Page 7 of The Winter Goddess

The Second Life

At least Danu hadn’t sent me down in the rain again.

When I woke, I found I was lying on something soft. I could hear bees droning nearby, could smell something sweet. I opened my eyes and when I saw where I was, I laughed, short and bitter. Danu must have thought herself very clever. I hadn’t thought she’d been watching when I trampled the bluebells in the garden, but she must have been, because I lay in a field of them. They stretched as far as I could see, reaching up toward the cluster of birch trees that let in the gentle golden light that hit my face, but it wasn’t warm; I could see my breath in front of me when I lifted my head, and the bluebells were lightly covered in snow, so it must have been early spring.

I stood, and while my body wasn’t as strong as it had been in my god form at least it didn’t seem as slow as it had the first time. I swung my arms once and then set off toward the break in the trees. I had no idea where she’d sent me, but when I walked out of the clearing, I saw my hut. Only it was not as it had been. It was built of stone now, not flimsy wood, and the roof that covered it looked as though it might actually keep out the rain. The land around it was different too. I could hear a beehive somewhere nearby, and I could see many viny bushes that I thought would hold flowers when the spring came, but right now the land was bare. It was obvious to me that some long years had passed since I’d died.

So Danu had taken away all my sources of food and left me only with flowers. Did she mean to starve me in this life? No , I thought, looking down onto the village below me. She meant to force me to interact with the villagers. I squinted, shading my eyes with my hands, and saw that my hut was not the only thing that had changed. The village had grown too, creeping out across the finger of land that swept out to the sea.

I did not turn toward it as I knew Danu wanted me to, but instead walked toward the forest. It had used to be almost on my doorstep, so close that a long stride could bring me to it, but now I had to walk across a little meadow to reach it. I realized that I could likewise see the village more clearly than I’d been able to before.

The villagers had been cutting down trees.

Taking , I thought bitterly. Always taking. But of course, I had to take too, now that I was back in this body—if I meant to survive. I looked at my little hut in the distance and could feel, almost like it was a physical thing, the weight of mortality falling back onto my shoulders again.

I thought of how death had taken me in my first life and decided that I would gather wood. I would ensure that I would never run out of it, that my hearth was heaped high each night. I could worry about food after. I walked a little farther into the clearing and froze as I reached for a piece of dead wood when I once more saw a pair of eyes staring at me. Had I returned only to be killed by a wolf my first day? Then I heard a whimper. I drew closer and saw not a wolf but a dog, caught in the thorny brambles. It mewled again and tried to flee as I drew closer, but it only backed into more thorns and gave a yelp of pain before crouching and looking up at me, terrified.

I pulled my hand back. I had been sent back in thicker clothes than in my first life, but I knew I could ill afford to tear them. If I’d had warmer clothes last time, I might not have succumbed to the winter. I did not want to die like that again. I went to take another step back but stopped as the dog began to shake. I remembered how I had shivered just like that the night I had died. I had been cold, but more, I had been frightened of the cold. Afraid to die, just like the little dog in front of me was. I did not want this creature to die as I had, afraid of what should be beautiful. Suddenly, instinctually, my arm was shoving its way through the branches, pushing through the brambles even when they tore through my sleeve, catching my skin and drawing blood, until I’d firmly pulled the dog free. He was white and black, with a slim face almost like a fox’s, and though he had a long, matted coat I could still see how thin he was. He began to shiver again as I stared at him, then curled himself into a tiny ball as though trying to hide from me. He was nothing but skin and bones. Would he survive even though I’d freed him? I was going to leave him to continue gathering wood for my fire when he licked my hand. He did it tentatively, just a quick swipe, but in that brief contact I felt his gratitude, and I picked him up gently, swinging him under my arm and taking him to the hut with me.

I placed him carefully on the pallet where I slept. It was the first time I had entered my home in this life. The bed was made up but was covered in a layer of dust; I thought I could even see the stain where I’d bled through my bedclothes that first life. The dog curled up on the blanket while I lit a fire, and I found it strangely comforting.

I started small, with a few sticks of kindling from the basket and the fabric from the edge of my sleeve; it was torn beyond repair from the thorns anyway. When I struck the stone against the flint, a line of sparks flew out and immediately caught on the cloth. I thought of how long it had taken in my first life, how I had sat for hours striking the stones together, and a small smile spread across my face as the yellow fire gave warmth to my cold skin. I jumped slightly when I felt something against my side but saw it was only the dog who had crept down beside me. He gave a little sigh and lay down, putting his head on his paws. “I guess I’ll need to feed you now.” I looked around the hut, though it could barely be called that anymore. Before it had been nothing more than a round building with a dirt floor. It had been expanded, with a floor of pale wooden planks and a stone exterior, so that though I could hear the wind whistling around us, I could no longer feel it blowing through cracks in the walls. There were shelves full of a variety of things: yarn, a needle and thread, and rows and rows of fat yellow candles. What could I do with so many candles? Then the realization hit me: I was to use them to trade with the villagers. Of course. And when they ran out…I thought of the buzzing hive outside. I sighed. This, too, was another one of Danu’s cruel games. She had candles exactly like this all over Tara, candles she’d made herself from beehives that she tended lovingly each day. She’d always wanted me to learn to make them, to help her with them, and I had never agreed. Now she was forcing me to, whether I wanted to or not. I had not understood her love of the work, the joy she’d found in the intricacies of a piece of honeycomb then. Now I understood her even less. I had spent my time chopping wood and cooking stews and stirring up the fire because it was the only way to survive—not because I enjoyed the work. It only highlighted the foolishness of Danu, of the other gods, of myself when I’d walked with Danu among the mortals as a child. When we’d spent those years in Mooghaun, we had worked alongside Sorcha and Enya, but only as we wished. We did none of the difficult tasks, did not carry water from the stream or tan leather in great, stinking pits. All we did was push our hands once or twice through soft, already-worked dough or add a twist of wood to a fire that burned because of the logs they had chopped down, not because of our paltry offerings. The gods longed for work only because they could not remember what it was like to go to bed with an aching back and frostbitten hands, could not remember the desperation of survival—they did not truly wish to spend their days in such drudgery.

