Moira #27: Opinions on Plausibility (Patreon)

“Well, the graphic’s kind of cool,” Hazel says.

Rhiannon crosses her arms, glowering at the cable news broadcast. “‘Gods or demons’ is lazy. The background is basically all fire and brimstone, so you know what answer they’re biased toward even if you don’t listen to the talking heads. And they used a halo and a pitchfork, which aren’t even the right religion.”

“They could be,” Hazel points out. “I mean, they’re not from Moira’s religion, but our religions are whatever we say they are.”

Diana looks over from the kitchen. They’re all in her A-frame mountain cabin, except for Stetson. And Moira, who’s gone out for a walk. Again. She’s not sure how Moira’s avoiding the spotlight, but as the hare often points out, she’s been practicing it for over a thousand years.

Honestly, she can’t see how any of them can avoid the spotlight at this point. None of them had taken care to hide their recent mortal pasts, and reporters had figured out their names within twenty-four hours. It’d taken maybe another day for hot takes on what really happened to fully infest newsrooms and social media. Gods? Please! Look at where all these young herbivore women were just two years ago! Whether the young or the herbivore or the women is the key to dismissal depends on who’s doing the dismissing.

And yet, there’s the inconvenient truth of them all having been standing nearly a mile high, with most of Fresno floating around Rhiannon and Hazel while Moira created a brand new river to stop a raging wildfire sparked by a soul-eating machine. (Hazel’s phrase.) They violated just about every law of physics, in front of tens of thousands of witnesses, on dozens of live video streams both amateur and professional. The people of the world—the churches, the governments, the companies—now know beings with divine powers don’t just live among them, they’re ready and able to perform miracles. Not “an anonymous benefactor saved the orphanage from being foreclosed on” miracles, or “doesn’t this potato look like the face of a saint” miracles, but full-bore “those earth-shattering stories in ancient religious texts weren’t just metaphors” miracles.

And the people of the world, by and large, do not seem happy about it.

Leaders from a half-dozen modern religions and countless denominations have appeared on news shows to condemn them as demons and false gods, or if they’re religious progressives, some kind of supernatural distraction. A few allow the possibility that the new goddesses are avatars of their chosen true god or universal force. One of the biggest churches in modern life has a long tradition of claiming old gods as their own saints and angels, and indeed, they’ve had Saint “Mira,” patron of lovers and warriors, for centuries. From what Diana’s gathered, there’s a debate at the highest levels of that church over whether the immense, stunningly beautiful hare is an apparition of Saint Mira or of the devil himself.

Parker kept saying that Celestial worked in the shadows, acted like mortal businessmen rather than divine rulers, because the world no longer wanted true gods. As much as Diana values Moira’s counsel, part of her desperately wants Parker’s view on, well, everything right now. But she’s pretty sure that the events in Fresno—culminating with her standing side-by-side with Moira, Hazel, and Rhiannon—qualify as what a former manager of hers would have called a “career-limiting move.”

The front door of the cabin opens. Moira steps in, carrying a box of donuts and a quart “to go” container of coffee.

Hazel looks over. “You went to a Dunkin' Donuts?”

She sets the boxes down on the kitchen table. “I want sugar,” she says. “I brought enough to share.”

“It’s the ‘going out in public without causing a national news story’ part I want to ask about.”

Moira shrugs, going to the kitchen and getting a mug. “If I don’t do anything divine, I’m just another tall red-haired bunny woman.”

Rhiannon snorts.

The hare sits down with her coffee and munches on the donut, then licks a spot of cream off her nose and frowns. “So I’ve been trying to disprove your theory about Daranu being Nunwick’s father,” she says to Hazel.

“You know it fits,” Hazel retorts. “How could a mortal have raised himself up to be a god? He didn’t. He’s a demigod. Why didn’t he get in touch with you when he started Celestial? Because he knows you from back in the old days and doesn’t like you. What’s the connection to Môrdinas? It was his temple Briley saw that first astronomical clock thing at.”

“But demigods can’t deify mortals.”

