Misfit (14 page)

“Oh come now, my dungeons aren’t that bad,” Dagon said.

She looked at him for a moment, her brows knitting together.

“You haven’t seen him, have you?”

“What? Why, no, I haven’t. You were the one who insisted I not concern myself with him once he was captured.”

“Perhaps you should have one final look. For closure.”

“If you like,” he said. Then he turned toward the front of the temple. “Baal! Why don’t you fetch our guest of honor and bring him up here for a moment?”

Baal looked at Dagon for a long moment, as if he didn’t understand. Then he said, “Of course. An excel ent suggestion.”

He turned to a few mortals at his side and spoke quietly with them. As they scurried off, Astarte caught Baal’s gaze, and it was cold.

A while later, when most of the celebrants were considerably drunk, the servants brought out Samson.

“What is this?” gasped Dagon.

The Samson who stood before him was barely recognizable.

His hair was a ragged patchwork of short clumps. His muscles had wasted away from malnutrition. He was covered with whip marks and bruises. Worst of al , his eyes had been burned out of their sockets. Only an infected mass of scar tissue remained.

“Behold!” boomed Baal’s slow measured voice. “The once mighty Samson brought low before you!”

Throngs of drunken people cheered at his back.

“What cruelty have you wrought upon this poor wretched creature?” said Dagon.

“Only what was just,” said Baal. Then he turned to the crowd. “Was it not the Hebrew god who said an eye for an eye?

Wel , this Samson has dimmed the eyes of thousands of our people, and if he had as many eyes we would burn them al out!”

The crowd roared like rabid animals. They jeered and spit on Samson. He stood straight and tal , but his weak, starved body shook with the effort.

“I don’t understand what’s going on,” Dagon said to Astarte. “My people are artisans and architects, not bloodthirsty barbarians.”

“Things change,” said Astarte. “And mortals can be fickle.”

“Here he is!” Baal said to the crowds, his deep, resonant voice carrying effortlessly through the temple. “The man who slaughtered our people and destroyed our homes! And stil he stands, too puffed up with arrogance even now to humble himself before those he has wronged!”

That was when a beautiful handcrafted pot crashed into Samson’s head. A trickle of blood leaked from the gash on his forehead and he swayed. Then another bowl struck him, and another. The pottery crashed into him, shattering against his emaciated frame again and again. The Philistines pul ed from the shelves and from the altars and hurled what they could grab with howls of rage. Samson stumbled and almost fel . He reached out his hands until he caught hold of the massive wooden pil ars at the center of the temple. He clung to them as cups, bowls, pots, and vases rained down on him.

“Stop this!” yel ed Dagon. “What has come over you al ?

These are not my Philistines!”

“No,” said Baal, his emotionless brown eyes locked on Dagon’s amber eyes. “They are mine now.”

“You . . . ,” said Dagon, but his body was so clenched with rage that he could barely move.

“I used Samson to show your people the foolishness of attachment to aesthetics and beauty. I have shown them what a truly powerful god requires of them. A god worth worshiping.”

“How could you do this? I took you in when you had nothing. You were my apprentice!”

“Times are changing,” said Baal. “You must change with them. Or die.”

Then he turned his back on Dagon and gazed at Samson and the crowds that closed in tighter and tighter around him.

They had broken al the pottery in the temple and now beat and kicked Samson while he clung stubbornly to the pil ars.

“Yes!” boomed Baal. “Rip him apart with your bare hands!

Tear his bleeding flesh from his bones while he stil screams! I, your god, command it!”

The crowd surged forward, fighting each other to get to the man.

“Oh, God!” cried Samson. “Remember me, I beg you, and strengthen me only this one last time that I may be avenged!”

“I don’t know what your god thinks of al this,” said Dagon with a quiet growl. “But I wil grant you this request gladly.”

Suddenly, Samson stood up straight. His muscles seemed to expand as his hands pressed against the support pil ars. The pil ars groaned and shuddered, then cracked. But the crowds were too bent on fighting one another to notice. Then the pil ars gave way, the ceiling shattered, and the temple col apsed with a sound like thunder.

Dagon and Astarte stood outside the temple as it fel .

They caught a glimpse of Baal for a moment, his eyes locked on them as everything crumbled around him.