Still, it did not matter how annoyed I was at Danu. I had to eat, as did the little dog who sat on the bed looking up at me. So I gathered a few of the candles and put on my shawl, ready to descend to the village.

I was going to leave the dog in the hut, but he jumped up when I opened the door and ran outside with me, following me down the hill.

When I’d last been to the village it had been small and shabby like my hut, but I could see as I drew closer that the years that had passed had been kind to it. There were more houses, built out of slabs of stone—roofs covered in thick thatch. Sloping down toward the sea, I could see tilled fields waiting to be seeded, and the group of children that I passed were plump and hearty They did not look at me suspiciously, and I wondered if the villagers were more used to strangers than they had been during my first life. Perhaps bards and other travelers had made their way here.

As I walked, I looked out for Siobhan or her children, and though I saw several women with red hair, none had the particular shine of hers. There was a hollowness in my chest at the thought of never again seeing her smile, never watching her eyes roll toward the heavens when I was rude to her or ignored her instructions. Siobhan and her kindness had been what had kept me alive that first life, and I was ashamed that I’d never thanked her. And as I looked around at faces I did not recognize, it dawned on me that I had no idea who would trade with me, who would even speak to me, and at the loneliness of the thought I realized that I’d been wrong about Siobhan. I had not considered her a friend, but she had spoken to me, hadn’t she? She had helped me when she didn’t need to—I had had a friend. Now I no longer did. And I would never be able to see her again, never thank her for that friendship, and it made me sad. The loss of her was not like the loss of Enya—I had not known her well enough for that—but it touched me in the same place: a tiny grief that seemed to lodge in the hollow of my throat, a sensation so surprising that I stumbled a moment and had to catch my breath before continuing into the market.

It was near the harbor, and at the scent of fish the dog began to sniff the air, trotting faster. The closer we drew, the more his body shivered, and my own stomach growled in answer.

I walked over to a woman selling fish from a little cart and held out one of the candles. “Will you trade?” I said. “A candle for a fish?”

The woman squinted at me. “You’re Cailleach, then,” she said, startling me so much with my name that I nearly dropped the candle. “Heard from a bard that a widow, cousin to Fianna, was coming to live in her little house up the hill.”

I wondered if this “Fianna” was a little trick Danu was playing and wanted to ask more about it. Just then, the dog tried to take a fish from the woman’s cart. She growled and would have kicked out at him had I not grabbed her wrist. “I will pay,” I said quickly. “With candles. For all the fish he wants.” I looked down at him; he had gone down on his belly again, ears back, afraid, ashamed. “He’s my dog.”

The woman grunted but agreed. “What do you call him?”

“Failinis.” I didn’t quite know where the word had come from, but something about meeting him had felt…fated. Right, in some way that I could not quite put into words.

The woman squinted at him. “He doesn’t look like any destiny I’ve ever seen, but I’ve never been fond of the word myself. The only destiny we have is what the gods give us.”

“I do not have much use for the gods.”

It was a small thing to say, harmless, but the woman’s eyes grew wide, almost frightened. “You’d do well to speak with the druid, otherwise your soul could be in peril.” I looked up to see a man with golden hair standing in the sunlight and speaking to one of the fishermen. I’d never met a druid before myself, but I’d thought that they would seem…grander, somehow. This one didn’t look particularly impressive, with a young face and brown robe that marked him as the least of his order.

I gave Failinis a small fish as we walked back toward my hut, and he ate it quickly, nervously, as though worried I would take it away. Where had he come from? Many of the villagers before had dogs, but they’d looked more like the wolves in the forest. None had this dog’s coloring or long coat.

When I got back to the hut, I gave the dog another fish to eat, then began to turn the rest into a stew. There was still a large black pot swinging over the fire, and I wondered if it was the same one I’d used before. I did not know how many years it had been, but I thought it must have been at least the length of two generations, with how the village had changed in that time.

I threw the fish into the pot and then blinked at it, realizing I had nothing else to add. Learning to cook had been another hardship, but Siobhan had taught me some basic things; how to roast birds and rabbits, how to cook carrots and onions without scorching them, the places to find herbs that would add flavor to my meals. Small things, things that all mortal women knew how to do. Now, I had nothing for flavoring. I scowled at the fire, then went out to get water. I was at least glad to see a round, stone well in the yard—I no longer had to go to the stream. It would be a relief not to have to haul the water back and forth every day.

I found a long rope attached to the end of a bucket. I threw the bucket down and then pulled it back up, taking a long sip. The water was cold and sweet, better than that of the stream. That water had tasted of too many things—of the mountains it had come from, the silt that had lined its streambed, sometimes even like salt.

I set the bucket down at Failinis’s feet, and he drank from it thirstily and for so long that I realized he must have been desperate for water. I sighed and patted him gently. I had not even survived winter in my previous life; what was I thinking, trying to take care of a dog too? But I doubted any of the villagers wanted a puppy from a woman they didn’t know. No doubt they would kick stones at him if he tried to steal their food or drown him if they saw him getting too close to their chickens. “I will do my best,” I said softly, as Failinis finally lifted his head from the bucket and gave me a sloppy grin, water running down his chin.

With some grim effort I managed to dig up some early wild onions, even though the ground was still half-frozen, and I threw them in the pot with water and fish. I’d not collected the wood I’d meant to earlier but noticed a stack of it sitting neatly against the side of the hut that I’d not seen before and relaxed a little; it might be warm now, but it was still early spring by the sea and it would get cold at night.

