Chapter Thirty-Four

With another Benny's pepperoni pie a happy memory I played chauffeur again, collecting Frank, with a nervy Rachel, and Jeremiah, with Alan Villiers. I'd left Warren, Brent, David, and Irpa, with Ramona and three Freed waiting in the Garden of Manannán's Death, and when I got back from Lexington, Rachel and David were still staring at the statue. Villiers wanted to as well, but knew better than to say anything, and I stifled a sigh. Maybe I should commission a copy for the middle of the reflecting pool in the National Mall and have done. Fortunately, Irpa was in no mood to hang about, and as soon as ap Lugh turned up off to SF we went.

We came out in a secured area behind a stage in Bison Paddock, and my heart thumped. The surviving Grateful Dead were in the middle of 'Sugaree', and a big screen showed a crowd that was already enormous, filling the Paddock, banked seating on both sides, and John F. Kennedy Drive, with more who'd climbed trees all round. There were people I really wanted to meet, but Secret Service guys came first. To be fair, there were only two, whom I already knew, the rest of the team, I was told by Agent Maretti, being deployed around the secured area. There were many Feeb and SFPD eyes scanning the crowd, in reality and on screens, and provided I stayed on stage no obvious vantage for a sniper.

"I've been told that despite events last night, there might not be such an elevated risk, Ms Hauptman."

Others not in the loop could hear. "So I gather, Agent Maretti. SAC Fisher has reason to believe it was local to the Tri-Cities, and this event has only been public since yesterday. Lexington and Sacajawea SP on Saturday, maybe, but today is lower risk. Coming the other way, I have Carnwennan, another blade, a Glock — you know about the all-state licenses the CIA did for us? — and magical capabilities. You'll recognise David Christiansen and the Freed with me, but Brent Lanning is a wolf, multiple black belt, packing Glock and blade, and Jill Widepaw an avatar of Bear, ditto. David, Brent, and Jill are on me, the Freed will reinforce your perimeter, if that's OK."

It was, and Irpa stepped forward.

"Additionally, Agent Maretti, besides Giant-shortener my sister Þorgerðr and friend Vorðr have troll-clubs too." A six-foot version of Þorgerðr stepped forward to stand beside Irpa, looking like Ms Thorsden's sister; Vorðr was another tall, very well-muscled Nordic woman. "And as the Prince is here, we have more magic than you could shake any number of sticks at. All clear?"

Maretti had a set to his face I recognised, but nodded tightly. "It is, Ms Thorsden. Anything magical is over to you and Ms Hauptman. Our concern is human … extremists, and while alive to question is always good, squashing sounds a great deal better than any alternative."

I saw Irpa reassess him. "Un huh, Agent Maretti. And we are glad of the additional protection you offer Mercy, me, and others on her slate who attend. But if you're good, we need to get on."

Fae sensibilities made for formality in introducing Þorgerðr and Vorðr, but they seemed to like Jill, and were cheerful with Warren, Jeremiah, and the Freed. Ap Lugh watched with what I thought was mild amusement, and though I wanted a word I was pleased to meet Dave Lemieux, who had paperwork allowing me to use anything I wanted from the back catalogue at rallies. Being the Dead's archivist apparently made for coolness with the preternatural, and if he was enthusiastic to meet me he was also very efficient, explaining that beyond genuine agreement with my policies advantages were mutual. The Clean Up the Basin! fundraiser had brought them a new tranche of fans, including a younger demographic, and he had plans for cover-art for Dave's Picks and other archival releases featuring tattoo-Skuffles and, if I had no objection, skeletal coyotes and wolves getting it down. I didn't, once I'd discovered tattoo-Skuffles wouldn't be out for a year, and ap Lugh, when asked, assured us an image of skeletal me in the cloak was my business.

"I've told you, Mercedes, rose-cloaks like being displayed." He smiled. "Though what anyone may think of a presidential skeleton adorning a CD is moot."

"I imagine the skeleton will have a dress as well as the cloak, Gwyn ap Lugh. And dignified would be good, as much as a happy Deadhead can be."

Lemieux nodded, but put a hand to an earpiece, listened, and told us Irpa would be on when 'Sugaree' wound down, in a few. He excused himself to do something technical, taking Irpa, and as everyone else was busy talking to one another I looked at ap Lugh and spoke softly.

