Kevin Hearne - Hounded

“Hey. Dude,” one of the bar patrons called. “Is that your dog?” I didn’t reply, just held up the leash. Unfortunately, this was construed as an invitation for further comment. “Well, he’s pretty fucking big,” he said.

I turned toward the voice. It belonged to a blue-shirted mechanic with the name Jeff embroidered in red on top of a white badge sewn to his pocket. I saw a couple of pens and an air pressure gauge tucked inside a plastic pocket protector.

“Hi, Jeff. May I borrow one of your pens?” I asked him. He blinked and tried to process how a stranger had known his name. He’d forgotten that it was on his shirt and that people could read it. “And maybe a bar napkin too?”

“What? Wait, dude. Do I know you?” His expression made it clear that he doubted it, though it wasn’t clear why he thought we must be acquainted before he could loan me a pen. His drinking buddies, picking up on his cues, scowled at me.

“No, I’m just functionally literate. May I borrow a pen, please? And a napkin. I’ll return the pen shortly, I promise.”

Jeff wanted to refuse, but I’d said the magic word and he didn’t want to be a dick in front of his friends.

“Sure, man, whatever.” He plucked a pen out of his pocket and passed it to me over San Felipe’s low fence. He tossed a napkin at me as well.

“Thanks,” I said. Holding the napkin down flat against the curved railing of the fence, I scrawled a quick message in Old High German. It was my best guess at the language the gnomes used among themselves. It said, “I’d like to talk with you. Follow the dog.” I gave this to Oberon along with some instructions. Take this to one of the gnomes and drop it in front of him. Bark once, wait for him to read it, then lead him back here .

I unhooked Oberon’s leash and he trotted off, one edge of the napkin held gently between his teeth.

“Hey, where’s he going?” Jeff asked.

“Here’s your pen. Thank you.” I awarded him a tight smile. He took his pen and thrust it absently back into his pocket.

“You know your dog just walked off without his leash?”

I decided right then that if I owned a car—which I didn’t—I would never take it to Jeff when it needed repair. He’d just tell me it had to be fixed, or that the sky was blue, or something else painfully obvious. But I kept these thoughts off my face and smiled amiably.

“Oh, he’ll be back, no worries. We’re playing fetch.”

“What’s he fetching?”

“One of Santa’s elves.”

“In his teeth ?” Jeff’s drinking buddies haw-hawed. “Is that legal?”

“No, that’s not what’s happening.” I searched for a modern phrase to alleviate his mild case of civic concern. “It’s all good,” I explained, then looked away, signaling that I thought our brief conversation (and acquaintance) over. Jeff was willing to let it go, but he couldn’t resist lowering his voice a tad and muttering about me.

“All kinds of weirdos in this town,” I heard him say. He had no idea what an understatement that was.

Oberon announced.

In a moment he appeared around the corner, tail wagging. Behind him came a frowning gnome, tense and ready for an ambush. His costume was one of those red military Sergeant Pepper jackets over a linen shirt with a high starched collar. The jacket had white piping across the chest and entirely too many brass buttons. Red knickers gathered at the knee, a yellow stripe blazed up the sides, and yellow stockings fell into some enormous platform shoes that added nearly a foot to the gnome’s height. He’d be just over three feet, I guessed, without those shoes. When his eyes focused on me and flicked down to the tattoos on my right arm, he relaxed. He spoke in Old High German, as I suspected, a tongue I hadn’t spoken in centuries.

“Here you are,” he said. “Good. We were beginning to worry. Is all in readiness?”

I boggled. He behaved like he knew me, but I was positive we’d never met, and absolutely certain that my name wasn’t on my shirt.

“I certainly hope all is ready,” I said. “Remind me of your name, friend?”

Suspicion veiled the gnome’s features. His dark eyes narrowed and his mustache quivered. “Tell me who you are first.”

“You recognized me a moment ago.”

He twitched his head at my right side, using his nose to point. “You have the tattoos of the Tuatha Dé Danann and I can see this is your true form,” he said, “but I do not think now that you are the one we have been waiting for.”

My face paled. They were waiting for one of the Tuatha Dé Danann, and those were precisely the Irish gods from whom I was hiding. Originally they were mere Druids, like me, and were bound to the earth—as I am—through their tattoos. At first glance, it would be easy to mistake me for one of them. But which one was coming?

“No, I am not he,” I admitted. “I am merely passing through and curious why the folk of the earth are walking amongst humans.”

“Hey, dude, what language is that?” Jeff called. “Russian? You guys Commies or something?” His companions laughed and then offered him congratulatory fist bumps for his rapier wit.

It was no use explaining to Jeff that the Soviet Union had collapsed decades ago and the Cold War was over, or that Slavic and Germanic languages are completely different. I ignored him and motioned to the gnome that we should move away from San Felipe’s. If Jeff wished to pursue the matter he’d have to leave his beer, and I felt intuitively that he would never do that. The gnome was only too happy to put distance between himself and the loud humans; we shuffled closer to the California Pizza Kitchen, which lay across the walkway.

“We are here to recover that which was stolen,” the gnome said. “The thief will be here soon. Goibhniu is helping us.”

The barometer measuring the internal pressure of my paranoia fell abruptly. Goibhniu was an Irish god of smithing and brewing, and he was a decent sort, the last time I’d seen him. But that was in another country, a thousand years gone or more. I had no idea how he’d regard me now, but taking the side of the gnomes was a good sign.

“What was stolen, may I ask?”

“Truth for truth,” the gnome said. “Tell me who you are.”

I clasped my hands together and gave him a short bow. “You are speaking to the last of the Druids.”

The gnome snorted in disbelief. “The Druids all died centuries ago.”

“Aye, except for me. You know I speak truth. You recognize my tattoos. Few people can speak the old tongue anymore.” The gnome’s eyes shifted to consider Oberon. “And yes, I converse with my hound. So tell me what was stolen.”

His shoulders slumped and his mustache puffed out with a resigned exhalation. “We five are all that remains of Clan Rathskeller,” he explained, “the finest brewers of our people. You may have noticed that there are no women amongst us. We are in danger of extinction, and for fifty years we have worked on a kingly gift for the meister of Clan Fruchtbar: the Draught of Unending Strength. This was to be exchanged for five brides, but it was stolen.”

“By whom?”

“Kohleherz and some faery.”

I had no idea who Kohleherz was. But the fact that a faery was involved displeased me no end. I might be able to trust Goibhniu, but I’d never be able to trust a faery. He’d give me up to my enemies among the Tuatha Dé Danann for a flower petal.