No Less Love

No Less Love 

It was always the same dream.

Feverish sweat, a damp cloth on his brow, his chest grating with cough. His mother’s voice, warbled and miles away, speaking her final words. The groan of the door and the howl of frigid winter air as she vanished into the forest. 

Never to be seen again. 

Every year, the memory worsened with the winter. It haunted him into his waking hours; he could hear a muffled voice on the winds, biting against the sweat on his brow. The shadows between the trees loomed, as if in wait. 

Light danced across the surface of the pond; the forest hummed in the afternoon with cricket chirps, birdsong trills, and the rustle of golden leaves rushed by an eager, warm wind, ready for autumn. Dragonflies skirted the reeds, which rattled in the breeze and startled the frogs on the muddy banks. There was nowhere in the world lovely as this, Callum was sure. 

He rested on his back, eyes closed, fingers laced behind his head. His axe set aside, there was nothing to do but soak in the day’s last sun before night called him home.

A splash broke the calm. Callum sat up, wondering if some fish had leapt; rather, he saw a girl, wading in the shallows across the pond, bent as if she was looking for something. 

Callum stared. Her skirts were tied up to her waist, auburn hair falling from old braids, her face flushed as if she just ran. She plucked stems from the soppish patches of earth by the water. 

“Hello?” he called.

As if struck, she leapt with a gasp, a hand over her chest. Her eyes were as golden as the sun on the water, which rippled from her ankles. 

“Sorry,” he added, “I didn’t mean to fright you.” 

“Hardly counts what you meant by it.” Her hand moved to her hip, fear giving in to a cross look. “You frightened me, alright. You sneak up on gals so often, mister…?”

“Callum. Callum Brown. I’m an axeman, just took a rest by the pond,” he said, picking up his hatchet to show her from across the water. “I can leave you be if you’re… doin’ something.” 

“Well, isn’t that assuring, knowing you’ve got an axe,” the girl said, a wry smile on her lips. “I’m only here to pick watermint, then I’ll be on my way. Won’t be botherin’ you none.” 

“You’ve not bothered me at all, miss…”

“Niamh. Just Niamh.” 

“Good to meet you, just Niamh.” 

Niamh rolled her eyes. “Well, aren't you just gas.”

Callum grinned. “You want a hand picking the mint?”

She considered him a moment. “Sure. But stay on that side of the pond. No right-minded lass would start inviting strange axemen to her side of the pond.”

“Oh, I’m the strange one, then?”

They quipped some more as Callum gathered the dark-stemmed watermint, piling it up on the shoreline for Niamh to gather. Little by little, he learned about her; she came from the village over, her father was an old healer, and she spent her days helping him gather herbs; she was the eldest of four sisters, and she was a ‘fierce good dancer.’ Callum spoke less: he told of his work, his stern father, and his two left feet. 

“That’ll have to be remedied,” Niamh laughed, which Callum liked very much. The sun was now almost tucked fully into the horizon. 

His heart tumbled a few extra beats. “You mean to meet again?”

“Well, you aren’t such a strange axeman anymore,” she smiled, cradling her bundle of watermint.  

The hauntings seemed to diminish whenever he and Niamh met together at their pond— indeed, that’s how Callum began to call it in his mind. Their pond. They’d walk the banks after a long day’s work and talk about all things. Well, Niamh certainly talked. 

Niamh had a great deal to talk about— her father had many books. She knew Latin phrases. She knew about the swift horses of Arabia, kicking up sand, sleek and proud. Niamh knew all the plants along the waterbank. She knew songs of love, songs of witches, and songs of faeries. Callum had never realized how much there was so much one could know. 

He listened happily. Her voice alone was a welcome sound, a break from the thud of axe and the muttering wind. The flow of her stories was a song on its own.

One afternoon, she suddenly halted her step, turning to him accusingly. 

“How come I’m always the one speakin’, hm?” she asked. “I feel as if I’ve near said every thought in my head now.”

Callum shrugged. “Not much to say, really.”

“I doubt it. You may like to act the dope—”

“Eh?”

“But I can tell you are always thinking, Callum Brown. I wish I knew what.” 

Callum looked her over. Her red hair loosed from her braids, her round eyes, the gentle bow of her lips. 

“I… I think of poems, quite a lot,” he admitted.

Niamh blinked. “You? Poems?”

Heat flushed his face. “I’m not so well read as you, so I don’t think they’re good, but I like to think up rhymes now and then, just while I’m workin’—”

Suddenly, her hand took his. She studied his face, voice wholehearted. “I want to hear your poems, Callum. Every one of them.” 

Never had he shared such secret thoughts, but by the water with Niamh, his words flowed; suddenly, Callum could speak of many things— the luring whisper of the forest, the glimmer of light on water, and the fear of old dreams. Niamh listened. Often, her head would rest on his shoulder as the lanternflies flickered over the pond, well past sunset. 

It seemed each day she spoke less. Callum worried his poems might be making her melancholy. One day he asked her if he had upset her. 

