Page 11 of The Winter Goddess

The Third Life

After that, I rarely spent a night alone.

During the day, áine and I worked together to maintain the hives, to bottle honey and make candles, and at night, I always had someone in my bed. Mostly men, but some women; whoever was lonely at the end of a night at the tavern. Most of them were fumble-handed, too rough or too quick, but it was not really their caresses I wished for. All I wanted was someone to keep me company until dawn rose.

Usually, they left before anyone else in the town awoke, but occasionally one of them would pass áine if she came up the hill early. áine did not mention this until one day she passed a woman called Bride, the sweet, empty-headed sister of the village baker who was surprisingly good with her hands. “Women too?” áine raised an eyebrow, watching Bride’s cheeks turn pink as she hurried down the hill to cover herself in flour and pretend she’d had her hands in the dough all night.

I shrugged. “They weep less than the men. Pine less too. Men are always wanting something else . Hands to knead their backs, honey to sweeten their lips, reassuring whispers that they make love as well as a god. Women don’t ask for more than they themselves would give. And they leave quickly. Then I can be alone again.”

“Do you want so badly to be alone?” áine asked curiously, pouring a long measure of honey into a small jar then sealing it with golden wax. A few drops spilled onto her skin, but she didn’t flinch or peel it away, just let it harden against her fingers.

“I’ve always been alone.” My voice was husky from the smoke I’d used earlier to soothe a fractious hive.

“Not as a child, surely.” áine frowned. “You must have had parents. Siblings. Friends.”

I thought of Enya for a moment, then shook my head. “My mother had no other children.”

“That sounds lonely,” áine said after a long moment.

“I enjoy my own company,” I said, thinking about those long, sweet days walking under a cold blue sky.

“I hate being alone. I don’t understand what there is to like about it.”

“It’s peaceful,” I tried to explain. But how could I capture how it felt to stand alone on the edge of the world, to smell the sharp scent of snow and broken firs in the air, to fill your mouth with water from a stream still crusted with ice, no soul around but your own. “The noise of the world retreats.” I thought of Failinis then, looking up at me with his brown eyes. I had not minded him joining me, in those moments, no matter how he ran and barked and disturbed the silence—and suddenly I missed him so much that I had to turn my head so áine wouldn’t see the tears. To be alone meant no little dog waiting for you each night.

But it also meant that your heart would not break when that dog left you.

“And when you’re by yourself,” I added, “you’re not beholden to anyone. To anything.”

It was better, safer, to be alone.

The air smelled like smoke, and even though the sun had barely risen, I could smell cold on the wind. We needed to gather the rest of the honey and wax from the hives before the bees died, and I was impatiently waiting for áine. When I saw her finally crest the hill, she wasn’t alone; she was holding Dagda’s arm.

“Granddad said that he could smell snow,” áine explained when they reached me. “He insisted on coming to help gather the rest of the honey and wax, even though I told him it was too early for it.”

“He’s right.” I looked toward the sky. “I can smell it too.”

áine lifted her nose and sniffed the air delicately, like a rabbit trying to scent a fox, and shrugged. “I can’t smell anything. But if you agree with Granddad, I’m sure you must be right.”

We set to working at the hives together and even though Dagda’s hands trembled slightly, he was careful and gentle, never spilling a drop of honey. After a few hours áine went back into the hut to get some food for us while Dagda and I continued to work, our hands moving in perfect harmony as they had in my previous life. For a few moments, it was as if we were both young and strong again and I had my friend back at my side. Dagda began to hum, and I joined him just as I used to, but then he stopped and looked at me, his eyes wide. As the last notes fell away, I realized we had been humming the song that we’d heard the night we’d watched the stars and listened to the fishermen singing on the harbor. He blinked, and for one brief moment, I thought I saw recognition in his eyes. He reached out a hand, but before I could do anything, say anything, he dropped it and took a step back, looking confused. Bitter disappointment coiled in my stomach, but I ignored the gesture as though it had not happened, bowing my head and continuing with my task until he said, “The woman who lived here with Failinis—she hated this part of keeping bees. That we take the honey and wax from them and kill the hive. Not even a child would complain about killing insects, but she did.” He smiled fondly.

áine and Dagda stayed with me for dinner and long after, telling stories of áine’s childhood, of her mother Ciara and of Niamh. Dagda talked long and áine laughed easily; I was happy to have them beside me. áine was halfway through a story when I realized that Dagda had fallen asleep in his chair. His head had fallen onto his chest, and he’d begun to gently snore—a peaceful, quiet sound like the droning of the bees. “He gets tired easily these days.” áine sighed and bent toward him. The firelight shone golden on her face and in her long dark hair and for a moment I wanted to lean forward and run my hands through it. My cheeks colored at the thought, and I jumped to my feet, turning to the fire so that I might have some excuse for the blush. áine had become my friend. More, she was a leader in the community. Getting involved with her would not be simple; I could not risk the ease I had finally found in this life. We sat in a comfortable, lingering silence. Once the moon was clear in the sky, áine put a gentle hand on Dagda’s shoulder and woke him, calling a quiet goodnight to me before she helped him back down the hill.

