Scourged, Page 2
Kevin Hearne
“It was Bingo.”
“Exactly like the song. I can tell you the true story of the actual Bingo who inspired that song.”
“Oh, but there were earlier versions of the song, which hint at some heroic deeds. And I know the details of that heroism.”
Oberon stopped looking at the truck bed and trying to imagine it filled with meat.
* * *
—
In the eighteenth century, just before the Agricultural and Industrial Revolutions, there was a cabbage farmer in the Southern Uplands of Scotland—that’s the region closest to the border with Britain. His name was Dúghlas Mac Támhais, the Gaelic form of Douglas McTavish. In addition to his hillside of cabbages and a hayfield, he had a barnyard with some animals in there—a dairy cow, a plow horse, and, most important, a henhouse. Because chickens—those humble descendants of dinosaurs—are so delicious, they needed protection from foxes. And because cabbages are likewise delicious to some animals, they needed protection from rabbits and the like. That was where Bingo came in: Half his job was to protect the farm, and the other half was to be adorable. Bingo was outstanding at both halves of his job.
But he worried about his human. Dúghlas, you see, had taken to drinking quite a bit of ale after tragedy struck: He lost his wife as she gave birth to their first child and then lost the child soon after to fever. He was heartbroken and descending into alcoholism, and Bingo worried that he’d never recover.
One night, as Dúghlas was scowling at a potato and cabbage pie he’d made for dinner—a dish called rumbledethumps—Bingo let loose with a tremendous racket outside, and Dúghlas assumed quite rightly that they had an unwelcome visitor. He was already pickled as he grabbed up his musket, which he kept loaded and primed in case of emergencies like this one.
There was a fox trying to get into the henhouse, and Bingo was chasing him off, headed toward the property of the neighboring farm. They had a stile over the fence, for they were good neighbors, and the fox actually used the stile and Bingo leapt after him. That was the first verse of the original song: “The farmer’s dog leapt over the stile, his name was little Bingo.” The second verse had to do with the farmer’s drinking habit, and that was immortalized because Dúghlas was inebriated to the point where he shouldn’t be attempting things like steep steps over a fence. He managed to climb up to the top okay, but coming down was disastrous. He slipped on the first step, fired the musket into the air with a convulsive jerk of the trigger, and wound up hitting his head on the bottom step pretty badly. He was unconscious and bleeding.
Well, Bingo left off chasing that fox right away when he heard that gunshot and realized his human had stopped hollering. He ran back to Dúghlas and tried to wake him up, even slobbered on his nose, but it was no good. So he hightailed it to that other farmhouse and barked his head off until some humans came out, and then he kept running back and forth until they got the idea he wanted to show them something.
They followed Bingo to Dúghlas and brought him inside and cleaned him up, bandaged his head. These were the Mayfields, and at that time a cousin of theirs was visiting, young Kimberly Mayfield, and she thought Dúghlas handsome and Bingo adorable. She gave Bingo some sausage topped with gravy, in fact, for being such a good hound. And when Dúghlas woke up, he found Kimberly to be kind and beautiful and clearly well loved by his dog, so there was no hope for it: He fell in love again. The next verse of the old song went like this: “The farmer loved a pretty young lass, and gave her a wedding ring-o.”
And it provides few details after that, but he also stopped drinking and became his old happy self again. So that’s why Bingo got immortalized in song. He protected the delicious chickens, saved his human’s life, and helped him find love once more. But much of the original story’s been lost over time until we have the bare-bones song that children sing and clap to today.
* * *
—
Orlaith had questions.
“No, I met his son—one he had with Kimberly—years later in America. Lots of farmers came across the ocean during the Lowland Clearances, as they call it now.”
“You are?”
“Maybe. How would it go?”
<“There was a hound named Oberon,
And he loved sausage gravy!
G-R-A-V-Y! G-R-A-V-Y!
G-R-A-V-Y!
And he loved sausage gravy.”>
When we got into Eugene, the hounds agreed to stay in the bed of the truck while I went to get the meats and necessary gravy ingredients. I sent them mental pictures of what was available and they chose what they wanted, and I did make them choose instead of buying everything. That was for practical reasons; I didn’t have all the time or sufficient kitchen space to make everything. But I did want to spend some time giving them a memorable meal, since I didn’t know when I’d next be able to come home. I lost some time staring at the ground beef, packaged in red undulating waves, realizing that I might never come home and might lie somewhere beyond the aid of my soulcatcher charm to help, food for worms, packed up in some skin instead of Styrofoam and cellophane but otherwise little different from the 90 percent lean on sale. Oberon had made clear that he wanted to go with me, regardless of the danger, but I told him I couldn’t bear it if he was hurt. I needed a home to come back to. I teared up at the mere thought of him living without me or me without him; we’d be so lonesome and hangdog, not to put too fine a point on it. And neither of us would be thinking of a feast like this. We’d probably not want to eat at all without the other one around to enjoy it with.