As the sun began to set and the stew bubbled, I walked toward the beehives. There were actually two large, conically shaped hives, nestled inside large upright jars made of golden stone. I could hear a gentle buzzing from inside and even saw one or two of the bees flying around nearby, perhaps returning from the bluebell wood. I sighed, frustrated. I knew nothing about keeping bees, knew only that Danu gathered the honey and wax three times a year: after Beltane, at the height of summer, and then early after harvest, before Samhain. I had enough candles that I thought I could survive until Beltane…but how exactly was I supposed to learn to keep bees? How was I to keep them alive till then? Danu had her eternal patience…but I had neither eternity nor patience.

“Danu,” I said loudly, startling the dog, who had followed me to the hives. “Danu!” I shouted. Failinis watched me, tail wagging energetically, then let out a sharp, high-pitched howl that made me jump. He looked so surprised at my reaction, barking in response, that I could not help but laugh.

“It is good to see you happy.” Danu appeared suddenly at my side. “What a lovely dog.” She gestured to Failinis, then held out her hand to him. Failinis sniffed it, sneezed, then backed away from her into my legs.

Disappointed, Danu stood and threw her long hair over her shoulder. She looked very young, barely more than a child. Certainly nothing like an immortal goddess. She looked around the hill with interest. “I wanted to see the hives for myself.” She reached out a finger and touched the top of one gently.

“I don’t know how to keep bees.” My voice was stiff. “Did you give me these only so that I had to beg for your help?”

“Oh, child. Mortals give great thanks for bees. They’re a source of sweetness, of wax. I have given you a gift.” She smelled of summer, of wild hay and sharp green grass and roses. She took a step forward as though expecting an embrace, but I moved out of her reach. Her mouth suddenly firmed, and she no longer looked like a young girl. “No. Even if you asked, I would not help you with them. I gave you many chances in Tara. You are a mortal now, as they are. You will have to learn as they do.” She did not touch me again but gave Failinis a farewell pat before fading away into the sunset.

“You commune with the goddess herself.” I whirled around to see the druid from the village speaking, eyes wide.

I was not sure how to respond. Should I try to refute his words, say that he’d seen nothing but a strange trick of the light? Something in his clear eyes made me uncertain of whether he would believe me, so I said nothing.

“I am Dagda, the druid,” he said finally. “I’ve lived in Daingean Uí Chúis for several seasons now. Liam told me that you are a widow here to work Fianna’s croft.”

“Did you become a druid because you are named after one of the gods?” I asked, thinking he looked nothing like the Dagda I knew—he had neither his thick green beard nor his height. This man was shorter than I, had brown eyes, and, unlike the god, his golden hair was his only claim to beauty.

“I was named after an uncle,” the druid said. “My parents did not worship any gods. They lived in the mountains far to the east of here, in a valley surrounded by tall peaks. Few left, and when they did, they did not return. We knew nothing about the world outside. I was half-grown when a druid came to our village and began to teach us about the gods. About Danu and Dagda and Lug. But I’ll confess, I have not seen one until today.” His eyes flicked back to the space where Danu had stood so recently. There was nothing there now but a dark blue sky on the edge of night.

I sighed. It was clear that I would not be able to convince him that he’d not seen Danu. “I have spoken to the goddess on occasion,” I admitted.

“She must favor you greatly.” Dagda spoke with longing. “I’ve known only one druid who once glimpsed a goddess. And even then, they did not see Danu herself but another goddess, one with silver hair and blue skin whose steps crackled with ice, leaving a trail of frost wherever she walked.”

I swallowed at his description of me, wanted to fall to my knees with despair. I longed with sudden and acute desperation to be back in my immortal body, in my own skin. To walk under the snow-covered firs, skate over icy rivers, vanish from mortal sight.

“Perhaps it is because of your silver hair that Danu shows herself to you,” Dagda mused, yanking me from my cold memories and returning me to my human squalor, the hut on the hill, hands that used to feel as sweet as a kiss now cracked and chaffed red from cold. “Were you grey even as a child?”

“I was born like this.” I shoved my hands into my shawl and stamped my cold feet. “And Danu does not favor me. If anything, she torments me.”

The druid looked surprised. “The gods do not torment us,” he chided gently, “they take our offerings and listen to our prayers. Whatever we suffer comes from within.”

I scoffed, looking at his young face. What he would do if I told him the truth, that I was one of the gods he worshipped, that I had been punished with a mortal body? I thought he might actually believe me…but what would telling him do? I had no need of his sympathy, and he could give me no help. “Believe me, druid. My torment was specifically designed by the gods.” I turned away from the thought and from him, back toward the hives.

“I came to invite you to worship with us in the forest.” He appeared at my elbow.

“I do not worship the gods,” I responded, leaning an ear against the hive. I did not know what I was listening for, I just knew that Danu often listened to her hives. I’d expected a drumming, like a mortal’s heartbeat, but the sound was slower and more sinuous than that. It rushed and ribboned back and forth, constant as the tide. I was moving to press my ear against the other hive when I knocked heads with the druid. He winced, then chuckled. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to get so close.” He pointed to the hive. “They are strong and healthy. Otherwise you would not be able to hear them so loudly.”

At his words, I knew, suddenly, why Danu had sent me this man. “Did you keep bees in your village?” I asked, voice resigned.

He nodded. “Before I left with the druid.”

My first instinct was to send him back down the hill, try to keep the bees on my own—but the reason I had died in that first life was because I had not asked for help when I needed it. I knew Danu was testing me, to see if I would learn from my previous mistake…and I did not want to. I did not want to please her. But neither did I want to starve myself or Failinis. Perhaps I could trade with this druid just as I’d traded with Siobhan. “I will ask Danu to show herself to you,” I said slowly. “If you teach me how to keep bees properly.”

The druid hesitated, but I saw the longing in his eyes. He wanted Danu to appear for him as much as he’d ever wanted anything in his life. He wanted, like all humans, to be chosen by her. For a moment I wondered if I should tell him the truth of her, tell him that no matter how she loved mortals, no matter how she loved him , she would forget him soon enough in her pursuit of the adoration of another. As I looked at his face, though, I knew no matter what I told him, he would not listen. Mortals grew up on stories of Danu’s goodness, her love for them; my voice would do little to convince him. Maybe he even hoped that if he was good enough, brave enough—or whatever it was that Danu sought—he might become a god himself, as the other gods had.

