Page 10 of The Winter Goddess

The Third Life

I did not return to my hut when Danu sent me down once more to the field just outside it. When I rose and looked at it, my stomach roiled with nausea at the thought of returning there alone, lying on the pallet where Failinis had taken his last breath.

Instead, I sat on the bench that overlooked the sea. Dagda and I had often sat there after working with the bees. Sometimes we’d talked, but mostly we’d just watched the boats come into the harbor as evening drew on. I had not realized how much his presence beside me had meant until I found myself sitting there alone—no friend beside me, no dog at my feet. Watching the boats come in now only sharpened the sense of isolation. All those fishermen had families to welcome them, people who would see them home from the sea and be glad. No one in the village below knew me. None would remember me even if they had known me in my previous life. I was alone again, and it didn’t bring me the pleasure it once had.

When I could not stand to watch the boats any more than I could handle going into the hut, I decided to venture down to the village. Perhaps if I sat for a time in the tavern, the noise and warmth around me would grate once more and remind me that I preferred my solitude.

Perhaps it would remind me how to be alone again.

I was halfway down the hill when I heard something behind me.

“Failinis?” I spun around, sure that Danu had sent my dog back to me. I saw a pair of glowing eyes and joy leapt to life within me like a sudden fire. I took a step toward him, then another—to see nothing but a fox, crouched on its belly, watching me approach. The joy left as quickly as it had come, and I let out a cry, kicking a stone at the fox so that it would flee.

Danu had not brought Failinis back.

In whatever time I was in, Failinis’s bones were dust.

I quickly made my way down the hill to village, and no one noticed when I entered the old tavern. I had never sat in it before, had never done more than stick my head in looking for Dagda, who liked to sit on one of the polished stools and drink mead with his friends. I stood in the crowd for a moment, looking around for him out of habit, until I remembered once again that even if I found him, even if he were still alive, he would not remember me. I knew that should upset me—knew that somewhere deep down, it did—but I was…dazed. Dazed with grief, with longing for my dog, and for the life I had been leading.

“Are you Fianna’s granddaughter, then?” I turned to see a woman approaching me. She had long black hair and bright blue eyes that reminded me of the ice in the far north. She smiled at me, but her eyes were wary; perhaps the village had grown cautious of strangers once more.

I sighed and nodded. I had been Fianna’s niece, her cousin, why not her granddaughter?

“I’m áine.” The woman held out her hand. Her fingers were long and delicate, and her skin was warm, though calloused.

“Cailleach,” I said, in no mood to talk. I wanted only to sink onto one of the stools, was overwhelmed at the thought of having to make conversation, at having to be subjected once more to such pleasantries and gestures. I had been in Tara for such a short time yet felt once again torn between my god and mortal selves, unsure of how to be in either world.

A man behind the bar set a tall glass of golden liquid in front of me, and I finally sat down, taking a long swallow even as tears burned my eyes. I’d never drunk alcohol before, had never understood why mortals liked it so much. Why would they dull their already dull senses further? But I understood now the need for dullness. The need to close one’s eyes and forget for a moment life’s hardships.

“Do you like Daingean Uí Chúis?” the woman—áine—said, sliding onto the stool beside me.

“I’ve only just arrived, haven’t I?” I said, voice rough.

The woman’s suspicious look returned. “I thought you were Fianna’s granddaughter. Did you not know her?”

I closed my eyes and took a long swallow of my drink. “When I was a child. I came and saw the bees.”

“And do you have family here?”

“No.”

“Well,” the woman finally said, looking a little surprised by my short answers, “I shall leave you.” She hesitated, as if waiting for me to ask her to stay, but I didn’t and eventually she left. I watched her for a while and could tell she was well-liked by everyone. She flitted like a butterfly from one table to another and whenever people saw her approach their eyes lit up. What would it be like to have that easy way with people, to be so effortlessly liked? Few had ever liked me—mortals and gods alike—and only my friendship with Enya had truly been effortless.

