Hunted

Chapter 6

I cannot share the euphoria I feel, because Atticus would take me to task. His eyebrows would draw together and he would attempt to convey through his expression how very, very old he was, and as a comparative youngster—even a whippersnapper—I could not possibly know how inappropriate it would be to feel euphoric. But I cannot help but feel that way, even though we are running for our lives. Because we are running fast through satin darkness with strength coursing through our bodies, a percussive corps of hooves and paws tapping out a rhythm of flight, clods of earth kissing us farewell and swishes of grass caressing our ankles, like the soft fingertips of mothers who don’t want to let their children leave home but know that they must; they let go but keep contact as long as they can, extending hands and arms until their children finally pass beyond their reach, and then they feel sad yet proud and live on a kernel of hope that someday their children will come back to them and say, Mother, I am home. That is the source of my euphoria: I feel a mother’s love with every step I take on the earth. Wherever I go now, I am welcomed home, embraced and adored and supported. I am a Druid of Gaia, beloved of the earth, and the wonder of it is still fresh in my heart.

When I was a child unbound—in my old life—my mother and stepfather used to take me to places with mountains and trees for family vacations, since we lived in the flattest part of the country and saw little of nature but the sky and amber tops of wheat fields. Walking through the forest and touching the white trunks of aspens, I suspected that the trees kept secrets, but they would tease me, using the wind in their leaves to whisper of mystery and then rustle and fade, dry chuckles of merriment at my expense, the ginger girl from the plains. I thought the aspen groves must know something important, something cool, because when they loomed over my head and whispered amongst themselves, they shook slightly in their excitement. But now the world is undressed for me, naked and gorgeous and waiting for me to explore it, and all its secrets would be vouchsafed to my ears if I simply took the time to ask.

I know we’re in terrible danger. It’s the kind that Atticus kept warning me about—he tried to scare me into quitting my apprenticeship so many times. And it’s true we have been in a whole lot of danger ever since he began the binding process. Still, though we are running for our lives, it’s all I can do to keep from busting out a barbaric yawp like Walt Whitman.

Now, there was a man who knew how to celebrate life and tell us about it. Atticus prefers the British poets and has memorized all of Shakespeare, but, while sublime, the Bard dwells too much on the dark side of human nature to capture my unswerving devotion. During my training, I had to memorize a large body of work as a first step to learning how to operate in different headspaces, so I chose Walt Whitman’s. Whitman saw the world for the endless wonder it was. He called grass the handkerchief of the Lord.

I wish I could go back in time and tell him how deliciously close to the truth he’d been. It’s Gaia’s handkerchief, Mr. Whitman, but you got the rest right. The smallest sprout shows there is really no death, / And if ever there was it led forward life … / All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, / And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

Not that I look forward to dying anytime soon. Or that the Morrigan’s death was lucky. But I think she must be well on one of the Irish planes now, at peace in the green somewhere. I will ask Atticus later, when the shock of her end is not so fresh. It is an object lesson that even gods are not eternal.

I do look forward to a long life, if I can secure it. For one thing, I still want to memorize the works of T. S. Eliot in addition to those of Whitman—I need to keep adding new headspaces. And there are more languages to learn. Plenty of love to be made. And Gaia to protect with all of my skill.

Considering Atticus, though, I can see that eventually my giddiness will fade. I’m not sure that, having lived so long and seen so much, he has the ability to feel wonder anymore—well, except where I’m concerned. For some reason he thinks a freckly girl from Kansas is something new, and I confess that my vanity is content to let him think so without protest. He is a man unlike any other, and I love him. And I know without doubt that he loves me back. We are bound, he and I; I have seen it.

Yet he is still a mystery to me. If he feels the love from Gaia that I feel, as I know he must, then how can he maintain his laissez-faire attitude toward pollution and extinction? He only bestirs himself to outrage if a magical threat to the earth presents itself, but I think most of the mundane threats are every bit as horrific. If we can somehow outmaneuver the Olympians and our other enemies, I will defend the earth from those who defile it. Fiercely. Starting with my stepfather’s oil company.

Atticus thinks I overreact to such things. Perhaps I am an extremist. Or perhaps he’s fallen prey to apathy like so many others, worn down and weary and too worried about who’s chasing him to muster any outrage at desecrations petty or grand.