She gripped his hand. “No, no, nothin’ like that. Just… a lot on my mind. If anything, all my time with you just makes things feel… all right. If that makes sense.” 

It made all the sense in the world. He squeezed her palm. 

“You can tell me anything,” he said, sincere. Niamh closed her eyes. 

“I know.” 

The winter dream never left, but it began to share space with new dreams— dreams of building a cottage by the pond. A shelf for a small library, next to a rack for drying herbs. Poems etched into the beams, all their promises and wishes. 

One evening, Niamh tried to teach him to dance. She hummed so poorly he couldn’t keep time, and his feet were heavy and awkward. They erupted into laughter as they stomped about, until finally they collapsed into the soft grasses, flushed and happily foolish. 

“You’ve two left feet, alright,” Niamh grinned. She plucked some grass and sprinkled it on his chest. He sat up, ready to joke about her humming; however, the moment they met eyes again, everything slowed. 

All the world seemed to bend to Niamh. Callum, too, began to move closer. She raised her hand to cup his face. Her eyes were all the shades of autumn.

Neither spoke. 

The kiss was everything Niamh was. Everything new. Everything good, everything warm, everything free. 

It was brief. Callum drew back only an inch. 

“Niamh” he breathed. 

She pulled him in again, the kiss deeping. His fingers found their way in her hair. On the sloped banks of their pond they stayed for some time: his lips to her lips, to her neck, against the inner part of her wrist. Then they laid side by side, facing the other, fingers intertwined. 

Niamh grew quiet. She drank in the kiss, but now said nothing. Callum reached to hold her face, voice as gentle as his touch. 

“There’s something wrong,” he said. 

Niamh brought his knuckles to her lips, her eyes misting. “Yes,” she mumbled against his hand, a tear falling. 

Callum waited. With a shuddery breath, she continued. 

“I’m going to die,” she said, tears flowing. “The first day this winter.”

A chill gust of wind bit them both. 

Callum wanted to take his axe and fell every tree in the forest. Scream. Run. Escape the panic and pain and confusion. Instead, he listened. Niamh told him a tale of her sick little sister, teetering on the threshold of death— and the promise she had made to an old witch of the wilderness. A life for a life. 

Niamh would pass when the winter came, and her sister would live all of Niamh’s lost years. 

“I was never meant to fall in love,” she choked. “I was to read and laugh and dream of all the beautiful things my sisters would do and be. I was to help my father have enough so he could rest when I was gone. I wasn’t— I’m— so sorry. I’m sorry. I never meant to deceive you, Callum.”

Callum had never heard of this witch. Yet, when Niamh spoke— her tears silvery in the gray evening— he felt that he had known his whole life. 

“You’re— you’re sure this is true? This will happen?” 

Niamh shuddered. “She has my dreams. I know it will come, sure as the winter will.” 

Callum looked at her hand in his. The first day of the winter was in less than a fortnight. 

“Don’t be sorry,” he finally said. “I’m going to be here with you every day until winter sets. I promise.” 

Indeed, they met every day. Callum neglected his work so he could spend his mornings with Niamh, while she spent evenings with family. In the night, he chopped all the wood his Pa would need for the winter, every blow of his axe holding a deep, burning fury. 

The dark of the wood was watching. 

The last day of fall arrived. Niamh had asked Callum if they could spend her final night by the pond. She was hopeful she would pass in her sleep. He could not bear the thought of waking by her, gone, anymore than he could deny her. 

That night they lay by their pond, bundled between quilts. The lanternflies were long gone, the tree boughs above like spindly hands; their breath curled into mist.

They kissed. They cried. They kept the other warm. They whispered sweetness and sorrow. Callum held Niamh tight to him as she drifted to sleep. 

 He slipped from the quilts, tucking a parchment between her fingers. He pressed his lips to her brow, taking in the rise and fall of her breath. 

Then, he entered the woods.

It took no time to find the witch, for she had always been there. She was faceless— more ancient than the crooked oaks. Her voice was the one that had always carried on the icy winds, preying on his dreams. 

“You have finally come to me,” she said. “Only to give away your years.”

Callum closed his eyes. He could see his mother, vanishing into the darkness. “It was always borrowed time.”

The wind laughed with the witch.

“Indeed, it was.” 

Niamh was not meant to wake— especially not to wake alone. Steely, dawn light warmed her skin despite the cold air. Her eyes fluttered open, and she felt her heart clench in terror. 

Her fingers were curled around a parchment, tied with the stem of a dried watermint.

“No.” Niamh fought for breath. 

She screamed. She raced the woods. She cried for Callum; she cursed the witch. She crumpled to her knees, clawing her skin. 

Exhaustion quieted her grief. Mustering herself, she unfurled the parchment. There was only a poem— etched in an axeman’s poor handwriting. 

The flicker of lanternflies,

The fall of petals when the lily dies,

The purpling of the sky when the sun sets, 

Things short lived, things we forget;

What is brief, what is dreamed of—

Things which are no less bright, 

No less true,

No less love. 

Clutching the poem to her chest, with all her life ahead of her, Niamh wept.