My skin tingled pleasantly when I closed the door to my room. Moonlight passed through the open drapes, illuminating the space around me in a silvery light that made my candle unnecessary. Blowing out the small flame, I passed over to the window to stare out at the large white orb suspended just above the trees, so close I could nearly reach out and touch it. Something stirred inside of me, called forth from another world.
It was too dangerous to go just yet. Weeks before, Henry had watched me run into the woods, dressed in no more than a thin white sheath and a shawl draped over my shoulders. The next morning when he had hinted to my outing, I practically dared him to follow me one night. With such a history, I couldn’t leave until he fell asleep.
For the next hour I paced through my room, much like a caged animal in need of escape. It had taken a great deal of power to heal Teme of lockjaw, and I should have gone into the woods that very night. As I was otherwise engaged, crying uncontrollably in a heap on my bedroom floor, I had put it off for another time.
When the moon had risen about a hand’s width above the trees, I unpinned my hair, letting the dark curls fall loose, and changed into my sheath. Across the hall, I pressed my ear against Henry’s door. Though absolutely silent, I was not about to risk having him watch me run into the forest once again. I twisted the iron knob until the latch slid back just enough to open the door. The sound of his slow, methodic breathing came through the crack, confirming that he was asleep.
Anxious to be on my way, I hastily pulled the door closed, scraping the latch against the wood frame before it clicked into place. In a panic, I released the knob and retreated back a full step. For several minutes I listened for the smallest noise, my heart thumping against my ribs, prepared to dash back to my room if necessary. Nothing happened, and I remained in the hallway long enough for my pulse to slow.
Henry must have been sleeping deeply, and no wonder after traveling so far just to write a letter. Feeling almost at ease again, I tiptoed down the stairs to my apothecary, where I got a flint and a small bundle of herbs. Once outside, I avoided the most direct route in front of the house, passing instead at an angle around the barn and through a wheat field to stay mostly out of sight of Henry’s window on my way to the woods.
On dark nights, a lantern would have been needed, but with the full moon and cloudless sky, sufficient light illuminated the path, and it wasn’t long before I arrived at the altar. Kneeling down, I placed the dried herbs on the stone surface and struck the flint for a small shower of white sparks. With the first tendril of fragrant smoke, I closed my eyes and began to chant the words to crossover.
After the third repetition, the mortal world wavered in and out of view. For half a heartbeat, everything went completely black as my soul slipped free of its physical form. Then a brilliant flash of light, a tug at my midsection, and my bare feet found the soft soil within the thick gray mist. Opening my eyes, I stepped forward into the garden, inhaling its sweetness.
Long before I was born, this place had been created for my grandparents when they first immigrated to the new land. Patterned after the ancient gardens in the Old World, it served as a refuge for them and their descendants, of which I happened to be the only one still living. Despite the lack of visitors, it was truly a paradise for my kind, so fertile and lush it verged on wild. Each plant and tree was perfectly formed, held at its fullness, like a breath just before its release. Everything pulsated with life and the power to sustain it.
Just standing in the thick grass made me feel stronger. Yet to regain my full strength I had to drink from the spring that bubbled nearby. A woman sat on its bank, trailing a finger along the surface of the water. She was fair skinned with long auburn hair, her tall, slender frame covered in a white sheath similar to mine. Though her face was turned away from me, I recognized her at once as the creator of this garden and the source of my gift.
I had first met Brigid on my eighth birthday when my mother brought me to be formally introduced to the goddess. At one time she had dwelt freely in Ireland where she married a high king, King Bres, and had three sons. These children grew up, married mortals and had children of their own. Part human, part divine, the leath’dhia had come into the world. Though in possession of divine power, they were beings of flesh and blood that would live like humans—and die like humans. Charged with the duty to use their gifts for good, the majority of these children remained in their ancestral land, but there were some who left, fanning out across Europe. My maternal grandparents were the first of their kind to cross the Atlantic, forced to flee for reasons I had never been told.