#different mythologies

Sweeney, he had introduced himself as. From Ireland, though he never shared anything else, never talked about family, a wife, children, or anyone else who might be waiting for him at home. He had started to show up everywhere around the small town: First, in the tiny bakery Antheia helps out in the mornings; the butcher, the inn, the tailor even (probably made that poor old lady break out in a sweat with his unusual measurements); and later -of course- he had shown up in the saloon where Antheia works in the evenings. 

The dryad knew he must have sensed something about them, something that makes Antheia different from the humans around, something that makes them more similar than what meets the eye. Antheia, on the other hand, had known there was no way Sweeney was human from the moment he had entered the bakery. There was just something about him, an aura, a glow if you will. The air seemed to glimmer when he moved, and every woman was immediately intoxicated by his Irish charme.

Or lack thereof.

By the end of the following day everyone had been talking about the tall Irish man. However Antheia’s interest in Sweeney didn’t let go and as much as they tried to act nonchalant they still felt drawn to him. So they had invited him for tea and fortunately Sweeney said something that offered an opportunity to soothe Antheia’s raging curiosity.

“Life isn’t just tea time and fancy little embroidery pieces, lass. You’re not going to just get to sit there forever. You are going to have to marry sooner or later.”

A soft smile curled the corners of the dryad’s lips upwards. His words amused them. How could he be this daft and oblivious? Oh right. 

He’s a man. 

The scent of whiskey and tobacco engulfed them. Antheia had long stopped wondering about the man’s appetite and alcohol tolerance. Beneath the obvious scents, was something else though. Antheia noticed the clear and bitter scent of the woods; soft and mossy earth, covered with sticks and rotting leaves in humid air.

Antheia kept their eyes on the hoop and thread in their hands, careful not to stab their finger with the needle. They hummed a soft acknowledgement while putting the hoop into their lap. The dryad then turned towards him. Leaning onto the armrest of their chair, Antheia brought their faces closer together. His eyes darted to their lips for a moment. The dryad smiled even more.

“Sweeney, I am not interested in marriage. And neither are you, I suppose. You’d be surprised how similar our motives are.”

The words intrigued him. Sweeney’s eyes lit up with interest. “Do tell, lass. What makes you think you understand my motives to deny marriage?”

Antheia pursed their lips. “Sweeney, come on. We,” they point between their chests, “are not like the others in this town. We came to America following beliefs-”

“But so did about every other immigrant. They believe this country holds a better future and life.”

“That is true. But they only followed their beliefs. We are those beliefs.” After a pause Antheia saw the realization in Sweeney’s eyes. “We are what they put their hopes on. We are the stories they tell their children whenever they have a lesson to learn, we are bedside stories, we are morals, we are wisdoms. We are who they pray to.”

Sweeney’s eyes widened. “What are you?”

Antheia knew he had finally caught onto what had been right under his nose, hidden in plain sight. With a smile they reach down to pick up the vase from the table. Antheia leaned back a little and made sure Sweeney watched closely. The flowers looked perfectly fine to him until they rapidly lost their vibrant colors, the heads hung low and the stems were thinning. The bouquet was drying out and Sweeney kept watching with furrowed brows, as it regained hydration. The heads rose again, colors returned, petals closed and soon what was left was a collection of closed buds and light but lush greens. 

“A nature spirit,” there was disbelief in his voice as he seemed to watch Antheia in a whole new light.

“Correct, I’m Antheia. Of the Greek dryads. The people have carried the stories of my siblings and I across the continents until someone decided to come here and spread them further. Times are not exactly easy here on the coast but I am determined to find the right beliefs further into the country.” 

Antheia was breathing heavier than usual, that little stunt should have been nothing to them but a lack of beliefs means a lack of power. Sweeney understood that.

“Now, a truth for a truth. What have I invited into this house for tea? I can smell the forest on you but you are none of my kind.”

“Aye, you are right and wrong, lass. I am none of your kind but I still belong to nature. I am of the fair folk. My name is Buile Shuibhne, tell me, do my stories precede me?”

Antheia watched with delight that Sweeney seemed to be dropping at least part of his facades. His skin seemed to lighten up and he sat taller in his chair.