Kevin Hearne - Trapped

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean the Tuatha Dé Danann. Frigg was fine. But I expected something a bit nobler from the Irish, you know? Not a festival of pettiness and gamesmanship and freezing people in time, staring at them morbidly before they die. Why should I pray to them?”

“That’s an excellent question. You don’t have to.”

Her expression, full of challenge, morphed into confusion. “I don’t?”

“No, of course not.”

“I thought all the Druids worshipped the Tuatha Dé Danann.”

“They do.” I smiled wryly. “But that’s because I’m the only Druid right now.”

“No, I meant … in history. When there were more of you around.”

“It varied a bit. The Druids on the continent tended to like Cernunnos, for example, more than those of us who came from Ireland. The Wild Hunt was bigger on the mainland too. There was no central doctrine for all the Celts.”

“So I can worship who I want? Or not at all?”

“Of course. Gaia doesn’t give a damn who you worship; when the Tuatha Dé Danann became the first Druids, you can bet they didn’t worship themselves. You’re going to be bound to the earth, Granuaile, not to a religion. You can dress like a pirate on Fridays and worship the Flying Spaghetti Monster if you want. Gaia won’t care as long as you protect her.”

“Oh.” Granuaile settled back on her haunches but then gave that up and carefully arranged her legs in the lotus position. She rested her hands lightly on her knees, kept her back straight, and fixed her eyes on mine. I recognized the posture; she was about to argue with me.

“Please explain why you continue to worship the Tuatha Dé Danann when you have no need to do so and you are clearly aware they are flawed beings.”

I settled myself so that my posture mirrored hers before answering.

“Your question assumes that gods must necessarily be perfect. That is a prejudice of monotheism. People of pagan faiths are not upset by gods that reflect human foibles. In fact, it’s rather comforting.”

“I grant you the prejudice, but the question remains. If you are not required to worship them—if you retain all magical powers regardless of your faith or lack thereof—why do you persist?”

“I’m in it for the afterlife, same as anyone else.”

She frowned. “Are you throwing some sort of pagan Pascal’s Wager at me?”

“Catch!”

“Thpppt.”

“Don’t be so dismissive. Where is the downside to spending eternity in Mag Mell, or even in Tír na nÓg? Both are beautiful places.”

“So are most versions of paradise.”

“Hence the reason I encourage you to believe what you wish. The heaven of the Pastafarians is supposed to have beer volcanoes, which sounds like a fantastic idea to me. Imagine eruptions of a mellow chocolaty stout. There might be all-you-can-eat hot wings.”

Granuaile’s tone turned accusatory. “You’ve been training me in the rituals of your faith for twelve years and allowing me to believe that worshipping the Tuatha Dé Danann was bound up with being a Druid.”

“For me, it is. My own prejudice. I apologize for the omission.”

“They were once merely Druids, you say. The Tuatha Dé Danann.”

“Yes. But they were skilled in their own magic even before that.”

“How did they become gods? What powers did they accrue when they did?”

“They became gods once people worshipped them as such. They became vessels for Celtic faith, tuning forks for our yearnings, keepers of our hopes and prayers. And the powers they gained were those assigned to them by worshippers. Manannan Mac Lir was not a psychopomp until people thought he was; he was only a Druid with some extra powers in the sea.”

“So why don’t cult leaders achieve godhood?”

“Because they’re megalomaniacs drenched in douche juice.”

“But so was Thor, right? And let’s not forget that there was certainly no shortage of douchebaggery in Tír na nÓg today. I’m asking seriously. Some cult leaders inspire fervent devotion in their followers. Shouldn’t they gain godlike powers?”

“No, because they all die in thirty to fifty years and their cult dies with them. Godhead transcends generations and requires the concerted belief of a large number of people.”

“How does your belief in Manannan Mac Lir as a psychopomp give him the powers of one?”

“Figuring that out is one of the reasons I’m hanging around. I think the Large Hadron Collider might yield some clues.”

“You’re talking about particle physics now?”

“Yep. They’re slowly discovering why we have more matter than antimatter in the universe. Smash a proton, and you don’t get simple matter and antimatter. Some particles degrade and change very quickly.”

“Change into what?”

“Damn it, Jim, I’m a Druid, not a physicist!”

Granuaile rolled her eyes at the allusion. “I understand, but what’s the connection with godlike powers?”

“The connection is that there are clearly some powers and processes in the universe we simply don’t understand yet. They are ineffable—for now. I don’t know how it’s possible for Gaia to have a magical nature. And the Tuatha Dé Danann cannot tell you how, precisely, they gained the powers of gods on top of the powers of Druids. But they can tell you they didn’t always possess them. Some grew slowly, and some were discovered abruptly. And it’s no different with any other gang of gods. Some of them have bought into their own origin myths, which is distilled shite on its face—the world can’t have been created in hundreds of different ways—but the smart ones will tell you they’re not sure how they got the gig they got and they don’t remember creating humanity, much less the world. For most of space and time, they weren’t there; and then, one day, they were, complete with a small but hopefully growing collection of praying humans.”

Granuaile slumped and let her lotus position tumble apart. Her face was sad and haunted.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nobody has the answer, do they?” she asked quietly.

“No. I’m sorry.”

Oberon returned from scouting and declared the area safe for now.

I took my sandals off and said hello to the Olympian elemental. I’d never found one so happy to hear from me—and they’re happy as a rule. The emotions flooded up from the sole of my foot and made me smile.

//Many many welcomes / Bounteous joy and harmony / Wishes of good health and pleasure// she said. By prior arrangement, Granuaile and I had agreed to call her Olympia rather than Olympus.

//Harmony// I replied. //We are happy to be here//

//Query: We?//

//Druid brings apprentice / Ready to be bound to the earth//

If elementals could pee from excitement, Olympia would have done so when she heard that. I had to weather a torrent of gushing before I could interject a request.

//Please conceal our presence here from all gods and other beings// I said. //Privacy needed to bind apprentice//

//Privacy assured// Olympia answered. //Will steer animals and gods away//

I laid my right hand on Oberon’s back. //This animal is my friend// I explained. //Please let him do as he wishes//

//Dog is Druidfriend// she agreed. //Piece of self coming / To talk to apprentice//

A small white marble—actually made of smooth, cloudy marble—appeared between my toes. I picked it up and presented it to Granuaile so that she would be able to speak to Olympia. She smiled as she closed her fist around it and introduced herself. Her expression was always beatific when she spoke with elementals. I wondered if my face still held that same sense of peace and joy after two thousand years.