Another day, another morning writing session. The short story continues into its third part as a father and daughter meet to discuss her efforts to save the world. If you haven’t read the other parts, please start with A Conversation in a Cafe.

“The underworld is no place for a lady.”

This is my father’s response to my plan. Sitting here, crammed into the corner of our usual cafe as though we can somehow hide from the bright lights and cheery atmosphere, I don’t feel much like a lady. I don’t remember the last time I washed my hair; I’m pretty sure, from the looks I got as I walked through and headed upstairs, that I smell. Not that I care anymore. Greasy hair and a bad smell are the least of my problems.

“Well, no one else is going to go,” I say, crumbling a piece of cookie up between my fingers, letting the chocolate melt onto my skin. “And someone has to.”

”Why?”

I can’t help a small laugh at that. My father is an all-knowing being but I’m starting to realise all-knowing is not the same as intelligent. There is only one other table occupied up here at the moment; the cafe – the town as a whole – is quiet. The occupied table has a bunch of kids at it, pre teens or young teens or somewhere on that spectrum of adolescence. They’re laughing at a video on one of their phones. I can guess what they’re watching. They’re watching someone dying.

“You know, when the books warned about the undying I was expecting zombies,” I say. “This isn’t undying. This is the opposite of undying.”

He tilts his head to the side. “How so?”

“People are dying, they’re just not quite making it to dead. Which is why someone has to go down to the underworld and see what the hell is happening.”

He smiles. “What do you expect to find, child? A blockade? It is the end times; there is nothing to be found in the underworld but more pain and suffering. Best to focus your attentions up here.”

Talking of blockades.

“There’s nothing I can do up here,” I say. I reach out to take a bite of the cookie, but end up crumbling it between my fingers again. I’m not hungry. I don’t even know why I agreed to come. “I tried. God I tried.”

”I know.”

“You know,” I say dully. “So why don’t you do something? Because you can do more than try; you can stop this!”

I’ve raised my voice. The kids are glancing over at us, but they go back to YouTube and videos of people stuck in eternal torment. I’m never going to understand what some people find entertaining. 

My father is watching me gravely. I hold his stare, even though his eyes are gold and inhuman and he isn’t blinking. I hold his stare, and know that I am not blinking either, and that my eyes have flecks of that same gold in them.

He sighs, and drops his gaze. “I cannot,” he says gently. “I can encourage you. I can support you, as my daughter. But I cannot actively be involved in this. You know that. We decreed it centuries ago -”

”And centuries ago you were wrong.”

The flood came between the blood rain and the undying. It wasn’t actually as bad as I had imagined. For one thing, it was water, not blood, and that was an improvement as far as I’m concerned. Outside, there’s a certain wetness to the air but no more blood-slicked streets. Yet the place is empty. The schools are shut, the economy has ground to a halt. Things like that happen when people forget how to die. 

“Daughter?” I glance up at him. Lost in thought for a minute. He’s smiling at me again. “You will prevail,” he says. “Of this I have no doubt.”

He reaches his hand across, and tears off a corner of my cookie. Of course. I sigh. “Why don’t you just order your own damn cookie rather than always eating mine?”

He shrugs. “There is a certain … humanity in sharing yours.” I don’t know what to say to that. I don’t know what to say to half of what he says. This is our third meeting in eight months – in the twenty-eight years prior I had met him only twice. Our relationship is developing. Into what? I think, Father and daughter, mentor and mentee, unhelpful god and helpless demi-god?

“You said you have a map of the underworld,” he says, drawing me back to the situation at hand.

”Yes.” I reach into my bag and take it out. He raises an eyebrow; I raise mine back, daring him to comment on the fact that I’ve taken a priceless map and folded it in half so it fits into my satchel. He doesn’t, and I am allowed to spread it out over the table in piece.

I reach for a bit of cookie; he reaches over and smacks my hand away.

“Hey!”

