Moira #10: Peaches and Cream

“Here’s another one.” Diana looks up from her computer worriedly. “And I think it’s talking about my place.”

All four of the goddesses are in “her place,” Diana’s house, at the moment. Nothing requires them all to stay together, but they seem to have come to an unspoken agreement that at least for the moment it’s a good idea.

It’s debatable whether Diana’s place is more or less off the radar than Hazel’s; there’s no giant mural of a giant pika goddess a block away, but there’s at least a few worshippers hanging around at all hours. It’s a bigger house, though. Moira’s been living in a suburban studio apartment the last few years, so has no extra space at all.

“What?” Rhiannon looks over her shoulder before Moira does. “Where?”

Diana points at a bullet list in the article. One item mentions a neighborhood in South City that’s become “the epicenter of a personality cult around a reclusive woman who claims to be a goddess.” Another item mentions the mural, and a third describes the “apparition” of a giant squirrel woman that hundreds of people claim to have seen over a collapsed office building.

“Apparition?” Rhiannon snorts. “I’m supernatural now?”

Moira gives her an irritated look. “Yes.” She points at the sidebar. “What’s that about the mayor?”

“You know what I mean,” Rhiannon mutters.

Diana clicks on the link Moira spotted. “She’s stepping down, apologizing for her involvement with the ‘unspeakable events’ at the farmers' market. The deputy mayor’s taking over and bringing in security consultants to coordinate a response to the grave and immediate danger of local anarchists and cultists.” She narrows her eyes.

“Security consultants from a company called Third Eye,” Hazel says, looking up from a tablet she’s been scrolling along on.

“That’s who Hill said he got reports on us from.” Moira crosses her arms, sighing. “And let me guess, they’re connected to Celestial.”

“Celestial Ventures has a big stake in them, and they apparently have a half-billion dollar contract with Presage. You know them?”

Moira shakes her head.

“They’re a data analysis company. Super secretive, but they work with intelligence and counterterrorism agencies. And they’re outright owned by Celestial’s consulting arm.”

Rhiannon squints. “So Celestial gave one company money so they could pay it to another company Celestial owns.”

“Sounds like capitalism,” Hazel says, putting her tablet down on the table and rolling back.

Diana drums her hoofed fingers. “Do you really think it’s all about us?”

“Mostly.” Moira gets to her paws and starts to pace. “I was already on their radar, and after…” She gestures vaguely.

“Turning a motivational seminar into a phantasmagoria of magic, sex and destruction?” Rhiannon suggests.

“Yeah, that.” She grunts.

“After that I—-we—have probably moved way down on Celestial’s recruitment list and way up on their enemy list.”

A young mouse enters from the kitchen, clearing his throat softly. He’s carrying four bowls, balanced with the skill of a waiter. “This is simple, your graces, but it should be very good.” He sets the bowls down around the table.

“Please don’t call me that, William,” Rhiannon mumbles. “It makes me sound like, uh…”

“A goddess?” he inquires, brows lifting.

She shakes her head, sliding one of the bowls closer to her and taking the offered spoon.

Hazel looks at hers, nose wiggling. “Peaches and cream? And…”

“That’s mostly it, Lady Hazel. I tossed some of the fresh peaches Lady Rhiannon brought from the market with just a little ginger-vanilla syrup and let them infuse in heavy cream for a few hours.”

“Huh.” The pika picks up the bowl and takes a small spoonful, and her eyes light up. “This is amazing.” She takes another bite and makes a little moan so pleased it borders on being lewd.

William’s ears color. “It’s honestly the quality of the peaches, my lady.”

Moira is still pacing. “I just can’t figure out what they’re going to do. If they’re so committed to staying in the shadows and not… not acting like gods…” She waves a hand, exasperated.

Diana tries her peaches, and sucks in her breath. “Oh my god.” She pauses. “Can I still say that? Oh my goddess? Oh my me? Anyway, this is amazing.” She waves her spoon at William. “And this isn’t just the fruit, but these have to be the best peaches I’ve ever had.”

