The Goddess Who Forgot Her Enemy's Name

How it begins

The goddess had forgotten whom she hated.

She arrived at Iria's door carrying a spear and an expression of professional embarrassment.

"Your oldest records," she said.

"Good morning to you too."

"I have a name missing."

"That happens."

"Not to me."

Iria looked at the spear.

Its point had gathered dust.

"Come inside."

Avel had to lower her head beneath the lintel. The valley's oldest goddess wore a travel cloak patched at one shoulder. Her statues did not include that detail.

Iria liked her better for it.

At the table, Avel placed a broken seal beside the tea.

"My enemy."

"Your enemy's seal?"

"Possibly."

"You aren't sure?"

The goddess frowned.

"I remember the fire."

Outside, children passed on their way to school. One waved through the window.

Avel lifted a hand automatically.

"I remember the dead," she continued. "I remember what I swore."

"But not whom you swore against."

"No."

Iria opened the first valley ledger.

For generations, children had learned the feud before they learned the river crossings. Every family had been assigned an old grievance and a proper response to it.

Then one winter the schoolmaster had stopped teaching the names.

He had taught the crossings instead.

Fewer children drowned that spring.

Avel watched the page.

"Did they forget me?"

"No."

"Then why is the name gone?"

Iria turned the ledger around.

In the margin, a teacher had written a question.

Must remembering the wound require handing out the weapon?

The goddess read it without moving.

Her spear rested against the cupboard beside Iria's broom.

For a moment they looked equally ordinary.

"If I find the name," Iria asked, "what will you do with it?"

Avel opened her mouth.

Then closed it.

Iria poured the tea.

Some records, she had learned, could wait until the person requesting them understood the question.