He looks up and smiles. “The folding can be forgiven. If you get chocolate on it, I may have to smite you.”

”You just did,” I say, waving my hand in an exaggerated manner. 

He ignores me. He’s looking at the map.  I wonder whether he’s having the same moment of awe I had when I first saw it: the intricate detail, the parchment itself woven to withstand centuries of time, the black markings of the ink in strokes so small you need a magnifying glass to read them. Unless you have golden eyes and a prior knowledge. He is reading it intently, eyes darting from the tunnel that leads to the underworld to the river to the caverns through to the pictures of writhing, desperate souls.

Then he laughs. I stare. He keeps laughing. He laughs so loudly that the kids are quiet for a moment, that the sound echoes off the walls and comes back louder than the music.

“Umm, father?”

“Oh, daughter, you did not tell me you’d seen my brother.”

I frown. “I told you, I went up the mountain and he kicked me off – but this wasn’t from him, this was from an old man in an antique shop in Lebanon, it took me ages to track down.”

”This old man, what did he call himself?”

“He didn’t call himself anything; he sold me a map, that’s all.”

I’m getting frustrated. I wish he’d just come out and say whatever it is he has to say.

“Did he have a tattoo?”

“I didn’t really look.”

“This would have been obvious. A lizard, the head would be on his neck. It would have had a blue tongue.”

My brow furrows. I feel it; can’t stop it. Because the man did have a strange tattoo. And the fact my father recognises it only means one thing. “He’s one of yours.”

“One of ours,” my father corrects. “Your uncle. Known by many different names: you would probably recognise Loki, the trickster?”

I stare at the map. “Oh God.”

”Exactly. Would you like me to correct it for you?” I nod dumbly, still in shock that such a beautiful thing could be a trick. My father lays his hand on the map. “Firstly, the entrance to the underworld isn’t one place, it’s many. And the underworld itself is similar to an office block, except each level will take you further down.” The map rearranges itself as he speaks. The kids at the other table are openly watching us now. “Upper management, so to speak, is on the deepest level. You will find who you are looking for there.”

He looks up. The map is finished. There is none of the beauty, none of the craftsmanship, but it certainly is easier to follow. 

“Daughter.”

I force myself to look at him. “Yes?”

”I would suggest you do not go looking for him.” He takes a sip of his tea. The saxophone music playing in the background jars against his words. He reaches out to take another piece of my cookie, and waves it at me as he says, “Madness lies in seeking Death.”

“I know. But if I can stop this…” I wave my hands around, trying to somehow encompass the whole world in the gesture.

He nods. “I understand.” He smiles. “So. Shall we share a cookie when you get back?”

I’m about to go on a quest to the underworld. Chances are I’m not coming back. But his question makes me smile and I find myself nodding. “Of course. For your humanity, if nothing else.”

And mine, I add silently, but from the sad look in my father’s eyes I think he hears me anyway.

The second short story about a father and a daughter. The conversation in the cafe continues three months later. I’m not entirely sure where this is going, but I’m enjoying the ride. If you haven’t read the first one: A Conversation in a Cafe

“The ability of humanity to adjust and continue as before is astounding.”

My father’s voice is calm, but there’s a hint of admiration there. I don’t see anything to admire myself. The cafe is busy. Six or seven tables full up here, and downstairs packed. Today, pleasant acoustic music is playing in the background, and there’s a gentle buzz of conversation. No one seems concerned by the blood-red rain streaking down the windows, but then it’s been over a month since it started and, as he says, people adjust. 

A man at the table opposite us is typing away at something vitally appointment. There’s a couple of students holding heavy books that seem to weigh them down far more than the events in the world over the last few months. A group of women, all in matching uniforms, are gossiping about someone or other at work. It’s a normal day, in this new normality.

I lean back in my chair. I’m so tired.

My companion smiles at me. “So, it’s not going well?”

I gesture to the window. “What do you think?”

I don’t recognise my own voice. Have the events of the last eighty days changed me so much? Where did that hardness come from?

