Kevin Hearne - Trapped

The allure of unthinking animal bliss is powerful; it always calls to us, in the same way as the edge of a cliff or the waves of the ocean: Jump . It is a necessary part of our natures, full of delight and danger in equal measure. Yet to the mind trained in language, taught to spy subtleties and take joy in them, such crude, baser matters can pale after a while. But there lies grave peril also: The propensity to empathize with pain expressed in words encourages a poet to avoid the real thing, and a too-passionate love of books can mew one in a cloister, putting up walls where there should be free range. I decided long ago—to keep myself sane amongst the illiterate and unthinking—that there would be poetry in my life. But there would also be fucking. I would have them both, but follow the sage advice of modern beer commercials and enjoy responsibly. There was nothing responsible about the god of the vine.

The Bacchants stopped in front of the cave entrance but did not see it. They raised noses into the air and sniffed, scowling. One of them spoke in Latin, a language both Granuaile and I understood.

“It was here, or near here, but it’s gone now.”

A second Bacchant observed, “There’s something else in the air. Desire. I wonder if it was sex magic.”

“That’s the best kind.”

“Mmm. Lord Bacchus, might we pause to relax? I’m in the mood.”

I winced. Her mood, if given rein, would kill us both. My amulet provided absolutely no defense against Bacchanalia, and once they drew us into it, we’d be completely in their power. I fervently hoped that Bacchus had a headache.

He didn’t. Instead, he had an agenda. “No. We cannot spend ourselves in sport. Faunus cannot keep him trapped here forever. We must continue to search.”

The Bacchants whined. I very nearly mocked them and gave away our position, but I held my tongue until long after they had disappeared to the north and the birds started to chirp again.

Raising a finger to my lips, I whispered to Granuaile, “We’re leaving. Bring your ID and your weapon. Leave everything else here. We’ll move fast and light but without magic. Don’t tap into the earth for any reason.”

“Okay,” she whispered. “But it’ll be dark soon. Can’t we cast night vision?”

“No. That spell will linger and give them something to sniff out. I have a different idea.”

We slipped out of the cave as quietly as we could, but all our movements felt unnaturally loud now that I knew an Olympian was actively searching for me. My cold iron amulet protected me from divination, and the Olympians probably didn’t know enough about Granuaile or Oberon to try to find me through them, but I still felt like the eyes of Jupiter were tracking my every move. I flipped off the sky just in case.

“What was that for?” Granuaile asked.

“General principles,” I said. “Let’s grab Oberon and go.”

We headed south along the creek bed for about a quarter mile before I reached out to Oberon. I didn’t think our mental link was especially strong magic, but a form of radio silence had been advisable in case they could smell it.

Oberon? We’re near the creek bed heading south. Can you come down and meet us, please?

Unfortunately not. We have to get out of here, Celtic ninja style. And we shouldn’t talk too much in case they’re able to detect it .

Oberon met us shortly thereafter, wagging his tail. I smiled and petted him while I whispered to Granuaile, “You’re going to ride out of here bareback.”

“On what?”

“On me. When I’m in stag form, I see quite well at night without having to cast night vision.”

“But won’t shape-shifting draw them to us?”

“It might. But it’s a onetime spell, and we’re going to literally hoof it out of here as soon as I cast it.” I unslung Fragarach and handed it to her, then turned my back and began to strip.

“Do I get to tell you to keep your underwear on?” she said.

“You could if I was wearing any.”

I bound myself to the form of a stag as soon as my jeans dropped below my hips. Granuaile climbed onto my back with Fragarach slung over her shoulder and her staff gripped in her right hand. I didn’t have any convenient mane for her to hold on to, so she leaned over, wrapped her arm around my neck, and said she was ready.

I turned east and set a pace that I thought I could maintain for a while without tiring too much. Eventually I’d have to draw some energy from the earth to keep going, but I thought that, rather than constantly drawing little sips with every step, it was best to do just one, or even none, if I could manage. Honestly, I doubted they could smell me burning my own draws for energy, but I’d keep it down just to be safe.

The long trek out of the Olympian wilderness gave each of us plenty of time to think. In such situations, I tend to talk with the ghost of my archdruid, whose harsh language and mannerisms live on in my memory. I rationalized that it was better than talking to myself—and, in truth, it was like visiting a different headspace. My archdruid had a way of distilling complicated problems into simple solutions. I didn’t always agree with him, but the way he thought occasionally served me well. This time, I shared with him my impossible relationship with Granuaile and the recent evidence—dropped from the lips of Bacchus himself—that this whole setup in Olympus had been a trap after all. A trap, I noted, that we still hadn’t escaped.

“If ye escape,” the archdruid said, “ye should tup the lass as soon as possible. Ye can’t teach her any more, and yer probably going to die anyway.”

“I think you’re speaking with the desperate voice of my libido right now,” I said. “So I’ll ignore that. I’m thinking our safest bet is to scamper off and wait this out.”

“There ye go again,” my archdruid said. “Using your colon instead of yer brain. Ye believe yer thinkin’ because yer workin’ hard, but all yer doin’ is squeezin’ out shit. What good would runnin’ do, me lad? It’d teach yer apprentice that yer not much of a fighter, for one thing, and that all ye have to do to defeat a Druid is to make his life inconvenient. And, apart from that, ye need to help out the Norse, like ye said ye would. Ye can’t go take a few months off to frolic in Mag Mell when ye got Loki runnin’ around ready to set the world aflame.”

“And what do you suggest I do instead?”

“Stomp on some nuts, boy! Go on the offensive! Find out what’s really going on!”

That was advice I couldn’t easily ignore. There was certainly more going on here than anyone in Tír na nÓg was willing to admit. Two Roman gods were colluding against me, and they might or might not be working with dark elves, vampires, and someone powerful amongst the Tuatha Dé Danann. Nobody was going to volunteer answers; we were going to have to apply some pressure of our own.

One of the odd details about sporting goods stores is how incredibly full of steel and straight lines they are. The ambient atmosphere is harsh and fluorescent because, at some point in the planning stages, an executive said, “What, you want windows? Sunlight and moonlight? Fuck that noise.”

If nature were Little Red Riding Hood and a sporting goods store were the Big Bad Wolf, nature would observe, “My, what orderly rows of synthetic products you have,” and the store would say, “The better to dominate you with, my dear.”