Moira thumps her paw, looking at the ceiling. “That whole show with Hill was meant to be the start of some… some kind of PR push against us. A preemptive strike, get people to think that feeding the poor or helping your neighbors or even just standing up against authority are all bad. It’s not like it’s difficult to spin a giantess stomping on something as bad to start with.”

“Even if it’s something that clearly needs stomping?” Hazel asks, through a mouthful of peaches.

“Moira’s right, though.” Rhiannon gets a peach slice from her bowl. “It all fits in with the news stories about us. But the Third Eye thing feels like’s stepping up to a new level.”

Hazel hmms and nods. “Yeah, I see what you mean. The police here are already employed by BlueGuard, like they are in two-thirds of every metro area in the country now, and one guess who their majority owner is. Bringing in Third Eye is, like, stripping away even the illusion of civilian control.”

Rhiannon nods. “Exactly.” She points her spoon at the peaches. “Also, holy shit, these peaches were good the last time I had them, but this is better than sex.”

Moira stops her pacing and looks back at the group table with a mix of incredulity and irritation. “Other gods we know nothing about are preparing for battle with us, and you’re all talking about fucking fruit.”

William cowers by Diana. The sheep pats his shoulder and loudly whispers, “Don’t worry, she’s just like this. I think it’s a war god thing.”

“Look, Lady Moira, we are talking about…” Hazel waves her spoon in a circle. “Everything. But the only god we have any experience with is you. Two months ago I was an agnostic, Rhiannon was an atheist, and Diana was a…” She looks over at the sheep.

“Harried divorcee who hasn’t been to a church since her marriage,” Diana answers.

The pika lifts her brows. “Not a religious affiliation, but interesting new information. What I was getting at is that our insight on divinity is pretty limited. How much action can they really take? I know some of them must have powers like ours, but even if all your folktales are true, that’s just… not the world anymore. There haven’t been gods striding among the mortals openly doing miracles since…” She trails off, looking around the room.

“Yesterday,” Moira says dryly. “How much action Celestial could take is virtually unlimited. The question is how dedicated they are to staying in the shadows with Max’s ‘rule like new gods’ bullshit.” She sighs, finally picking up her own bowl of peaches and cream.

“And what they do to us if they stop.” Hazel furrows her brow.

“It’s not about us, it’s about the rest of the world.” Rhiannon looks intently at Moira. “You keep saying that you had a reason to step out of the shadows, to do what you’ve started doing, but you just don’t know it yet. What could it be other than this?”

Moira stares at her. “‘This’ what? Trying to overthrow the gods again?”

“Yes.” Rhiannon’s voice is matter-of-fact. “When you first met me you went into a rant about how Daranu’s whole ‘natural order’ idea has gotten even more brittle, how you’ve started to feel for mortals again, and how you needed us to be ready for whatever’s coming. And your speech at that rally was a manifesto against the natural order, capped off with a demonstration of smashing the living shit out of it.”

Dammit. Moira isn’t sure if she’s upset with Rhiannon pushing her on this or upset because the squirrel’s so obviously right. She sighs, taking a bite of the damn peaches—

—and memories flood back. Images, scents, flavors. Long-gone deities, long-vanished places. Memories of who she was. Memories of what she’s lost.

She makes a startled noise, nearly dropping the bowl.

Hazel smirks. “We told you it was good.”

Moira swallows, and sets the bowl down, aware she’s shaking. “What’s the name of this farm.” She doesn’t phrase it as a question.

“I don’t know.” The squirrel shrugs in confusion. “I know where the stall is at the farmers' market. They’re only there the second Saturday of every month.”

“Harvest Dance,” William squeaks timidly. “It’s on the box, my lady.”

“Where is it.”

“Um, I think it was over in the central valley, about fifty miles north of Figdale.”

Moira turns and walks toward the front door.

“Moira. What’s going on?” Diana’s voice is worried, sharp.

“I’m going to a farm.”

