Hexed_ The Iron Druid Chronicles - Kevin Hearne [26]
“Can I get ye somethin’ cold to drink, Atticus? A finger o’ the Irish, perhaps?”
“Oh, no, thank you. I must be off soon enough to fight some hellspawn, and I can’t be impaired in the slightest.” The widow had abruptly learned that I was a Druid shortly after she learned that werewolves weren’t just the stuff of legend. When most people are confronted with a paradigm shift like that, their clutch burns out and they need a new mental transmission. The widow, however, had hardly lost any speed, taking it all in stride and even mothering me a bit when I showed her my missing ear. She’d given me a tube of smelly ointment from Walgreens, unaware that I could make much better for myself from scratch.
“Ah, fighting more demons, are ye? Well, won’t Father Howard be pleased to hear that?” she chuckled. She moved back to her rocking chair and invited me to take a seat next to her.
“Father Howard?” I frowned. “You’ve told your priest I’m a Druid?”
“Tish, I’m still not that daft, me boy. And even if I were, it’s not like he’d be believin’ me. To him I’m no more’n that saucy Katie MacDonagh what comes to Mass mellow ev’ry Sunday; he won’t be payin’ me no never mind regardless o’ what I say.”
“You think Father Howard discounts you, or takes you for granted?” “Oh, g’wan with ye now! Of course he doesn’t!” “Okay, sorry, but I had to ask.” The widow’s face fell and she stared out at her lawn. “Well, now, maybe he does a bit.” She turned quickly and shook a finger at me. “But only a bit, mind!” “How so?” “Ah. Well, y’know I’m the oldest parishioner what goes there. He’s quite the youngster himself, and he’s there to minister to the college lot. Here I am a widow whose soul isn’t in any danger from temptation, so why worry about me then? I’m a settled issue fer him. Now I know it’s probably just me vanity talkin’, but I suppose it’d be nice not to feel taken for granted.” “Of course. You deserve to feel appreciated.” “Especially since I might be helping to keep the universe ticking, right? Wasn’t that the gist of what y’were trying to tell me before ye ran over there,” she waved toward the Superstition Mountains, “and got yer ear chewed off?” “Sorry.” I shook my head, trying to clear it of her coarse phrasing. “I don’t quite follow you. Remind me of what I said.” “Ye said all the gods are alive. All the monsters too.” “Oh, right. They’re all alive, except for the ones that are dead.” Oberon said. “And the impression I got was they’re alive because we believe in them, right?” “Um. With lots of fine print, right.” “So in a sense it’s we with faith who create gods, not the gods who create us. And, if that’s the case, then it’s we who created the universe.” “I think that might be taking a big step into the windowless room of solipsism. But I see your point, Mrs. MacDonagh. A person like you with such powerful faith should not be ignored. Why, faithful people around the world have made miracles happen.” “Really? How do they do that?” “You’ve heard of people having visions of the Virgin Mary?” “Sure, all the time.” “Those are created by faith. You could probably make one happen.” “All by meself?” I nodded. “Absolutely. Mrs. MacDonagh, when you think of Mary, what does she look like to you? Could you visualize her clearly for me, describe her to me?” “Why, sure I can. ’Twouldn’t be a very good Catholic if I couldn’t, now would I?” “If Mary were to appear on this earth now, what do you think she’d look like?” The widow seemed pleased to be asked. “Ah, she’d have the patience of eternity in her eyes, she would, and the beatitudes in her smile. I suppose she’d be dressed sensibly for the modern world—to blend in, y’know, something cotton and navy blue.” “Why navy blue?” “I don’t know, it’s just what I associate with her. She’s not the flamboyant turquoise type, is she now?” “All right,