Florence Welch's Arc

Chapter 2 of 5

Morning came grey over the peat. Florence carried her salt jar to the ring around her hut and knelt to mend the line. The wort was still warm in her pocket from yesterday. She had not slept. The fae woman still held the goddess's true name, and every hour that passed was an hour that trade came closer. She walked her circle three times and stopped at the door. Inside the ring the air felt close, like a shut hand. She had known for a week that the salt held her call in with her. Whatever she sang inside it went no farther than her own roof. The goddess would not hear her from in here. She had been afraid to admit it. She scuffed a small gap in the salt with her boot and stepped out. The bog went quiet at once. Water beaded on the reeds. Florence walked to the flat stone past the drying garden and set her palms down on the wet moss. She tried the name she almost had. Her tongue went cold again. She tried a second. Her hands began to shake. "I don't know your name," she said out loud. "I only know you're there." The shaking got worse. She heard her own breath go thin. She almost turned back for the salt. A small hand touched her wrist. A child stood in the moss beside her. White hair to the waist. A crown of yellow flowers and river stones. Bare feet on the wet ground, not sinking. Her eyes were the green of old ponds. She was not a child. Florence knew it the way a daughter knows a mother's step in the dark. "You don't need the name," the child said. "You called. I came." Florence's throat closed. "They said I had to have it." "They wanted you to think so." "Who are you." "Older than the one you were calling." She looked at the broken salt line up the path. "You did the right thing. Salt is for hiding. You are done hiding." Florence sat down in the moss. The goddess sat with her, small and plain, and put one hand on the peat between them. The ground under Florence's knees warmed. "Will you walk with me," Florence said. "A while. Not yet always. Something is pulling at the deep water. I came to find it. You are on its road." Up the slope, past the wort garden, the star-tower stood dark against the sky. Hozier was up there. Florence had left him tuning strings by the great lens an hour ago. She looked toward it now and felt the cold on her tongue return, faint, from that direction. Not from her. The goddess followed her look. Her small mouth went flat. "Your man," she said. "Someone is at him already." Florence stood. The salt jar rolled from her lap into the moss and stayed there.