I drank for a long time, silence filling up the tavern as it slowly emptied. At the end of the night, a fisherman approached me. He was drunk, but by then so was I, so when he put his hand on my knee, I let him leave it there and later I let him come home with me so I would not have to be alone in the dark.

He was my first lover.

I was not impressed.

His back was sweat-slicked, and his hair smelled of fish and salt. Still, his hands were gentle. He stayed until dawn, then he rose, grunting and sighing in the loud way that mortals have, before clothing himself. He hesitated and turned back toward me, opening his mouth to say something, but I merely pointed a finger out the door. I did not want his mumbled excuses, or worse, pleas for love. I had brought him back with me for no other reason than I had been unable to enter my hut when I knew that there would be no Failinis to greet me.

I stayed in my pallet after the man left, trying to sleep a little longer, but I soon grew cold and my mind flashed again to Failinis, always curled up around me keeping me warm. At the thought, my eyes began to water, and I climbed wearily to my feet. I needed to get up, to do something other than think of him.

I went to the door and threw it open so I might better see what had happened to my home since I’d died. The sun had only just risen, but it was already warm out, warm enough that I realized Danu must have sent me back in late spring. It was one of her favorite seasons, everything in full bloom; wherever she walked, flowers blossomed at her feet, ripe fruit dropping into her waiting hands. It was the season I hated most, with its slick sweetness, its warm breezes—as far from winter as a season could ever be.

Even as I thought this, I brushed against a flower that was curling around the lintel of my house. I turned and saw a yellow rose, Danu’s favorite flower. I realized there was not just one, but hundreds: my hut, which had been a plain stone building, was now covered in golden roses. They twined over the doorway and crawled up the sides and almost entirely hid the stone. The roses reminded me of the lone golden candle that had been left for me in my first life. They must be another way for Danu to jab at me, to try to make me see the beauty in the mortal world around me. Perhaps she had forgotten that I didn’t like roses, or perhaps that was why she had done it. Either way, I ignored them to look over the rest of the hut.

It had not changed much. The pallet was larger, enclosed by itself in a tiny room that had no door, only a length of fabric hanging from the doorframe. I thought of the cloth that had stood in the place of the hut’s entrance the first time I’d arrived, how I’d torn it down in fury and watched the silver rain sheet down. Then, I might have been grateful for the extra room, but now I only thought of how far I would be from the fire, alone and enclosed in the dark like in a tomb. I went back into the main room and saw with some relief that the shelves were covered with jars of honey, salted fish, and grain; at least Danu had not sent me back only to starve me again.

Sitting in the middle of the hearth was a black cauldron. I picked it up, swinging it slightly by its handle, and realized it was my old pot, the same one I’d had in my first and second life. I knew its weight as well as I knew the weight of my own body. I had spent so much time bending over it trying to keep food from burning, swinging it onto the table, holding it in one hand as Failinis wove between my feet, waiting for his share of dinner…I shuddered at the memory and nearly dropped the pot before forcing the vision as far away as I could.

When I saw the golden hives behind the hut—four now instead of two—my body sagged with relief. I would not have to learn new things again; I could get back to my bees. I rested my forehead against one of the hives and did not move, even when some curious bees flew out and landed on my fingers. They walked over my hand so gently that I might have begun to weep had I not heard a voice behind me.

“You do not fear them.”

It had been a quiet statement, not meant to startle me, but I still jumped and three of the bees that had been clinging to my fingers flew away, one stinging my thumb hard and sharp. I turned angrily, ready to confront whoever had interrupted me.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” áine, the woman I’d met the night before, said, stepping toward me.

I wanted to bare my teeth at her, to growl and bite like one of Danu’s cats, but I had seen the way those in the tavern the night before had spoken to her. She was clearly widely respected, and I knew how difficult it was to live by villagers who didn’t trust me. I did not want to lose her favor and thereby make enemies, so I forced myself to speak calmly. “You should have announced yourself earlier. That bee will die now.”

“You do know about bees.” áine looked surprised. “Most don’t know that they die after they sting. And if they do, they rejoice in it.”

