Kevin Hearne - Tricked

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell at you, Hal. I’m just angry.”

“You’re not hunting him now, are you?”

“No, I have other pressing business, but Leif needs to stay out of my way forever.”

“All right, send me a signed letter firing him to make it legal in case he makes a fuss, but I’ll close your files now. Thanks for letting me know; I’ll alert the Pack to watch out for him.”

Granuaile drove in silence for a few minutes after I hung up, letting me have a good sulk as I stared out the passenger side window, but eventually she spoke up.

“I’ve never seen you like this, so you’re going to have to coach me a bit,” she said. “Do you want me to let you brood in silence, or would it help for you to talk about it?”

“Huh. You know, I haven’t had anyone to talk to in so long, it didn’t occur to me. Sorry.”

“It’s kind of scary to think of what you consider to be a long time. How long are we talking about?”

“I’ve been drifting around for centuries since my wife died.”

Granuaile took her eyes off the road briefly to study my face. “I was wondering about that. I thought you must have tied the knot at some point.”

“I’ve tied the knot many times, in one way or another,” I explained. “Aenghus Óg chased me away from many of my relationships — I came to believe that it was his punishment for me; he’d let me stay somewhere long enough to love someone and then he’d bring the pain. Maybe my falling in love was a way for him to find me, since that particular emotion was his demesne. Just when I thought I’d lost him for a while, he’d find me again, and then my choice was to stay, fight, and possibly lose everything, or run and abandon the people I’d come to love. I always ran, always lived in the present, because my future was never guaranteed. That made me a terrible husband and a worse father. But one marriage lasted a very long time, and Aenghus Óg wasn’t the one to end it. I was married for more than two hundred years to a woman in Africa named Tahirah. We had many beautiful children, and I got to see them grow up and have children of their own. Only grandchildren I’ve ever seen.”

Here I had to stop. Granuaile let the silence stretch for some time before she timidly asked a question.

“The ones you left behind … did you ever go back?”

“Secretly, yes. Sometimes they were worse off; sometimes they were better off. I figured out a way to help the ones who were worse off, but there was never any question of continuing the relationship. Even if they were willing, I couldn’t.”

Silence fell again for a few moments as she considered this, and then she said, “I … well — wait. How did you deal with the depression? I mean, how are you even functioning?”

“I ran from it. I’m still running. Most people don’t have a choice about picking up and leaving. They’re stuck — or believe they’re stuck — where they are, and they don’t see a way out or the possibility of a better tomorrow. I always have somewhere to go, a new life to live, a new language and culture to learn about.”

“So you don’t know what happened to your families?”

“I know what happened to all of them, unfortunately. They lived their lives, and now they’re gone.”

Granuaile puffed some air past her lips and blew a wisp of hair out of her eyes. “You know, most of the time I’m able to ignore how old you are, but sometimes I get a sense of the enormity of it.…”

“Yeah. It’s not really the sweet carefree deal that it seems. There are dues and blues. And you can’t avoid it either. If you remove yourself from human relationships and all the baggage that comes with them, you’re removing yourself from humanity entirely. The pain and regret and embarrassment are all repaid in joy, however brief and infrequent that joy may be. I’ve seen what happens when you try to set yourself apart.”

There was silence while Granuaile considered this. Then, delicately, almost too soft to hear, she asked, “Can I ask what happened to Tahirah?”

“Sure.” Such an easy word to say. But I had to take a deep breath and divide my mind in order to answer, stripping away the emotions and memories until only the raw words were left. My voice was flat and toneless as I said, “We were ambushed by a Masai war party. Tahirah took a spear through her chest and died before I could even attempt to heal her. And when I saw her dead eyes — eyes into which I used to look and find peace — my reason fled and rage took over: I cast camouflage on myself and cut them all down. They thought they were being slain by a demon. It wasn’t my finest hour.”

For a time there was nothing but the soft, rolling rumble of the engine and the whistle of gusting winds. Then Granuaile whispered, “I’m sorry, Atticus.”

“Yeah. Me too.” I paused. “You know that saying about how time heals all wounds? It’s not always true.”

Granuaile nodded, acknowledging that I probably knew what I was talking about.

“I couldn’t bear to stay there after that, where every place and every person was a reminder of her. If you spend two hundred years in an area, every tree and every rock becomes familiar, and every step brings a new memory shaped like cut glass. I took my eldest son aside — his name was Odhiambo — and told him as far as the tribe was concerned I was dead too. Without his mother, there was no life for me there anymore. He was chief now; Tahirah had run the things that needed running, because I had no desire to lead. He tried to argue with me at first; I had been giving him, as well as the rest of my family, Immortali-Tea, and my leaving meant that they would begin to age normally. To me, that was all to the good. The eternal youth of my family had begun to wreak havoc on social structures that normal people take for granted, such as having children before the age of thirty or forty — or, indeed, having them at all. Tahirah and I kept having children, but they rarely married and had children of their own. And of our few grandchildren of childbearing age, none of them was the least inclined to start their own family. There was always time for that later, you see, because I was giving them all the time they wanted to be selfish.

“I had already decided some decades earlier that administering Immortali-Tea to my whole family had been a colossal mistake, but while Tahirah lived I never dared suggest we let nature take its course with her children and grandchildren. With her gone, however, it was abundantly clear that despite my family’s advanced age, their development had been severely stunted in crucial ways. They looked down on people who aged normally. They rarely took physical risks, or even wished to exert themselves. A sense of entitlement had bloomed within them. And so I thought the best gift I could give them at that point was a chance at normalcy, painful as that might be.

“Odhiambo disagreed vehemently. He wanted me to teach him how to make Immortali-Tea, even though he knew very well he’d have to become a Druid to do it and he was far too old to begin the training; then he wanted me to make a vast supply and leave it for the village. But he gave up soon enough, seeing that I was determined, and so I wished them all harmony, shifted away from there, and returned to Europe at about the time its monarchs were discovering that the world might be round and full of vast resources to exploit.”

“So, ever since then, it’s been a month here, a year there, then move on, like a rolling stone and all that?”

“Pretty much. This is the longest I’ve stayed in any one place.”