All of the other goddesses follow the hare. “That’s over two hours away,” Rhiannon says.

“I’ll take a shortcut.” She stops, hand on the doorknob, and looks back at them. “I didn’t say this was a group road trip.”

“We’re coming with you unless you tell us what’s going on,” Diana says firmly.

“We’re coming with you if you do tell us what’s going on,” Rhiannon adds.

“I told you I’d had fruit from the land of the gods. But not since I was exiled. Not until–just then. Until now.”

Rhiannon looks back at the table. “You’re telling me I picked up a basket of divine peaches at the weekly farmer’s market,” she says dubiously.

Moira grits her teeth. “Or a descendant of it. One that somehow I missed for a thousand years.” She opens the door. “And my car only has two seats.”

Hazel rolls after her, the others close behind. “The other two can shrink.”

“Hey!” Rhiannon frowns, striding ahead. “Why are we the ones who have to shrink?”

“Because I called it first,” Hazel says flatly.

“We’re going to have to shrink your wheelchair one way or another,” Diana points out. “Why don’t both of you shrink?”

As Moira gets in her Boxster, the other three start arguing. The hare sighs and snaps her fingers. All three of them appear at about a foot high side by side in the passenger seat, the shrunken wheelchair folded and stored on the floorboard. They’re all too stunned to say anything before she reaches over and fastens the seatbelt across them.

“You know, since we’re goddesses we could just literally fly after you or something.” Rhiannon stares up at Moira slightly wide-eyed.

The hare backs out of the driveway. “You should have thought of that before we left the house.” She jams the car from reverse into first and rockets forward, the tires letting out a short squeal in protest.

In short order they blow through two stoplights, both of which suspiciously change from yellow to green, and past a cop car, which suspiciously has all four tires blow out just as its flips its siren on.

All three of the mini-goddesses hang onto the seatbelt tightly. “By ‘shortcut’ you meant ‘drive like a rabbit out of hell?’” Rhiannon shrieks.

“Hare,” Moira corrects without looking down. “And no, I mean a shortcut.”

“I can’t see over the dashboard.” Diana sounds cross. “But it sounds like you’re just pulling onto the freeway.”

“Yep.” Moira jams her paw down on the accelerator, cutting across four lanes of traffic from the entrance ramp to the carpool lane.

A fox in a pickup truck honks angrily, which she ignores until he manages to pull in front of her, flips her off, and slams on his brakes. She narrows her eyes, then holds out a hand. The truck, with the fox, appears in it. She shakes the truck until he falls out into her other hand, pops him in her mouth, swallows, and tosses the tiny truck out of the car.

“Holy shit, Moira.” Rhiannon’s glaring up at her.

“What?” She accelerates, getting past a clump of slow traffic, then signals to start pulling over to take the next exit. It’s not the exit that should be there, geographically speaking, but it’s the exit she wants.

“You can’t just eat everyone who annoys you!”

Moira looks faintly offended. “I don’t.”

“She sometimes stomps them,” Diana points out.

Moira gestures as she takes the exit ramp. “Exactly. Thank you.”

Rhiannon covers her face.

Hazel nudges her with an elbow. “Oh, c'mon, Little Miss Building Crusher.”

“I don’t think there was anyone in that building when I leveled it,” she says sulkily, then looks stricken. “Uh…”

Diana pats Rhiannon’s shoulder. “Right now you’re horrified at the realization you’re not horrified, aren’t you?”

The squirrel sinks down in the seat, nodding slightly.

Diana gives her a snug, then wiggles her nose. Moira’s driving at a much less frightening speed, and the scent of cars and concrete fades into grass and wildflowers. The sheep carefully stands in the seat, hanging onto the shoulder strap, and looks out. She can still barely hear traffic—light traffic—from the freeway in the distance behind them, but they’re on a country road now. Along the left side of the road, rows of grape vines cling to utilitarian trellises; along the right side is an orchard. “How…?” She looks over at Moira.

The hare shrugs, flashing a small grin. “Shortcut.”

