Page 14 of The Winter Goddess

The Fourth Life

The torch was bright as I walked into the village, death in my hands.

It was still dark, but I could see from where the moon sat in the sky that dawn was approaching. Barefoot on the rough road, I did not wince at the pain, did not pause, did not look around the village to see what changes had happened since I’d been burned. It could have been moments. It could have been generations. I did not care. They—or their ancestors—had burned me. And so they would burn too.

I swept the torch along roofs and walls, across wooden boards and vines. I could smell flowers somewhere, and I knew that Danu had sent me back in spring. That was good; there would be more to catch flame and burn.

Dawn had just begun to stretch bloody fingers across the sky when they began to scream.

I stood on the edge of the village and watched as the flames burned higher. And when I smelled cooking flesh, I smiled. I felt as though the mortal skin I had been wearing had been peeled off. I was no longer split between god and mortal. I was only god.

Full of power.

Rage.

I watched a man run out of his house, coughing on smoke, and cocked my head. Some part of me knew I had seen him before. But I could not recall his name. He looked to me like a spider—something to be crushed.

I watched as flames crept up the side of the tavern where I had first met áine.

áine, who had lain in my bed with me and run her fingers through my hair.

áine, who had set her own torch against what had been my living pyre.

It had been foolish to think of myself as the same as her. As mortal. I was not. They had taught me that, shown me that my distaste of them had always been justified. They were worse than the basest of animals. Animals took to survive; they took because they could never be content, because they always wanted more.

I would have stayed and watched the destruction grow, would have let the fire consume the entire village and every mortal in it with satisfaction, if I hadn’t seen her.

She ran toward me, hair long and black, eyes wide and blue, and I opened my arms without thought, because I loved her. I loved her still—only it wasn’t áine who fell into my arms. It was a child. A young girl who looked so much like áine that I knew she must be her daughter.

The girl clung to me, coughing, choking from the smoke, and I could see where the fire had singed her hair, where soot had smudged her cheeks, her eyes a searing, cold blue in her face. In her piercing gaze I saw Nora; then Bride, her cheeks flushed pink in the morning; then Domhnall, the little lad with the cheeky smile. But it was not the thought of them that made me look to the skies and beg:

“Danu! Rain, Danu. Send rain.”

It was áine, even still.

It was how she held my hair back as I vomited into the snow, the way her eyes lit up when she ground herbs together for someone ill, the softness of her arms as we sat on the old stone bench looking out at the sea, and now—now—it was her daughter in my arms that made me beg for the end of the destruction I’d wrought.

The clear sky filled rapidly with dark clouds that unleashed rain so heavy it knocked me backward, hitting my face with so much force that I winced and pulled the child closer to me, trying to protect her from it.

I don’t know why Danu listened to me then, when so many other times she had not. I didn’t stay to see if the rain put out the fires entirely. I had asked for it, and that seemed enough. They had still burned me, after all. I walked back up the hill to where I knew my hut would be waiting, child in tow. I was unsure what else to do with her.

The hut looked the same as it had in my third life, still covered with roses, though they were only buds now. I looked to the forest and saw that it had receded a bit more, but not a great deal. I could not have been gone long, perhaps no more than six or seven years. The girl on my hip began to squirm, and I set her down. She stared up at me solemnly. She was young, perhaps no older than three or four, and now that we’d left the burning village, she seemed remarkably unconcerned. She had her thumb in her mouth, but as I stared at her, she pulled it out, pointing at herself. “Mór,” she said, then gestured at me.

“Cailleach,” I said, wondering with a jolt if áine was still alive. Was she frantic even now, looking for her daughter? She wouldn’t remember me, of course; she would look at me and see only a stranger. The thought was both horrifying and comforting.

She would not remember me, the goddess she had burned.

She would not remember me , the mortal woman she had loved.

I didn’t realize I was crying until the smoking village in front of me began to blur and haze. I wiped at my face then looked down at the child. I didn’t want her to begin coughing again, so I opened the door to my hut and brought her inside. In all the confusion, I would say that I’d rescued the child then gone to the hut to keep her safe until the fire ended.

The hut was the same as when I’d left, my black pot swinging over the fire, jars of honey lining the shelves. I pulled one of them down and gave the girl some honeycomb. She took it from me carefully, giving me a long, almost suspicious look before biting into it. When the sweetness of it hit her tongue, she smiled, and her smile was so like áine’s— she was so like áine—that it was painful to look at her. I turned away sharply and moved to stir the fire—the hut was cold in the early mornings—but the closer I got to the flames, the more I could smell the smoke like charred flesh. It was as if I was burning again, and I began to panic and gag. I dashed outside, lifting my head to the rain and letting it soak me until the smell finally left my nose.