Dagda faded from life slowly that winter. He had no pain and no nameable illness, but anyone who saw him knew he was not long for this world. His energy slowly waned; at first he kept making his way up the hill but worked slower than he had before. Then he came up, but no longer worked, only watched as áine and I tended to the bees. Eventually, he stopped coming at all.

After that, each time I saw áine I held my breath, wondering if she would tell me he had gone, but he lingered for a long time, though he spent most of his days sleeping. As his health dwindled and his need for her increased, áine too stopped coming up the hill, unwilling to leave his side—not knowing which breath might be his last.

I missed her company more than I was willing to admit.

On the coldest day we’d had so far, a few flakes of snow blowing through the air, I had gone down to the village to trade for fish when I saw áine hurrying toward me. She was pale and looked as though she hadn’t slept in days.

“Cailleach”—her voice was tired, the whites of her eyes shot through with red—“I was going to come and find you. Roisin’s husband is begging me to attend her. She’s having a difficult birth, and their farm is halfway down the road.” áine glanced back at her croft. “But I can’t leave Dagda for so long. Would you stay with him? He gets so confused with everyone else but always seems to find comfort with you. I wouldn’t leave him, but Dagda would never forgive me if a child died because I chose to stay, and there is no one else to help—” Her voice trembled and I reached out a hand, clasping hers in mine.

“Of course I will stay with him. I will not let him be alone in case—” I did not have to say it. áine squeezed my hand tightly for a moment, then turned in a swirl of skirts, leading me back to her house.

She gathered her things and said goodbye to Dagda, kissing his thin cheeks and holding his hand for a long moment. “Granddad, Cailleach is going to stay with you tonight. Roisin is having trouble with her baby. I have to go help.” Her voice didn’t tremble, and she wore a bright smile, but I saw the way her eyes traced his face, as though trying to memorize his features.

Dagda patted her hand. “We’ll be grand, love.” áine kissed his cheek, then left the house.

Dagda barely had the energy to eat the dinner áine had left, but he managed a few bites before I helped him back to bed. I sat at his side, watching the candlelight flicker on his old face.

“Dagda.”

I jumped, startled by the voice at my elbow, and Dagda’s eyes flew open, staring at Danu, who had appeared at his side. She was not in her god form—had no hair of gold, no shining robes, just pink cheeks and a soft smile on her face. Only her eyes were the same spring green. Still, Dagda clearly recognized her, and when she reached out a hand, he grasped it tightly, his face glowing with the golden light that poured from her. “My lady.” He struggled to rise from the bed, but Danu put a hand on his shoulder and sat beside him.

“I thought, perhaps, you might like to see spring again. One last time.” Her voice was gentle, and as she spoke, I knew these were the last moments Dagda would have. He knew it too, but it was not sorrow I saw on his face. Only serenity.

I knew that seeing her again would be the crowning pleasure of Dagda’s life, but I was angry that she’d intruded once more. We’d been sitting together peacefully, and he could have gone quietly, gently—but instead my mother had to interfere, to make his end a spectacle. It was not fair. She did not know Dagda, not as I or as áine did. I had seen how careful his hands were around bees but how clumsy when holding glass. I had watched him cry for my little dog, had watched his face glow with reflected glory as he’d conducted his rites under the oak in the forest. Danu knew him only as another acolyte of hers whose life was no longer for her than an indrawn breath. Still, even if I didn’t like it, I thought I understood why he cared so much about Danu. At almost every moment, mortals stood on the knife edge between death and life, and the idea that there was something, someone , greater than themselves, who could pull them back from that edge or give it meaning, was comforting. It was Danu, not I, who could offer Dagda that comfort.

When Danu waved her hand, transforming Dagda’s small room into a garden bower, I could not prevent the gasp that escaped me. The room suddenly seemed as though it sat in a forest glade, glowing with light like that of the setting sun. Bees droned back and forth, and one fat bumblebee landed on Dagda’s outstretched hand, making him laugh as it bobbed about for a moment before flying off again. The air was soft, warm, even though the village was covered in a fine layer of snow. Dagda still lay in his bed, but now moss pillowed his head, the blankets on his legs covered with a mass of fallen flower petals. Roses twined over the wooden bed frame in yellow and white, and honeysuckle hung from the ceiling. Dagda sucked in a deep breath. “Thank you, great goddess. You have given me so much more than I, a mere mortal, deserve.”

Danu’s face was a rosy glow as she bent toward Dagda. “I will sit here and talk with you.” She did not need to add till the end , although we all knew it would come soon.

He did not speak, as I’d expected, about Niamh, Ciara, or even áine. Instead he spoke to Danu about herself —about his faith and devotion toward her, how he had always felt her presence in the forest come spring. He told her that from the time he’d been a child and heard the stories of her goodness, he had sought to worship her and do it well. He’d had such a large life and many who had loved him better and longer than Danu…

But at the end of it, it was still her approbation he was reaching for. His adoration, when in truth he knew so little of her, made my stomach roil. But what could I say? These were his last moments. He had a right to do with them as he wanted.