Orlaith added. They really are the best hounds.
Earnest pitched in once we got home, and we had five hounds underfoot in the kitchen until I demanded that they vacate to the perimeter, where they could slobber and comment on the smells without tripping us up. We had a pot roast going, Cornish hens roasting, dry-cured sausages to slice, ribs on the grill, and four different gravies simmering on the stovetop. We had fish cooking in lime juice for a ceviche too, swordfish steaks sharing grill space next to the ribs, and charcuterie sliced thinly and layered on cedar planks.
When it was ready, we set it all out on the dining room table, lacking an actual bar, and put the gravies in tureens. Earnest and I had the hounds sit before it, their hungry excitement plain, and took some pictures. We then fixed each hound a plate, giving them the option to choose but knowing they’d try everything once and then come back for seconds of whatever they liked best.
said.
Cleanup was a major chore but Earnest and I got it done, and I managed to catch a few hours of sleep before giving them lazy belly rubs in the wee hours of the morning and kissing them on the head and telling them they were loved. I slipped out the back door, relieved to know that they were safe as I began to work on cleaning up my mess. I had a nine-ton albatross about my neck to remove.
* * *
—
The Morrigan had been less than specific during her visit to me; she’d said only that Loki was going to act soon but hadn’t said precisely when or where. I needed more details to counter him effectively, and I knew precisely where to get them. Casting wands wasn’t going to get me the specifics I needed; I needed a seer without peer who could read details in the future. Mekera the tyromancer had helped me on a couple of occasions before, and I hoped she could do so again.
She had most recently been living on Emhain Ablach—one of the nine Irish planes, and nominally ruled by Manannan Mac Lir—since I’d helped her escape from the attentions of some vampires. That threat was over with now, the vampires in question all sent to their final deaths, and she could return to earth if she wished.
She certainly wished it. She looked a bit harried when I found her. “What’s the matter?”
“There are ghosts here. I mean they’ve arrived recently. Very strange.”
“Are they attacking you?”
“No, but they don’t need to attack to creep me out.”
“Hmm. It might be because Manannan Mac Lir has given up on his duties as psychopomp. The Morrigan has as well, so the dead are going wherever they can instead of where they should.”
“Well, I want out.”
“I’ve come to offer that very thing. And ask for a cheese.”
Her shoulders slumped. “Of course you have. What is it you want to know this time?”
“I’ve been told Ragnarok is about to begin. I’d like to know precisely when and where the first attacks will occur.”
“All right,” she replied, her voice deadpan. “Something nice and light as usual. Where do they make great cheese these days?”
I shrugged. “Lots of places. How does France sound? Ever been there?”
Mekera’s face lit up. “Ah, the fromage of the French! Let’s go there. I think I’d like to learn from them and maybe teach them a thing or two.”
I helped her gather her few belongings and we shifted to a small stand of trees outside Poitiers, in the goat-cheese region of France. Mekera might prefer a different region in the end, but I thought the area winsome and it would be a good place to find what she needed without the madness of Paris to deal with. She was used to being a hermit, after all; Poitiers would be a mighty shock to her system as it was.
“My French is somewhat rusty. Perhaps very rusty.”
“It’ll come back to you. And you’ll be able to get along in the meantime with English.”
“You think?” She looked doubtful as her gaze wandered around the streets. We were heading for a supermarket where she could purchase some basics for cheese-making. “I don’t see anyone who looks like me. This might have been a bad idea.”
I grinned because I’d expected her to have second thoughts. “Let’s go to the store and make a cheese, at least. If you don’t feel more comfortable by the end, I’ll take you elsewhere.”
Mekera agreed to this, her eyes darting around and her arms hugging herself. Once inside the store, however, with a basket in her hand, some of her social anxiety drained away as her professional interests took hold and she searched for ingredients. She also noted the faces of some other shoppers who weren’t white, and she exchanged tight nods and smiles with them as she passed. But at the dairy case she had cause to do more than that. She had pulled a few quarts of goat milk out of the refrigerator and turned to discover a woman dressed much like her, in Eritrean fashion, wearing a light tunic with a gold-and-black embroidered neckline that then fell in a vertical line down the center to her midriff. Mekera’s was embroidered in blues and blacks, but otherwise they were almost identical. Recognition flared in their eyes. The other woman, whose skin was a deep umber with cool undertones, like Mekera’s, spoke first.
“Are you from Eritrea?” she asked in French.
“Oui,” Mekera said. “Vous?”