“I do not rejoice in death,” I said quietly, realizing that my words were entirely true. Not only did I not rejoice in it, I hated it. I did not want to cause it for anyone, even an insect.

A soft breeze blew in my face, and for a moment I thought it was Danu, there to tell me that I had learned enough and could return to my former self. But no matter where I looked for her, I could not find her. Either she wasn’t listening or I had still not understood whatever it was she wanted me to.

áine pushed her sleeves up and moved toward me, but I threw out my arm and she stopped. “Why are you here?” I did not want her scaring my bees again. “Have you come for honey?”

“I thought Fianna would have told you?” she said. “I’m the village midwife, but since there’s only so much need for me, I also help with the bees. Four hives is too much for one woman alone.”

She was right, of course. The two hives I used to have had almost been too much for me, even with Dagda’s help. I bit down on my tongue at the thought of my friend. At least he had not died in front of me. At least he had lived a long, full life.

“You know how to care for them?” I did not move my arm but swung my gaze back toward her.

She laughed, pushing a dark curl out of her face. “I should. I’ve been caring for these hives as long as I can remember. My granddad taught me how. He used to help the woman who lived here before Fianna.”

My throat tightened, and I looked at the woman more closely but I could not see any sign of Dagda in her face. Her eyes gleamed bright; she was much lovelier than he had ever been. She ran a hand through her hair again, and I realized she had his hands. His long, beautiful fingers. “Dagda,” I said in amazement. “Your grandfather was Dagda?”

The woman nodded and looked at me curiously. “You knew him? But you’re of an age with me.”

I laughed then, hard and short. I was older than her oldest ancestor.

“He taught me how to care for bees too. The summer I visited Fianna.”

“I don’t remember you.” áine frowned.

“I stayed close to Fianna that summer. I did not go down to the village.”

áine cocked her head as she studied me, but only shrugged. “Granddad loved it here.” She gently pulled a rose vine away from the hive and tucked it around the low stone fence instead. “He used to tell me about the woman who lived here before Fianna. I don’t remember her name”—she frowned again—“I’m not sure Granddad ever told me. His mind grew soft as he got older. Sometimes he claimed he’d met the goddess Danu.” She laughed. “And he told me about the woman’s dog, Failinis—did you know him? Granddad loved that dog, even long after he died. He buried him on the hill there.” She pointed. “The dog liked to sit there and watch the boats come in.”

I looked at the spot on the hill, fighting the tears in my eyes. It had been Failinis’s favorite spot. I should have known that Dagda—gentle, kind Dagda—would lay my dog to rest in a place he loved. Thank you , I thought to my old friend, as I placed a wandering bee back into the hive just as he had taught me.

The woman continued to chatter on, but I did not truly listen. I paid her no real attention, letting her noise fill the silence and wash over me like the buzzing of the bees as we worked on the hives, until she remarked, “I passed Ruaidhrí as I walked up here.”

I had just found the queen of the colony, and I did not look up until I assured myself that she was healthy. Then I set the little ceramic lid back and looked at áine. Was she trying to rebuke me? Perhaps Ruaidhrí was her husband or her brother. I had not thought, had not cared, about who he might be attached to when I’d pulled him into my bed.

“A handsome lad, but a bad lover from what I’ve heard.” áine’s lips quirked.

I laughed, pleasantly surprised. I’d been warned early on in my first life that mortals did not speak openly about whose bed they were in and what they did there. I’d once said something to Siobhan about a woman who I knew was bedding a man other than her husband, and Siobhan had hushed me fiercely, telling me that it was no one’s concern but theirs. áine’s frankness was welcome.

“For someone who catches fish all day, his hands were slow,” I responded, and áine chuckled, a loud, bright sound that filled the air around us.

We worked together in silence the rest of the morning until we were both wet with sweat. Why could Danu never send me back in the middle of winter? I was curious too if the village still worshipped her and the other gods and asked as much.

