty leaving them with all the work. “I’ll stay.”
Peter seems pleased, and Fi notices an unspoken communication pass between him and Pratha. Which makes her nervous.
Peter says to Zeke, “We’ll be along shortly.”
Zeke offers Fi a feeble wave, then Fintán launches them on his powerful bird-legs and they soar up through the trees. Moments later, they’re gone in the mist and meager rain.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
NORWAY
FI’S BIG RUN
The pace at which Peter and the Firstborn travel amazes Fi, even after all she’s seen them do. Up and down hills, through forests and muddy ravines, across rivers and over screes of stone, nimble and tireless. She’s having a hard time keeping up. The fang wounds from Max’s bite are hurting and she feels weary overall, as if her body knows she should collapse from the pace and exertion. Instead of running ahead, Mol stays with her, occasionally barking to encourage her or show her the easier way around or over an obstacle.
Peter and Pratha shoulder the pole ends of the litter at the front. Mrs. Mirskaya and Myrddin have the two at the back. Myrddin looks like a frail little guy, but Fi’s learning he’s anything but. Edgar runs along behind them, one hand on the pommel of his sword at all times, because Baphomet is with him, his legs untethered from Pratha’s chains. Edgar glances back every now and then, but she waves him on.
Fi’s falling further behind by the minute. Then it happens. What she’s been fearing all along. She trips. Face down she slides on the slick slope of a ravine and splashes into a muddy stream.
Mol barks and Edgar shouts, “Ho!” The others stop and set the litter down.
Fi gets to her knees, shakes her hands to fling off mud, then rinses them in the stream.
Edgar jogs up. “Are you all right, dear?”
“I’m fine,” Fi says, embarrassed. She stands, then exclaims, “Ow,” rubbing at the back of her thigh. “Maybe not.” She limps to a nearby rock and sits gingerly.
The others approach. “Of course she’s all right,” says Pratha, putting Baphomet’s chains back on his ankles. “She’s Firstborn.” Fi glares at her.
Edgar says, “Milady—”
But Pratha cuts him off. “Shh, Galahad.”
Fi’s embarrassment turns to anger. “Don’t you shush my uncle. I don’t care who you are.” Edgar blanches and his mouth moves to speak, but nothing comes out.
Pratha’s golden eyes fall on Fi. “You should.”
“What are you going to do, beat me up?”
Myrddin grins, then sees the look on Pratha’s face and turns it into a frown.
Peter comes closer. “What’s wrong, child?” he asks, his voice stern.
“It hurts,” she says, with more venom than she intended.
“It doesn’t.”
Her temper flares. “I think I’d be the one to know, wouldn’t I?”
“Would you?” he says. “You think it was only The Prathamaja Nandana’s magical healing powers that saved you, that brought you back to health in less than two days?”
“Are you kidding me?” Fi retorts. “I was bitten by probably the most nasty, disgusting, poisonous monster ever. Everyone told me I almost died!”
“I wouldn’t say ever, and it appears to me, and from what Pratha reports, you’re completely healed.”
Fi looks to the others. Edgar is sheepish, obviously sympathizing with her, but he says nothing. Mrs. Mirskaya’s arms are crossed, her expression difficult to read. They’re up to something, Fi realizes, as if they planned it together after she went to sleep last night. “What’s going on?”
Peter tosses her a rock about the size of a baseball. She flinches out of the way and it splats in the mud. “Hey!” she says.
“Pick it up,” Peter says.
She grabs the rock. “There. Happy now?”
“Crush it.”
She laughs. “Yeah right.”
“Just try.”
She squeezes. Of course nothing happens.
“Harder.”
Fi bears down. Still nothing. “That was fun.” She tosses it to the mud at his feet. “Let’s do it again some time.”
Hands on his hips, Peter says, “Have you ever been injured in your entire life, child?”
“Of course I have. Everybody has. And stop calling me a child.”
“You’re acting like one.”
“And you’re acting like a comple
te and total dick.”
Myrddin stifles a giggle, and for a moment the corners of Mrs. Mirskaya’s mouth curl. Mrs. Mirskaya, her babysitter, the woman who practically raised her along with Edgar. “You’re going along with this?” Fi says to her. “Whatever this is?”
“Pater is just asking, Fiona,” Mrs. Mirskaya answers. She’s playing along, but Fi can see worry in her eyes. Still, Fi’s not happy to be the object of some scheme, whatever it is.