But he continues to smile. “It will. I have complete faith in you.”

”That makes one of us.”

”Daughter.” He reaches across the table. He takes a bit of my cookie, then leans back. Once again, I thought he was going to take my hand. A sign of fatherly affection and reassurance. But no, it’s always the cookie he’s after. “This world should be dead.”

”Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I say.

He laughs. It’s a weird, jarring sound coming out of his mouth. “I meant that you have slowed its demise. You feel that you are doing nothing; you are the only one doing something.”

I glance out the window. I can just about see the high street. And would you believe it, people are walking by with their umbrellas up. It’s funny how the horrible becomes the normal so quickly when there’s work to do and shopping to enjoy. But the rain is only the start of it. I know that now, with all the time I’ve spent with my nose buried in books so old they are tomes now, sneezing at the dusty pages and flinching at the graphic images.

He’s drinking his tea today. Perhaps enjoying it before he loses the opportunity.

“I have been watching,” he says calmly. “You are braver than you think.”

”Bravery means nothing when you’re up against all-powerful beings with a grudge.” I run a hand back through my hair. I’m surprised I still have hair left; I always do this when I’m stressed and there’s been nothing but stress since our last meeting. “I travelled to the mountains, like you said. I went and met my uncle. He told me to let this world burn. I told him no. The next thing I know I’m blasted back down that bloody mountain – do you know how long it takes for a human to get up that damn thing?”

“But you are not human.”

I look up and meet his eyes. Gold eyes. “No,” I admit. “But I’m not a god either.”

The steady click-clack of the keyboard at the next table slows just for a second, before beginning again with renewed vigour. The universal language for, Listening, me? Of course not. 

“What have the books taught you?”

“The books have taught me your scribe has too much time on his hands, and that library was never meant for mortal eyes, half-mortal or otherwise.” He stares at me. I sigh. “The books have taught me that after the rain will come the flood, and after the flood will come the undying, and after the undying the beast itself will appear on a wave of – and my translation was a little shaky here – but I think it said bodies.”

”Bones,” he corrects gently. “But don’t worry, we’re all a little rusty when it comes to Ancient Greek.”

“I was reading the Sumerian account.”

”Even worse.” He takes a sip of his tea. A plucky song about two people having each other has started playing. The women at the other table are laughing. The click-clack of the keyboard has resumed it’s normal steady pace. “What else did the books say?”

”They say a great warrior will rise to fight the beast.” He smiles at me, and I groan.

“I hate to disappoint, dad, but I’m not a great warrior. I’m not even a warrior.”

“When the time comes, you will be.”

He reaches across and takes another chunk of my untouched cookie. “How?” I sigh. “How on earth am I going to magically become a great warrior?”

“Because the world will need you to be.” He looks at me and for a second the cafe seems to disappear around us, melt away so that there is only the two of us, golden eyes clashing against golden eyes. “And you haven’t let it down yet.”

A rather random short story written in a cafe. It has the potential to be a longer piece, but for now fits quite nicely into the mythology theme I seem to have going. The fate of the world is decided over tea and a cookie.

“This is not the place for this conversation.”

I can’t believe him. He keeps his voice so calm and level, like we’re talking about the weather or some similarly mundane smalltalk. The tea in front of him is untouched. He has a weary smile on his face and instead of drinking he is playing with the mug, pushing it from side to side, one hand to the other.

He’s infuriating. I want to punch him. I want to throw that tea in his face.

“So where is the place?” I struggle to keep my voice as calm and level as his. Don’t let him see you’re rattled. That message was drilled into me time and time again as a child. Never let him see you’re rattled, because he will use it against you.

He shrugs. “Not here. This is a happy place.”

I laugh. I can’t help myself. There are only four other occupied tables in the upstairs of this airy, bright cafe. Two of them have a lone patron with a laptop and the universal harassed expression of the overly busy. One has a couple who are holding hands and smiling about something. The last has a similar couple, but leaning away from each other, and sitting in stony silence.

