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“The sensible kind. But classy, y’know, not cheap tennis shoes made by a poor wee girl in an Asian sweatshop.”

“Would she wear one of those habits, the elaborate headgear you always see in churches?”

“I should think not. It’s hardly the fashion anymore. A simple white headband keepin’ her hair out of her eyes would be the thing.”

“And if she came here, to Tempe, what do you think she would want to do?”

“A saintly woman like that? She’d probably be down on Apache Boulevard, ministering to the homeless and the whores and the methamphetamine addicts—what do they call ’em, that slang term?”

“Tweekers.”

“Right. She’d be helpin’ the tweekers, she would, down on Apache Boulevard.”

When Oberon says things like that, it takes all my will not to dive into a Star Wars nerdfest; I resolutely ignored him, because I had to get the widow in the proper frame of mind. “That’s lovely, Mrs. MacDonagh. Sure she would work a powerful lot of good on Apache Boulevard. Why, if she were down there, she could help me slay this demon from hell by blessing my weapons.”

“That’s right, she could. Wouldn’t that be divine?”

Oberon and I examined her expression and found a tiny smile on the widow’s face, pleasant yet inscrutable. Oberon asked.

I don’t know. I can’t tell.

“Mrs. MacDonagh, I want you to concentrate, or rather meditate on this—no, I want you to pray that this happens today, right now, putting all your faith into the power of Mary’s miraculous healing and the good work she would do ministering to the addicts on Apache Boulevard. Picture her in your mind as clearly as you can.”

“And ye think if I do that, then Mary will come down from heaven and walk the boulevard, freein’ people from addiction and tellin’ them to go and sin no more?”

“It’s entirely possible. Depends on how she’s feeling today.”

“Well o’ course she’s feelin’ dandy!” the widow scolded me. “She’s the mother o’ God, for the love o’ Pete!”

“Yes, but Mary has free will, does she not? You would not imagine her as a slave to your prayers. She can decide for herself whether she would like to be made manifest in the image you offer—whether she should intercede or not. Aren’t all prayers based on this assumption?”

“Well, I suppose they are. But it’s so strange to think of it like that. It’s all backwards.”

“It’s only a slight modification of causality. Faith is the bedrock of it all. It doesn’t work without your faith. No religion does. As a pagan who subscribes to a completely different pantheon, I could never induce Mary to come here.”

“But Atticus, how can my one wee prayer—”

“Faith, Mrs. MacDonagh! Faith! If you want a scientific explanation, I cannot give you one. Science cannot close the fist of reason around the miracle of consciousness any more than I can turn my sword into a light saber.”

Not now, Oberon.

Gods Below, go inside and chase the cats already! “Begging your pardon,” I said to the widow, “would you mind if Oberon went inside for a bit?”

“Eh? No, me boy, not at all. Good exercise for me pussies. They’re good, dog-fearing cats.”

Oberon chuffed.

Don’t break anything in there.

I let him in the front door and immediately heard his joyous barks and the terrified howling of the widow’s cats. The widow and I chuckled over it together as I sat back down and she took a sip from her glass.

“So do you think you could pray over that for me?” I asked when the commotion inside died down a bit.

“The Virgin Mary on Apache Boulevard? Sure I can,