"Gwyn ap Lugh, did Irpa tell you what Giant-shortener thought about mini-Grond?"

"She did, Mercedes, and though Nemane remains very doubtful, you may have the right of it. She of Livorno had the magic of rejoining, certainly, however transference to any Undead should not be possible, for it is a magic to maintain life they do not have. But if it proves so, the weapon you have in mind to summon has virtue against all witchcraft. The Dark Smith did not like Morgause at all, nor Dana Shea."

"With cause, I'd think."

"Yes. And your innate magic of commanding ghosts may echo."

That was interesting, but there was no time to do more than express gladness as 'Sugaree' ended and Bob Weir spoke.

"Back in the day there was a gig at the Avalon Ballroom when Pigpen swore he'd seen a troll in the audience." He laughed at the memory. "He was pretty drunk, and the rest of us thought it was funny the only one not tripping had the hallucination. But we owe him an apology, because it turns out Irpa Thorsden was there, and Dave's found footage to prove it."

It came up on the screens, and though it was dark and a bit scratchy there was undoubtedly a moment when a full-size Irpa was there, and I felt my grin stretch as the Deadhead beside her looked, blinked, considered the joint in his hand, and offered it. The crowd were laughing but beside me ap Lugh sighed, and I glanced at him.

"It's a bit late to do anything about improper self-revelation."

"True, though it's a good thing I didn't know at the time."

"No harm, no foul. And no-one would have believed him anyway."

I got a sideways look as Bob Weir's voice came back.

"Isn't that a blast? And we're really happy to know Irpa's a vintage Deadhead, not just because she's very cool. She's also running for Congress right here, on Mercy Hauptman's slate, and I dunno about any of you, though your being here's a big clue, but we are seriously on board with that. Breadheads have been running everything and messing up for a long while now, and it's high time for some Deadheads." He waited out cheers. "So give it up for Irpa Thorsden, our friendly neighbourhood troll and the next Congressional Representative for the California 12th!"

And they did, a wall of sound of their own that had Irpa grinning as she went onstage. It wasn't just an old hippy crowd, either—there were faces of all ages and shades, and a real hunger for change in their welcome as well as enjoyment of style with substance. They also liked the campaign poster that came on screen, a double image echoing Coyote's design for mine and Frank's with a full-size Irpa on one side, muscles bulging as she toted a chunk of what had been The Dalles dam, and Ms Thorsden on the other, standing on the roadway of the Golden Gate. The lettering of her name, down the middle, managed to look runic without being kitschy, and the slogan was STILL HELPING TO BUILD. Ap Lugh was watching and listening intently, and we all heard the crowd's hunger. So did Irpa, who let it run a minute before holding up a hand and bringing it slowly down.

"That's a welcome to make any troll glad. I expect you know fae don't go in for thanks, but hear me when I say I'm very glad these fine musicians agreed to help me launch my campaign. They've even agreed to let me sing, by the by, but there's serious business first, because although this is a bunch of fun, that's not why I'm running, nor why you're all here."

Her voice had a lot of punch, and they were hanging on every word.

"When Mercy Hauptman asked me about doing this, you could have knocked me down with a feather, and that's rare for trolls. But however big a surprise, it was an easy decision, because what she's doing doesn't just matter, it's safety-critical. Human–Fae war was looking all too possible until she took out Cantrip and Manannán mac Lír, and leveraged the Medicine Wolf Accords. If I were human I'd call it a miracle, and I still call it magic — a ninety-foot rabbit out of an eight-inch hat. The President deserves credit too, and swore the binding oath on all citizens' behalves. Reaffirming that oath is the single most critical thing his successor has to do — but what have existing candidates, bar one, had to say about that? Not. One. Thing. Nada. Bupkis. Zip. Zilch. Just deafening silence, while they witter about not going too green too fast because saving the planet for our children might cut into profits. And you know who the exception is. So first and foremost, I am on the slate because I prefer peace and honour to war and dishonour."

She waited out more cheers.

