Besieged: Stories from the Iron Druid Chronicles(76)
And the weather has been vicious in recent years, Gaia’s way of forcing people to consider that maybe there will be some consequences as a result of their careless behavior. The moaning began in late afternoon after first sliding through the eucalyptus leaves of Tasmania in a dry whistle. The sky roiled with thunderheads colliding like rams, and the boom rumbled for miles. Lightning flashed and speared the ground with blue-white pitchforks. The rain would come soon, and not a wee sprinkle either, dribbling out a few drops like an old man with an enlarged prostate: It would gush down and splatter like a diuretic rhino voiding his bladder on a flagstone.
Oberon and I were near the eastern shore of Tasmania but nowhere near adequate shelter. We had left Owen and his grove of apprentices behind the day before; they were moving to the west, curing Tasmanian devils of transmissible cancer at the elemental’s request, while I was moving north on the same errand. Together we’d save a species, but it was going to be a project of weeks or even months. No need for us to get wet when we could shift planes home to Oregon and wait it out for a couple of hours. Besides, there were friends to be met. And it was past time Tasmania got tethered to Tír na nóg. To get here I’d had to shift to Australia and then take a ferry to the island.
“Let’s go home for a little while, Oberon,” I said to my hound. “We need some camping gear if we’re going to keep at this the way we should, and we have to check up on Starbuck and Orlaith.”
<I was wondering about them just now! They’d probably like to chase a wallaby or five. Do you think we can bring them back here with us?>
“I’m not sure, buddy. Orlaith probably shouldn’t plane-shift much now that she’s getting closer to having puppies. That’s why we left her and Starbuck together at the cabin, so they’d have each other’s company.”
<Oh, I remember that. But maybe one more shift wouldn’t be so bad? If we’re going to be staying here for fifteen decades or sixty years or whatever—>
“More like two months, Oberon.”
<But that’s sixty years, like I just said—>
“No, that’s sixty days.”
<Days, years, whatever! What I’m saying is that we can all have a good time out here chasing wallabies and wombats and nobody has to spend any time away from humans who provide necessary services like gravy-dispensing and chicken-frying and steak-grilling and sausage-making and stuff like that.>
“Gods below, Oberon,” I said, shaking my head, “you’ve become too pampered. We’re going to be hunting and cooking over the fire when we cook at all. Very basic meals. Nothing gourmet. And no gravy.”
<Well, look, I understand if we can’t do gourmet, but no gravy? There’s no need to get primitive, Atticus.>
“Au contraire: That’s exactly what we need to do. We have to go where the devils are, and most of them aren’t going to be living in close proximity to full kitchens.”
<Wait. So that means … that means the devils have never even had gravy? Not once in their lives?>
“Nope. They don’t live a privileged existence like you.” <You’re making me sad, Atticus! All those poor devils!> He warbled a mournful dirge at the thunderheads to make sure I got the point.
“What is all this melodrama? Just because they’ve never heard of your favorite thing doesn’t mean they hate their lives or they need your sympathy or need you to come along and show them how to fix it. In fact, it’s kind of arrogant of you to think that. Imperialist, even.”
<Wait, what? You mean like the Empire? Am I supposed to be a Moff or something in this analogy, like Grand Moff Oberon, and I’d wear a starchy uniform and look angry all the time and sneer at rebel scum?>
“If you like. Think about it for a while. I have to bind this tree to Tír na nóg, and I can’t be interrupted. We’ll talk when we get home.”
It took about fifteen minutes to tether the tree, and the rain had begun before I finished. Oberon smelled like wet dog already and probably needed a proper bath. When I said we were all set to go and to put his paw on the tree, he asked me to wait a minute.
<Atticus, I thought about what you said for that whole fifteen centuries, and I’m sorry. I don’t want to be an Imperial guy who oppresses planets. I want to be like Rey and save planets.>
“I think you’ve made an admirable decision, Oberon. That’s what I’m all about too.”
<Thank you. So what I want to know is, will you be my BB-8 droid?>
“Wow, uh … that’s an intriguing offer. Let me think about it for fifteen centuries, okay? Come on, let’s go.”
When we shifted to our cabin near the McKenzie River in the Willamette National Forest, there was of course a few minutes of ecstatic doggie homecoming festivities. Jumping and running and flapping tongues, playful nips on ears and back legs, and plenty of happy barking.
Starbuck the Boston terrier had quite the vertical leap, which allowed him to vie for attention against the much taller wolfhounds. He was just beginning to pick up a few words of language from the hounds and myself, and he employed every single one of them when Oberon and I appeared.
<Yes no play squirrel happy gravy food!> he practically shouted in my head. His mental voice was a bit higher-pitched than those of the wolfhounds—not shrill or anything, but more like a fine tenor who’d gradually ruined his singing voice with years of alcohol and cigarettes.