“Paul Bunyan?” Shadow said. “What did he ever do?”
“He took up head space,” said Whiskey Jack. He bummed a cigarette from Wednesday and the two men sat and smoked.
“It’s like the idiots who figure that hummingbirds worry about their weight or tooth decay or some such nonsense, maybe they just want to spare hummingbirds the evils of sugar,” explained Wednesday. “So they fill the hummingbird feeders with fucking NutraSweet. The birds come to the feeders and they drink it. Then they die, because their food contains no calories even though their little tummies are full. That’s Paul Bunyan for you. Nobody ever told Paul Bunyan stories. Nobody ever believed in Paul Bunyan. He came staggering out of a New York ad agency in 1910 and filled the nation’s myth stomach with empty calories.”
“I like Paul Bunyan,” said Whiskey Jack. “I went on his ride at the Mall of America, few years back. You see big old Paul Bunyan at the top then you come crashing down. Splash! He’s okay by me. I don’t mind that he never existed, means he never cut down any trees. Not as good as planting trees though. That’s better.”
“You said a mouthful,” said Johnny Chapman.
Wednesday blew a smoke ring. It hung in the air, dissipating slowly in wisps and curls. “Damn it, Whiskey Jack, that’s not the point and you know it.”
“I’m not going to help you,” said Whiskey Jack. “When you get your ass kicked, you can come back here and if I’m still here I’ll feed you again. You get the best food in the fall.”
Wednesday said, “All the alternatives are worse.”
“You have no idea what the alternatives are,” said Whiskey Jack. Then he looked at Shadow. “You are hunting,” he said. His voice was roughened by wood smoke and cigarettes.
“I’m working,” said Shadow.
Whiskey Jack shook his head. “You are also hunting something,” he said. “There is a debt that you wish to pay.”
Shadow thought of Laura’s blue lips and the blood on her hands, and he nodded.
“Listen. Fox was here first, and his brother was the wolf. Fox said, people will live forever. If they die they will not die for long. Wolf said, no, people will die, people must die, all things that live must die, or they will spread and cover the world, and eat all the salmon and the caribou and the buffalo, eat all the squash and all the corn. Now one day Wolf died, and he said to the fox, quick, bring me back to life. And Fox said, No, the dead must stay dead. You convinced me. And he wept as he said this. But he said it, and it was final. Now Wolf rules the world of the dead and Fox lives always under the sun and the moon, and he still mourns his brother.”
Wednesday said, “If you won’t play, you won’t play. We’ll be moving on.”
Whiskey Jack’s face was impassive. “I’m talking to this young man,” he said. “You are beyond help. He is not.” He turned back to Shadow. “Tell me your dream,” said Whiskey Jack.
Shadow said, “I was climbing a tower of skulls. There were huge birds flying around it. They had lightning in their wings. They were attacking me. The tower fell.”
“Everybody dreams,” said Wednesday. “Can we hit the road?”
“Not everybody dreams of the Wakinyau, the thunderbird,” said Whiskey Jack. “We felt the echoes of it here.”
“I told you,” said Wednesday. “Jesus.”
“There’s a clutch of thunderbirds in West Virginia,” said Chapman, idly. “A couple of hens and an old cock-bird at least. There’s also a breeding pair in the land, they used to call it the State of Franklin, but old Ben never got his state, up between Kentucky and Tennessee. ‘Course, there was never a great number of them, even at the best of times.”
Whiskey Jack reached out a hand the color of red clay and touched Shadow’s face, gently. “Eyah,” he said. “It’s true. If you hunt the thunderbird you could bring your woman back. But she belongs to the wolf, in the dead places, not walking the land.”
“How do you know?” asked Shadow.
Whiskey Jack’s lips did not move. “What did the buffalo tell you?”
“To believe.”
“Good advice. Are you going to follow it?”
“Kind of. I guess.” They were talking without words, without mouths, without sound. Shadow wondered if, for the other two men in the room, they were standing, unmoving, for a heartbeat or for fraction of a heartbeat.
“When you find your tribe, come back and see me,” said Whiskey Jack. “I can help.”
“I shall.”
Whiskey Jack lowered his hand. Then he turned to Wednesday. “Are you going to fetch your Ho Chunk?”
“My what?”