"You are so right. Then there's the green deal. All fae, like other preternaturals, are in tune with the natural world, and know how much trouble it's in. Climate change affects rivers, and rivers affect bridges. I don't want them drying up or running wild, and though cleaning up the basin and the Columbia Restoration are wonderful starts we have a lot more to do. Next up, the Cascadia 'quake and evacuation. Medicine Wolf is a game-changer, but earthquakes can't be stopped, and it will be bad. Yet buildings can be rebuilt and the Medicine Wolf Accords will save lives — but which candidates are saying nothing about that either? And which one agreed to three state governors' requests to front evacuation info and guidance?"

The crowd responded and got a thumbs-up.

"Right again. And there's a lot more on the Path of Mercy I could go through, from forensics and S&R to the lost and always stupid war on drugs. And SAGE, which rocks. But I need to tell you some things you don't already know, and why the California 12th matters so much to me."

Most would have heard her say she helped build the Golden Gate and Bay Bridges, but the sepia images of construction crews with a more male-looking but recognisable Irpa grinning among them were new to everyone, including me. She was in surviving payment records as Irpo Thorsden, a freakishly strong woman being more of an oddity, and had been given hefty bonuses, three times, for saving lives, as a picture of her having her hand shaken by Jerry Voorhis proved. She genuinely loved those bridges, for all they were steel, and had plans involving troll strength as well as magic for safeguarding them during the Cascadia 'quake. I suspected those would involve the baby manitou of the Sacramento Basin, which might be too young to deal with tectonics but could probably insulate bridge footings, and she'd riveted attention, because while losing either bridge would be a drag for everyone in the Bay Area, for the 12th District it would be catastrophic. She'd seen Tricky Dicky Nixon come and go, and the counter-culture, and Tom Lantos, pitching long residence and real knowledge against the incumbent's majority. Running on her own it probably wouldn't have been enough but with both main parties under pressure from above, below, both sides, and left field, Irpa was generating a crackle of belief and determination. And there was more, mixing the wisdom of experience with troll irreverence,

Dave Lemieux came to show us to the entrances, and one by one Irpa invited us out, to funky drum rolls from the Rhythm Devils. Þorgerðr and Vorðr went first, as kin and joint campaign-managers, before ap Lugh was on to swear with tangible power that if elected Irpa's vote would be her own, and neither he nor any Gray Lord would seek to command it against her will and conscience. He wasn't exactly a popular public figure, but rightly respected and personal attendance mattered. Jeremiah, next up, got a bigger cheer than he or I had expected, and it was clear pairing this race with the Kentucky senate had caught imaginations; he read it too, and simple ringing words about standing together for change and renewal hit the mark. Warren, in quality western gear rather than a suit, to his relief, was greeted with a sustained chant of Born with the USA, that was in tune and inspired some musical backing. Even allowing for the Pink Vote here he was taken aback, and I sent strong support via pack bond, but his confidence really was up, and on the sixth or seventh repetition held up a hand and spoke with some drawl.

"Thank you, all — it means a lot that having come out as gay my age matters more. As it should." He rode out renewed cheering. "But today's about Irpa Thorsden. I didn't know her before that night in Wyoming, when she and Þorgerðr got us into Cantrip's hellhole and helped us and the newly Freed more ways than I can count. That wasn't a night for joking, and most of what anyone said was practical, but with the Medicine Wolf Accords and all the rest I've seen a fair bit of her since, and really come to appreciate troll honour as well as her style and sense of humour. If you try dodging a toll, or damaging a bridge, or hurting her friends, she's an implacable enemy, but if you talk true and walk straight, she's an amazing ally and a being I'm proud to know. So whatever happens in other races, you of the California 12th will never regret electing her." He gave a charming smile. "Main-party placemen and -women might, but I'm good with that, and I reckon you all might be too."

They might, and told him so, but he'd said what he wanted, and Irpa told him how glad she was before introducing Frank, who also got a much bigger cheer than I'd been expecting, and it wasn't just that the crowd were already excited. A chant of Others 101 rang around the Paddock, and beside me Rachel drew a shaky breath.

"Oh Lord."

"I know. We have a lot of momentum going for us."

"So do people who jump off cliffs."

I gave a wry smile as Frank raised hands and won enough quiet to speak. He'd already honed an Others 101 and Magical Entente sequence to a punchy few minutes about the need to educate ourselves out of mistaken fear and kneejerk hostility, and how it could be done, and would be done, which got another round of cheers and applause. He ended by saying he'd been at least as surprised as Irpa when I'd asked him to consider running, but was proud to do so, and to support Jeremiah in Kentucky and Irpa right here in the California 12th. There was more noise, but Irpa stood tall and fixed the crowd with a troll stare until they quietened.

