chapter 2
Atticus is off to confer with some crabby old man from the past—according to him, an unwashed, potentially explosive type, sort of like the human equivalent of a propane tank—while I get to hang out in Colorado with the hounds. I think I have the far better deal.
Oberon is so happy to have Orlaith here that the surfeit of his joy buffets me like the tide, waves of exultation wafted about by the swishing of his tail. He has taken to asking every morning if he can talk to Orlaith yet and is only mildly disheartened when I tell him no—we have all been running together in the forest after I climb out of bed, and that is such fun that it sugars over many disappointments. I bind myself to the shape of a jaguar, dark and sleek and liquid next to the bounding exuberance of the hounds, and we dance through the trees and let the crunch of leaves beneath our paws announce our good cheer to the forest. We chase squirrels and the occasional deer and smell things that tell us stories of life and death in the woods.
I am becoming more used to the smells and am not afraid of the form anymore. As with magical sight, the trick is in the filtering.
Orlaith is gradually acquiring language. Right now she speaks to me in short bursts of words, the simplest of sentences. Fluency and syntax will come later, though she knows how to ask for new words, and her meaning is always clear to me through our bond, a sort of emotional and image spillover akin to the communication we share with elementals.
She’d been at the rescue ranch because the newborn child of the couple that owned her turned out to be allergic to dogs. She misses them still and remembers how sad they were to give her up, but she is happy to be with us now. Her mental voice is a bit lighter than Oberon’s, and she loves the trees here.
"Pine! Spruce!" she says as we run, excitement evident in her words and in the movement of her tail. "Town! Noises!"
Our mission today is to explore the small town of Ouray on foot. Surrounded on three sides by the San Juan Mountains and only a couple of square miles in area, it rests in a sort of natural bowl with egress to the north. Yesterday we dug a cache above the town and buried money and a set of clothes for me, along with collars and leashes for the hounds—for though Ouray is a very dog-friendly town, local ordinances require a leash at all times.
Burying things and digging them up again, of course, is half the fun.
Now dressed in jeans, sandals, and a black T-shirt announcing my affection for the legendary all-girl punk band the Laser Vaginas, I fold the paper bag that had protected my clothes and take it with me down the hill. The hounds gambol ahead, turning back frequently to check on my progress, since I am moving so much slower than before.
Ouray’s economy largely depends on tourism. The majority of income derives from hotels, restaurants, and shops selling gimcracks, souvenirs, and the occasional artsy doodad. A glass-blower and a blacksmith keep shops going in the summers, and one guy does some amazing sculptures with chain saws and tree trunks. Jeep touring companies make a killing as well, their income from the summer months supporting them for the rest of the year. Now that it’s October and the temperature is dropping, the town is largely quiet and safe for Orlaith to learn how to conduct herself in urban environments. The opportunity to teach her new words would be invaluable too.
Lacking a jacket and feeling the chill, I use the binding Atticus taught me to raise my core temperature, then call the hounds over as we approach the Uncompahgre River, which marks the western edge of Ouray. As I fix the collars onto their necks, I say aloud, “Let’s review the rules for behavior while we’re in town. Oberon, you go first.”
"We must not approach people but let them approach us."
“Very good.” I repeat Oberon’s words for Orlaith’s benefit and then ask her, “Do you remember any rules?”
"No poop! No pee!"
“Excellent. Make sure you take care of that before we cross the bridge. Anything else?”
Oberon says, "We mustn’t sniff anyone’s ass."
"No woofs!" Orlaith adds.
“Good, good. And?”
"No jumping, no humping, stay next to you, and let you know if we want to stop to smell something," Oberon finishes.
“Fabulous!” I repeat everything Oberon said for Orlaith but don’t bother with the other way around. Oberon is an old hand at this.
Leashes in my fist and filled with insouciance, I take the dirt road down from Box Canyon Falls, cross the bridge, and enter Ouray near the Victorian Inn. We turn left up Main Street and slowly make our way north, pausing frequently when the hounds want to investigate something or when passersby want to pet them and chat. Some people cross the street when they see us coming; wolfhounds can be intimidating if you’ve never seen them before, and no doubt they think that I won’t be able to hold on to one of them, much less two, if the dogs take it into their heads to run for it.
The pleasant morning is ruined as we pause outside a leather shop, though it’s no fault of the leather’s. The manager of the establishment, a grizzled man in his fifties with a brow furrowed in confusion, steps outside with a cordless phone and says, “Sorry, but would your name be Granny-Woo, by any chance, or something like that?” He completely bungles the pronunciation of my name, but I’m used to that.
