The old man said, “I do know you, boy.”
“You do?”
“You and I, we have walked the same path. I also hung on the tree for nine days, a sacrifice of myself to myself. I am the lord of the Aes. I am the god of the gallows.”
“You are Odin,” said Shadow.
The man nodded thoughtfully, as if weighing up the name. “They call me many things, but, yes, I am Odin, Bor’s son,” he said.
“I saw you die,” said Shadow. “I stood vigil for your body. You tried to destroy so much, for power. You would have sacrificed so much for yourself. You did that.”
“I did not do that.”
“Wednesday did. He was you.”
“He was me, yes. But I am not him.” The man scratched the side of his nose. His gull-feather bobbed.
“Will you go back?” asked the Lord of the Gallows. “To America?”
“Nothing to go back for,” said Shadow, and as he said it he knew it was a lie.
“Things wait for you there,” said the old man. “But they will wait until you return.”
A white butterfly flew crookedly past them. Shadow said nothing. He had had enough of gods and their ways to last him several lifetimes. He would take the bus to the airport, he decided, and change his ticket. Get a plane to somewhere he had never been. He would keep moving.
“Hey,” said Shadow. “I have something for you.” His hand dipped into his pocket, and palmed the object he needed. “Hold your hand out,” he said.
Odin looked at him strangely and seriously. Then he shrugged, and extended his right hand, palm down. Shadow reached over and turned it so the palm was upward.
He opened his own hands, showed them, one after the other, to be completely empty. Then he pushed the glass eye into the leathery palm of the old man’s hand and left it there.
“How did you do that?”
“Magic,” said Shadow, without smiling.
The old man grinned and laughed and clapped his hands together. He looked at the eye, holding it between finger and thumb, and nodded, as if he knew exactly what it was, and then he slipped it into a leather bag that hung by his waist. “Takk kærlega. I shall take care of this.”
“You’re welcome,” said Shadow. He stood up, brushed the grass from his jeans. He closed the book, put it back into the side-pocket of his backpack.
“Again,” said the Lord of Asgard, with an imperious motion of his head, his voice deep and commanding. “More. Do again.”
“You people,” said Shadow. “You’re never satisfied. Okay. This is one I learned from a guy who’s dead now.”
He reached into nowhere, and took a gold coin from the air. It was a normal sort of gold coin. It couldn’t bring back the dead or heal the sick, but it was a gold coin sure enough. “And that’s all there is,” he said, displaying it between finger and thumb. “That’s all she wrote.”
He tossed the coin into the air with a flick of his thumb. It spun golden at the top of its arc, in the sunlight, and it glittered and glinted and hung there in the mid-summer sky as if it was never going to come down. Maybe it never would. Shadow didn’t wait to see. He walked away and he kept on walking.
Acknowledgments
It’s been a long book, and a long journey, and I owe many people a great deal.
Mrs. Hawley lent me her Florida house to write in, and all I had to do in return was scare away the vultures. She lent me her Irish house to finish it in and cautioned me not to scare away the ghosts. My thanks to her and Mr. Hawley for all their kindness and generosity. Jonathan and Jane lent me their house and hammock to write in, and all I had to do was fish the occasional peculiar Floridian beastie out of the lizard pool. I’m very grateful to them all.
Dan Johnson, MD, gave me medical information whenever I needed it, pointed out stray and unintentional anglicisms (everybody else did this as well), answered the oddest questions, and, on one July day, even flew me around northern Wisconsin in a tiny plane. In addition to keeping my life going by proxy while I wrote this book, my assistant, the fabulous Lorraine Garland, became very blasé about finding out the population of small American towns for me; I’m still not sure quite how she did it. (She’s part of a band called the Flash Girls: buy their new record, Play Each Morning, Wild Queen, and make her happy.) Terry Pratchett helped unlock a knotty plot point for me on the train to Gothenburg. Eric Edelman answered my diplomatic questions. Anna Sunshine Ison unearthed a bunch of stuff for me on the West Coast Japanese internment camps, which will have to wait for another book to be written for it never quite fitted into this one. I stole the best line of dialogue in the epilogue from Gene Wolfe, to whom, my thanks. Sergeant Kathy Ertz graciously answered even my weirdest police procedural questions and Deputy Sheriff Marshall Multhauf took me on a drive-along. Pete Clark submitted to some ridiculously personal questioning with grace and good humor. Dale Robertson was the book’s consulting hydrologist. I appreciated Dr. Jim Miller’s comments about people, language and fish, as I did the linguistic help of Margret Rodas. Jamy Ian Swiss made sure that the coin magic was magical. Any mistakes in the book are mine, not theirs.
Many good people read the manuscript and offered valuable suggestions, corrections, encouragement, and information. I am especially grateful to Colin Greenland and Susanna Clarke, John Clute and Samuel R. Delany. I’d also like to thank Owl Goingback (who really does have the world’s coolest name), Iselin Røsjø Evensen, Peter Straub, Jonathan Carroll, Kelli Bickman, Dianna Graf, Lenny Henry, Pete Atkins, Chris Ewen, Teller, Kelly Link, Barb Gilly, Will Shetterly, Connie Zastoupil, Rantz Hoseley, Diana Schutz, Steve Brust, Kelly Sue DeConnick, Roz Kaveney, Ian McDowell, Karen Berger, Wendy Japhet, Terje Nordberg, Gwenda Bond, Therese Littleton, Lou Aronica, Hy Bender, Mark Askwith, Alan Moore (who also graciously lent me “Litvinoff’s Book”), and the original Joe Sanders. Thanks also to Rebecca Wilson; and particular thanks to Stacy Weiss, for her insight. After she read the first draft, Diana Wynne Jones warned me what kind of book this was, and the perils I risked writing it, and she’s been right on every count so far.
I wish Professor Frank McConnell were still with us. I think he would have enjoyed this one.
Once I’d written the first draft I realized that a number of other people had tackled these themes before ever I got to them: in particular my favorite unfashionable author, James Branch Cabell, the late Roger Zelazny, and, of course, the inimitable Harlan Ellison, whose collection Deathbird Stories burned itself onto the back of my head when I was still of an age where a book could change me forever.
I can never quite see the point of noting down for posterity the music you listened to while writing a book, and there was an awful lot of music listened to while I was writing this. Still, without Greg Brown’s Dream Café and the Magnetic Fields’ 69 Love Songs it would have been a different book, so thanks to Greg and to Stephin. And I feel it my duty to tell you that you can experience the music of the House on the Rock on tape or CD, including that of the Mikado machine and of the World’s Largest Carousel. It’s unlike, although certainly not better than, anything else you’ve heard. Write to: The House on the Rock, Spring Green, WI 53588 USA, or call 1-608-935-3639.