"That leaves just one more person to introduce, and you know who it is. None of this would be happening but for her, and beyond everything I and others have said, I'll add that I know of no being, fae, wolf, or anything else, who has fought for justice and right so successfully, so often, and so above her apparent weight. River Devil? Pah! Cantrip? Whah! Manannán mac Lír? Ha! And now the main parties, status quo, SOP, and business as usual don't know which end is up or what in creation just hit them into last week, so let's hear it for the woman who should and will be our next president, Mercy Hauptman!"

Crowds I'd addressed at the anti-Cantrip rallies had been much larger, like my TV audiences, but also remote, and this one wasn't. I'd never walked onstage like this, nor faced such a reception, and even the Dead's drum rolls and power chords were drowned out by the roar of voices. Screens were showing the Anglo version of my main poster, and I let it run, absorbing energy, before raising and bringing hands slowly down.

"Thank you all — that's quite a reception for a coyote-girl." They laughed and grinned, arms waving. "I said I'll be campaigning differently, and one part of that is not repeating what everybody else has said. But I have three particular things to say to you all, that matter a great deal."

They quieted, listening as my gravity sank in.

"The first is about the challenge to the main parties we're making here and in Kentucky, because it's not a stunt, nor anything but serious. The system is not working, and both main parties are not only incapable of delivering real change, they're active obstacles. Logic says most of you voted for the incumbent last time, and voting habits are strong. But we are asking you to change, to win that real change, and beyond votes for Irpa we ask you to talk to families, friends, employers or employees, co-workers, teachers, mail and repair people, anyone with a vote in this district you know. If they're planning to stick with the incumbent, or vote for someone else, why? What do they think that person and party can do? Why doesn't re-affirming the Medicine Wolf Accords ring their bells loudly enough? Do they seriously think we can go on carelessly polluting the planet to death? Be polite, hey? But push everyone you know, and keep pushing — this can happen, but it is not going to happen without you."

They cheered themselves for a moment, until I hushed them again.

"That extends to lifelong party stalwarts and officials. I want to beat both main parties hollow in November, because they are not offering what we need, and I want them to take a long hard look at themselves and how they work. I expect you've heard the President say the party system is no longer fit for purpose, and he's right. It needs reinventing and retooling, and the people who need to do that include stalwarts and officials. A vote for Irpa here, or Jeremiah in Kentucky, is not a betrayal, or mere protest — it's a wake-up call parties need, and four years with neither in office will give them a chance to do some soul-searching and hard thinking. So if anyone says electing me will destroy anything, you can tell them it's a mercy killing."

I let the laugh rise and fall.

"The second thing is about Irpa. Like Warren, I didn't know her or Þorgerðr before that ghastly, necessary night in Wyoming, nor Vorðr before a business-trip to Walla Walla a while back, but I have found female trolls very impressive beings indeed, none more so than Irpa. It's not just her style, humour, and outstanding musical taste, excellent as those are, nor impressive size, amazing strength, and tip-top club, though all of those earn triple bows of awesomeness, and Giant-shortener is something else." A hand forestalled more noise. "Having a very big heart doesn't hurt either, but it's what she does with all of it, and that is to be a mighty force for good. Ramona Velasquez and other Freed here as security could tell you how thoughtful and kind Irpa was in Wyoming, where she busted silver cages open for us, and later, as they got back to a sane and free life. And though I can't do detail, I tell you she has become a good friend and done a great deal to help all sorts of people and all the major Pacific North-Western projects. It's not just troll strength in removing dams, wonderful as that is, but easing change with troll sense, freely donating time and magic, and lightening sore hearts with wise humour. And you've heard how she gets this district — whether that means your great bridges, the counterculture you nurtured, or the grimmer world we've all faced since. She might have been surprised I asked her, but I knew what I was doing, and so will you when you elect her to Congress — where she will not only be a Congresstroll to remember, a distinctive voice, but a true force for change and good. Remember you won't just be electing her to speak for you, but to argue for you with others, and trolls are not so easy to argue with. So I ask you to give it up, loud and long, for Irpa Thorsden, troll extraordinaire."

