arthy stretched out at the foot of her throne, a grin on his square
Irish face. "So, I can't get away again! Now that's the sorriest word
I've heard for years. Sure I'm the unluckiest mortal that ever was
born."

The dark goddess laughed again, and there was something of a sweet child
in the bell-tones of her laugh, that died away in soft and softer echoes
in the endless dark about them.

... Something of a shy child, who had never been loved, and found the
idea infinitely amusing. Her voice became softer and more beautiful
still, and McCarthy was endlessly happy to hear that laugh, for it said
so much stronger than any words could--"You are welcome here, you sad
Irishman." And her voice said, "And do you want your angel-shapes and
their wine back again, or do you want some other thing I might create
for you out of these forgotten energy converters?"

McCarthy grinned contentedly, and rubbed his roughened face against the
smooth calf of her leg beside him. "D'ye think I should shave, goddess?"

The great beautiful face bent over and examined his Irish countenance,
the rugged features and twinkling blue eyes and the red hearty cheeks of
him. "Why, man-child, you are quite good-looking as you are!"

"And as for them angels and their wine," added McCarthy, "don't you know
one look at you is worth a thousand angels? Can't you see in my mind and
know ... I forget, ye've been doing that for one solid year. Sure, you
green angel you, why should a man want any other shape or sound or wine
than yourself?"

* * * * *

So it was that some years later a great ship burst up from the seas of
the lonely planet and on the terrific wings of a mysterious power shot
silently away into the trackless void. And at the helm was a red-cheeked
Irishman and the rest of the vast ship was filled with water and the
goddess herself. All of it, that is, except the part where the three
little McCarthys came out of the water to play with their dad every day.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Dark Goddess, by Richard Sharpe Shaver

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