“Hazel still might be right,” Diana says reluctantly. “I think Nunwick—or whatever his original name was—found a way to use this machinery to ascend, at the cost of pulling in mortal life around it. That’s what happened to Môrdinas.” She pours herself a cup of the coffee. “But he already succeeded at that, so I don’t know what the new machines are for.”

“Making himself even stronger,” Rhiannon suggests. “Sometime the simple answers are the right ones.”

Diana gestures at Moira. “She said they had someone else strapped to the chair and were shooting energy at him, and it killed him.”

“It fits if they knew they were going to kill him and wanted to get test readings from his body. They have to make sure that when Nunwick’s sitting in that chair, it does what it’s supposed to.”

Hazel rubs her ear. “Okay, point. But just being stronger doesn’t help break the mythological cycle, does it?”

Shit. Is that it? Surely, it can’t be it. “It might if he can make himself into the new Daranu,” Moira says slowly.

Everyone looks at her quizzically.

“If he becomes a creator god—the creator god—he might have the power to set new rules. To literally weave them into creation.”

Hazel frowns. “If Daranu could do that, why didn’t he?”

“I don’t know.” The hare shakes her head. “But if there’s one thing that was pretty damn consistent in his worldview, it was about everyone’s place in the natural order, our roles, our destiny. And that included us gods. Our destiny was to get off the stage.”

“Which you all basically did, and now here comes Son of Daranu to fuck it up.”

“That’s what I keep getting stuck on. He said he didn’t know what his father saw in me. And Daranu being his father does make sense.” Moira looks down at her coffee cup. “But what Daranu saw in me was…a disappointment. A betrayal. Someone he never forgave.”

“Maybe he means before,” Rhiannon says softly, reaching for a donut.

“Or we are reading the tea leaves wrong, and his father’s someone else entirely.” Hazel reaches for a donut, too, and she and Rhiannon grab the same chocolate frosted at the same time. The pika grins and takes one next to it, missing the squirrel’s faint blush.

“I don’t think you can wait for those answers.” Diana pours herself some coffee. She doesn’t take a seat, though, instead pacing slowly. “Earlier on, Celestial was trying to manage Moira’s re-emergence as a minor PR crisis. Keep pictures to the tabloids, tamp down enthusiasm for her message, reinforce theirs. But you all have the world’s attention right now in a way that hasn’t happened since…possibly ever.”

Hazel finishes her donut, licking off her fingers, and glances sidelong at Diana. “So now you think we should go on the offensive against Celestial? I thought your whole point in returning to us was talking us out of that.”

“My whole point was trying to stop a war between gods. That’s still my point.” She shakes her head, gets up, and adds a splash of Irish cream to her coffee as she keeps speaking. “So no, I didn’t say go on the offensive. If you think that’s going to bring them to the table, maybe it’s the right answer, but it’s awfully risky.”

“You saw what they did in Fresno,” Rhiannon protests.

“Yes, and I also know—I think—that they thought they’d found a way to keep their testing from doing what it did in Black Oak. Something went wrong.”

The squirrel shakes her head. “When that machinery started sucking souls, they could have stopped it and didn’t. That tells you all you need to know.” She heads to the kitchen, too, and just pours a glass of the Irish cream.

Diana slumps in her seat when she sits down again.

“Are you still conflicted over which side to be on?” Hazel rolls into the kitchen as Rhiannon leaves, pulls herself up, and pours about half a glass of the Irish cream, then fills it up the rest of the way with Irish whiskey.

“I’m still conflicted on whether there should be sides.”

Moira looks between her coffee and the others' drinks, shrugs, and gets up to pour herself a glass of the whiskey. “They never told you Nunwick started as an old demigod. If they haven’t technically lied, they’ve been damn selective with the truth.”

“They don’t have any more reason to trust me than I do them, do they? And as much as I disliked Ms. Parker when we met, she’s been a good mentor.”

“I don’t doubt a better one than I have.”

“That’s not what I—”

Moira holds up a hand. “You laid into me for that the second time we met, and you were right. I’m still not that good at it.” She knocks back a generous swig of whiskey.

