sniffing out Granuaile and Oberon.
Saxony pointed me just south of west. I shifted to a stag, picked up Fragarach between my lips, and ran,more worried than I’d ever been. Once, when I’d taken a knife in a kidney and another between the shoulders from the Hammers of God, no less a deity than Jesus had told me the pain I’d felt then was a fraction of what I’d feel if I followed through with my chosen course of action, and while I’ve never worshipped him, I do know he’s not the sort of god who lies to people. At the time, I couldn’t imagine anything worse than my current pain, because I was out of magic then and damaged kidneys fucking hurt. But now I thought I knew what Jesus meant. Free of the gray wash of depression and thinking straight, losing Granuaile and Oberon would be … well, I didn’t have words for that kind of agony. Maybe I had my own dump truck of bad karma waiting for me somewhere ahead. I had certainly earned it, but I raced to avoid it if I could; there was no way I wanted to feel that.
Chapter 13
Oberon and I run much faster now that we have a destination and a purpose, even though the Netherlands has proven to be something of an obstacle course. We have had many more roads to cross, and skirting the population is a challenge, but it’s aided by the night; millions of Dutch folk slumber in peace—spooning, perhaps, with someone they love, snoring the snores of the unhunted—and remain blissfully unaware that magic is real and a very old branch of it is doomed to perish in their borders.
As the sky broadcasts a pale gray warning of an incipient sunrise, I spy a sign welcoming me to Veluwezoom National Park, except that the Dutch spell it
Nationaal
—which I kind of like. The bonus vowel suggests abundance, as if their country is stuffed with a surpassing bounty of natural gifts. It is a not unreasonable conclusion. Veluwezoom is a serene stretch of heath and assorted trees, the latter huddled together around the perimeter of the park and giving shelter to innumerable critters that Oberon, were he not so forlorn, would have loved to harass. The leaves on the trees fly flags of red and orange and yellow, heralding with the brightest pageantry the decline of their vigor. Seeing that, Atticuswould be smiling and starting to talk about celebrating Samhain soon. If he were here.
Missing people in our lives are like wounds we reopen with thoughts.
Our destination lay at the far end of a field of grass and heather that sloped ever so gently up to it. Once there, at the base of the small tree-topped cliffside the elemental had shown me, I shifted to human and turned to survey our trail. I beheld a vista of fading green and pale lavender, contoured slopes of plants crouching patiently in the predawn gray, waiting for the first blazon of the sun to light their edges with fire and joy. Oberon turned with me, nose in the air, sampling its scent, and ears twitching at the sound of birds waking up for the morning’s natter. They were located in small handfuls of trees on either side of the cliff that constricted our view of the periphery. Perhaps they found the prospect of the heath as stunning as we did; it was a shy, muted beauty ready to be seen and applauded.
“This is the place. Backs to the wall like I promised.”
“That’s right, no choppah.”
The great hound gave a sigh and stretched himself out on the grass, paws in front, sphinxlike, and kept his eyes scanning the horizon.
Much worse
, I agreed, though this time I spoke mind-to-mind. If this was to be my final sunrise, I wanted to appreciate the soundtrack without my voice stomping on it.
I petted Oberon and he let me do it, but I noted that he didn’t wag his tail even a little bit.
Oberon said as we waited.
What would be pie?
What are you talking about?
Shakespeare had a hog-mounted monkey cavalry? In which play?
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