“I will help you.” His voice was eager. Then he did something I did not expect. He took a deep breath, and I saw him push down the burning desire in his eyes. “But you must worship with us. The gods will it. They ask that every mortal brings them sacrifice.”

I was surprised that the man’s avarice had not been enough to sway him, even with thoughts of the great goddess Danu before him. I was impressed, so I nodded, even though I did not intend to worship his gods at all.

Danu’s control over winter was quite different from mine. I let it linger, swelling and receding like a wave on the shore, but my mother displayed no such care: one day there was snow on the ground and the next day it was a morass of mud and spiky green grass, the trees flooded with flowers. Her spring was startling, too heavy with scent and blossom, and she’d brought it on two whole months before Beltane, but there was nothing I could do about it except keep a wet rag by the door to clean Failinis’s feet before he tracked muddy footprints all over the house.

I spent my first few weeks in that second life gathering kindling from the forest and chopping down a dead oak that stood near its border. Failinis hated the wood and never set foot in it, instead standing at its edge whimpering until I came back. He rarely barked, but he whined often to tell me when he was hungry or wanted to go out. I had to get up to let him out multiple times a night in those first few weeks and was amazed again that any mortal creature, human or animal, survived with such requirements. It reminded me of how Enya had complained that her brother Cathal took all her mother’s time with his need to eat and sleep and be changed, but I had never seen it in practice until I had Failinis. When I wasn’t busy running after him, I spent my time learning how to keep the bees, Dagda at my side.

“The wind and warmth keep them dull and docile,” he said on one particularly hot day he had come up the hill to show me how to find the queen. He’d pushed his sleeves up and was bent over the hive. Failinis, who’d been standing at our heels, jumped away when Dagda moved the lid off the hive. Failinis was as skittish as a young horse, panicking at strange noises, sudden movements, and even the trees blowing too hard in the wind. One day he’d tripped and fallen partway down the hill when scrambling to get away from my laundry . His eyes had been wide with terror as if my dress were a demon.

“We’re looking for the queen—we won’t be disturbing them much.” Dagda beckoned me and I came closer, looking down into the golden-walled hive. The bees seemed frantic, and I couldn’t make any sense of them until Dagda pointed to one in particular that was sitting quietly, circled by other bees. Dagda need have said nothing; I knew immediately that was the queen. The others looked as though they were bowing to her, and Danu looked much the same when she made some great pronouncement—serene, utterly sure of herself, the other gods hanging on her every word.

“It’s good they’re still alive,” Dagda said after we’d checked the second hive for its queen and found her as well. “Sometimes the queen does not survive this long. Then you have to collect the honey and wax immediately before the rest of them die, and you can’t collect any more until you get a new hive the next spring.”

“How does one keep them alive during the winter?” I dangled a finger into the hive, almost grazing the drowsy bees.

Dagda frowned. “You don’t. Before Samhain, you destroy the hive entirely to get the last of the honey and wax. Then you find another swarm the next spring. Isn’t that how you got these bees?” He pointed to the hives.

I shook my head. “They were here when I came. But I’m sure a hive can last even through the cold. I’ve seen—” I was about to say Danu , but I didn’t like to mention her name around Dagda, so I just said, “I’ve seen it before.”

Dagda shrugged. “Perhaps there is another way. But not one I’ve learned.”

“It doesn’t seem right.” I thought about how busy those bees had been, their lulling hum. “They create the honey and the wax for us, and they’re killed for it at the end.” Even as I said us , I bit my tongue. I’d never referred to myself in the same group as mortals before. I shifted uncomfortably, a tightness in my chest—a spark of fear, that I had counted myself among them.

“They would die anyway,” Dagda said. “Only queens live longer than a season.”

“But it’s not—”

Dagda held up a hand, smiling gently. “I commend you for your tender heart, Cailleach,” he said, ignoring my bitter look at his words, “but I don’t have time to argue further. Tonight, we worship.” Dagda glanced at the darkening sky. “We’re meeting in the clearing near the large oak. You know it?” He continued once I nodded. “I’ll see you there once the moon rises?”

I wanted to protest, to say that I was too busy to come, but I had made a bargain with Dagda and I was no mortal who would go back on my word, no matter how much reluctance I felt, so I agreed.

I shut Failinis in the hut an hour later, heading toward the wood. He gave a long, lonely howl, and my eyes filled ridiculously with tears that I rapidly blinked away. It was absurd to feel such sorrow over leaving him for a few hours. He would not go into the wood with me, and he was safer shut up than standing on the edge of the forest where a wolf might see him as an unexpected dinner.

I entered the wood expecting the ease I usually felt under the trees, but as I walked I jumped at each branch breaking, every time something unseen rustled in the underbrush. I wished for Failinis, wished the moon wasn’t huge and red. When I finally saw a glow of light from between the trees and heard the murmuring of the villagers, I was more relieved than I wanted to admit. I smiled, or tried to smile, when I entered the clearing, but then someone gasped and the whole crowd of them turned, staring at me, their eyes gleaming under the torches they held.

“It is only the widow who has taken over Fianna’s croft,” Dagda reassured the villagers. “Welcome, Cailleach.” He held his hand out to me. “You looked like a goddess when you stepped out of the wood like that, with your shining hair,” he said to me quietly.

For a moment I had looked like a goddess. But Dagda— everyone—had now decided that it had been nothing more than a trick of the eye, a confluence of light and shadow that had made me look strange and otherworldly. They were just like the those who had glimpsed me long ago, the ones that excused away what they saw. Of course, these mortals were right to excuse it away. I was not a goddess.

Dagda moved to the center of the clearing where a huge oak stood. It was a beautiful tree, large and strong, with limbs that spread out as if embracing those around it. Siobhan had once told me that this oak was the reason mortals had settled nearby—and I’d learned then that they’d long believed that oaks were sacred to the gods, and that their prayers would be granted if they worshipped near the tree. Where had such beliefs come from? Perhaps Danu had proclaimed this or perhaps their ancestors had simply considered it a convenient place to worship, and this had then been folded over time into the people’s conceptions of what the gods did or did not want.