Oberon and Orlaith swing around in concert to look at him, ears raised, and he flinches when he sees them. They hadn’t been in view from inside the shop, so they take him by surprise when he steps across the threshold. “Gah. Those are some damn big dogs,” he mutters.
"Woof?" Orlaith asks.
"If I barked at him right now, he would squeal," Oberon says, and it’s a struggle to keep my expression neutral when both dogs are thinking essentially the same thing. They are right: He’d probably stagger backward and hurt himself in his haste to get away, so I remind them to remain silent.
“Yes, I’m Granuaile,” I tell him.
“Well, there’s a phone call for you,” the manager replies, holding out the phone to me. “They say it’s an emergency. Life or death.” I take the phone from him, and he says he’ll be inside when I am finished. I’m not terribly surprised, since I’m aware that those of sufficient skill can divine my whereabouts if they wish, but I dread the bad news.
“Thanks,” I say to him, nodding, then hold the phone up to my ear. “Hello?”
“Granuaile. It is Laksha.”
“Laksha? Where are you?” I had not heard from Laksha Kulasekaran for more than a decade. The spirit of the Indian witch had shared space in my head once, and it was thanks to her that I learned of Atticus’s true nature and became his apprentice. But after she found a body she could fully possess, we had spoken only a few times, as I began my training in earnest and she moved away to build a new life.
“I am in Thanjavur, India.”
“Okay. I’m not sure where that is.”
“It’s near the southeastern coast, in the state of Tamil Nadu. I have been living in the region for several years. There is a problem here that might interest you, and I would appreciate your help even if it doesn’t interest you. You are a full Druid now, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Congratulations. Your skills could do wondrous good here, but especially if you are related to this man. Do you know of a gentleman named Donal MacTiernan?”
“Yes, that’s my father’s name. My real dad, not my stepfather.”
“Is your father an archaeologist?”
The conversation was beginning to worry me. “Yes, he is.”
“I was afraid of this. That is why I took the trouble to divine your location and call you. I believe your father is here. Did you know he was digging in India?”
“No, but that doesn’t surprise me. He digs all over the world.”
“I am afraid he found something that would have been better left buried. He unearthed a clay vessel recently and he opened it, either ignoring what was written on the outside or encouraged by it. It wasn’t empty. The vessel contained a spirit that had been trapped inside for many centuries—trapped for very good reasons—and it immediately possessed him.”
“Possessed him? Shit. How? The way you do it?”
“No, but it is similar. His spirit still dwells within his body, but the possessing spirit is dominant.”
“What can you tell me about it?”
“I found the vessel at the site. Your father had dropped it, or perhaps shattered it on purpose. I pieced it back together in order to read the Sanskrit markings. They warned that there was a raksoyuj inside.”
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
“A raksoyuj, which means a yoker of rakshasas. It’s a type of sorcerer that I thought had been eliminated before I was born. They are capable of summoning demons and bending them to their will, and that is what he is doing. The rakshasas your father has summoned are spreading a pestilence throughout the region. People are dying.”
“Wait, you’re saying my dad is killing people?”
“The spirit possessing him is responsible, but it’s his body. I can imagine that someone will be wanting to stop him soon, and they might not be very careful about how they do it.”
“Oh, gods—”
“Yes, them too.”
“Okay, I can be there in a few hours.” I’d need to run back to the cabin and throw some things together and then find Atticus, but shifting around the world wouldn’t take any time at all. “Where should I meet you?”
“Meet me at the entrance to the Brihadeeswara Temple. We are eleven and a half hours ahead of you, so it will be fully dark when you get here.”
“See you then. Thanks for calling me.” I thumb the OFF button, ask the hounds to wait, and dart into the leather shop to return the phone to the manager.
Oberon asks, "Is there something wrong, Clever Girl?" when I return outside.
Yes, I answer him mentally, then make sure to include Orlaith. We have to return to the cabin quickly. Jog with me; no stopping unless I stop.
"No more town?" Orlaith says.
No more of this town. We will go to a different one.
We turn around and eat up ground quickly, especially since it’s downhill. People on the sidewalk move out of our way.
"I heard you say someone was possessed," Oberon says. "You weren’t talking about Atticus, were you?"
No, it was my father. Laksha says he’s in India and he needs my help.
"Am I going too?"
