“Hello, Siodhachan,” she said once I was close enough to hear at a normal volume. “Do you know me?”
“I don’t recognize you, sorry,” I replied, shaking my head.
“I look different now.” Her brown eyes gleamed above a generous nose, and there were laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. “The last time you saw me was in Arizona, and I was white because I manifested from the mind of Katie MacDonagh. I blessed some arrows for you.”
That could be only one person. “Mary?”
She beamed at me. “You do remember!”
“Of course! It’s wonderful to see you again. I hope nothing is wrong?”
“Oh, no, child, all is well, and Katie sends her love. I’ve come to give you a message from my son. A letter, in fact.”
“Jesus wrote me a letter?”
“Yes, I thought it was a bit eccentric, for we haven’t so much as a book of stamps in heaven, never mind a postal service, but he likes to keep us guessing, you know.” She held out the letter to me and I took it.
“He does have a reputation for that. Thank you.”
“Quite welcome, my child. I shall leave you to it; he’s not expecting a reply, and there are some people in town who require my attention. But I am so glad to see you safe. Peace be with you.”
“And also with you, Mary.” I looked at the envelope, which bore my name on it without an address. “Ha! He wrote it in red ink?”
Mary tittered. “He thought it was funny and said you might appreciate the joke.”
“I do. Please give him my best regards.”
“I will. Farewell.” She turned toward town, headscarf billowing gently in an afternoon breeze, and I turned my attention to the letter. There was a wax seal on the back in red, imprinted with the silhouette of a dove in flight. I pried open the seal, unfolded a single sheet, and began to read.
Dear Siodhachan,
Welcome to one of the timelines in which you survived. If you’re wondering if there’s one in which you’re happy right now, the answer is no. You are universally miserable, and this is the moment where I could say I told you so, but we are friends and I wish to remain your friend. Instead, since you did not heed my advice earlier, I hope you will heed it now: Live in peace. Do not pick up a sword again, and harmony will find you.
By the way, your fly is open. It was totally open in front of my mom, and yes, she saw.
Yours in joy and whiskey,
Jesus
I looked down to confirm and, yes, indeed, my fly was open. “Oh, crap!” I hurriedly zipped it and looked up at the sky. “Sorry,” I mumbled, then flapped the letter a couple of times in the air. “And thanks for the advice. I’m ready to listen now and I will live in peace. If I don’t die of embarrassment first.”
Oberon, alert as ever, did not miss an opportunity to tease me. <Heh heh. Hey, Atticus, remember that time you flashed your junk at the mother of God? That was just now actually, but I didn’t want you to forget.>
a week after the Morrigan’s visitation and my mortifying faux pas in front of Mary, I sat under a swamp gum eucalyptus with Oberon and Starbuck, taking a modest lunch break from healing Tasmanian devils. Without my healing triskele tattoo it took a while longer to do the first healing, because I had to craft the bindings free-form, but once I created a macro for it the process worked just fine with Tasmania’s help. We’d finished our salame and crackers and I was giving Oberon a lazy, distracted belly rub.
<I know this is going to sound selfish, Atticus, but I really miss your other hand. Belly rubs aren’t quite the same.>
“I’m sorry, buddy.”
<There has to be something we can do to fix it. Hey, wait!> My hound rolled over and sat up, his tail wagging, excited about whatever had just occurred to him. Starbuck leapt to his feet and crouched, in case Oberon was ready to play. <Atticus, what about that guy who owes you favors?>
“Which guy, Oberon?”
<I remember you told me some stories two centuries ago around the fire. It was when Clever Girl was in her training period, I think. There was some pretty good stew, I recall, once you got rid of the carrots. But anyway, you told us a story about this god who wanted you to fetch some stuff out of a library but you wound up stealing a book full of some really loud cat sex, and another time that same god had you fetch a magic cauldron from a naughty necromancer in Wales.>
“Oh! You mean Ogma!”
<Yeah, that’s who I mean. You said he would owe you a pretty big favor for both of those things, right?>
“Yes, that’s right.”
<Well, it’s time to call in those favors, don’t you think? I mean, when were you planning on using those? They didn’t go bad, did they, like a cheesesteak left out in the sun? That would be…that would be so sad. I’m getting very sad just thinking about it. Why do people abandon their cheesesteaks, Atticus, why? Do they not have stomachs or taste buds or what? Help me understand!> He tilted back his head to howl mournfully and Starbuck joined in, albeit in a much higher register.
“Oberon, please—you made a good point and then you got sidetracked. I can’t explain wanton cheesesteak abuse any more than I can explain why some people watch other people fishing on television. Those are inexplicable mysteries. But Ogma’s favors do deserve some consideration. I put my life in jeopardy both times. That means they’re pretty big favors.”
<And that means I deserve a pretty big snack, right? Like a whale or something.>
“Whales are not snacks, Oberon.”
<That was merely a suggestion based on the size of the favor I just did you. It’s okay if you don’t give me a whale. You could substitute a herd of cattle or buy me my own chicken-and-waffle restaurant. It would be called Oberon’s Chicken and Waffles, because all the chicken and waffles would in fact be mine.>
“Well, let’s see how it works out first. Let me think about this.”
I called to the Morrigan that night, wondering if she would be willing to grant the favor. Her breathy whisper sounded pleased at first.
Siodhachan. I didn’t expect to hear from you again so soon.
“I admit that I was hoping to get your help with a couple of favors that Ogma owes me.”
I don’t understand. You want me to repay favors that Ogma owes you or force Ogma to grant you the favors he owes?
“Neither. One of the favors requires him to find Miach, who was slain by his father, Dian Cecht, and learn from him how he performed the feat for which he is still famous.”
I think I see. You are asking a favor of me so that Ogma can perform a favor for you.
“I’m not exactly asking in the binding contractual sense. I am wondering if you will do this for me without expecting to be paid later.”
Why would I do that?
“Because it would demonstrate to me that you can behave in ways to which you’re unaccustomed. It would be proof of your personal growth.”
Perhaps it would demonstrate that. Or perhaps you are using my professed feelings against me to your advantage. Manipulating me.
“Perhaps. But you don’t have to continue to think of every transaction or exchange as having a winner and a loser.”
I only think of it that way because it’s true.
“It’s not true if you want to build a relationship based on trust with someone. Both people can and should win.”
Is that so? How would I win in this case?
“I would be grateful and think of you fondly.”
Are you saying you would love me?
“No, that’s not what I said. But believing you will do something for me without payment in kind—that’s a big step along that path. It’s crucial, in fact.”
And have you ever done something like that for me?
“I have worshipped you and observed your rites for more than two thousand years. I have prayed to you, honored you, and I took you to a baseball game once just to enjoy your company. Bought you a cute baseball cap and everything.”
Ah, yes, I remember. The despair in the dugout was delicious. Very well. Have Ogma call me when he is ready and I will take him to the shade of Miach, expecting no favor in return.