Dagda lifted his hands and began to pray. I didn’t listen to his words, instead letting my eyes wander around the clearing at the villagers, heads bowed in supplication. Perhaps Dagda had overstated the importance of the worship, because it was obvious to me that the entire village was not gathered here. A number of the women from the market stood there with their children and some old men, but I saw few young men and none of the fishermen. Perhaps they had stayed out on the harbor late into the night, fishing with the full moon.

Dagda finished praying and those around him lifted their heads, looking at him with eyes shining with faith. It was obvious they believed in what he told them. He cut mistletoe from the oak and passed it around, asking each person there to touch it, to imbue it with some of their strength. I did not recognize what rite he was performing, but I touched the mistletoe, if only so he would not chide me later. For a moment, I wondered if even in a mortal form I would imbue it with some kind of power—light, frost, ice—but when I looked down at it, it had not changed at all. It was nothing more than a bit of leaf, a white berry. My cheeks heated with shame, and my hands shook as I passed it to the woman to my left. I bent my head, digging a nail into my wrist so that the pain distracted me from the overwhelming desire for my winter power, and by the time I looked up again, the ceremony was over.

I was about to leave when I heard someone say “My granny Siobhan—” and I whirled back around to face a tall woman with dark hair.

She looked nothing like the woman I’d once known, but still I put a hand on her wrist. “You knew Siobhan? The Siobhan who lived in this village two generations ago?”

The woman looked startled, but she nodded. “Did you know her?”

I hesitated; I knew I didn’t look old enough. “Fianna did,” I lied. “I am Cailleach.”

“I’m Niamh.”

“I work Fianna’s croft now,” I said. “She’d asked before she passed that I speak to Siobhan for her, give her thanks for her help, if she still lived. Does she? Is she still here?” I looked around the crowd, could I have missed her? Of course, if she had seen me, she would not have recognized me. That was part of this punishment, Danu had told me, to walk among mortals but never be remembered from life to life. Still, I wanted to see Siobhan again, take her hand and thank her as I hadn’t then.

“She passed on long ago.” Niamh’s eyes were sad. “Far away from here.”

“Oh…” I drew in a deep breath. For a moment I had hoped that she might still be alive. But she was gone now, to a realm even a goddess could not follow her to. For a moment I thought I might cry, but then I shook myself. I did not deserve to weep over her; I had returned her kindness with nothing.

“Where did she go?” I was surprised that Siobhan had left Daingean Uí Chúis. She had seemed so firmly rooted here.

“She went south to warmer winds. She found someone else who had died of the cold. A woman, a friend. It was one more loss to winter than she could bear. She was tired of the death, so she and her family left the town and went to live with her sister.”

A friend. I turned my head for a moment as though I were looking at the oak, but I was just trying to blink the tears out of my eyes. I swallowed against the lump in my throat and looked back toward the woman. “I am sure she was a wonderful granny. She was—that is, Fianna told me that she was a good friend too. Did she know you came back?”

“Oh no.” Niamh shook her head. “No, she died when I was a girl. But I follow the druid wherever he goes”—she gave Dagda a tender glance, blushing—“I am devoted to him.”

“You’re a druid too?” I was surprised because she wore no robes.

“No,” Niamh said, “I am too old to learn. I came here when Dagda did, and I felt…” She hesitated. “You’ll think me odd. But I felt that this was my home. It was where I was meant to be. Now I help with the babies, like Siobhan taught me. She had eight of her own after she lost her first child and became a midwife after she was done having children. Speaking of”—she looked to a young woman on the other side of the clearing juggling two babies in her arms—“I told Meghan that I’d help her bring the children back to the village.” She gave me a small smile then walked away, and I went back into the forest, ready to go home.

I was walking quietly through the wood thinking about what Niamh had told me when I heard someone approach. I knew it was a mortal—no animal was so loud—and after a moment Dagda appeared out of the darkness. I did not know why he had followed me, but I didn’t want to disturb the night with words, so I said nothing to him. When we reached my hut, I opened the door and was almost bowled over by Failinis, who threw himself into my arms. He licked my face and I held him close against me, happy to hear his heart beat in time with mine. He let me hold him for a moment, then wriggled until I put him down, and he began to jump at Dagda, barking with excitement, until he turned to me again, dancing under my feet and knocking me over.

Dagda grinned and reached out a hand to pull me to my feet, but got twisted up again by Failinis himself, joining me in a heap on the ground. There was something so foolish, so absurd about the moment that I laughed, exciting Failinis enough that he licked my face again before prancing off to get a drink from the stream. Instead of getting up, I cushioned my head on my neck and looked up at the stars.

Dagda didn’t rise either, closing his eyes and inclining his head as if listening for something. I heard only the forest swaying in the breeze, a frog croaking from near the stream…and…singing. I lifted myself onto my elbow and realized it was coming from the fishermen on the harbor. I could not make out the words, but I could hear the melody, sharp and cold and lonely. The song reminded me of winter, the bright coldness of ice singing through my body, crackling frost in my fingertips, the winds waiting for me to beckon. I would do anything , I thought. Anything. To stride through the world like that again .

I turned away from the sound and found Dagda staring at me. His face was close to mine, so close I could smell the sweat of him.

“I would bed you, Cailleach,” he murmured. “Right here, out under the stars.”

As he spoke, his eyelids fluttered shut and his lips drew together, and I realized he was trying to kiss me. I was startled by his desire, surprised by how close he was to me, and I pulled away, then jumped to my feet, until I stood over him like a parent over a child. Like a god over a mortal. My first impulse was to rebuke him harshly, to slap him even, but as I looked down at him, I softened. In the moonlight he looked so young, so earnest in that way that mortals could seem, faces unsullied as new snow. “I am not interested in bedding you—or anyone else,” I added when his face fell. “I am sure there are others who would. Go and ask one of your devotees for such a thing.” I thought of Niamh’s face, how her eyes had tracked him around the clearing.