The rain did not last long—by the time the sun was overhead in the sky, it had gone. I knew I should take the child back down to the village, find out if áine was still alive, but I was not able to make myself face it. Mór had fallen asleep in my bed and slept until late afternoon, when she woke and insisted I show her the bees. The hives were still there, but when I leaned my head against them and listened to the hum, the peace I’d expected to fill my chest didn’t come. áine and I had spent our days at these hives. I could not think of them without thinking of her and her long, clever fingers gently setting an old bee back into the hive. They had loved her. I had loved her. And she’d had me killed.

I plucked the child from the ground, deciding that I would not be able to rest until I found out if áine was still alive. For better or worse, I had to know what had happened to her.

Once I got to the village, I was grateful to find that no one had died in the fire. Some had been badly burned, and many of the houses would need to be rebuilt, but I had called the rain early enough.

As usual, they knew of me when I walked into town—Fianna’s sister, they thought in this life. They nodded at me but were otherwise too busy helping the wounded to pay me much attention. They told me I was lucky that I lived on the hill, that I’d not lost my home as so many of them had.

áine was dead.

When I asked after Mór’s mother, they said she had died birthing Mór, that her father had been a local farmer who had joined the king’s army and hadn’t been seen in years.

I was devastated; I was relieved. I didn’t know what to think, what to feel, as I understood I would never see her again. At least I would not have to endure her blank stare.

In this life, I saw many I’d known in my last. When I saw Domhnall, I knew I had guessed correctly that it had barely been a decade; he was only ten or so now, still a child. When he saw me, he grinned, and my breath caught. I thought Danu’s magic had failed, that he remembered me—until I realized that he was smiling at Mór , who waved a fat hand back at him.

I would have left áine’s child in the village, but for some reason she clung to my leg, screaming when I tried to untangle her and hand her to the family who had been raising her since áine had died. The woman shrugged. “The girl’s always been an odd lass. Usually bright and happy, but when a temper gets on her she’s as fierce as an angry cat.” The woman was called away to help tend to a child with burns, and I stood alone with the girl once again. I decided to leave her there, directed her to stay, but I had not gone more than a few steps when I heard a soft tread behind me. I turned to see the girl following me up the hill, beaming.

“Go home.” I waved a hand at her, back to the village, but the girl shook her head, frowning.

“Honey.” She pointed to my hut on top of the hill. I sighed. The sun was close to setting over the sea and the light around us was pink and soft. All I wanted was to go back to my hut and fall asleep, but I did not feel equal to dealing with the disappointment of a child, so I let her follow me.

It seemed impossible—it was impossible—that only yesterday I had woken in the heart of winter, áine in my bed, before she’d been called away to try to heal Sheelin. We had lain together longer than we normally would have because of how cold it was. The light from the fire had made her skin glow, making it seem molten. I had kissed her bare shoulder when I rose that morning, promising I would fix her something warm when she got home from tending to Sheelin.

Now I was standing in a warm spring breeze. áine was dead.

And her daughter was playing in the grass in front of me.

When Danu appeared on the top of the hill, her form was still rosy with light from the setting sun. I was not surprised to see her. She didn’t say anything for a long moment, just watched Mór play.

“You broke the rules,” I said, and even though I could only see her profile, I could tell she was surprised that I’d spoken first. “You’re not supposed to help me in this form. But you sent the rain.”

Danu snorted. “You were not supposed to kill more of them.”

“That wasn’t one of the commands you set forth,” I said. “Mortals kill one another all the time. You wanted me to feel all that comes with mortality. As far as I’ve seen, that often includes the spilling of blood.”

“I didn’t think they’d burn you.” Danu’s voice was soft. “I wanted to—” But she cut herself off and I saw a tear slide down her cheek. I didn’t know what she was going to say. She’d wanted to help me? She’d wanted to stop the pain, the flames, the smell? In the end, what she had wanted did not matter. She had not done anything. As ever, she had stood by and left me subject to mortal whims.

“You should be pleased.” My voice was cool. “I was punished twice for the same crime.”

Danu shuddered and another tear fell down her cheek. The child must have heard her gentle sob because she came running over. Mór hesitated for a moment, then tried to reach out and grab Danu’s hand. She didn’t even come up to Danu’s knee, but she patted her leg, making small hushing sounds. “I’m Mór,” she said. “Don’t cry, lady. Don’t cry.”

