American Gods

“I’m here,” said Shadow, “because back in December a young man played a game of checkers with an old god, and he lost.”

The old woman’s gray hair was up on the top of her head in a tight bun. She pursed her lips. “Come back tomorrow,” said Zorya Vechernyaya.

“I can’t,” he said, simply.

“Is your funeral. Now, you go and sit down. Zorya Utrennyaya will bring you coffee. Czernobog will be back soon.”

Shadow walked along the corridor to the sitting room. It was just as he remembered, although now the window was open. The gray cat slept on the arm of the sofa. It opened an eye as Shadow came in and then, unimpressed, it went back to sleep.

This was where he had played checkers with Czernobog; this was where he had wagered his life to get the old man to join them on Wednesday’s last doomed grift. The fresh air came in through the open window, blowing the stale air away.

Zorya Utrennyaya came in with a red wooden tray. A small enameled cup of steaming black coffee sat on the tray, beside a saucer filled with small chocolate-chip cookies. She put it down on the table in front of him.

“I saw Zorya Polunochnaya again,” he said. “She came to me under the world, and she gave me the moon to light my way. And she took something from me. But I don’t remember what.”

“She likes you,” said Zorya Utrennyaya. “She dreams so much. And she guards us all. She is so brave.”

“Where’s Czernobog?”

“He says the spring-cleaning makes him uncomfortable. He goes out to buy newspaper, sit in the park. Buy cigarettes. Perhaps he will not come back today. You do not have to wait. Why don’t you go? Come back tomorrow.”

“I’ll wait,” said Shadow. This was no geas, forcing him to wait, he knew that. This was him. It was one last thing that needed to happen, and if it was the last thing that happened, well, he was going there of his own volition. After this there would be no more obligations, no more mysteries, no more ghosts.

He sipped the hot coffee, as black and as sweet as he remembered.

He heard a deep male voice in the corridor, and he sat up straighter. He was pleased to see that his hand was not trembling. The door opened.

“Shadow?”

“Hi,” said Shadow. He stayed sitting down.

Czernobog walked into the room. He was carrying a folded copy of the Chicago Sun-Times, which he put down on the coffee table. He stared at Shadow, then he put his hand out, tentatively. The two men shook hands.

“I came,” said Shadow. “Our deal. You came through with your part of it. This is my part.”

Czernobog nodded. His brow creased. The sunlight glinted on his gray hair and moustache, making them appear almost golden. “Is…” He frowned. “Is not…” He broke off. “Maybe you should go. Is not a good time.”

“Take as long as you need,” said Shadow. “I’m ready.”

Czernobog sighed. “You are a very stupid boy. You know that?”

“I guess.”

“You are a stupid boy. And on the mountaintop, you did a very good thing.”

“I did what I had to do.”

“Perhaps.”

Czernobog walked to the old wooden sideboard, and, bending down, pulled an attaché case from underneath it. He flipped the catches on the case. Each one sprang back with a satisfying thump. He opened the case. He took a hammer out, and hefted it, experimentally. The hammer looked like a scaled-down sledgehammer; its wooden haft was stained.

Then he stood up. He said, “I owe you much. More than you know. Because of you, things are changing. This is spring time. The true spring.”

“I know what I did,” said Shadow. “I didn’t have a lot of choice.”

Czernobog nodded. There was a look in his eyes that Shadow did not remember seeing before. “Did I ever tell you about my brother?”

“Bielebog?” Shadow walked to the center of the ash-stained carpet. He went down on his knees. “You said you hadn’t seen him in a long time.”

“Yes,” said the old man, raising the hammer. “It has been a long winter, boy. A very long winter. But the winter is ending, now.” And he shook his head, slowly, as if he were remembering something. And he said, “Close your eyes.”

Shadow closed his eyes and raised his head, and he waited.

The head of the sledgehammer was cold, icy cold, and it touched his forehead as gently as a kiss.

“Pock! There,” said Czernobog. “Is done.” There was a smile on his face that Shadow had never seen before, an easy, comfortable smile, like sunshine on a summer’s day. The old man walked over to the case, and he put the hammer away, and closed the bag, and pushed it back under the sideboard.

“Czernobog?” asked Shadow. Then, “Are you Czernobog?”

“Yes. For today,” said the old man. “By tomorrow, it will all be Bielebog. But today, is still Czernobog.”

“Then why? Why didn’t you kill me when you could?”

The old man took out an unfiltered cigarette from a pack in his pocket. He took a large box of matches from the mantelpiece and lit the cigarette with a match. He seemed deep in thought. “Because,” said the old man, after some time, “there is blood. But there is also gratitude. And it has been a long, long winter.”