The newcomer responded affirmatively and flashed a brilliant smile, then they promptly switched to their native language, which I did not speak. I stepped away out of Mekera’s sight so that she would not feel she had to introduce me. That worked perfectly; she forgot all about me, so excited to meet someone from Eritrea this far from home.
As the conversation extended and I pretended to read the ingredients of some crackers nearby, I thought I detected something in their voices and risked a peek at their auras. Yep: A touch of arousal there. They were into each other. Cool.
The other woman asked a question that startled Mekera into remembering that she hadn’t come alone. She looked around for me and I gave her a tiny wave. Somewhat abashed, she introduced me as her friend Connor Molloy. Her new acquaintance introduced herself as Fiyori.
“Pleasure to meet you,” I said in French. “Please take your time chatting. I am in no hurry.” I backed away again and chose to make a more thorough examination of the crackers.
Some while later Mekera found me, her face shining with joy. “Fiyori gave me her phone number! You know what this means?”
“She likes you.”
“No! I mean yes, but it means I need to get a phone!”
“I agree. Let’s do that and get you set up.”
We took our purchases to an extended-stay hotel with a kitchenette and rented it for a month. The unspoken, understood agreement we had was that I’d get Mekera started here—or anywhere—in exchange for her tyromancy. That would give her time to get her assets transferred and find something a bit more permanent.
I did my best not to pace or look impatient as Mekera set about making a soft goat cheese. As the world’s finest tyromancer, she would be able to see details of the future in the patterns of its curdling and coagulation, far more accurately than any divination I could practice. I wrote down a single question for her, though it was composed of many parts. When she was ready for it, she read it aloud: “When and where will Loki, Hel, and Jörmungandr appear to begin Ragnarok?” She gave a tiny shake of her head and sighed. “All right. Here we go.” She squinted at the goat milk in her stainless steel pot as she added rennet and it began to posset and curd.
I had a hotel pad and pen ready to go.
“Jörmungandr first. Off a small peninsula south of Skibbereen. Near one of those fort hills.”
“When?”
“Thursday morning is the best I can do.”
Thursday. Thor’s Day. Of course Loki would choose to begin then. That was only three days away.
“And the others?”
“Loki and Hel will appear together the same day, in midafternoon. But up in Sweden. The northern edge of a lake?”
“I know the place. Yggdrasil’s root is bound there. Damn. I need to make some calls.”
“And I need a phone,” Mekera reminded me, “so I can make a call myself.”
“Right. I’ll go get you a burner phone. Be right back.”
It didn’t take long to find a convenience store that sold burner phones. Once I got one and activated it for her, I gave it to Mekera with my thanks and best wishes.
“Call Fiyori soon,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because she likes you. And because of Thursday. I’m going to do my best, Mekera, but it might not work out well. Don’t start any cheeses that need to age.”
“That’s not funny, m
y friend.”
“No. No, it’s not.”
if ye give the world half a chance it’ll turn to shite. We knew that thousands of years ago, but Siodhachan tells me there’s a fancy law about it now. Kind of like if ye have a basic cracker and ye feel okay about it, but put some fecking nasty fish eggs on top and call it caviar, now it’s fancy.
The fancy law is the Second Law of Thermodynamics, and it says if ye have an isolated system, then entropy will increase and—gods damn it, let’s just say things turn to shite and be done with it, all right? We can call it the First Law of Owen.
Except that ye can clean up the shite if ye have the heart and mind for it—call that the Second Law of Owen—and I’m proud of me apprentices right now for the work they’re doing.
We’re in Tasmania, saving some marsupial doglike creatures called devils. They got a strange transmissible face cancer back in the nineties and it was wiping them out, but now our job is to wipe out that cancer, finding every devil on the island and curing them, one by one. The apprentices have tasmanite spheres from Tasmania in the lockets I made them, and the elemental uses that to channel energy through them, which allows them to heal the devils even though they’re far from being proper Druids yet.
Tasmania doesn’t think we can wait, and I’m on board with the idea. I’m thinking these new Druids will be Gaia’s healers above all else, fighting centuries of humans turning everything to shite. I wonder if they have a fancy law or name for the principle that Humans Ruin Everything for Profit. Maybe that’s just capitalism. Regardless, it’s going to take generations of Druids to undo all this damage.
Greta is with me and so are most of the kids’ parents and we are all feeling pretty good about what we’re doing to help. Watching the wee ones heal Tasmanian devils makes me think everything can be healed somehow. Perhaps there’s a way to heal the breach between Fand and Brighid so we don’t have to have any more war among the Fae. And maybe we can smooth things over between the Fae and Siodhachan—less likely, I figure, since he’s still the fecking Iron Druid. But I’d settle for healing the breach between him and Greta.