Finally, his voice began to grow hoarse and his breathing slowed. After a while he sat silent, hand in hand with Danu, bright eyes wandering through the enchanted bower she’d created for him. Just before dawn, his eyes caught mine and I smiled at him.

“Cailleach.” He looked directly at me, but before I could discern whether he’d said my name because he remembered me or because, in his final moments, he recognized the truth of my godhood, his eyes closed. I watched him for a long time, but his chest did not rise again.

Danu squeezed his hand one last time and then gently laid it on his chest, but she did not get up as I thought she would. “He looks so peaceful,” she said, peering into his face.

I wondered as I looked at him where my old friend was. Was he with his wife and daughter in some other veiled realm? Had my Failinis come running up to him, tail wagging? I realized that even though I did not know the truth, did not know where he was, I believed, in some way, that he was happy still. An unexpected peace filled my chest, and I thought that perhaps this was what Dagda’s worship really was. Belief, even without knowing—and in that faith, a sense of ease and tranquility.

Danu moved as if to close his unseeing eyes, but I caught her wrist in my hand.

“I will do it,” I said. “I was his friend.” She had given him a garden. But I would be the last one to touch him. I turned away from her, facing Dagda’s body. I wanted to thank him for all the kindness he’d shown me, shown Failinis, but I suspected that he’d known even more than I how much I’d needed him, how much I’d cared about him, so instead of saying anything I just kissed his cheek, then closed his eyes. When I turned around again, the garden bower had disappeared and so had Danu, and so I sat alone there for a long time until the blue light of dawn brushed against my old friend’s still face.

áine returned home later that morning, dropping her bag at the sight of Dagda’s unmoving form. She let out a half-choked sob. “I have to tell them. The rest of the village,” she said, and ran from the room.

Dagda had been beloved, and before long the house was full of people. Some wept, but most seemed pleased that he was finally at rest. They talked about how Dagda would be happy to be finally with his gods, and I said nothing to challenge their beliefs. Wherever Dagda was, he was not with Danu or the others. That was the one thing that I knew.

I stayed with áine that day and the next, helping her put out food and drink, even washing Dagda’s body for her. She had tried to, had lifted a dripping rag over his pale chest, but her hand had begun to tremble and she’d run from the room. I even heard her retching, which surprised me. I would not have thought she’d be squeamish about such things, but perhaps it was different when it was your own kin. I tried to imagine seeing Danu laid out like Dagda, her body stiff and blue, but I could not picture it. The moon could fall into the sea and still Danu would be filled with life, the green-sap blood in her veins rushing quick and strong, flowers blooming in her hair.

We buried him under the sacred oak in the forest on the third day.

We walked in a procession through the wood, several men carrying Dagda’s body on a smooth board. They’d covered it with a green sheet, and I thought again of Danu’s eyes. Perhaps Dagda himself had laid the cloth aside, thinking of the goddess he so loved. As we walked, áine asked the gods to gather Dagda in their embrace. It was foolish, and it made me angry—not at áine, but at the gods and their encouragement of such worship. They had grown, like Danu, to love hearing their names on mortal lips. They felt it was their due—the sweet smoke of sacrifice and the blood spilled for them. I alone knew how senseless and false they were, and watching the villagers worship them in front of me, listening to them talk about Dagda at peace with the gods, was wrong—a perverse lie.

It was bitter cold when we entered the clearing where the sacred oak stood. Even leafless at the height of winter, the tree was impressive, with limbs that stretched wide and high and a trunk that three men could not wrap their arms around. The ground had already been prepared. They had lined the pit with stones to keep out animals, and as the men slowly lowered Dagda into it, I turned away, not wanting anyone else to see my tears. They would think I was absurd, think I was grieving a man who in their eyes I had barely known.

Normally they would have sung and danced around the grave, would have brought out food and wine, but a bitter wind was blowing, the cheeks of all were red, and some of the children’s lips had turned blue. I heard murmuring, a decision that they would gather instead at the tavern.

I closed my eyes, waiting for them to leave, and I thought they had until I heard a quiet sob and saw áine standing beside the grave.

“He was like my father,” she said when I went to stand by her side.

“He was my friend.” I took her hand and thought about all the times he’d crested the hill clutching his side and smiling widely. The thought of seeing him no more made me cry too.

For a long time, áine and I stood there, growing colder and colder. I was about to suggest we head back to the village when áine suddenly turned and kissed me, lips cold and smelling of snow. Surprised but grateful, I kissed her back, hard and urgent.

We did not go back to the village but instead stumbled our way back to my house and into my bed. My hands were rough and quick, and her long hair fell over her breasts as I made her cry out. Then she began to weep, and I gathered her close to me while her tears fell hot down my skin.