“Fine,” Fi says to Peter. “What do you want to know?”
“Tell me,” he says, “when have you been injured? Broken an arm, twisted an ankle, scratched yourself on a thorn?”
“There are plenty of people who have never broken a bone.”
“How about a mosquito bite, or sunburn?”
“I use bug repellent.” Myrddin puts a hand to his mouth to hide his chortling. “And Edgar always made me use sunblock.” Pratha raises an eyebrow, one of the most annoying traits Fi thinks she’s ever seen. “I’m fair-skinned, if you haven’t noticed!”
Peter looks at Edgar. “Sunblock?”
“She was just a little girl,” Edgar replies. “You wanted her to have a normal life, as normal as I could make it, for as long as we could.”
“Sunblock.” Peter chuckles, which infuriates Fi even more.
As annoyed as she is with how Peter is treating her, for Peter to question Edgar is completely unacceptable. “At least he was there. Where were you, Dad?”
She can see he’s stung by it, but the hurt passes quickly. “You were better off without me,” Peter says. “You still would be, if all this hadn’t happened, but eventually you’d realize, in spite of Edgar and Mirskaya’s efforts, you’re different. And now you need to believe it.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Have you ever had a rash? Are you tired? Hungry?”
“No. Yes, and yes.”
“You get cold and shivery in the winter? Sweat on a hot summer day?”
“Sometimes, yeah.”
“Ever had the flu? How about a cold?”
“Of course! Everybody gets sick.”
Pratha says, “The mind is a powerful thing.”
“What?!”
Edgar says, “Don’t be upset, dear. It’s just an observation.” He sits on a rock and runs a hand over his face. “Do you remember when you fell, when you were eight years old?”
“Yes,” Fi snaps back, “and nice of you to bring it up now.” She remembers well. It was not one of her finest moments. She’d been “tightrope walking” on the bannister on the third floor, slipped and fell straight down the middle of the stairwell. It must have made a hell of a racket because her uncle came running from the kitchen in his spaghetti sauce-splattered apron, gripping a wooden spoon like a weapon. He looked ridiculous, she remembers, but his eyes were set like she’d never seen before and hadn’t, well, since this all started. He’d glanced into the living room at the mantle over the fireplace, like he was going to go for his old sword. But when he saw she was alone, he was surprisingly calm.
All he said was, “Playing at the circus again?” Her reply had been little more than a moan. “Looks like your head is harder than the flooring,” he’d said, then added, “For that, I believe you can thank your father,” one of the only references Edgar’s ever made to him. She’d been fine, miraculously, though embarrassed, and as she remembers, she’d later been upset he’d made so little fuss over her—like not cleaning her room was the end of the world, but landing on her head was nothing.
“You didn’t even ask me if I was all right,” she says, “or pat me on the back or anything.”
“Then you remember you were not harmed by a three-story fall onto hardwood flooring.”
“I remember you were wearing that “World’s Best Uncle” apron Mrs. Mirskaya helped me pick out for you for Christmas. I think this Christmas I’ll get you one that says “World’s Rottenest Nephew.”
He chuckles. “I deserve that, and more. Much of this is my fault, I know, but think about it, dear. When your friends were ill, so were you. Or if you didn’t want to go to school because you weren’t getting along with the other kids—”
“And you took my temperature and made me chicken soup! Whose side are you on?”
“Please, Fiona, I’m sorry, but it’s not a matter of sides—” Fi gives him her dirtiest look. “—I’ll keep quiet now.”
Peter says, “You’ve never actually been sick or injured, have you?”
“Of course I have.”
“You’ve excelled in everything you’ve tried. Sports, any subject at school.”
“No way. I’m terrible at sports, and I almost flunked out of eighth and ninth grade.”
Peter says to Edgar, “You did your job well, Galahad. Maybe too well.” Back to Fi, he says. “You know you’re faster and stronger than everyone else your age, or any age for that matter, quicker on the uptake.”
“Not even close. I might have, like, bursts of strength, or whatever, but nothing super special. And the first time was today.”
“And you believe that. Like Pratha said, the mind is a powerful thing. The most powerful, in fact. The truth is, you’re superior in every way to any human being on this planet—and you always have been. It’s not your fault, but you’re mediocre and physically awkward because you want to be.”
