“That’s very kind, and I appreciate it.”
Getting Ogma to visit me took several days of prayer and calling upon him and relayed requests through elementals. He hadn’t participated in the fighting of Ragnarok, being one of the gods Brighid had decided to sequester, and he was not anxious to return from wherever he was. He appeared to be in a poor mood when he arrived. The hounds and I were finishing up an early dinner on the beach of the Mayfield Bay Conservation Area when he emerged from the eucalyptus forest. The undersides of clouds were lit in orange and magenta and bruised with purple higher up as the sun set. He pointedly crossed his arms, something I could no longer do.
“Hello, Ogma. I once retrieved the Dagda’s cauldron for you and raided the library at Alexandria, both for favors to be named later.”
“I’m aware. This is quite a bit later.”
“The favors had no expiration dates. I’m ready to call them in now.”
“I assumed as much. What are they?”
“First, I’d like you to contact the Morrigan and have her lead you to the shade of Miach, who healed the arm of Nuada, and learn from him how it was done.”
“That’s more than one favor.”
“It’s only one: Learn from Miach how he healed Nuada. I’m only suggesting you contact the Morrigan because you’ll find him faster that way and she’s already agreed to do this.”
“And if he refuses to teach me?”
“You keep trying until he does, of course. Though I will note that the Morrigan can be very persuasive when she wishes.”
Ogma grunted, looking at my stump. “I think I already know what the second favor is.”
“Yes. Heal me the way Miach healed Nuada. Regrow flesh and bone so that I can be whole again and get my binding to the earth restored.”
The god’s lip curled in a snarl. “You’d better not ask me to complete that binding.”
“I won’t.” I planned to ask Brighid to restore my bindings, should I be so fortunate to possess an arm again. She had said she would grant me a boon.
“Why are you even bothering? You’ve done enough. Granuaile and Owen will make sure Druidry endures. Go to Tír na nÓg and take your rest.”
“I’ve lost a lot, Ogma, but not my will to live. Nor did I lose my sense of responsibility. I still have plenty of work to do on Gaia’s behalf.” And I had a bet with Owen that I wanted to win.
Ogma hawked up something gross from his throat and spat it on the beach, a nonverbal hint at what he thought of my reply. “This will take some time, if it can be done at all. Where will you be?”
“Somewhere on the island. I obviously won’t be shifting around anytime soon. You can ask Tasmania where I am.”
The god grimaced as if he’d just swallowed a mouthful of sour milk, but didn’t say anything else. He couldn’t simply kill me to make the problem go away—not without severe consequences. Dropping the Morrigan’s name ensured that. And refusing the attempt or claiming it was impossible was equally unworkable. I have often thought the economy of favors-to-be-named-later is the shadow economy by which history is funded; nothing important would get done without such favors. He muttered a farewell and departed, and I didn’t know if I’d see him again next week or next month or next year, or, indeed, ever again. The same could be said, I supposed, for Granuaile. There was no guarantee that anything would work out.
But at least I had some small hope of healing and a better hope of learning how to live differently, without having to hide from the Fae or the gods of various pantheons anymore. And in the darkness of time that stretched before me, I saw a small winking light that could be forgiveness. Perhaps it would be others forgiving me my trespasses, or me forgiving myself. I hoped I could make it there, regardless, to let it shine on me.
In the meantime, there was an entire planet to nurture and a couple of hounds who hadn’t forgotten that I promised them a romp on the beach after dinner. And I realized with a start that there was no longer any reason for me to hang on to my American accent. I shed it and returned to my old Irish one, and it was like wrapping myself in a favorite blanket.
“What d’ye say, hounds o’ mine? Ready for some sand and surf before we settle down for the night?”
Oberon and Starbuck didn’t wait but immediately took off toward the wet sand in the day’s last light, tongues flapping in the salty air like pink pennants. Oberon’s mental voice floated back to me, taunting. <Last one to the water’s an old Druid!>
I grinned as I chased them onto the beach. Yes, I am an old Druid. And I plan on getting much older. I have many, many years to go before I see my final sunset.
For Tricia,
the Metal Editor who made all this happen