Danu’s tears slowed as she bent to pick the child up. “I am Danu, child.” She swept a hand over her face. The tears were instantly gone, her face calm, serene.

“You want some honey?” Mór asked. “It’s good here.”

“This is a good place for honey,” Danu said, her face brightening with a smile.

I frowned. I did not want the girl to think that she could come here whenever she wanted. I had simply not been able to fight with her today; tomorrow she would be going right back to the village.

Danu ignored my frown and waved a hand and suddenly the garden was full of globes of spring-green light floating on the breeze like dandelion fluff. Mór squealed and ran at the globes trying to catch them, and Danu laughed, chasing after the child. I sat on the grass, letting out a long sigh, watching the girl and my mother dance after the lights as though they were falling stars.

I lay on my pallet and did not get up. I did not eat or drink.

I had taken áine’s child back to the village the next morning, then trudged up the hill alone. I knew I had chores to do—water to haul, wood to gather and chop, bees to tend—but I could not find the energy to move from my bed. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling.

I could not get áine out of my mind.

I thought of what I could have done differently. I could have never told her about my godhood or shared the truth more gently. If she had not had those dreams, if her grandmother had not told her stories about that long winter, if, if, if…

I realized eventually, though, that the only thing that would have saved me was if I had not been myself. If I had only ever been a mortal woman called Cailleach.

So I lay on that pallet for days, vacillating between despair and fury.

I wanted áine to come back.

I was glad she was dead.

I wanted to listen to her heartbeat.

I wanted to burn her as she had burned me.

I would have simply wasted away if áine’s child had not come back up the hill. I had not bothered to shut the door against the light or the dark, so she simply marched into the room. I didn’t even realize she was there until there was a tug on my arm. I thought for one breathless moment that it was áine, my áine, ready to forgive. Ready to be forgiven. But it was Mór.

Her face was serious as she drew close to me. “I would like some honey.” She said the words carefully, as though she were repeating something she’d heard.

I don’t know why I got up. Why I scooped some honey from a jar and gave her a spoonful. Perhaps it was that she looked so like the woman I had loved, or that I could remember the times when I’d looked down into my stewpot and known that what was there would not fill my belly—or simply the knowledge that it was wrong to let a child go hungry if I could prevent it.

I gave her honey that day.

And the next.

And the next.

I do not know why she kept coming, but she did, and after a few days I grew tired of seeing her sitting in grime, so I wiped down the dust-covered chairs. I repaired the chink in the table so that she would not scrape her hand on it, and then I went out to the bees to gather more honey for her, and slowly, slowly, I fell into a routine.

One day I looked around the hut and realized there was nothing left to do—nothing left at all. I could no longer avoid the village if I wanted to make it through winter, so I slung a bag of candles and honey onto my back and walked down the hill.

The air was growing cooler as the sun lowered in the sky, and I took a deep breath of it before I went inside the tavern, nervous at facing the villagers again. I needn’t have worried; no one paid attention to me at all. They were focused on one woman, called Aoife, who was leaning against the bar. “We can’t be expected to feed her this winter too,” the woman was saying. “I took her in because áine was my friend. But I don’t know that I’ll have enough to feed my own children after the fire. Someone else’ll have to do it.” She looked around the room, but no one caught her eye. Everyone was tired and thin. The fire had spread to several fields, and some families were already relying on the generosity of neighbors to get through the winter. Maybe I should have felt guilt, but I didn’t. They had still killed me, after all. They deserved some repercussions.

“The druids might take her,” someone in the crowd said slowly.

“I’d hate to think of sending áine’s child away.” The speaker was Bride this time. She looked sad, but neither did she offer to take her in.

“The druid will be coming through during winter solstice,” Aoife said. “I can keep her until then…” Her voice trailed off.

“I will take her.”

All the eyes in the room swiveled to me. I had not even realized I was the one who had spoken, and I regretted it instantly, almost took back my pledge. But then I pictured Mór from earlier in the day. She’d gotten honey in her eyebrows, and when I’d pointed this out she had giggled and smeared it all over her face. She had looked so gleeful, so happy, that I’d laughed too. A small noise, surprised and rough, but still, a laugh. And in that moment, I had not felt despair, only hope.

Hope that I could rise from my pallet every day.

Hope that the flames in my dreams would someday go out.

And some part of me believed that if our situations had been reversed, áine would have taken in my child. She would have fed her and cared for her because she had loved me. Even as she had hated me.

I hated her.

And I loved her.

So I would do the same.