“No,” Diana admits with a soft laugh. “You’re not. But for all of your mortally dangerous bad temper, you have a good heart. And the goal you’ve always wanted is equity. A fair and just world.”

“So I’m also incredibly naïve for a god.” Moira sounds exasperated, but she’s smiling a little.

“Maybe. But maybe that’s what gods need to be.” Diana smiles more broadly.

“That’s why we’ve ended up on different sides, though, isn’t it?” Moira tilts her head. “They think my goal is utterly at odds with theirs. That the choice is between apartheid or apocalypse.”

“That comes back to what I said at the diner. If we want a third choice, we have to stop the apocalypse first, then find a way to fix the world.”

“That’s only if they’re right about the end of the cycle,” Rhiannon interjects. “What if the prophecies are all way more metaphorical than Nunwick—and us—have been reading them?”

“That would be relieving,” Moira says dryly.

Rhiannon looks to Hazel. “I mean, what you read to me a while ago was all monsters and fire and battles between the gods that turned the world inside out.”

Hazel nods. “And the death of the last old gods and the rise of new ones.”

“But the ‘monsters’ Parker was talking about as what Celestial’s trying to prevent weren’t ones like what William turned into. They were mortals proving they’re capable of screwing up the world without any magic.” She spreads her hands. “Maybe we can’t rely on these prophecies as some kind of guidepost. They were all written by mortals, weren’t they?”

“They were, and they were wrong more often as they were right. But the ones that survived are the ones that did get things right.”

“So there were a few historians who were better than average at predictions.”

“Followers of Aronn.”

“The god of history?” Diana guesses.

Hazel shakes her head. “The god of death.” Moira nods in confirmation.

“Oh, that’s comforting.” Rhiannon rolls her eyes. “But what if we’re already out of the prophecies? They just don’t make sense.”

Hazel lifts her brows. “Why not?”

“The gods abandoning the mortal world was in the myths, right? And leaving Moira behind? But as far as the myths go, she’s the only god here. They don’t mention Celestial, they don’t mention Briley, they don’t mention us. So how did they leap to having cycle-ending divine battles?”

“I did wonder about that,” Hazel admits.

“If you’re trying to interpret them, isn’t the bigger concern that there are multiple factions of gods now to have battles and create monsters and break the world?” Diana spreads her hands. “And us not being directly mentioned is hardly a clear sign. Are we the new gods who rise? Are the gods from Celestial the new gods? Are we all old gods?”

“We might be playing out the prophecies whether we like it or not.” Moira rubs her face.

“And if you go head-to-head with Celestial in open battle, we just move farther along that predicted path.”

Rhiannon scowls. “So what’s the answer? Just hand the world over to divine corporate fascists?”

There’s silence for long seconds, until Moira knocks back the rest of her whiskey. “Maybe the answer right now is keeping the ball in Celestial’s court. We can’t go back into the shadows, but we can drag them out into the sunlight with us.” She stands up.

“What’s that mean?” Hazel turns to watch Moira as the hare walks toward the television, still tuned to a cable news talk show. The host, a slim cheetah woman, faces an in-studio guest—a bespectacled, professorial mouse—across a table. He’s pontificating at her about the implausibility of gods existing at all, much less appearing as giants, in Fresno of all places. And, why, one of them had a wheelchair!

Moira crouches by the TV, then walks forward, still hunched over, disappearing in a burst of static. Then she walks onto the show’s set from stage left, wearing the diaphanous silver dress she’d worn on their visit to Black Oak.

The host stands quickly, eyes wide; the guest pushes his chair back, cowering. Exclamations and gasps from the crew come over the live feed; someone audibly says “Holy shit.”

“A woman has just—just appeared, teleported, into the studio,” the host says, only a slight tremor in her voice. “As incredible as that is to say.”

Moira walks behind the professor, who seems to be trying to shrink away from her in the non-magical sense. She puts a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t mean to steal your show,” she says. “But I have some opinions on how plausible I am.”

He opens his mouth, but barely manages a hoarse squeak.

