Goddess


 
 
 
 Copyright © 2023 Deborah Hemming
 
 Published in Canada in 2023 and the USA in 2023 by House of Anansi Press Inc.houseofanansi.com
 
 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
 
 House of Anansi Press is a Global Certified Accessible™ (GCA by Benetech) publisher. The ebook version of this book meets stringent accessibility standards and is available to readers with print disabilities. 
 
 27 26 25 24 23 1 2 3 4 5
 Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
 Title: Goddess / Deborah Hemming.Names: Hemming, Deborah, 1989- author.Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20220401675 | Canadiana (ebook) 20220401683 | ISBN 9781487011116 (softcover) | ISBN 9781487011123 (EPUB)Classification: LCC PS8615.E487 G63 2023 | DDC C813/.6—dc23
 
 Cover and book design by Alysia Shewchuk Ebook developed by Nicole Lambe
 
 House of Anansi Press respectfully acknowledges that the land on which we operate is the Traditional Territory of many Nations, including the Anishinabeg, the Wendat, and the Haudenosaunee. It is also the Treaty Lands of the Mississaugas of the Credit.
 
 
 
 
 
 We acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Government of Canada.
 
 
 
 Prologue
 
 
 
 
 Vermont
 I went outside because I needed to breathe. Back then, the air in our house often felt thick with tension, and in response I would put on a jacket and scramble into my boots. I would ease open the back door, slip outside, and close it gently behind me so no one would hear me leave. Then, I would run. We lived in the woods, surrounded by dense forest, and I was the only one in my family who ever ventured past the driveway. I was the black sheep, the outdoor cat.
 I remember it had rained that day. The ground was still damp, and everything looked fresh and green. Alive. I ran until I was past the treeline, far enough into the hidden darkness of the forest that I felt completely alone. I stopped to rest, gulping down the clean air of the woods like I was chugging water. A familiar calm enveloped me. This was where I was meant to be. Not with them. Not with my mother, especially.
 I was eight at the time. I had been seeking refuge in the woods for as long as I could remember; my ritual when the mood turned dark at home. Now that I was refreshed, I walked on, following a familiar path until I came to the spot where I liked to sit, my back against a large maple. I crossed my legs and looked around. A cool gust of wind swept through the trees, sending branches waving. In the distance I heard a woodpecker tapping on an unknown trunk.
 I must have closed my eyes for a moment because the next thing I knew, it was all around me — a substance in the air I had never encountered before. Not smoke or fog or mist, but something else. Something yellow and sparkling in the air, like magic dust. I looked around in search 
 PART 1
 The Goddess Allure
 
 
 
 
 The forest is never quiet. All around creatures large and small, of fur and feather, announce their presence. A growl, a sniff, a chirp. The soft thud of a paw to earth or the sharp whip of a beak to bark. But out of the din rises a slow trill. My whooping call, unlike any other. Look up and you’ll see me. The cardinal. A flash of red; otherworldly, beautiful. 
 — Violets in Her Lap by Agnes Oliver
 
 
 1
 
 
 
 
 
 In the airport bookstore I avoided the fiction section and headed straight for the magazines. I told myself I needed the latest copy of The New Yorker; I was headed to New York after all. I took the long way to the back of the store, skirting around a display of candy bars and averting my gaze from the books. But at the last moment, I glanced sideways. I couldn’t help it. I never could.
 My chest lifted and my stomach lurched. There it was. My book. My first and quite possibly only novel. There was a stack of copies on the bestsellers table, and someone was even holding one, flipping through its pages: a woman in chic wedge heels and a floral wrap dress.
 I moved closer to the magazines, keeping an eye on the woman — there was something French about her; the red lipstick maybe — who seemed to be deciding whether Violets in Her Lap by Agnes Oliver was worth the hardcover price. She turned to the back flap where my author photo lived and I quickly looked away, letting my blond hair fall into my face. Not that she’d recognize me. Two months of being on the road, or rather, in the air, meant bags under my eyes and yesterday’s T-shirt. 
 When I chanced another glimpse, I saw that she