In those early days after the fire, Mór and I stayed at the hut, and I tried desperately to remember all I’d learned about taking care of mortal children from áine and from those long-ago days with Sorcha. Mór seemed to be constantly in danger, and I was always fearful. I’d never before realized how close I was to the edge of the hill. It wasn’t a cliff—a child would most likely survive a fall from it—but there was no reason to tempt fate, so I built a stone wall to keep her safe. That worked until she learned to climb the wall and sit atop it, swinging her legs back and forth and chortling to herself when I found her.

Children were a horrible mix of contradictions: if they were too cold they could fall ill, if they ate food too large they could choke. But they could also drop from a great height and then get up, laughing.

I was so busy learning these things that I did not even mark the first time Mór called me Mama . All I knew was that she called me, and I responded—that was all. She was mine and I was hers.

Danu was delighted with the girl but was a terrible example for her. She came often, but despite her obsession with mortals, she had no understanding of their needs. She would take Mór off to play on the sand and would forget that she needed to eat, to drink, to get out of the hot sun. Once, she even brought one of her great cats from Tara to play with the child. I’d not known about it, had been hanging laundry on the line when I’d turned and seen it stalking Mór, who’d been singing to herself while sitting in the meadow. I’d run, shouting, and frightened the beast, who retreated to Danu, whining and whimpering. Danu had not understood why I was angry, saying that the cat would never actually eat the child, but I’d seen the stillness in its body. The hunger in its eyes. I knew what it was to hunt for food and to hunt for pleasure; in my immortal body I had done both often.

I’d tried to forbid Danu from the hill after that, but she had merely laughed and come back the next day. And what could I do? Danu was a goddess. I was merely a mortal woman trying to keep myself and my girl—my daughter—alive.

Surprisingly, it was Domhnall, the little boy I’d known in my previous life, who helped me the most. He adored Mór, and when he wasn’t helping his father on their small fishing boat, he was usually on the hill with us, playing with her and keeping her safe from Danu’s disregard.

I did not only have to learn to keep my daughter from danger, I also had to learn that children, while young, were often as contrary as grown mortals. One day I handed Mór bread smeared with cheese and drizzled with honey, a treat she usually loved, but when I gave it to her, she refused to take a bite out of it.

“Eat it, Mór,” I said. “It’s your favorite.”

“No.” She turned her head away when I tried to wave it enticingly under her chin. “I hate cheese.” She crossed her arms and glared at me.

“You don’t,” I said. “We eat it every day. And besides, it’s all we have.”

“I hate it!” Mór screamed suddenly, tearing the bread from my hand and throwing it at the wall. It stuck for a moment before sliding down in a white smear. I was startled more than angry, and I think Mór was too, because she looked back at me with wide eyes. We stared at each other for a long moment, and then I began to laugh. I knew I shouldn’t, knew I should reprove her for throwing the bread and for screaming. But it was so foolish for a child to decide they now hated something they had eaten ravenously only the day before that it was absurdly funny. Mór began to laugh too, throwing her arms around me. “I love you, Mama.” She snuggled her face into my neck.

“I love you, too.” I squeezed Mór tight. “I love you, darling girl.”

Mór was a charming child. She rarely screamed or threw fits like she had that day in the hut, and that spring and summer were especially wonderful. I taught her how to work with the bees, and it was a pleasure to see her round face so carefully serious as she collected a fallen bee off the ground and gently returned it to the hive. She helped me pick weeds from the garden and filled the hut with the fistfuls of flowers she gathered wherever she went.

Our first winter together was very mild, with many days of sunlight and warm breezes. It was well after the winter solstice when I woke and finally smelled snow in the air. I leapt up, running to the door and throwing it open to see a wide expanse of white. It was still snowing lightly, the flakes twirling through the air, and I clapped my hands together in glee: Mór would love it. I rushed back to our little room and tried to wake her up, gently shaking her out of the little ball she had curled into on the bed. She grumbled, twisting deeper into the blankets. “Go away, Mama,” she said, when I poked her again. “I’m sleeping.”

“You have to get up, Mór.” I pulled her into my lap. She burrowed her face into my stomach, and normally I would have laughed and let her stay there, but I was too excited to wait so I lightly tickled her feet until she finally uncurled her body, stretching and yawning enormously. I pulled her to her feet and then to the door, where a swirl of snow danced into the house. Mór blinked for a moment, a snowflake catching on an eyelash, then shivered and slammed the door shut. She raced back to the bed and threw herself under the covers again.

“No.” I pulled out the little fur-lined boots I’d made specifically for her. “We’re not going back to bed, we’re going on a walk.”