He has a point. There is plenty to worry about now. But there is so much to cherish, too, like the smell of turf and the wind in my mane—I have a mane!—and the effortless way I can leap over fences. This run has been a salve for what Bacchus and Hel left raw; Atticus and I enjoyed a nice interlude in Mexico, but that was more about us than about my bond with Gaia. Now, touching a new patch of earth with every step and feeling the energy waiting there, I am beginning to understand the scope of my gift and the size of my new responsibility.

The number of obstacles and changes of direction required to stay hidden in Poland far exceeds anything we saw in Hungary or Slovakia. Granted, our route is taking us roughly parallel with E40, a major thoroughfare in the southern end of the country. It is no wonder that we find it more densely populated. But it has slowed us down a bit, and I’m sure our average speed has dropped as a result. We do not know how fast the huntresses are moving or even if they are still behind us. I keep thinking they will drop down from the sky and put an arrow through our chests and all our running will come to naught. But in the absence of information we must act on the vague instructions of the Morrigan.

We snuck into Katowice about an hour before sunrise, a bona fide metropolis of millions. Atticus worried about our disconnect with the earth the entire time, and I empathized completely but pretended it wasn’t that big a deal. Inside, I was all ew. I didn’t like the dead feeling of asphalt. Honestly, I didn’t know how he managed to wear sandals on a regular basis when he didn’t strictly have to. I’d go barefoot all the time if I could.

But the sneaking was necessary. I needed some more throwing knives, since they had proven their efficacy so well; we had no other ranged weapons, short-range as the knives were. We found a sporting goods retailer by snatching the smartphone of a despondent clubber and conducting a search. Said clubber wore a gray suit and a forlorn expression. I think it was near dawn, like five-thirty, the hour when early risers are brewing coffee and making bacon, though the sun had yet to hint that it would be arriving soon. The clubber had yet to find a bed where he could get started gestating a legendary hangover. He was weaving uncertainly on the sidewalk and softly slurring his way through a song of self-pity. He must have struck out on his quest to score, because he was staggering through the streets alone with a half-empty bottle of Żubrówka—a favored drink in Poland that Atticus claims is a rather tasty vodka.

And thus I added the Polish drink of choice to my bucket list and learned that other people’s electronic devices can be a fugitive’s friend. Traffic was still light to nonexistent, consisting almost entirely of early-morning delivery vehicles. While the street was clear, Atticus put the phone back in the man’s pocket as I dispelled my invisibility for a few seconds in his full view, a finger resting provocatively on my lower lip, giving him a come-hither look under a streetlight. His jaw and the bottle of Żubrówka dropped at the same time. It shattered, drawing his eyes to the sidewalk, and I took the opportunity afforded by his distraction to disappear again.

Oberon said, watching the man look wildly around for me and pawing at his eyes as if to clear them.

Why? I asked. I’ve done him no harm.

You’re haunted by someone flashing you on a street corner?

Oh, here we go.

But that’s a good thing, isn’t it? Kind of romantic? A vision of perfection you can treasure forever, unspoiled by reality.

Look, Oberon, that man is lonely. He’s too skinny and sweaty, and I’m willing to bet you five cows that he’s socially awkward or he wouldn’t be staggering drunk at this hour. But now, for the rest of his life, he will remember the naked woman on the street who looked at him with desire. When people treat him like something untouchable, he will have that memory to comfort him.

Then he’s misunderstood the nature of beauty. It doesn’t stay, except in our minds.

We left the man and hurried to the sporting goods store, a place called Wojownika, which turned out to be only a few blocks away. I toyed with the idea of snagging some other weapons, but they were impractical in this situation. We had no way to carry them, and cinching me up with saddlebags would be a terrible idea once I shape-shifted to anything else. Our best bet was to stay fast and unencumbered.

I didn’t like stealing, but I didn’t see an alternative. No one offers traveler’s checks for Druids on the run. I would prevail upon Atticus to send the targeted store an anonymous windfall later, if there was a later.

Oberon bellyached a bit about carrying knives in his mouth again—a pointless complaint since Gaia’s strength ensures our jaws never cramp or ache—but he has been uniformly delightful otherwise. I think his ability to live in the present keeps Atticus from panicking.

he said at one point.

My theory is that Oberon might be a master of Tao. He always sees what we filter out. The wind and the grass and something in the sky, sun or moon, shining on our backs as we run: They are gifts that humans toss away like socks on Christmas morning, because we see them every day and don’t think of them as gifts anymore. But new socks are always better than old socks. And the wind and grass and sky, I think, are better seen with new eyes than jaded ones. I hope my eyes will never grow old.