I'd been holding the crowd down, getting it all out, and when I took off the brakes they did give it up, loud and long. Irpa came to stand beside me, and after a moment gave me a sidelong look.

"I'm beginning to understand why you jibbed at Underhill's statue, Mercy. This is going to take some getting used to."

"Oh yeah, but like the statue it's true. Stay for number three?"

She nodded, and we waited out the noise.

"You do have some voice today. Thanks. And the third thing" — the cloak flipped itself back so my dress showed clearly — "is this. I do not need enemies to know who I am. Nor do most of you, I'm betting, and nor should the United States of America. A major drive of my campaign, and presidency if I win, is about breaking the sick habit so many of us have of finding enemies comforting, and necessary. We fought a war of independence. Well and good. But we also fought wars with Spain, Britain again, First People, Mexico, ourselves, Fascism, Japanese Imperialism, Communism, ourselves again, Korea, Vietnam, drugs, Kuwait, Iraq, Afghanistan, and terror. And we extend it to domestic and civil life, persecuting colour, creed, orientation, gender, liberalism, and anything else we can think of. Basta! Once and for all, enough already. By our Constitution we are secular and tolerant, allowing freedom to all because we each want it ourselves. By history and nature, we are a multiculture. And by our anthem we are the land of the free and the home of the brave. You know what everyone on this stage is doing about the mess we're in, and just how short we've all been falling of ideals we share. But what is anyone else doing? Ask them, hey? And keep on asking me, because we have a long way to go, and all your ideas are welcome. Whatever else I'm doing, I am reaching out to everyone, every citizen, no matter age or colour or creed. We have been a great nation, and we can be again, but like a November victory that won't happen by itself. I hope you'll vote for Irpa, and Frank and me, but yea or nay, I ask you all, very seriously, to think about yourselves, and what it means to be a US citizen in the twenty-first century. Think about it, talk about it, and act on your conclusions. And when you vote in November, remember you're not just voting for a president and representatives, you're voting on whether a whole bunch of tomorrows will be better, or worse, for you and your children and grandchildren. Good luck with that, and I hope the Christian God I believe in will be with us all, and bless us all."

There was a great deal more noise, and with my face beginning to ache from smiling I realised I had to do some thinking about exits as well as entrances. Fortunately Irpa had done some of her own, and as the crowd saw the mike we'd been using moved back to where Bob Weir was standing with a grin, and three more brought on in a row at stage-right they quieted. Irpa turned to the band.

"You know the one, guys, and quite up-tempo, please. And Prince, everyone else, you need to stay stage-left."

We weren't going to argue, though I heard ap Lugh sigh.

"Problem?"

"No. Edythe gave Irpa permission. It is only that her style is not mine."

"Call it an expanded repertoire, and not boring."

I collected a fae fisheye, but Dave Lemieux brought Rachel to join Frank, and Brent, David, and Jill to rejoin me, while Irpa, Þorgerðr, and Vorðr lined up at the mikes, glamour shimmering as dresses acquired a sparkle and, I thought, narrowing my eyes, a different bias in the skirts. Irpa's certainly swung differently as she leaned forward.

"And to round things off, people, you get the three and only Grateful Dead with Triple Troll and Purity."

She gestured, an arch opened, and a gleaming silver horn slid slowly out, followed by the rest of Purity in a bound. The arch vanished and the crowd stared in silence at the unicorn, who stared back before turning to look at us and trot forward. Ap Lugh got a nod, returned, but it was me Purity wanted, angling her head to look at me with one liquid eye, then the other. They weren't usual horse-brown, but a deep blue-green, lashes as silvery as her horn, and her regard was both absolute, making me feel she saw right through me, and profoundly heartening, because she liked what she saw. Gracefully, she gently lowered her head so the horn rested on my shoulder in benediction, and my hand rose to touch her muzzle, stroking silken hair. Silence deepened, anticipation swirling. Then Purity backed a step, lifting her horn clear, turned to nod to each member of the band, returned centre stage, raised a hoof, and tapped out an up-tempo cue, one, two, three, four.