áine shrugged. “Most still do”—she wiped at her brow—“but I never liked the stories my grandfather told of Danu. If she is a goddess, the true mother of all, why does she let children die of fever? Why do the seas rise suddenly and swallow sailors who only wanted to feed their families? She seems careless to me, in the way that a true mother would never be.”

I didn’t respond, but I hoped that Danu was listening to this mortal woman speak ill of her.

We worked until the sun was lowering; then áine stretched and wiped her hands on her dress. “I hate when the sun is this hot.” She shaded her eyes and looked down toward the sea. “I’m going to the stream.”

She didn’t ask me to follow her, but I did anyway, thinking that the cool water would be pleasant against my thumb, which still itched from the early morning sting.

I did not remember until I saw the stream that this was where I’d last died.

It had been winter then, and the river was almost unrecognizable now, lush with greenery, lazily flowing toward the sea. It did not look like it could ever be stoppered by ice, could ever crack under the weight of a woman trying to get water for a dog. My stomach tautened in fear as I looked at it. How many more times would Danu have me die before she was satisfied?

I would have turned from the spot altogether had áine not pulled off her dress and thrown it onto the bank, then ducked under the water. When she surfaced, she blew out a great breath and laughed, her black hair sleek and shining like a seal’s.

As I watched her, I felt an ache at her simple joy. It had been so long since I’d been so free, so effortless, and I wanted to share in it, so I took a deep breath and jumped in beside áine. The water pulled at me, but not hard, and the gentleness of it, cold against my skin, made my fear dissipate. I could not lose this. No matter what happened I would not lose the love I had for the cold. I would not lose the faith in my own body, because eventually I would return to godhood. Eventually Danu would let me.

áine smiled even as she shivered, goosebumps cascading down her shoulders. “This stream is still cold with snow melt.” She raised a hand and let a couple drops of water fall back into the river. “The sea is too warm right now.” She wrinkled her nose. “I prefer it in the winter. Everyone thinks I’m touched, but I like it best when ice is cracking at its edges.”

I could picture that easily, her long, lean body cutting through the ice like an axe. I wondered why I’d never thought about swimming in the sea myself. I so rarely left my hut on the hill, and when I did go for walks they were through the forest, not along the beach. Perhaps I should try the sea when the cold came.

áine blew bubbles in the stream and let her hair swirl around her. She was as lovely a woman as I’d ever seen, with her clear eyes and lithe body. Eventually she stood and climbed from the stream, wringing out her hair. “I must go.” Her cheeks were flushed pink as she pulled her dress over her head. “Granddad will be looking for me.”

I jerked my head so violently my whole body flinched. “Dagda? Dagda is still alive?”

áine looked at me curiously and laughed. “Well, he wasn’t yet gone when I left this morning.”

I clambered out of the stream and yanked on my own clothes, my fingers trembling. “Can I come with you? To see him? He was—he was very kind to me when I was a girl.” There was something in my trembling, wide-eyed pleading that my immortal self hated, but I ignored that part of me. I knew he would not know me, but…but I would know him . I could recall, still, how he came panting over the hill, clutching his side; how gentle he was with my bees, the first time his hand had touched mine as a friend.

áine smiled. “I’m sure Granddad will be pleased to see you. Come on, then.”

As we walked down the hill, áine continued to chatter, and I learned that Dagda had married Niamh, the devotee who had so loved him. Together they’d had one daughter called Ciara—áine’s mother, who had died when she was three. Aíne had been raised by Niamh and Dagda, and she still lived in their house to take care of Dagda after Niamh died.

“Granddad hasn’t been the same since she passed,” áine sighed as we entered the village. It did not look like it had grown much, but the houses looked more prosperous, and I could see that the farmed fields stretched much farther than they had in my previous life. We passed a group of women chattering together as they spread seaweed out to dry in the sun, preparing it to enrich the soil for the crops.

The women too looked more prosperous. In my first life, most had worn whatever clothes they could cobble together, scraps that were worn and faded. Many had been thin, just this side of starving, but now the women were plump, with soft faces and cheerful smiles, not worn down by poverty and loss.

