From our fourth day onward, Caoimhe was eternally healthy, her family was unnaturally prosperous, and fortune seemed to befall the woman, her son, and her husband at every turn.
I introduced myself to the Dagda, leader of the Tuatha Dé Danann, god of strength. I greeted Lúgh in passing, but his deep tie to oaths made him rather quiet, lest he say something he didn’t mean. Balor, Aengus, and Donn were as welcoming as one might hope, though we had no plans for wine, feasts, or chumming anytime soon.
I contemplated taking the form of a white deer and walking amongst their people, but it would serve no purpose, save for my vanity. Besides, I was relatively positive Cernunnos, the antlered god of the forest, would not appreciate the gesture.
I was holding up my end of my father’s bargain, and in return, I was left in peace to lurk in the shadows, lovingly guarding my human as she ate, as she traveled, as she slept.
I’d contented myself with remaining behind the veil for the rest of this earthly cycle. It would have stayed that way, had it not been for the night of her thirtieth birthday.
A ghost in the humble home, I’d settled into a familiar corner and waited for her breathing to change to indicate a peaceful slumber.
Tonight, it didn’t come.
The moment her husband began to snore, Caoimhe slipped from beneath the quilts they shared and tip-toed across the room. She ensured her son slept soundly before grabbing a tartan cloak and quietly grabbing the lantern from its resting place on the windowsill. She eased the door shut, stopped by the woodpile propped against the home, removed the top two logs, and fetched a small basket hidden within. Hastily replacing the logs, she was off before I fully absorbed what she was doing.
She put a safe distance between herself and her home before lighting the lantern.
In my two years with this human, she’d never exhibited deceptive behavior. Was she meeting someone? And if so, how had she made friends, found a lover, planned to run away, without me knowing about it?
I followed silently, brow furrowed.
She stole from the house with muted steps, covering her lantern as she passed the village homes so as not to stir her neighbors. My frown deepened, curiosity growing, as she lifted the humble flame the moment she made it beyond the township.
It was a ten-minute walk to the river, and three minutes beyond that to a flat stone along the softly murmuring stream where she’d once screamed at the mysterious phantom of a man.
My heart clenched.
My hand flew to my chest. I couldn’t explain how I knew she was waiting for me, but I knew.
She lifted the lantern as if it might reveal things unseen to mortal eyes as she peered into the darkness. The crescent moon ducked behind a wisp of cloud, plummeting her into darkness once more.
Maybe it was nerves, or perhaps my reluctance to be the source of her fear once more, but I needed to know for sure before I made a move.
I waited.
I’d only been in Hell for a few minutes that day, but it had been enough to give her time to herself. Perhaps that’s why I hadn’t known what was in the basket that she gently rested near the river. The lantern’s buttery glow illuminated one small jar, then another. She uncapped them and set them on the dry surface of a large, smooth stone that belonged neither to the river, nor to the shore, as clear water ran on either side. It was large enough for two, should we choose to sit atop it. She procured two simple goblets and a waterskin, but it was not water that filled the cup. The vapors of sweet, strong cider popped and sparkled as she poured one glass, then another.
Caoimhe slid one goblet to the far side of the stone and held the other.
She lifted it to the night sky.
“I know you’re here, Spirit,” she said. “I’ve brought you an offering, though I don’t know what you favor.”
The deluge of her acknowledgment did something inexplicable. I understood the urge to drink until drunk. I saw the temptation, were I another. One god might say, “The favor of one feels good, therefore, the favor of one hundred will feel spectacular.”
And for some, they’d be right. Quantity over quality was the preferred method of most.
I sat with a thought I’d had when I knew my human as Shala.
But I was not born to need humans, nor they to need me.
Human prayers didn’t source my power. I had no requirement for offerings or temples or books written in my name. I was beginning to forget what Ididneed, as I struggled to remember why I’d come into this world, if it weren’t for this indescribable feeling.
It was so novel, so unlike anything in the undying worlds, to possess mortal affection, to put your heart in hands, knowing they would perish, to experience the world on lips that tastedit for the first time over and over again. Every life with my human was a new form of new after new. An argument could be made that I was addicted to newness, when immortals so rarely experienced it, but I knew any such defense would be a lie. This was an intimacy that couldn’t be done through excess. As it were, it could barely be done through one. I certainly hadn’t mastered it.
She loosened her cloak, soaking in the unseasonably warm night. The fabric made no noise as it hit the soft heather beneath her, all sounds drowned by the river’s steady babble. The moon reappeared, catching the pale curve of her cheeks, her chin, her collarbone, the curl of her ginger hair, the slope of shoulders. She lifted the goblet to her full, pink lips, but she did not drink.
“Spirit?”