Then he was buried with his shrieking Philistines under a mass of wood and stone.

They stood there for a few minutes, the silence sudden and oppressive.

Then Astarte said, “Come, brother. Baal wil dig himself out soon enough. It wil be better if we aren’t here. You can come to Phoenicia until you decide what to do next.”

“I stil don’t understand,” he said quietly. “How it came to this.”

“Baal was right. Change is coming.”

“What wil we do?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said.

A LESSON IN THE ELEMENTS 12

the next morning, it starts to rain. not the flirtatious occasional drizzle of the past few days, but the steady, sodden mist of Seattle’s version of winter. It isn’t a harsh cold like many of the places that Jael has lived. In fact, it rarely dips below freezing. Instead, it’s just dark, quiet, and wet from October to May.

The bus crosses the George Washington Memorial Bridge, then winds through downtown and past the Space Needle and Monorail. As Jael stares out of the window, her demon vision cuts through the mist easily and the city opens up for her. The streets slope dramatical y down to canals and waterways that churn endlessly out into Puget Sound. She notices that parts of the coastline are not solid rock, but are instead fil ed in with dirt and sawdust by arrogant men trying to steal just a little more land from the sea. Their gal amazes her, especial y since it’s so clear to her how fragile that false land is. It survives on the whim of nature, and it wouldn’t take much to wash it al away.

The bus skirts the hil y bungalows of Magnolia and final y plunges into the forest. After a few minutes, it emerges into a big open field in the center of the park. In the summer, the field is covered with sunbathers and people playing Frisbee or footbal .

Now that the rains have come, it’s empty and a little sad. Jael is the only person left on the bus, and as she gets off, the bus driver says, “Have fun out there.”

“Yeah, thanks,” she says. “I’l try.”

The bus slowly pul s away, taking its dry warmth and light with it. She’s left standing in the damp grass on a dark, gray day, slowly getting wetter and wetter as she stares at the empty forest that borders the field.

Usual y, she’d feel tense in an empty park. She’d imagine muggers or rapists lying in wait for her. But now as she looks around, she feels comfortable, despite the weather. In fact, she doesn’t even feel alone. At first she can’t quite figure out why.

Then she realizes: it’s the trees.

She knows that trees are alive, of course, but she’s never thought about it much before. As she looks at them now, she can see distinct personalities. The way one leans forward makes it seem sad, and the way one shelters another is kind of sweet, like two old people on a bench. By contrast, the manicured lawn feels boring and faceless. She walks toward the trees.

It’s a lot drier among the trees. The branches form a thick canopy over her head that blocks out most of the rain.

“Pretty nice for tame trees,” says Dagon. He’s right next to her, but his sudden appearance doesn’t startle her. She expected him to be there. His scales look different now—moist and healthy—and there’s a rainbow sheen to them. Maybe it’s the rain, or being in a more natural setting, but there seems to be a brightness about him, an energy that makes him appear less like a giant fish man and more like something that belongs on Earth.

Or as he cal ed, Gaia.

“Tame trees?” she asks.

“This isn’t real wilderness,” says Dagon. “Someone takes care of them. Most of those types force the trees into shapes or arrangements instead of letting them find their own way. This mortal, whoever he or she is, actual y gave the trees a lot of leeway. Makes them friendlier.”

“Friendly trees,” says Jael.

“Sure,” says Dagon. “Can’t you feel it?”

Jael places her hand on the trunk of the big oak next to her.

“I didn’t mean literal y,” says Dagon.

“No, no,” says Jael. “I think I can, though. It’s kind of weird.

. . .” She frowns. “I don’t know how to describe it. It’s not real y a good or bad feeling. I just feel . . . noticed.

Which is weird, because I didn’t realize I was being ignored before.”

“Nature doesn’t care about mortals,” says Dagon. “At least, not as individuals. They die so quickly compared to a tree. And they don’t real y do anything.”

“What about what scientists say?” asks Jael. “About us kil ing the Earth?”

Dagon makes a honking sound, like a laugh and a sneeze.

“First, when you say ‘us,’ you’re not talking about yourself.”

“But I’m stil part—”

“And second, the idea that they could kil the planet Earth is the height of mortal arrogance.”