I finally managed to wrap her warmly and have her follow me out into the woods. We walked quietly, hand in hand, and my heart swelled with happiness. My daughter, my lovely girl, was walking with me under the dark boughs, delighting in the blue and grey shadows, thrilling to the touch of snow on her face, the scent of it in the air.

Only a few moments had passed before she stopped and I turned, expecting her to be pointing at something beautiful as she always did—perhaps the tiny prints that a bird had left in the snow, the shining red berries on the nearby bush, or just the silence . Instead, she was scowling. “I want to go home , Mama.”

“Don’t be silly.” I laughed. “We’ve only just started walking. Look, you can see the hill from here.”

“I’m cold,” she said, and I reached out to touch her face, but it was warm, and her cheeks and lips were still rosy.

“You’re not cold,” I said impatiently. “It’s simply cold outside. There’s a difference. Quiet—listen.”

I cocked my head and so did she, but after a moment she frowned. “I don’t hear anything,” she muttered, kicking at the white powder beneath her feet.

“Exactly,” I said. “That’s the best thing about the winter. The quiet. The peace.”

“I don’t like it,” Mór grumbled. “It’s scary.”

“It’s not! It’s beautiful.”

“It’s sad,” Mór said. “The trees are cold, and the flowers are dead.”

“I quite agree with Mór,” Danu said, suddenly appearing from the trees.

“Danu!” Mór flung herself into her arms. “I’m cold.” She shivered dramatically, as though she weren’t wrapped in furs.

“I’m so sorry, my love.” Danu gave Mór a kiss. “Here—perhaps this will help. Close your eyes.” Mór did obediently, and between one blink and the next, the forest around us was transformed into spring. The snow had vanished, replaced by soft grass and a little running stream. The branches were covered in pale green leaves, and a wild apple tree had burst into pink bloom, the petals blowing into Mór’s face. She squealed in delight and sprang from Danu’s arms, chasing them across the little glade.

“I was showing her the winter.” I scowled at Danu. “She liked it.” Danu raised an eyebrow and I blushed. “She was going to like it. I was going to show her the frozen lake and how the ice crinkles up on the edge. I was going to let her catch the flakes on her tongue…” I trailed off, watching Mór chase after the petals. As I watched her, I was deeply hurt. I almost felt…betrayed. I felt as if Mór had picked Danu over me. Was this how Danu had felt when I’d loved the winter more than spring? The thought made my cheeks heat with a sudden mixture of guilt and tenderness toward Danu, but she didn’t notice because she was still bent toward my daughter.

“Make it all like this.” Mór tugged on Danu’s hand. “Take all the snow away.” Danu could have, of course. With a sweep of her hand, she could have ensured it was always spring and summer for Mór, could make it so the cold never came. But after so long as a mortal I could now see how wrong that would be. The seasons had to roll over: spring to summer, summer to autumn, autumn to winter. Winter must come; it gave the plants and land a time to rest, allowed animals to sleep warm in their dens, beckoned mortals to sit around their fires and reach for one another, telling stories of the past and the days to come.

I looked at Danu and saw that she was considering it, if only to see Mór smile. “I thought we were meant to change the seasons for the good of mortality. Wasn’t that why I was punished in the first place?” My voice was cold. “Besides, how will you explain this to Mór when she’s older? How will you explain how you created spring with a wave of your hand?”

Danu sighed. “She won’t remember this. She’s barely more than a baby…” But her voice was halfhearted, as though she could see that the idea was a bad one. She grimaced, then disappeared as suddenly as she’d come, taking the spring with her, leaving me to deal with my distraught daughter, who had begun to howl.

“Bring it back, Mama!” Mór tugged at my hand, tears streaming down her face, stamping her feet in the snow that had appeared once more, but I just shook my head.

“I can’t, darling. Only Danu—” I looked down at her wide blue eyes. How could I describe the power of a god to a child? I sighed and picked her up, taking her out of the clearing and walking with her in my arms until she calmed down and began to look around again. “Look.” I set her down again in the snow. “See our prints there? We are the only ones to have tread here. And listen.” I tilted my head up to the firs above us, but I did not know how to explain it to Mór. How the absence of sound made a sound all its own, crystalline and soft. I looked down at her and wished for the first time in a long time that I had my immortal body. Then I could have shown her. We could have held hands and skated together across ice-shining seas or swam down a mountain during an avalanche. I could have carried her through the cold, quiet places of the world until she understood what I was , what I had been . What I yearned for. But I did not have my immortal body anymore—and if I had, I realized, I would never have had her.

So all I did was look up at the dark-green firs above, hold my daughter’s hand, ask her to close her eyes, and listen.