Kevin Hearne: Two Ravens and One Crow

“On the contrary,” I continued, “I believe I acted shamefully during that second trip, and I deeply regret what happened. I apologize to you both, though I know the words are inadequate.”

Odin snorted. “They’re worse than useless. It’s insulting that you would even try to pay for what you did with a meaningless phrase.”

“How would you suggest that I pay? Paying with my life is not an option.”

I expected an argument here, but Odin surprised me by agreeing. “No, it’s not,” he said. “There’s not enough of you to pay the blood price.”

“Blood price?”

“It’s a common enough concept.”

The waiter swooped in and cleared the first course away before depositing the second in front of us, a seafood soup garnished with avocado and other goodies. Once he left, Odin changed the subject.

“We will speak of blood later. What I would like to know is why you’re alive.”

“Why didn’t I die before the Common Era, you mean? How did I manage to live long enough to vex you?”

“Precisely.”

“I occasionally drink an herbal tea that renews my cells and reverses the aging process.”

“Interesting.” Odin looked down at his soup and, deciding it looked good enough to eat, picked up a spoon. Frigg, the Morrigan, and I did the same, and we slurped up a spoonful or two before Odin asked another question. “And this tea you drink-is it readily available in these modern supermarkets? Or is it something you invented?”

“No. I got the recipe from Airmid, one of the Tuatha De Danann. She’s long dead now, however. Tragic circumstances.”

“A tragedy! Forgive me for noticing, but they seem to follow in your wake.”

“You’re forgiven. May I ask you something?”

“Of course.” His spoon hovered over his bowl as he waited for my question.

“How did you find out where I was?” My cold iron amulet normally shielded me from divination; not even the Norns had seen me coming.

“Hugin and Munin found you a couple of months ago, working out in the desert with that apprentice of yours.”

Mentioning Granuaile wasn’t an accident. It was a subtle threat, but I pretended not to notice. “Oh. About the ravens. Which one…?”

“Did you kill? Hugin. I languished in dreams of the past for years, attended by Frigg and unable to function in the present. But eventually Munin remembered Hugin and laid an egg. The new raven, when he reached maturity, became Hugin again. I awoke, sent the ravens abroad in search of you, and, once you were found, I watched from Hlidskjalf.”

“I see. And how many of the Norse know I’m still alive?”

“Only Frigg and myself.”

“Why didn’t you tell them all?”

“That is related to the blood price of which we will speak further. If you would not mind, I would like to know precisely how you learned the recipe for this brew of eternal youth.”

I shrugged. “I already told you. Airmid taught me.”

“Yes, but why? Why you and no one else?”

I put down my spoon and exchanged glances with the Morrigan. She knew the answer, but no one else did. “Oh. That is quite a story.”

Odin gestured at the table. “We have four more courses.”

“It is not that long, but it is a story I have never shared before and I am reluctant to share it. It has a certain value.”

Odin’s eye bored into mine. “Understood. Consider it a part of what you owe us.”

“Very well.” I saw the waiter and sommelier approaching. “I will begin once we’ve been served the third course.”

The third course was pan-fried pike with a side of white asparagus and some other assorted vegetables artfully arranged on a white plate, drizzled with a beurre blanc. The sommelier, an older gentleman with thinning hair but crisp movements and a steady hand, served us all a glass of chardonnay. After that, I had to share a secret I thought I’d never speak aloud.******

In the days when the Tuatha De Danann were puissant in Ireland, the most famous physician of the time-if I may use the modern word-was Dian Cecht. During the First Battle of Mag Tuireadh, the king, Nuada, lost his right arm in battle, and he applied to Dian Cecht for remedy. Despite his victory over the Fir Bolgs, he was no longer fit to rule with such a disability.

Together with the craftsman Creidhne, Dian Cecht fashioned a magical silver hand and arm for Nuada; once it was attached, it functioned just like a regular arm would, and Dian Cecht’s fame grew ever greater throughout Ireland. People began to call the former king Nuada Silver-hand, for it was truly a miraculous sight and all who saw it were amazed. In public, Nuada was mightily pleased and recognized the fame his silver hand brought him. But in private-well, there were issues. It repelled his wife, who did not want it to touch her. And whether he wore it or not, Nuada could not help but feel incomplete and out of balance. Despite the miracle of the silver arm, he was diminished.

But Miach, son of Dian Cecht, felt Nuada’s pain and dared to help him. He was an extraordinarily talented and empathetic healer, who avoided conflict with his father whenever he could. But in the case of Nuada, he could not withhold help when it was in his power-and his power only-to give it.

Over nine days and nights of chanting and ritual, he managed to regenerate a new arm and hand of flesh and blood for Nuada. The king was whole again and could return to the throne. Miach had surpassed his father, however, and Dian Cecht was not the sort of man who suffered such things in passive silence. Indeed, rather than feel pride for his son’s accomplishment and broadcast it far and wide, he was consumed with jealous rage and confronted his son with a sword.

Miach protested that he did not want to fight and bore only love and goodwill for his father, but Dian Cecht was beyond reason. His first stroke grazed Miach’s skin, but his son healed it immediately. Such a display only drove Dian Cecht to further violence. Despite Miach’s attempts to dodge, his father’s second attempt stabbed him in the gut-but Miach healed even that. Dian Cecht became more animal than man when he saw. His third stroke cleaved all the way down into Miach’s brain, and that overcame his son’s ability to heal. He died, and then Dian Cecht threw down his sword in horror at what he had done.

His horror was not a fraction of Airmid’s, however. Airmid, sister of Miach, was quite a healer in her own right and a powerful Druid. Her rage was such that she did not attend her brother’s funeral for fear that she would kill her father. Instead, she waited until the funeral had ended and everyone had gone home, and then she visited her brother’s grave to pay her respects. She wept for three days and nights on his grave and sang him songs in broken sobs. She wept for love and loss and memories she could no longer share but had to keep in trust for them both, and she wept for all the memories that would never be now that he was dead. Exhausted, she collapsed next to his grave and slept.

When she woke, a wonder greeted her eyes. Out of Miach’s grave, watered by her tears and the blood of Miach’s body, grew 365 herbs of medicinal power. Possessed with a purpose, realizing the gift before her, Airmid spread out her cloak and began to test and catalog the herbs, examining their qualities and preserving in her mind their unique properties. But before Airmid was finished, Dian Cecht, possessed by grief and guilt, came to visit the grave of his son.

He saw Airmid’s cloak spread on the ground and the world’s medicinal herbs laid out in order upon it. He saw the herbs themselves growing from the grave in the shape of Miach’s body, and his jealous rage rose again.

“Even in death he mocks me and renders my life meager in comparison!” Dian Cecht roared. He tore at the herbs growing in the earth, then yanked Airmid’s cloak from the ground and snapped it in the wind, scattering the herbs into the sky. Because of this deed, it is said that no one alive knows the sum of the earth’s herblore.