“Steve, could we roll the Fresno tape, just a few seconds, on…” The cheetah points at Moira.

The wall monitor behind them flicks on, showing a helicopter shot from that evening in Fresno, one centered on Moira, the sprawling landscape behind her. Part of Diana and Rhiannon are in the frame, but even as far back as the camera is, it’s not far enough to capture all four immense women without panning.

Moira looks at the screen, too. “Not a very flattering shot. It was one of the more stressful evenings I’ve had in a couple thousand years.”

The cheetah woman looks between the hare in-studio and the monitor, tail starting to twitch. “You’re really her. Really here.”

“I am.” She turns back and flashes a million-watt smile at the cheetah woman. “My name is Moira.”

Professor Mouse manages a weak splutter, staring up. “Are…are you seriously claiming to be Moira, the ancient goddess of love and war?”

Moira looks down. “Are you seriously claiming I’m not?” She stretches out an arm. There’s a sparkling blur, and the now two-inch-tall professor appears on her palm. He looks around wildly, squealing. The camera operator has the presence of mind to zoom in on him, then back out just enough to capture Moira’s upper half.

Rhiannon murmurs, “Oh, don’t eat him,” at the same time Hazel murmurs, “Eat him eat him eat him.” Rhiannon gives Hazel a look. Hazel returns a sorry-not-sorry grin.

“Please—oh, god. Uh. Goddess. I don’t know—” The host runs a hand through her hair.

“Relax.” Moira smiles again. “I don’t think it’s possible to prove I am who I say I am. Your viewers can’t be sure this isn’t all a special effect, either. So I’ll have to do something harder to explain.” She brings the little mouse to her lips and kisses him—

Predictably, he squeaks and shivers. But the host gasps, steadying herself with a hand on the table. The studio fills with off-camera gasps and squeaks. So does Diana’s cottage. Each of the million and a half viewers feels the kiss just as if they’d been two inches high and in the goddess of love’s hand.

Moira sits in the chair the professor had been in, crossing her legs, then sets the now-panting mouse down by one of her paws. She taps a toe to him, and he returns to his normal size, sprawled on his back. Moira rests her paws to either side of his stomach. “That’s the best I can do.”

“That was pretty fucking good,” Hazel mutters, sitting up straight again in her wheelchair after sliding down. “Am I the only one alarmingly turned on?”

“No,” Diana and Rhiannon say simultaneously.

“I'm…I’m being told viewer calls are flooding the switchboard,” the cheetah says hoarsely. She’s breathing hard and looks flushed. “So I think it was convincing, your highness.”

The professor scoots back, sitting up, then scrambles to his feet and bolts offstage.

Moira watches him, amused, then shakes her head. “Lady Moira, if you wish, but no royal titles, please.”

“All right.” The cheetah warily takes her seat, glancing off-camera at a director, then looks back to the hare. “So…what…where have you been for two thousand years? Why are you back now?”

“Let’s go in reverse order. I never left, but I withdrew. I rarely showed myself, and when I did, it was in small, honestly rather petty ways.” She shakes her head. “But I started feeling a pull, a call I’d all but forgotten how to hear. A cause much like the one I took up against other gods.” She half-smiles. “I don’t know how much mythology you know.”

“Not much at all,” the host confesses.

“I fought against the god of war and, then, most of the other gods to try and overturn the idea of species as destiny, that what you were born as determined what you could be. I lost.”

The cheetah tilts her head. “But that’s not a common viewpoint now.”

“Isn’t it? Isn’t it rapidly becoming more common, with more and more restrictions based on whether you’re evolutionarily predator or prey? With the ID cards being piloted in Fresno?”

“That’s not…” The cheetah trails off, clearly working through that, and her ears lower. “And that’s why you were in Fresno?”

“Yes and no.” Moira rests her hands on the table. “Let’s talk about a company called Celestial Capital.”

Moira’s barely ninety seconds into her explanation when Diana’s phone pings with a curt text message from Parker. Must meet ASAP.

The sheep slumps down in her chair, covering her face.