Page 29 of The Winter Goddess

Spring

The druid is alone on the road.

As he walks, he looks for spring.

He searches for green shoots of grass and small white flowers shaped like tears. He listens for birdsong and sniffs the air hoping that the smell of snow will be replaced with that of dark earth—of growing things. It has been a long, cold winter. His robe, once golden, has not been washed in weeks and is so covered in dust and mud that it looks brown.

He peers deep into a bramble, thinking he glimpsed a purple flower, and so he does not see her when she first appears on the road.

He falls to his knees.

His head is bowed. He is afraid to look at her golden face, but she gently tips his chin up until he is looking into her eyes.

Green eyes.

“You are faithful,” the goddess says quietly. “You have been faithful for so long.”

“Yes, my lady,” the druid says, dropping his eyes again. He wants to bend, to kiss the hem of her robes, to curl up like a mouse against the hot power that he feels in her fingertips—but he does not move.

The goddess trails a finger down his cheek. “I have come to tell you…” She gazes away, and the druid begins to shake because she looks…sad. What could cause a goddess such as she sorrow?

The goddess turns her face back to his. “You were looking for spring.” Her smile is sad still. “It might be later than expected but…it will come no matter what, druid. Spring will always come. This I promise you.”

The goddess leaves her hand on his face, but tilts her chin up, squares her shoulders in a gesture so common that the druid is surprised, because in that moment she looks like a mere mortal, a woman, finding her courage. “I have come to tell you to spread the word to your brothers. Your sisters. To the mortals. You do not have to worship us any longer.”

The druid does not understand. He is old for a mortal, but he is still a man. He does not remember that there ever was a time without worship.

“Once, long ago,” the goddess says, “your kind did not build altars or call our names in prayer. You did not give us the best you had or spill blood for us. We lived separately. Mortals with mortals and gods with gods. We can live this way again. You—mortals—no longer have to make us offerings for us to offer you protection. You no longer have to fear us.”

“We are not afraid, my lady,” the druid says, though this is not entirely true. They do fear the gods. They fear that they will not listen, and also that they will listen too closely. Hear too much.

The goddess drops her hand from his chin. He is bereft.

“We love you, my lady.” The druid kisses the hard-packed dirt of the road, too frightened now to touch even her hem. “You are our mother.”

The druid wishes he had not looked up, because the goddess begins to weep, and the sight is so heartbreaking that if he had a sharp stone in his hand, he would gouge out his own eyes so he might see it no longer.

“I was a mother once,” the goddess says softly. “To a little girl called Mór. I wish—” The goddess cuts herself off and suddenly she is no longer crying. “No matter.” Her voice is smooth as ice. “Worship as you will, but know that it is no longer required. Eventually…you will stop.”

“Never,” the druid cries. “We will never stop, Danu!” The goddess smiles, and the druid’s body fills with warmth as though he has just drunk a barrel of whiskey.

“Danu,” and she says the name gently. “Danu is no longer the goddess of spring. I am, and I will remain while you still have need of me. I will remain until the day you do not. Until the day you, or your children, or their children, forget. Then we will end. I will end.” She closes her eyes. “And I will get to hold her, once more.”

The druid blinks, and he is alone again on the road.

At his feet, a cluster of white flowers grows.