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, go on. What sort of shoes?”
“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.”
‹Ever notice how Apache Boulevard is a lot like Mos Eisley? “You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.”›
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. ‹Does she realize she made a pun?› Oberon asked.
I don’t know. I can’t tell.
‹Dude. She’s pranking us right now. She’s totally On the Bus.›
“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.”
‹Now that would be wicked cool! You could dress in one of those brown robes and trade insipid lines of dialogue with your padawan, Granuaile.›
Not now, Oberon.
‹Admit it. You’re vaguely disappointed with her calling you Sensei. Secretly you want her to call you Master.›
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. ‹I like it when they hiss at me and it brings up a hairball.›
Don’t break anything in there.
‹Anything that breaks is always the cats’ fault.›
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, if it’ll make yer heart glad.”
“It would,” I said. “Don’t forget to mention she could help me slay a demon escaped from hell. Pray hard, if there is such a thing, and focus on what she would look like and when she’d do it, which is during the next couple of hours. And while you’re at it, I’ll give your grass a trim.”
“Attaboy,” she said, and smiled beatifically at me as I rose from my chair and trotted down the porch in search of her push lawn mower. I found it in the garage and hauled it out for a bit of brisk exercise as the widow shut her eyes and began to rock softly in her chair.
I didn’t know if this would work, but I had hope. Mary tended to make a lot more visits than the rest of the Christian saints and angels, and in the dozen or so times I’d run across her, it was always a result of some prayer for intercession someone had made on behalf of a group of people.
If it didn’t work, then I wouldn’t sweat it; I’d just take the arrows into a Catholic church and ask a priest to bless them. Anyone’s strong Christian faith would be effective against the demon, but Mary’s personal blessing would be quite a coup if I could count it.
After finishing the lawn, I returned the mower to its place in the widow’s garage and joined her on the porch. Her eyes opened after a moment and there were tears welling up in them.
“Ah, Atticus, I do hope she heard me and comes on down like ye say. I know she’s been lookin’ after me Sean, God rest him,” she crossed herself at the mention of her deceased husband, “but I don’t think he’d mind if she popped out for a bit to help some souls down here goin’ through a dark patch right now. ’Twould be a mighty blessing, an’ that’s no lie. But whether she comes or no, it does me heart good to think she might and that there’s hope fer those benighted people who might find God in the kindness of her smile. Thank ye fer suggestin’ the prayer to me.”
I took the widow’s small, spotted hand and gave it a brief squeeze. We sat together on the porch and watched the storm clouds boil in from the east until it was time for me to meet Coyote.
“Off ye go, then,” the widow said when I made my farewell and told Oberon it was time to leave the cats alone. “Tell Mary I love her if ye see her. Oh, and Atticus me boy?”
“Yes, Mrs. MacDonagh?”
“Maybe ye should wear a helmet this time,” she teased me, “in case the demon wants to nibble on yer nose or something.”
Chapter 8
Coyote was only five minutes late.
The tires of a Ford Escape hybrid squealed as he rounded the corner. He braked sharply in front of my house, marking the pavement and sending up the smell of burned rubber. He got out of the cab and laughed. “This here is one hot ride, Mr. Druid, yessiree!” He slapped the hood a couple of times to punctuate his enthusiasm.
“You really think so? I’d think something sportier would be more fun to drive than that.”
“I meant hot as in ‘freshly stolen.’ Stealin’ cars is almost as fun as stealin’ horses used to be a couple centuries ago. You ready?”