“This is a place,” I say. “Whether it’s happy or not depends on the people in it.”

“True.” He glances at the windows, and his smile grows a little more wistful. “But it is bright, and the music is pleasant. If you wished to have this conversation, perhaps you should have suggested meeting somewhere dark and dank and empty.”

I sigh. The urge to grab that tea and throw it in his face is getting stronger. “You suggested we meet here,” I say.

“Because I knew you would wish to have this conversation, and I knew I did not want to have it.”

He looks me straight in the eyes then. Two thoughts go through my mind. The first: I could kill him. The second: His eyes have flecks of gold in them.

The couple who are holding hands get up and leave. I watch them go. Better to watch them then watch him.

He leans back in his chair. The spell is broken; there’s no gold in his eyes now. “Eat your cookie.”

The dismissive tone is enough to test the strongest of wills. My hands have curled into fists. I want to throw this table over. I want to make a scene.

Instead, I reach out and take a bite of my cookie.

It’s good. Damn it.

I wanted to hate it, like I want to hate anything and everything he has given me. From cookies and clothes, to his attention and his powers. I don’t want those golden eyes. I don’t want to be able to feel what’s coming in my bones, so deep it’s like a crack in my skeleton. I don’t want to know what no mortal should know.

Your father is not a man, Mother used to say. Never forget that.

“When will it happen?”

“I said this is not the place for this conversation.”

“I know what you said,” I snap, and one of the lone patrons glares at me. I ignore him. “But we’re having it, just the same.”

He smiles. There’s a hint of sadness there. “Your mother always told you not to let me see when you’re rattled.”

”She did. But there’s some things I can’t hide.” I take a deep breath. I’ve let my guard down and he could have taken advantage. He could have broken straight into my mind, told me to go home and forget all about this. But he didn’t. Which means that this conversation is going to happen, and now I’m not sure whether I want it to. “When will it happen?”

“Soon.” He takes a sip of his tea. Finally. When he puts the mug back down he’s smiling. “This is good. We should have done this more often, whilst we had the chance.”

My stomach sinks. “So there’s no way to stop it?”

”I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. If that’s what you came to see me about, you will be disappointed, daughter.”

There’s nothing I can do.

I stare at him. His eyes are full gold now. “But something can be done?”

“It was decreed, millennia ago, that when the end times came we would do nothing. Every life has its course. The world is no exception to that law; we are no exception to that law.”

”So there’s no hope?” I can’t help the question. The words keep ringing in my head. There’s nothing I can do.

“Oh, I didn’t say that.” He takes another sip of his tea, and closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them, they’re entirely human. “I do like this world,” he says. “I like what you’ve done with the place, so to speak. Who would have thought that by boiling leaves you could create something so pleasant? We never would have, but then we always were rather narrow minded.” I keep staring. I don’t want to speak. Speaking now could ruin everything. He meets my eyes, and smiles, and it’s the smile of a father, proud and gentle. “We gods all agreed to do nothing.”

“To just let the end times come.”

“Yes. It is the natural order of things.” He reaches out a hand. I think he’s about to take mine, but instead he breaks a part of my cookie off. “But you, daughter,” he waves the cookie at me, “you are not a god.”

My heart skips. One of the lone patrons is openly watching us now. He’s right. This isn’t the place for this conversation.

“What are you saying?”

“I am saying that if you wish this world to live, you must do something about it.” He eats the corner of the cookie, and leans back in his chair. “I hope you succeed,” he says, closing his eyes. “There is so much in this world to enjoy.”

He disappears.

I’m left alone at the table with a pot of tea I don’t drink and a half-eaten cookie. The lone patron is blinking, confused. Then he returns to staring at his screen. He won’t remember my father was here. No one will.

You must do something about it.

I rest my head back against the chair, and sigh. “Well, that’s just great.”