“He gets confused.” áine stopped in front of a grey stone house. “I’m sorry if he doesn’t remember you.”

I wanted to laugh, but only because I already knew he would not and that it did not matter. I was going to see him again, my old friend, and my hands trembled with excitement as we entered the house. I would remember for the both of us.

Dagda was sitting outside in his little garden. áine walked out first, and I hesitated in the dark doorway before finally stepping outside. The sun shone so brightly in my eyes that I could not see anything for a long moment. When my eyes finally adjusted, I saw an old man bowing before me.

“Goddess.” His forehead was almost on the ground. “Goddess,” he repeated, and I felt a burst of pleasure. Danu had failed. He did know me. Slowly he raised his head and looked me full in the face. His expression changed. He looked confused, and as áine helped him to his feet, I realized that of course he did not recognize me. He had never known me as a goddess, only as a mortal woman called Cailleach. “Danu?” he said, voice feeble, reaching a hand toward my face, toward my green eyes. I felt as if a hand squeezed my heart; the idea that he saw my mother in me was even worse.

“No, Granddad.” áine was gentle but not patronizing, matter-of-fact. “This is Cailleach. She’s Fianna’s granddaughter come to work the bees at her croft. She said you taught her how to work with the bees one summer.”

I watched him carefully, searching despite myself for a flicker of recognition in my old friend’s face, but I found nothing. It was more discomfiting than I’d expected, seeing him like this. When I’d last seen him, only two days ago for me, he’d been young and hale. Now his golden hair had gone grey, and his face was creased with wrinkles. I’d always hated the sight of wrinkles on mortals—they made them appear weak and aged, like the sagging belly of an old doe—but now, looking at Dagda, I found I did not mind them. Rather than weakening him, they seemed to lend him strength, carving something beautiful where there had once been a face as plain and unadorned as a stone.

áine helped him sit back down on the bench where he’d been a moment before and then went back into the house, and I tentatively sat next to him. I remembered again the first time he’d touched me, his hand reaching out in the darkness.

“With the light streaming behind you, I thought you were her. The goddess Danu,” Dagda said. “Your eyes are green like hers. Though now that I see them closely, they’re much darker, like a fir in winter. Did my áine say that I taught you about bees?” He peered at me closely again, then smiled wistfully. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember you. My mind is not what it was. What is your name, my dear?”

“Cailleach,” I said. “You taught me how to work at the hives at my—at Fianna’s croft. How to gather the honey and wax and make it into candles.”

“That croft is a sacred place,” he said slowly. “It was there that I saw the goddess Danu. I was—I had made a bargain—” He frowned, and I knew it was the clouding that Danu had placed over his mind. He could not remember our bargain because he could not remember me. “There was a woman who lived there before Fianna…” I looked up with hope, but he just shook his head. “I’ve forgotten her in the years since.” My throat ached with sudden pain and my excitement fell away. I had not thought it would matter, him not remembering me…but it did . It hurt me to think that all we had done together was lost to him. Perhaps in the end, it would have been better if he were dead. It was near impossible to look at him and know him, only to have him look at me with nothing more than the kindness he would show a stranger. “She had a little dog.” He turned toward me. “A little black and white dog with one ear that stood straight up and one that fell down flat. Failinis. I loved that dog. The whole village did. But he got sick, so sick.” Dagda brushed a tear away from his cheek. “He died and then she—the woman who lived there—disappeared. We never knew if she died or just left…” He sighed quietly. “The whole town gathered to bury him. All of us, up on the hill.”

“He must have been remarkable.” áine appeared in the doorway with a loaf of brown bread and a jar of honey. “Some have dogs, of course, but I think most would sooner attend their enemy’s funeral than one for a dog. They’d think it would show that they’d grown soft.”

“He was a remarkable dog.” Dagda took a bite of bread. His lips shone with honey before he licked them clean. “He was the gentlest soul I ever met. The children would pull his ears, his tail, but I never once saw him snap at them. Everyone he met was a friend.”

