Unlike the Irish and the Norse-and many other cultures-the Greco–Romans did not imagine their gods as eternally youthful but vulnerable to violent death. All I could do was run and curse the ancient Greco-Romans. Oberon ran on my left and Granuaile on my right all around me, the forest quaked silently with the pandemonium of Faunus, disrupting Druidic tethers to Tír na nÓg.
Artemis and Diana had decided that I needed killing, and the Morrigan had pledged to protect me from such violent death. Somewhere behind me, the Morrigan was fighting off two goddesses of the hunt. It was never particularly high up on my list, for obvious reasons, but the memory came back to me, fully fantasized in Technicolor, once I was running for my life in Romania. I can’t remember when I thought that one up and added it to my list. There would be a wisecracking computer science graduate from MIT in the van with me who almost but not quite went all the way once with a mousy physics major who dumped him because he didn’t accelerate her particles. And of course I would surveil him from a black windowless van parked somewhere along his street. I would then install surveillance equipment before I left so that I could properly appreciate his reaction (and his hangover) when he woke up. I always wanted to get blindly drunk with a mustachioed man, take him back to his place, do a few extra shots just this side of severe liver damage, and then shave off half his mustache when he passed out. It’s odd how when you feel safe you can’t think of that thing it was you kept meaning to do, but when you’re running for your life you suddenly remember the entire list of things you never got around to doing.
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