“That’s ridiculous. Nobody wants to go through what I’ve been through. Nobody wants to be me.”
“Get up,” Peter says.
“No.”
“Please?”
“No!”
“GET UP!” His voice hits her like a shockwave, rolls out across the landscape like thunder. All but Pratha wince at the sound.
Fi’s taken aback, but overcomes it quickly. “All right, Tarzan. Just shut it, will ya?” She forces herself to stand in spite of the pain from Max’s bite.
Peter points to a low mountain in the distance. “See that peak?”
“Yes, I see that peak. So what?”
“You’re going to race me to it.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“You’re kidding.”
Edgar says, “He doesn’t kid.”
Fi shoots him a look that silences him once again, then turns back to Peter. “That’s stupid.”
“Why?”
“Because...” she looks at the group for support. She gets none. “Because you’re you. And I’m hurt.”
“Oh, I forgot. You’re hurt. I’m getting tired of your whining.”
“Fuck off.” That gets a rise from the others.
“I’ll tell you what,” Peter says, “if you make it to the top of that peak, crawling on hands and knees, I’ll leave you alone. In fact, I’ll carry you the rest of the way if your leg is still hurting.”
“You’re not carrying me anywhere. You’re not touching me. But whatever, let’s do it.”
Peter strides to the top of the creek bank and drags his heel in the dirt. “Here’s our start.”
Fi tromps up the hill, giving her uncle another dirty look as she goes, and trying to play off her aching leg and butt. She toes the line and eyes the peak. “This is so stupid. That’s, like, two miles away.”
“More like two and three eighths, to the top.”
“I’ve never rock-climbed before, and I bet you’ve done it hundreds of times.”
“Thousands. Many thousands.”
“Of course,” Fi mutters. “So stupid.”
“Myrddin Wyllt, would you do the honors?”
“Oh my, yes.” He capers up the hill. “I do love sport. Why, back in Olympia, we would—”
“Later, Myrddin,” says Peter.
“Right.”
Fi glances back at Edgar and Mrs. Mirskaya, who both nod in encouragement. Pratha appears haughty and judgmental. No surprise there. And so goddam pretty it makes Fi want to slap her. Baphomet watches with cold interest. Mol runs up to the line next to her.
“You too?” she says to him.
He barks in reply. “Jeesh.”
Myrddin straddles the line off to the side. He lifts a finger, then stops and turns back to Edgar. “What do I say in today’s parlance?”
“‘On your marks, get set, go,’ will suffice.”
“That sounds suitable.”
Fi mutters, “Fuck this,” and takes off.
She hears Peter call out behind her. “Cheater!” Which would probably be funny if she was in any mood for humor.
Fi runs unevenly because of her aching injuries, choosing the relatively dry bed of another ravine that winds roughly in the direction of the mountain. Mol lopes beside her, and Peter comes up on the other side.
“You cheated,” Peter says.
“Like it’s a fair race anyway.”
“Who said anything about fair?”
Fi growls.
Peter sprints up the steep side of the ravine to run along the top, leaping over rocks and fallen logs.
Already Fi’s legs burn and she’s breathing hard. This is crazy. She may be Firstborn, but tell her body that. Loose stone and dirt shifts under her feet and she almost falls. Mol barks at her.
“What?” Fi shouts.
Peter yells down as he runs along above. “He’s saying, ‘Run faster.’”
Fi almost trips again. “No he is not!”
“Yes, he is!”
Fi looks at Mol, who’s watching her, tongue flopping while he canters along beside her and just ahead. Maybe he is. So she pushes herself, and finds her footing becomes more firm, her stride longer. The burn of her muscles subsides, as does the pain of the bite. She picks up speed, and then a little more. She jumps a log, then some rocks, amazed her body is responding so well. She realizes she isn’t breathing that hard anymore, and though she can feel her heartbeat, it’s not pounding out of control, as she would expect.
The more effort she puts into it, the better she feels. The air in her lungs, she can actually feel it, every sinew and muscle doing exactly what it should. This must be like the “endorphin rush” long distance runners talk about. Only this is even better.
Mol keeps the same distance ahead, bounding over the same obstacles. He barks, egging her on, like he’s saying, “More! More!”
Fi’s head swims, but in a good way. As if a cover of frost is evaporating from the surface of the world—but it’s not the world—it’s her senses.