Rhiannon stands, too, looking around. “It feels like we could have just teleported here.”

“I don’t know what we’re going to find. This is probably just a mortal farm with somebody who doesn’t have any idea what they have.” Moira comes to an actual stop at the next stop sign. “So we need to be able to come in a little more incognito.”

“It could be Celestial,” Hazel says. “I mean, they’re the only gods around now. Maybe they have control over, well, your old land.”

Moira glowers, focusing on the road ahead. “It’s connected with gods somehow.”

“What if Celestial’s CEO is Daranu?” Rhiannon says. “I can’t be the only one who noticed ‘Darren Nunwick’ is, like, ‘Daranu’ with ‘nwick’ at the end.”

Diana and Hazel both look at each other with Did you notice that? expressions, then up at Moira.

“You’re not.” Moira slows down, turning onto a dirt road just past a weathered HARVEST DANCE ORCHARD & FARMS sign. “But Celestial doesn’t seem like Daranu’s style.”

“And the old myths did talk about Daranu and the gods abandoning the world,” Hazel says. “Although that’s supposed to be the beginning of the end times.”

“Predictions are a fool’s game.” Moira pulls into a gravel parking lot in front of a barn. The only other car is a pickup truck that looks like it hasn’t moved in a couple of years. She parks next to it. “I spent the first couple of centuries after the rest of the gods vanished waiting for monsters walking the earth and lakes of fire and shit. Either they’re metaphors I still haven’t figured out, or that’s all just wrong.”

Moira gets out of the car. The other goddesses take a moment to figure out the logic puzzle of how to get out of the car in their current condition, realizing the solution is just visualizing themselves at their correct sizes outside the roadster, and follow the hare toward the barn.

Inside, baskets that look like small half-barrels line wooden tables, each basket burgeoning with fruit and vegetables—mostly plums, apricots, and, yes, peaches, with tomatoes, squashes, and chile peppers mixed in.

A portly grey fox near the cash register nods to them, starting to lift his paw in a wave. Before they say anything, though, his eyes widen, and the wave becomes a shaky “one minute” finger. He dashes through an open door to a back room.

“That doesn’t seem like a good sign,” Diana murmurs.

Moira frowns. She’s never been here before, but it feels… familiar. Every roadside farm stand since the invention of roads looks more or less like this one, but that’s not it. Familiar how? The way Max was familiar? She shifts uneasily, glancing around.

“Well.” A mouse woman steps into the doorway from the back room, wiping both hands on a dirty green rag. She looks like she’s on the older side of middle-aged, but her outfit’s classic farm girl: plaid blouse tied under her generous chest, denim shorts, straw hat over tangled hair. Call it classic farm hot mom. The most striking thing, though, is her fur color, golden as a sheaf of wheat. “I suppose the only wonder is it took this long, huh.”

Moira stares at her, opens her mouth to speak, but can’t get any words out.

Diana, Hazel, and Rhiannon all look between the dumbstruck hare and the mouse. The sheep’s the first one to speak. “Were you expecting us?”

“Once I started seeing y'all in the city papers? Let’s just say those stories add up. A grumpy godbunny got enough of a burr under her tail about something to crawl out of the ale barrel she’s been in the last thousand years.” She waves the rag at Moira.

“You left!” Moira bursts out, clenching her fists, the words sounding like —feeling like—they’re being ripped out of her. “You all left!”

The mouse’s ears fold down and she looks off to the side, sighing. “They all left, Moira.”

Rhiannon’s tail twitches. “Could someone fill me in on what the heck is happening?” she murmurs, just above a whisper.

Moira turns away, fists still clenched, and stomps out of the barn.

The mouse looks after her, shaking her head, then leans on the counter, looking intently at the other three. “Since I guess Moira didn’t know who she was bringing y'all to meet, I’m Briley.”

Hazel sits up straighter in her wheelchair, eyes widening. “Goddess of the harvest.”

The mouse smiles slightly and tips her hat.