Well—damn. I can’t take both Oberon and Orlaith with me unless I make two trips. I don’t have enough “fully furnished” headspaces for it, and a Druid needs a separate headspace for each being she takes along when hopping between the planes. We can slip our friends into the worlds built by scions of literature, splitting our consciousness into self-contained partitions. Atticus explained it to me like so: The tethers are roads, and Druids are the vehicles that drive on them. Headspaces are like seats for passengers. Thus far I have memorized only the world of Walt Whitman, and that would allow me to take one person—or hound—with me when I shift to Tír na nóg and thence to India. It would be more practical to have Atticus join us if he could; he has six headspaces. He’s like one of those old-fashioned boatmobiles, where I’m only a two-seat Smart Car. Well, scratch that. I’m more like a two-seat Jaguar F-Type. I’m not sure, Oberon. I’ll have to see if I can find Atticus.
Once we cross the bridge over the Uncompahgre River that leads to Box Canyon Falls, we zip behind some undergrowth and I shuck off my clothes before shifting to a jaguar. I abandon my jeans and sandals but decide to carry my Laser Vaginas T-shirt back in my mouth. Those are rare, after all. We sprint back to the cabin together, the hounds enjoying every moment of it, unconscious of my worries—as they should be.
When we get home, they both head straight for the water bowl and I head for the bedroom to get dressed for a fight. I doubt that physical weapons will be of any use against a spirit, but the sorts of spirits who possess people tend to have ways to manifest physical threats. I throw on another pair of jeans and a nondescript T-shirt, a simple solid black. No customs agents, metal detectors, or anything like that will delay my travel, so I strap on two holsters that carry three throwing knives each and hide another pack of them between the waistband of my jeans and the small of my back.
Oberon and Orlaith, I’m going to find Atticus in Tír na nóg. Hopefully it won’t take long. Are you okay on food?
"That depends on how you define okay," Oberon says. "I haven’t had my morning sausage yet."
"Sausage now?" Orlaith asks, and I smile despite my stress. They are two of a kind.
Okay, I hear you, I reply. We must adhere to our priorities. Forcing myself to take the time, I fry up some sausages for the hounds and toast some sprouted-grain bread for myself. While I hope this will be a quick trip, it could easily turn into something more lengthy, and I don’t know when I’ll have a chance to eat again—and, besides, I haven’t had breakfast yet either.
Recognizing that the same uncertainty applies to the hounds, I haul out a bag of kibble and pour it into two gigantic bowls.
"You don’t expect us to eat that, do you?" Oberon says.
“It’s a backup plan,” I reply. “Just in case. You’re free to hunt, of course, and there’s all the water you want in the river. I hope I’ll be back in a few minutes and none of it will be necessary. But you know how weird things can get when you expect Atticus to behave normally.”
"Do I ever! Sometimes he eats vegetables!"
“The point is, you won’t starve while I’m gone, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
We all make short work of our breakfast and I give the hounds hugs before I shift away to Tír na nóg, the primary Irish plane to which the Irish gods have tethered all others, allowing us to travel as we wish. I check at Manannan’s estate first, but Atticus isn’t there. Nor is he at the Time Island; the boat he used is moored at the shore with a rope tied to a stake plunged in the ground. He isn’t at Goibhniu’s shop or at the Fae Court, and that exhausts all the places I know to look for him in Tír na nóg. No one I ask knows where he and the old man have gone. I don’t have time to waste looking anymore, so I shift back to Colorado and find the hounds playing down by the river.
Oberon! Orlaith!
"Clever Girl is home!"
"Granuaile! Race!"
There are no creatures better at making someone feel welcome than happy hounds. Though I had been gone perhaps only a half hour, their joy at my return was no less than if I had been gone half a year. I wish sometimes that humans could greet each other with such unreserved delight. Leaving out the face-licking, perhaps.
I can’t play with them, however, and though it breaks my heart, I have to leave Oberon behind if I’m going to go to India.
“I couldn’t find Atticus. I need you to stay here and explain where I’ve gone so that he can find me,” I tell him. We enter the cabin, and I grab a pen and paper to scribble down a note.
"What do you want me to tell him?"
“Tell him I’m with Laksha; we’re trying to find and help my real father, who’s in trouble, and the details on where to find me are in this note I’m leaving. Don’t forget to tell him about the note, okay?”
"I won’t forget."
“Good hound.”
"Do you think it would be creepy if I had you tell Orlaith from me that I will miss her while you’re gone?"
I smile and answer him privately. You’ve seen too many human movies. Hounds are allowed to miss whomever they want at any point in a relationship without any creep penalties.
"Oh, yeah! We have different rules."
I will miss both you and Atticus, I say, picking up my staff, Scáthmhaide, and walking outside with Orlaith trailing behind. I hope to see you soon.
"You will!"
I put my hand on a tethered tree and ask Orlaith to put one paw on me and one on the tree. Orlaith says, "Bye, Oberon! Play later!"
I tell Oberon what she said, and then we shift away to India.