“Cailleach—I thought—I thought we felt the same.” He reached out a hand, perhaps in supplication, or sorrow.

“I do not feel as you do,” I said gently. “We have an agreement. I will ask that Danu speak to you, and you can continue to teach me how to work with the bees. We can be friends,” I said, thinking about Siobhan. “But no more than that.” He blinked and turned away, and I thought he might weep. It was foolish for a man to cry because a woman wouldn’t bed him, but men had wept for less.

“You truly looked like a goddess when you stepped into the clearing tonight. Your hair shone silver as the moon, and in the torchlight your skin looked blue. I thought for a moment that it was a sign, from Danu perhaps. A sign that we should be together.”

I drew in a breath at his description. Had some part of my immortality shone through at that moment? Or had it only been a trick of the light?

Dagda sighed. “As the druid, a leader of the community, I often…” He hesitated, and as he paused, the song drifted between us again, clear and cold. “I am alone,” he finally said. “They look at me as though I am a god. But I am not. I’m just a mortal man, doing what I was taught by other mortal men. The only times I ever felt anything approaching divinity was when I saw Danu there”—he pointed to the place where she’d faded into the light—“and tonight, when I saw you step into the clearing.”

“It is good to be alone,” I said. “When you are alone, you can hear all the thoughts that the noise of this world tries to crowd out. Now—” I gestured him down the hill. “It is time to return to your bed—alone.”

He gave a small smile and squeezed my hand for a moment. At first, I thought he would plead with me again to bed him, but then he dropped it, and I realized he had only meant it as a kind gesture.

I lay in bed that night, Failinis snoring beside me, and thought of Dagda’s hand on mine. It was true, I did not want him or anyone to bed me. I had never had a lover, man or woman, even as a goddess. I had never wanted another body so close to mine, had never wanted to someone’s breath in my face or their hands on my skin. The other gods took lovers, both mortals and each other, but I had always been able to please myself with my own hands and that had been enough. It was still enough. But as I thought of Dagda’s hand on mine, I found that I did not mind that he had touched me. He had done it gently, without asking for anything in payment. He was my friend, like Siobhan had been. And though I had not been able to return her friendship in that life, perhaps I could try to return Dagda’s in this one.

A comfort in this wearying world, like Failinis , I thought, as his paws began to twitch in a dream. I patted his side, and he rolled over onto his back, all four legs sticking straight into the air, and gave a little grunt of pleasure, still deeply asleep. Perhaps once I returned to my immortal form, I would keep dogs as Morrígan did. It might be pleasant to stride through winter with a dog at my side.

Failinis loved the snow.

I had thought he might retreat from it as he did from many things, but he bound into the first snowfall that we got that year—early, before Samhain—with enthusiasm, tongue lolling, jumping at the flakes that swirled in the air above him.

I stood still and silent, my head tilted toward the sky. I did not have a shawl for my arms, and they prickled with cold, but I didn’t care. It felt as though it had been centuries since I’d woken to snow, since I’d been able to lift my head and feel it on my face—cold and soft as the touch of a feather. I looked down toward the village and saw smoke rising from their fires, the harbor white. It was not entirely frozen, but the edges of it were, and the sound of the ice cracking against the shore gave me a shiver of pleasure. I loved the crackle of winter, how it muffled all other sound. I saw no boats in the harbor and no children in the streets, and I assumed the villagers were inside, perhaps taking the storm as an opportunity to prepare the food they would eat at Samhain, two nights from now.

I wanted to stride out into that quick-falling snow barefoot, naked, as I once had, but instead I turned to the ablutions that my mortal body required. I returned to my hut, gave Failinis water and food, shoved a heel of bread into my skirt, and put on a shawl. I knew my feet would freeze if I walked out barefoot as I wished to, so instead I put on the sturdy boots I’d traded for a few weeks ago and stepped out.

The moment my feet touched the ground I inhaled, and my chest expanded with the sharp, cold smell. I grinned, giddy as a child; I wanted to dash out into the snow, to throw myself down and make shapes in it, to taste it on my tongue and crunch it under my feet—and so I turned to the forest. I could walk and play there alone, with no one to judge me or think I was mad. I could walk under the firs and not worry about chores, could simply walk and walk until I was tired.

I was about to enter the wood when I heard a whine. I looked down and cursed. I hadn’t realized that Failinis had followed me. He usually played around the hut when I went into the wood and had not yet entered it since he’d been trapped there.

“Go.” I extended my arm. “Go back.”

He looked back toward the hut, where spirals of grey-blue smoke rose from my still-hot fire, then he looked back at me. He wagged his tail at me tentatively and looked deeply hurt when I tried to gently push him back toward the house. “I’m going for a walk.” I took another half step into the forest. I could smell the firs, their fragrance always sharper in the winter, and was desperate to enter the trees. I turned my back to Failinis and took another few steps. I wanted to be alone, without any companion, mortal or animal. I closed my eyes and I could hear only the almost imperceptible sound of the falling snow hitting the branches above.

I took a step into the shadows of the trees and my heart began to beat fast, my breathing intensifying, waiting, waiting… For what? I thought. For my blue skin? For the winds to come at my bidding? Nothing happened, of course nothing happened—it was only my body remembering what it once had been, reminding me, with the very tremble it now sent through me, that I was mortal, pale and fragile.

I was suddenly weary, bone-tired at the weight of having to remember , again and again, that I was not as I had been.

I would have lingered in that disappointment if Failinis had not rushed forward and licked my hand gently, tail waving with pride at his courage in braving the wood. I could not help but laugh, even though he made an absurd racket and ruined the quiet, the loneliness of the wood.

“Well then.” I patted his head. “Shall we walk?”