“But what about global warming and al that stuff? Isn’t that real?”

“Sure it is, but global warming isn’t the death of the Earth.

It’s the death of humanity. It’s more like the Earth’s way of evicting mortals because they’ve been lousy tenants. Just because the Earth isn’t habitable doesn’t mean it’s dead. Just not in the mood for guests and freeloaders.”

“So if the Earth doesn’t care about mortals, why does it care about demons?” asks Jael.

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say it cares about us,” says Dagon.

“It’s more like mild curiosity. We live long enough to show up on its radar, so we can affect things in very smal ways.”

“What do you mean, we can affect things?”

“That’s what magic is,” says Dagon. “Coaxing the elements into doing something a little different from what they usual y do.” He moves over to a smal stream, his thick, scaly legs surprisingly agile. Then he beckons to her. Jael picks her way through the clumps of moss and thick roots that stick out of the ground with a lot less grace.

“We’l start with the ones that are closest to you.”

Dagon bends over and scoops up a handful of water.

“Look at this.” He holds out his clawed, webbed hands with a perfect pool of water col ected in the center. “Now, it’s natural for water to freeze.

Just not something it’s used to doing at this temperature. So convince it to do it anyway.”

“Convince the water . . . ,” says Jael. “What, like, talk to it?”

“If it helps you,” says Dagon. “But that’s more to keep you focused. Water doesn’t understand language, just intent.”

“But how does it get my intent?”

“Wel , that’s the trick, isn’t it?” says Dagon.

Jael glares at him.

“What?” Dagon grins. “Nobody said it would be easy.”

“Can’t you at least give me a hint?”

“It’s different for everyone,” says Dagon, stil smiling. “I wouldn’t want to impose my own techniques on you.”

“Thanks,” says Jael. She stares at the water in Dagon’s hand.

“It does help if you’re touching it,” he says. “At least, at first.” He holds out his cupped hands and pours the water into her hands. Since her hands are much smal er and don’t have webbing, a lot of it trickles to the ground.

“I can’t hold as much as you,” she says.

“It would be easier if it were more solid,” he agrees.

Then he winks at her.

“Right,” she says. She looks at the tiny puddle in her hands.

Feeling pretty dumb, she says, “It would be easier to hold you if you were solid.”

And she’s looking at a smal disk of ice in her hands.

“I did it!”

“Careful,” says Dagon. “Don’t start thinking like that.

You and the water did it together.”

“Right.” Then she says to the water, “Sorry. We did it.”

“Better,” says Dagon. “Now get it to turn to steam.”

“Hmm,” she says. She stares at the clump of ice for a minute.

“Turn to steam,” she says.

Nothing happens.

“You can’t command it. You have to convince it,” says Dagon. “Give it a reason to change.”

“So, why would water want to become steam?”

“Freedom, perhaps?”

“I don’t get that.”

“When water is heated, the molecules speed up and separate from each other. That’s steam. So imagine how great it would feel if you could spread out like that, then see if the water’s interested in it.”

Jael has a hard time imagining being able to let loose that much. To literal y explode. It doesn’t real y seem that fun. In fact, the idea makes her a little uncomfortable.

Then she gets this strange feeling that the ice in her hands disagrees with her. She can’t say how, exactly, but a whisper at the base of her skul tel s her exactly how much fun it can be to throw yourself to the wind, literal y.

“Oh yeah?” says Jael to the ice. “Show me.”

The ice dissolves into a single puff of steam. And as it disperses, Jael catches just a hint of the joy it feels.

“Okay, that’s pretty cool,” she says.

“It’s just the beginning,” says Dagon. “Water’s the most accommodating of the elements. Some of the others are a little more tough to convince.”

“Like earth?”

“Right,” says Dagon. “Earth doesn’t like to change what it’s doing. If you want to start an earthquake where one never happened before, you’d have to be pretty damn persuasive.”

“But if one was already happening, I could just egg it on?”

“You got it.”

“What about growing plants and stuff super fast?”

“That’s a little more complicated,” says Dagon.

“Because you have to coordinate earth, water, and air.”

“What about air?” she asks. “It’s gotta be pretty flexible, right?”