The Lost War, Karl Gallagher [recommended reading txt] 📗

“Huh. I’d hate to get stuck with a name I hate.”

“Well, you can change it. But that usually takes doing something spectacular or the King deciding to rename you.”

“The King? Why would he care about someone’s name?”

Buttercup chuckled. “That doesn’t happen often. Last one was when King Stonefist decided Lady Chamomile should be Lady Burnout.”

“What? Why’d he do that?” demanded Newman.

“Oh, she’s an emergency room doc in mundane life, then she comes here and patches bruises for fun. Stonefist thought she needed to take some time off so he tagged her to shame her into taking some time for herself. Didn’t work. She’s working the chiurgeon tent this weekend.”

***

Newman looked left and right to make sure he was properly spaced between Goldenrod and the stranger to his right. It didn’t seem to matter. The couple dozen people forming the circle were sloppily arranged. Squeezing them between a couple of tents made it more of an oval than a circle. But he wanted to do his part right, even if he didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing.

He’d said yes to Goldenrod’s invitation to attend a pagan circle without thinking. Now he wished he’d asked some questions. This other religion didn’t do anything the way he was used to. Everyone faced in toward the cluttered table in the center as the priestess called chants in different directions. He held up his eating knife, turned when the others did, and repeated “So mote it be” when everyone else did. Hopefully it wouldn’t get any more complicated.

Priestess Belladonna did put on a good show. Her prayers were passionate, her calls to the gods detailed enough to educate him, and the ritual of blade and chalice made the sexual symbolism clear without any adolescent smirking. Now she seemed to start a sermon. “We all came here to seek something—a glimpse of a better past, association with our true peers, a chance to display our strengths, and usually some of all three.” Belladonna turned, looking at each member of the circle in turn. “But we’re also all fleeing something. We’re seeking the same things and fleeing different things. Working together we can help each other escape.”

Belladonna turned about and walked up to a woman in the circle. “What are you fleeing?”

“My ex,” she answered.

“Cut yourself free,” said Belladonna. She aimed her index finger at the ground at the woman’s heels. To the next person in the circle she asked, “What are you fleeing?”

“My job.”

“Cut yourself free.” She put her hand on his wrist and angled his blade toward the grass. “Cut the ground and connect it to your neighbors’ cuts, so all in the circle may be free.” She went to the next. “What are you fleeing?”

“Poverty.”

“Cut yourself free.” The first two were kneeling to cut through the roots. The third joined them. Belladonna moved on, repeating her question and direction to each. The answers floated across the circle, some firm, some hesitant.

“My mother.”

“Stalkers.”

“Drugs.”

“Family.”

“Booze.”

“Dad.”

When Newman's turn came he was cheerful. Seeing others fumbling with how to do their part of the ritual made him feel an equal. It made sense to him. Cutting around the circle would symbolically cut all their ties to what they were trying to leave behind.

“What are you fleeing?” asked Belladonna.

“Guilt,” answered Newman.

The priestess inclined her head gravely. “Cut yourself free.”

Newman knelt to make his cut. Beside him Goldenrod said, “Boredom,” and joined him.

They were among the last to answer Belladonna. After completing the circle, she moved to the center to urge everyone to finish. “Make your cuts complete! Your cut must join your neighbor’s cut! The circle must be unbroken!”

Newman noticed Goldenrod’s cut overlapped but didn’t touch his. A swipe of his knife connected them. With their attention on the ground no one in the circle noticed the stars shift into new constellations.

Belladonna’s black dress streamed out in a breeze between the tents. One of the corner candles nearly went out. “Ground your blades and hold hands,” she ordered. “Feel your freedom. Share your energy with each other. You are released from what pursues you!” As she raised her hands to the sky the circle followed, clasped hands reaching up. “Let us thank the gods for their gifts.”

The corner callers said thanks to their deities in turn. With the ceremony over the circle broke up, some clumping, others scattering.

“So?” said Goldenrod.

“It was . . . more powerful than I imagined,” said Newman. “I feel free, energized, powerful.”

“So do I,” she said. “It’s not usually this good. Belladonna has her, well, never mind, but she can run a circle.”

“What's next?”

“Traditional midnight Steak & Shake run.”

“Can I come?”

“Sure,” she smiled. An older couple volunteered to join the expedition. Goldenrod introduced them as Beargut and Elderberry. Newman led them to the parking lot.

Rounding the last tent he stopped abruptly. A wall of trees was blocking the way. “Uh . . .”

“Wrong way?” asked Goldenrod.

“No, look. The path is clear, then it’s just leaves.”

“This isn’t right,” said Beargut. “I’ve been coming here for ten years. The trees aren’t this dense, there’s grass between them.”

“Did we get turned around?” Newman asked. He looked left and right. The trees ended neatly a few yards from the tents. Too neatly. Some branches ended as if they’d been sliced with a bandsaw. He pointed them out.

“Do people trim trees to make room for their tents?”

“Never,” said Elderberry. “It’s prohibited by park rules. If we cut a tree we’d be banned from the site.”

“I could have sworn this was the way to the parking lots,” said Goldenrod.

“It is,” agreed Beargut. “Should be right through there. But I don’t see the streetlights.”

Newman turned slowly on his heel. “There’s no streetlights in any direction. I thought I saw