I should have been more wary under those trees. There were still wolves about, and I knew that Failinis would be less than helpful if one approached, but we did not see any wolves during that long walk. Instead we wandered alone and uninterrupted under the twilight that the heavy snow cast. The shadows were blue and purple, and though I did not find the solitude I had longed for, I did not miss it as I might have. It was diverting, watching Failinis run and play in the wood, and it made me think of Enya and me playing together on the frozen river and through snow-covered trees. For the first time, I thought of Enya not with pain but only pleasure, knowing she would have loved my little dog.

Failinis kept leaping at snow-heavy branches, startling himself when the bounty fell on top of him. He blinked up at me with white-frosted whiskers and shook himself, spraying the snow on me, which he seemed to take as a game. He ran back and forth, trying to catch branches, even ones that were much too high for him. He leapt and barked and growled, his tail wagging constantly, and when he finally tired of his game, he panted beside me, occasionally pushing his cold nose into my hand.

We were about to enter a large clearing when Failinis stopped, his ears pricking up. Failinis had one ear that always stood straight up and one that flopped down, giving him a comical appearance, but now both ears were alert, his body still as he looked into the clearing.

A doe stood there, snuffling at the white ground, no doubt trying to get at the grass that lay beneath. She was small and looked old, with a swayed back and sagging belly. Most dogs would have run at her, but Failinis seemed content to sit there, entranced. The doe lifted her head and looked at us but did not run. She and Failinis stared at each other for a long time until Failinis sank down onto his belly, his head on his paws. Then the doe flicked her tail as though some agreement had been made and continued to dig into the snow. I sank down beside Failinis and watched the doe with him until a nearby branch fell, startling her. She bounded away, swift and surefooted as I had once been, disappearing into the darkening wood.

I would have walked for many more hours, but I could see Failinis was tiring, so instead we headed back toward my hut. When we saw light spilling out from the door, Failinis yipped with excitement and raced ahead toward it. I too quickened my steps as I approached home, happy to see my own light shining at me from the wood, pleased at the thought of the soup that I’d left bubbling in the pot before setting out.

I had just reached the door when Dagda appeared over the crest of the hill. He clutched his side, panting, though it was not a steep slope; he had grown soft and slow from staying in the village for so long. I watched his chest rise and fall, almost mesmerized by the motion. Mortals moved so endlessly, fidgeting and twitching all the time, even in sleep. Danu had been the one to point that out to me one day when she’d held Sorcha’s boy Cathal asleep on her chest. She noted how he smacked his lips and scratched his nose, his chest always rising and falling. Danu had told me that she missed it, the breath thrumming through her. I, though, missed the stillness of my immortal body, a body that obeyed my every wish.

“I thought we could harvest the rest of the honey today,” Dagda said, once he’d caught his breath. “The bees will be dull with the cold, and we’ll be stung less.”

Reluctantly, I nodded. I’d known this was coming, that Failinis and I needed the honey and wax to help us survive the winter, but I did not want to destroy the hive.

Dagda and I gathered several large buckets. I hesitated before drawing near, closing my eyes and listening one last time to the sound of the bees, but Dagda wasted no time on sentiment. He slowly waved a smoky torch near the hive, telling me that it would dull them further. Then, he carefully opened the top of the hive. A bee flew out, and I was foolishly pleased when it stung Dagda. I expected him to jump, but all he did was grimace.

“Cailleach”—he motioned me forward—“you must do this with me.” I gritted my teeth but walked toward him, knowing he spoke the truth. I peered down into the hive and saw the swarm of bees clustered around their queen. Their wings beat slowly, and Dagda gestured at them. “They keep her warm,” he said, “even if it exhausts them. Even if they die of it, another will instantly take their place.” The other gods, I thought, would do the same thing for Danu. They would give her everything without a moment’s consideration. The sudden understanding made me uncomfortable. I’d always known that, of course, but had never really seen it for its truth until I looked at the bees in front of me. Danu always claimed that we lived above such human structures as hierarchies, but I knew that she expected each of the gods to give their all to her. And they all would have, instantly, gladly, to keep their queen alive.

Dagda dipped his hand into one of the buckets and began sprinkling water into the hive. “I’ve mixed it with a bitter herb.” He gestured at me to do the same with the other hives. “They’ll leave and we’ll be able to gather the rest of the honeycomb.” I scattered the water, and the bees began to rise from the hives like black smoke. A few landed on Dagda’s hands and several flew right at me, stinging my bent face. I flinched from the pain, cursing, but I didn’t stop sprinkling the water, and soon the swarm had flown away, leaving us with two empty hives. Dagda and I carried them together into the hut, placing them on the floor. Dagda lifted my soup cauldron from where it swung over the fire and set it on the table, then pulled a stout knife from his belt and held it over the hot coals. After a long moment, he walked toward the first hive and began scraping the sides so that the soft yellow wax and honey cleaved away from the walls. “I always liked this part best,” Dagda said, directing me to heat another knife and begin on the other hive.

“The destruction?” My voice was sharp with disappointment. Of course he liked that best, he was mortal, all they wanted was to—

“No.” Dagda interrupted my thoughts and tipped the hive toward me so that I could see inside. “Everything falls to the bottom, ready for me to find, like a pool of sunlight. It makes me feel godlike”—he blushed and looked away from me—“as though I’m creating something special—with my own two hands. It is…tangible in a way that leading worship is not.”

“You’re right, of course.” Danu appeared suddenly in the doorway. Failinis howled and ran for me, hiding behind my legs as Dagda spun around, knife dripping with honey.

She was in her goddess form. Her hair was long and golden and fell in waves to her feet. Her lips were pink, her hips and breasts pronounced. She even wore a golden robe that glimmered with jewels, and her skin gave off a gentle light, as though it were woven through with rays from the sun.

“Goddess.” Dagda knelt before her, head bowed, knife shining under her light. Drops of honey fell from it to the floor, and I watched them instead of meeting Danu’s gaze. I did not want her here, in my house. I did not want her to see how I lived, to look at the pallet where I slept, to smell the soup that I’d made, to see the jars of honey that lined the shelves. She would approve of all of it, of course. She would see it and think she was right, wise, that she had done the right thing by punishing me.