It's hard to describe what it was like, other than to say it was deeply magical, and even that's misleading. There was no magic directed at the crowd, because it was appeal, not compulsion, but 'Scarlet Begonias' has never been funkier, and the Dead have always done the funk well. And Purity wasn't just bopping, as she had at Sacajawea State Park, but blessing and expressing the desire for change with graceful horn-arabesques that left a faint silver trail in the air, or the eyes, as sparklers do when you wave them. Triple Troll were shimmying, strong hands snapping fingers in an achingly complex, relentlessly dancing counterpoint to the Rhythm Devils' own complexities. And when they hit the choric verse, where back in the day Donna Jean Godchaux's eerie voice joined Jerry Garcia's, the harmony that twined around Bob Weir's voice was infused with emotions, those Robert Hunter meant in writing the lines, and others preternaturals would understand better.

Well I ain't often right but I've never been wrong

It seldom turns out the way it does in the song

Once in a while you can get shown the light

In the strangest of places if you look at it right

It wasn't only Underhill's sunlight and fourteen dusty vamps, or even what Wulfe had called the terror of it and I'd call the joke, because we were showing the light in more ways than that, to everyone. And though I really wasn't going to let moves out, standing still was not an option. Even ap Lugh was feeling it, one elegant shoe tapping, the cloak swung with me as I shifted Manannán's Bane from hand to hand, Jill's feet were shuffling, and the crowd finding room to sway and turn, despite packed density.

When they hit the last verse Triple Troll came back in, and this time there was a punch of magical celebration that was also exhortation.

Strangers stopping strangers just to shake their hand

Everybody is playing in the heart of gold band

Heart of gold band

With the wordless soaring cries Donna Jean had invented to cap the lyrics, rethinking Grace Slick for herself, the emotions were back with more, for wordless as they were these troll voices came from millennia of strange knowledge and experience, raised in desire, benison, and challenge, sustained for what felt like an eternity by larger lungs than anything human possessed. There was also something behind them that called to my inmost magic, and I understood viscerally with some wonder. But at last they peaked and faded, letting the band surge forward into the long coda that allowed them to jam, inspired drums stuttering around one another and spiralling, sliding guitar and bass licks, while Triple Troll could step back from the mikes and show more fae funk to complement Purity's mesmerising combinations of horn-swirls, tail twitches, arching, undulating body, and four-hoof tap-dancing.

Quite what it had to do with campaigning I didn't know, or much care, and doing it differently was half the point anyway. The other halves were that impossible things could and did happen, and some of the time they could be fun as well as stretching your head sideways; and a continuing insistence on broadening what the preternatural meant, and how varied it was. It worked, too, because when the band finally came down, resisting the segue into 'Fire on the Mountain', and the last note died away there was a dazed silence, Purity nodded again to each musician, trolls, and us before vanishing by arch; then San Francisco invented the chant I was going to hear often and in many places.

Mercy's slate! Mercy's slate! Mercy's slate!

Big crowds can have a clever collective mind, and it was perfect, allowing Warren, Jeremiah, Frank, and me to walk forward, Irpa joining us, link hands, and raise them, human, wolves, avatar, and fae united in purpose and mind. I had no more to say, and after a moment we just waved farewell, thanked the band — who all said no thanks were needed, and Triple Troll could sit in on any gig they liked — and took ourselves off while the chant thundered on.

Dave Lemieux had a dazed look but shook himself to tell us the video would be up on by tonight, and give me a flash drive with copies as well as a bag of Purity tees.

"Boy, but that was something else." He laughed. "I can't wait to see what headlines anyone comes up with."

"Who knows? They surely have choices. And thank you for everything."

"Nada, Mercy. Campaigning for you and Irpa has all the guys wide awake and in agreement. It's been a while, so I'm very happy about that. And about you and your slate."

I had to touch base with Maretti, and discovered I wouldn't be seeing him in Lexington, but would at Sacajawea SP. What he'd made of it all I wasn't sure, but there was warmth in his tone, and more when he thanked Ramona and the Freed — who had, I gathered, been very helpful with a drunken but harmless drifter who'd tried to come in through woods from Fulton Street. They were all revved with excitement and the coolness of it, but quieted to let me talk with Þorgerðr and Vorðr, who'd be staying in SF. Then we went back to the Garden of Manannán's Death, and Gwyn ap Lugh took his leave, smiling.

"It is not every day I am able to do something new, Mercy, so I am not repining, despite all the noise. And now you are the first presidential candidate ever to have been endorsed by a unicorn. Enjoy."