I took a bite of my own bread, trying to mask the tears that had gathered in my eyes. The memory was bittersweet. I was glad that Dagda remembered Failinis so well, even though it must have been more than fifty years since he’d seen him last.

I sat with Dagda and áine for a long while, longer than I’d planned, and by the time I noticed how close the shadows had drawn, the sun was already near to setting. Finally I stood, saying that I must be home soon. áine walked me to the door, promising that she would be back early the next morning to help with the bees, but she did not offer to walk me back up the hill.

Of course she wouldn’t , I chided myself as I strode back toward my hut. I was not a child. Until Failinis, I had always walked around alone, even in the dark. I would simply have to learn to be alone again.

“Perhaps I should show myself to your druid again, before he dies.” Danu suddenly appeared at my side as though she’d been there the whole time.

“He’s not my druid.” I noticed that where she walked, green grass sprang up beneath her feet. I stopped and looked out to the sea where the sun was just a glimmer of red on the horizon. “He was my…my friend. And now he doesn’t remember me at all.” I turned away from the sea and continued back up the hill.

“He remembers your dog.” Danu’s voice was resonant in the darkness. “You know it’s not possible for him to remember you,” she said after a few quiet moments. “It’s part of—”

“My punishment.” I snapped the words out so fast my teeth clacked together. “I know the terms of my punishment, Danu. With each prick of pain, each monthly bleed, each time my muscles groan after lifting water from my well, I remember them. I do not need you to remind me.”

Danu sighed but didn’t say anything else until we reached my hut. I stopped. I did not want to enter it in the dark, to fumble around alone until I had lit the fire and made whatever measly meal I could. “I thought the roses were a nice touch.” Danu’s voice was heavy with satisfaction. “Though I can’t see them properly now.” She waved a hand and suddenly my house was ablaze with light, as though she’d lit every candle inside. The light made the roses gleam like coins, and when Danu reached out a hand to them, the ones that had been buds burst into full flower. She walked into the hut without asking for an invitation and surveyed it with pleasure. “It’s such a pleasant spot.” She patted a hand on the round table, waved at the roaring fire she’d conjured with nothing but a thought. She looked up at the ceiling and frowned. “Though that’s a bit dull”—she pointed at the thatched roof and suddenly green tendrils started curling through it, bursting into yellow blooms when they drew near her. My floor was soon covered in yellow rose petals, and Danu took a few dancing steps in them, laughing.

“Now when it rains it will drip on me,” I sighed, stalking toward the shelves to see what I might eat for dinner.

“Can’t you just enjoy the flowers”—she waved a hand, stirring the scent of roses through the house—“without worrying about the rain?”

“I’m mortal, Danu,” I said sharply. “That means I have to worry about whether rain will drip through my roof or if I have enough wood or if my dog—”

“Why don’t we eat together?” she interrupted me, waving a hand. My table became full of food: a fat bird with golden skin, purple grapes round with juice, a creamy white cheese drizzled with honey. I’d not had a feast like this since I’d left Tara, and I wanted to refuse it, wanted to push her from my house, but my mouth was watering at the smell. Danu must have noticed because she smiled widely. “Come now, don’t be foolish. No mortal has ever refused a feast I set before them.”

I knew she was testing me, seeing if I would rebuff a perfectly good meal out of pride—but I was not so foolish . I swallowed the bitterness in my throat and sat at the table with a hard thump , eating everything in front of me while Danu hummed and only drank wine. It was clear as glass but tasted spicy and strong; it reminded me of a fir tree, of a cold, cold winter’s night.

I’d never had an immortal drink in my mortal state, and within minutes my eyes started to blur and my head lolled to the table. I would have stayed there all night, but I felt—while on the very edge of deep sleep—Danu pick me up as though I were a child and gently place me on my pallet. She stroked my face and sang something that made me picture hay swaying under a golden sun. For once I did not turn away.

When I woke the next morning, the darkness was gone from the house and so was she.