Американские боги

           Thesewerethestarpeople.

           Theylookedathimwithdark,proudeyes.

           "Tellmeaboutthethunderbirds,"saidShadow."Please.It’snotforme.It’sformywife."

           Onebyonetheyturnedtheirbacksonhim,andashelosttheirfacestheyweregone,onewiththelandscape.Butthelastofthem,herhairstreakedwhiteondarkgray,pointedbeforesheturnedaway,pointedintothewine-coloredsky.

           "Askthemyourself,"shesaid.Summerlightningflickered,momentarilyilluminatingthelandscapefromhorizontohorizon.

           Therewerehighrocksnearhim,peaksandspiresofsandstone,andShadowbegantoclimbthenearest.Thespirewasthecolorofoldivory.Hegrabbedatahandhold,andfeltitsliceintohishand.It’sbone,thoughtShadow.Notstone.It’solddrybone.

           Butitwasadream,andindreams,sometimes,youhavenochoices:eithertherearenodecisionstobemade,ortheyweremadeforyoulongbeforeeverthedreambegan.Shadowcontinuedtoclimb,pullinghimselfup.Hishandshurt.Bonepoppedandcrushedandfragmentedunderhisbarefeet,cuttingthempainfully.Thewindtuggedathim,andhepressedhimselftothespire,andhecontinuedtoclimbthetower.

           Itwasmadeofonlyonekindofbone,herealized,repeatedoverandover.Eachoftheboneswasdryandball-like.Foramomenthehadimaginedtheymightbeoldyellowshellsortheeggsofsomedreadfulbird.