“No.”
“Ah, well.” I delivered it to him, and he radiated smug contentment as he put it away out of my sight and followed it with the lacquered box. We stood soon afterward, hugged, and made our farewells, he to return to Tír na nóg, I to some new quiet village out of the Roman Empire.
Unfortunately, all Druids heard shortly thereafter through local elementals that they were no longer welcome in Egypt. But I can tell you that the treasures I saw in those rooms in Alexandria have never been found by modern archaeologists, and I suspect they’re still hidden away somewhere, guarded now entirely by Seshat’s wards.
—
“Wait,” Granuaile said. “No, that can’t be the end! What was in the box Ogma wanted?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know, beyond the fact that it was full of scrolls, and I never will. I gave it to him without question. You can think of it as the briefcase Jules and Vincent were after in Pulp Fiction: very shiny but forever a mystery.”
“You seriously never looked?”
“Wasn’t my business. I wanted a future favor more than I wanted whatever was in that box. And besides, I had plenty of other material to keep me company.”
<You’re not talking about your further adventures with the cat-sex book, I hope.>
“No, Oberon, I’m not talking about Bast’s mysteries. I mean all the other things I stole. I learned so much from what I stole. I still use that information today; Third Eye Books & Herbs was partially protected using Egyptian techniques. And I carefully neglected to tell Ogma about the potential usefulness of iron elementals.”
“Oh? Does that mean the Tuatha Dé Danann never summon them?” Granuaile asked.
“That’s right. I mean, I’ve told the Morrigan about them now, but I doubt she’ll be making friends with one quickly.”
My apprentice’s eyes grew wide and she shook her head a couple of times but said nothing.
“It was running that errand for Ogma, and then another one a few centuries later, that put me on the path to becoming the Iron Druid and creating my charms as a method of nonverbal binding. Seshat’s curse certainly taught me the need for that.”
Granuaile snorted. “Yeah.”
“Ogma still owes me—twice!—but I’m not sure I’ll ever call those favors in. I wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for those errands. Becoming the Iron Druid has kept me alive as much as Immortali-Tea has.”
“Are we going to hear about that other errand?” Granuaile asked, stifling a yawn.
“Sure. But let’s save it for another night around the fire.”*
<I hope there will be another belly rub around that fire. And more meat. And maybe a poodle with a poufy tail.>
I’ll see what I can do, Oberon.
<So next time I see Ogma, I should blame him for being chased by cats?>
No, you can blame me. I’m the one who angered Bast.
<Aww. I can’t blame you for stuff, Atticus! You give me snacks, and that’s like diplomatic immunity. Not fair!>
It is true, my friend, that life is not fair. But sometimes there is gravy.
<You are so right, Atticus. Gravy is our comfort and our joy.>
* * *
* That other night around the fire refers to “The Chapel Perilous,” in which Atticus must recover the Holy Grail for Ogma in Wales in the year 537. And Oberon’s recollection of being chased by all the cats ever occurs in the novella Grimoire of the Lamb.
This story, narrated by Atticus, takes place during Granuaile’s training period, after Tricked but before the novella Two Ravens and One Crow.
There is no industrial hum under the skies of the Navajo Nation, and the stars float bright and naked in them, the urban gauze of pollution far away and veiling someone else’s view. And in that clarity all you hear is the song the earth decides to sing—well, that, and whatever noise you make yourself. The crackle and whoosh of wood as it burns under a bubbling stewpot is some of my favorite music, and visually it can be mesmerizing—and evocative.
“Fire burn and cauldron bubble,” Granuaile intoned, staring into the orange heart of the blaze of our campfire as she quoted the witches from Shakespeare. The words triggered a memory and I shivered involuntarily. My apprentice caught it as she looked up from the fire. “What? Are you spooked by those fictional hags?”
“Not the fictional ones, no,” I said, and Granuaile grew still, staring at me. Oberon, my Irish wolfhound, was curled up outside the stones surrounding the fire pit and sensed that some tension had crept too close to his warm repose. He raised his head and spoke to me through our mental bond.
<Atticus? What’s going on?>
Granuaile wasn’t bound to the earth yet and she couldn’t hear Oberon, but she had learned to pick up some of his cues. “If Oberon’s asking you what’s up, I’d like to know too. What made you shudder like that?”
I briefly wondered if I should tell her or dodge the question but then remembered she had already seen plenty of things through her association with me that she’d never unsee. The visage of Hel, for example, Norse goddess of the dead, was nightmare fuel enough for any lifetime, and she hadn’t cracked yet.
“It’s a bit of a story, but I suppose we have the time for it.”
“We absolutely do,” Granuaile agreed. “We have a fire, honest-to-goodness stew that’s been cooking all day, and some beers in the cooler. And no chance of being interrupted.” She waggled a finger at me. “That’s key.”
“Indeed. Well, it’s a story from England shortly after the death of Queen Elizabeth, when Shakespeare had a new patron in Scottish Jimmy—”
“Scottish Jimmy?”
“That was what the irreverent called King James back then. That was the politest term, actually.”
“We’re talking about the namesake of the King James Bible?”
“Precisely.”
“Hold on. I know you have all of Shakespeare’s works memorized, but did you actually meet him?”
“Not only did I meet him, I saved his life.”
Granuaile gaped. She knew that my long life had acquainted me with a few celebrated historical figures, but I could still surprise her. “How have you not told me this before?”
Shrugging, I said, “There was always a chance we’d be interrupted before, and as you said, that’s key. And I didn’t want to be a name-dropper.”
“So is saving Shakespeare a different story from the memory that made you shiver?”
“Nope. It’s the same one.”
Granuaile clapped her hands together and made a tiny squeaking noise, which made Oberon thump his tail on the ground.
What are you getting excited about? I asked him.
<I don’t know, Atticus, but she sounds really happy, so I’m happy for her. Did people in England have poodles back then?>
They might have, but I didn’t see any.
<Oh, I’m sorry, Atticus. That must have been rough on you. I know it’s been rough on me, out here all alone without any asses to sniff…>
I know, buddy, I know; we need to go into town soon so you can have a social life.