“Rise, mortal.” Her voice was different than usual, too—deep, and rich, resonant as a bell. She touched Dagda’s cheek and he rose, though I saw his knees tremble. He glanced back at me, eyes wide with fear and excitement, and grabbed my hand, lacing his fingers through mine, tugging me toward him, toward Danu.

She grinned at me, and I knew it was because of Dagda’s hand in mine, but as she did her mantle of godhood seemed to fall away, the golden light around her dimming, her vastness receding until she stood no taller than I was. “Thank you for showing Cailleach how to keep the bees.” Her voice was light, no longer echoing around the hut. “She has found a good friend in you.” She smiled again and suddenly her golden hair was gone, replaced by a long brown braid and wide, broad cheeks. “I often wear my old form.” Her voice was soft, trying to reassure him, but seeing her transform from goddess to mortal seemed to frighten him more than anything else had, because he only blinked in response. When I went to pull my hand away, he held on so tightly my knuckles turned white. Warmth rose in my chest at the thought that he wanted me, needed me—his friend—by his side, but as I looked down at our twined hands, I thought about how frightened he would be if he knew that the hand he held had once been blue and hard, commanding the winds, the snow. And I was certain, with a sudden rush of sadness, that if he’d known the truth of me—of what I’d done—he would have cowered behind Danu to hide from me .

The thought made my cheeks flush with shame, and suddenly I wanted nothing more than for both of them to go, so I said, “My promise is fulfilled. Now leave us in peace.”

I heard Dagda suck in a breath, perhaps terrified that we would be struck down for speaking so to a goddess, but Danu merely shook her head. “I have come to learn,” she said. “I keep bees myself. Perhaps you can teach me something new, Dagda.” She gave him another brilliant smile.

As darkness fell around us, Dagda showed us how to separate the wax from the honey, how to break apart the hives. I saw Dagda watch Danu carefully whenever she wasn’t looking, especially at one moment when she had her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and was arm-deep in the hive, humming to herself, a splatter of honey shining on her cheek. I thought I knew what he was thinking: Danu was not like the goddess he’d imagined. In a way, I was sorry for him. For the illusions that she must be shattering. Would he still pray to her in the same way? Would he gaze into the heavens and imagine her immortal face? Or would he see her only as she was now, as mortal-looking as him or me?

I thought he would pepper her with questions—about her immortality, about Tara, the other gods—but he spoke little that night. He only gave instructions on how we were to work with the wax and honey, how to purify the honey, how to create the candles that I would sell in the market, then said, “I must leave now, goddess. I promised a sick woman that I would look in on her before she slept.”

Danu nodded. “It is good to see that mortals still keep their promises.” She reached into her robes and held out a small vial. It was full of a green liquid the color of her eyes. “Perhaps you would offer Máiréad this tonic? It will greatly ease her cough.”

Dagda’s eyes widened slightly, but he nodded and reached for it—carefully, though, not touching even the smallest part of her skin. “Goodnight, goddess.” He inclined his head toward Danu, then looked at me. “Cailleach.” His voice steadied as he spoke my name, as though it were a comfort, a talisman.

“I’ll walk out with you to get more wood for the fire,” I said. He was quiet as he walked to the woodpile with me. “I am sorry if she was not what you wanted, what you thought. Danu is—”

“She is more ,” Dagda breathed, his voice trembling. “She is more than I ever thought. She is at once goddess and mortal; she holds up the world in her palm, but she hears Máiréad coughing and wants to ease her. She is…” He trailed off. “It is difficult to remain in her presence, to look on her, even in her mortal form. I do not know how you sat by her so comfortably.” He squeezed my hand. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for letting me see her… I…I am dazzled by her kindness. She need take no notice of us, but she does. She does love us, just as we have been told.”

He squeezed my hand once more and went down the hill solemnly while I stood staring at his back. I wanted to be angry at him, at his adoration for Danu, but what could I do? She did love mortals. She didn’t respect them, but she loved them, and it was wonderful to be loved by Danu. In my earliest years before my skin turned blue Danu had loved me like that, unreservedly and wholly, her hand always in mine, the brightness of her pouring into me and over me—until she’d given me the power over winter and seemed to…to step back in some way, seemed to look at me and see a lack that she had never noticed before.

I wished…I did not know what I wished, and so I just turned and went back to my hut. I expected to find it empty, but Danu was still there, bent over a length of wax she was breaking into pieces.

I stopped for a moment in the doorway, unsure if I wanted her to leave and let me be alone with my thoughts, or if I wanted her to stay. It had been a long time since we had been alone together; once she had been my whole world. I couldn’t decide, so I settled on saying nothing and began to cut wicks, then dip them over and over in the hot wax, as I tried to contain the swirl of emotions within me. Failinis crept onto the pallet, and though he tried to keep a watchful eye on Danu, he eventually fell asleep, his snores filling the room.

We worked silently for a long time, and when I finally got up to light a candle, I looked down at its yellow sides and remembered the load of candles we’d brought to Sorcha and Enya once, remembered too how we laughed returning to Tara that night, at the thought of mortals needing candles to light their way. I looked at Danu working beside me and thought of all the mortals who had her love but not her respect, and it suddenly made me angry that she sat beside me like this, completing a chore because she thought of it as a child’s game, not because I needed the light.

“You left me a candle, during that first life.” Danu blinked, looking up as though I’d woken her from a spell. “You left that candle to spite me”—I snipped off the ends of the wicks so violently that I knocked several of the candles together—“to remind me what I had lost, not because you knew I needed the light.”

She shook her head, her eyes pools of hurt. “Cailleach, no. I only wished to give you something of Tara…” She trailed off, letting the silence build for so long I thought she had stopped speaking, but then she turned toward me, her eyes wide, almost pleading. “Something of me.”

Before I could speak, she faded away with a sound like wind through long grass.