“One of your philosophers once said ‘If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent Him.’”
“That was Voltaire,” Culann said.
Alphonse growled from deep in his belly. Lightning slashed across the sky behind him.
“Sorry, continue.”
“This Voltaire was right. The gods are a human invention, but that makes us no less real. My power is nevertheless nothing compared to the power of human imagination, which managed to turn matter into energy after all. Even I, whose faintest growl is thunder, whose panting creates hurricanes, whose bite rends the sky with lightning, can only marvel at the awesome displays of death your kind unleashed at Hiroshima, Nagasaki and Chernobyl. It is the power of human imagination that gave rise to me soon after your ancestors dropped from the trees and began stalking the savannah.
Even as they slew the beasts around them, these early hunters observed the remarkable physical abilities of the creatures around them. One day, an ancient hunter saw a pack of wolves in the distance. The pack chased an antelope into a copse of trees where another wolf lay in hiding. The hunter said in a long-forgotten tongue that he wished to be as cunning as that wolf. With this first prayer, I was born.
“With each prayer, I grew stronger. For millennia, I was worshipped by your kind. I birthed the storms, ruled the underworld, guarded the dead.
“And then came Moses and Jesus and Mohammed. The old gods began to fade.
We clung to the last vestiges of our power until Voltaire’s followers convinced the world that there were no gods at all. The flames of my fellows extinguished one by one. I endeavored to control my own destiny. I vested all of my power into an object and dropped it from the heavens. A man was to find it and wield its awesome power. The others would fear this man. They would pray—to me—for protection. My power would grow until I became again as I once was.
“But Fate toys with the destinies of gods as well as men. The orb landed in the middle of the jungle. An old monk found it and carried it back to his temple. The other monks succumbed to its power, but the finder is always spared. I offered him enough power to rule your world. He refused it. He lived alone in the jungle for nearly two centuries, surrounded by the bones of his brethren.
“And then your people brought your fantastic war machines to the wilderness. One came close enough that I was able to reach up and pluck from the sky a man who hungered for power. I drew him towards me. The young alpha overthrew the old. Finally the orb was in possession of one who would use it. He could have marched across the continents, sewing death and fulfilling my plan. But instead he took the orb into one of those machines. The orb contained my power as the Great Growler, Lord of Thunder, and the lightning caused the machine to fall. The orb sank into the sea.
“But this finder had caught the scent. He hunted and hunted until at last I was found by you. As before, the young alpha did battle with the old. Your victory was…surprising. I’d have preferred you to have been defeated.”
“But didn’t you allow me to win?” Culann asked. “You let me control the dogs.”
“You are both finders and you both possessed the power to control my children.
The other held them back, but my children cannot change their very nature. A dog is, above all, loyal. My children could not ignore the command of you who care for them.”
“So you didn’t choose me, and I didn’t choose you either. We’re stuck with each other.”
“For now.”
“What if I decide to row you back out and drop you in the middle of the ocean?
How long will it be until someone finds you then?”
“You threaten a god?”
“I’m not making threats. I’m negotiating.”
“I do not fear you, finder. You must offer me more.”
“Well, you’ve figured out by now that I’m more like the monk than the Captain. I’m not going to walk the Earth allowing you to kill enough people that the survivors start to worship you.”
“You will not be the last finder. My time will come.”
“But what if you don’t have to wait? What if I can get people to worship you now — without having to kill anyone?”
“How would you do this?”
“The girl can do it. She is about to accomplish a great feat. She will become famous. In our world, fame is more important than faith. We can make her your prophet. But only if you let her live.”
Alphonse stared up at Culann for a moment, the dog’s eyes crackling with electricity.
“I accept your terms, finder, but you must understand what is at stake. My powers protect you here. You can use them to keep your people away. If this girl is to live, you will lose those powers. You must face the justice of your people.”
Culann paused to consider this. He’d sought out this Alaskan adventure as a means of avoiding the consequences of his actions. He’d viewed the challenges he’d faced as a sort of substitute punishment, but the law was unlikely to see it that way. He could escape into this life of adventure, but would have to sacrifice Nereida to do it. To save her, he would have to rejoin the world and be held to account for what he’d done.
“It’s a deal,” Culann said. “My freedom for her life.”
5
Culann found Nereida on the western edge of the island, where her boat had grounded. Rain continued to bombard the island. The dogs shivered behind him.
Alphonse, now back to normal, wedged his bulk up against a tree in the vain hope of keeping dry.
Nereida stood at the water’s edge, staring out to sea with her hands on her hips.
She’d left Julia’s bathroom on the pier, so she wore only her swimming suit. She glanced over her shoulder at Culann’s approach.
“Leave me alone, weirdo.”
“Sorry I freaked you out back there. I’ve been out here by myself for a while and I’m not used to talking to people.”
“Just leave me alone.”
“I will. All I want to do it is help you get off the island so I can go back to being a weird hermit.”
She turned to face him. “How can you help me? You don’t know anything about sailing or electronics.”
“That’s true,” he said with a smile. “Are you religious?”
“I’m Catholic,” she replied, her eyes narrowing. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Do you know about St. Christopher?”
“He’s the patron saint of travelers.”
“Right,” Culann said. “And you are a traveler in trouble. I may not be able to fix your boat, but St. Christopher can help you.”
Nereida stared at him for a moment. The rain poured down her face as she took stock of Culann’s words.
“It doesn’t work that way,” she said. “Saints aren’t genies — you can’t ask them to grant wishes. They just give you the strength to do things for yourself.”
“True enough. So why not ask him for strength?”
“Fine, I’ll pray to God for the strength to get out of this mess.”
“No, not to God,” Culann said. “You have a traveler’s problem. You need to ask St. Christopher for help.”
She rolled her eyes as if she’d grown weary indulging the suddenly-pious hermit with whom she was trapped.
“Here,” Culann said. “Take this.”
He reached into his pocket and drew forth a picture he’d cut out of one of Worner’s books. It was a medieval representation of St. Christopher, shown as a man with the head of a dog. Culann had sealed it in a ziplock baggie
