The Phantom Queen Awakes
Read The Phantom Queen Awakes Online
Authors: Mark S. Deniz
The Phantom Queen
Awakes
Edited by
Amanda Pillar and Mark S.
Deniz
Published by Morrigan
Books
Smashwords Edition
Östra Promenaden 43
602 29 Norrköping
Sweden
All stories copyright 2009 by
their respective authors. Published by permission of the
authors
Cover art by Reece
Notley
Internal artwork by Cecily
Webster
Design and layout by Mark S. Deniz
and Amanda Pillar
Typeset in Garamond and Times New
Roman
Smashwords Edition,
Licence Notes
This ebook is licensed for your
personal enjoyment only. This ebook my not be re-sold or given away
to other people. If you would like to share this book with another
person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If
you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not
purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com
and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work
of these authors.
****
Dedications
Amanda:
Love:
For Tom Bicknell,
fiancé extraodinare.
War:
To my grandfathers,
survivors of war: Jack: the soldier, and Stan: the POW.
Death:
For my stepfather,
Boris, who is fighting it.
Mark:
Love:
For Etina Deniz, my
life, my love.
War:
To all those brave
women; waiting and hoping that their husbands, lovers, brothers,
fathers, sons and friends would return: keeping hearths warm,
children fed and schooled. And to those who have fought/are
fighting for their beliefs.
Death:
For my mother,
Lesley and grandmother, Christine; women who taught me the value of
life before their journey to the undiscovered country.
Mark and Amanda Would
Also Like to Thank:
The editors would like to thank: Katharine
Kerr, Elaine Cunningham, C.E. Murphy, Anya Bast, Michael Bailey,
Peter Bell, Linda Donahue, Lynne Lumsden Green, L. J. Hayward,
Jennifer Lawrence, James Lecky, T. A. Moore, Mari Ness, Sharon Kae
Reamer, Martyn Taylor and Donald Jacob Uitvlugt, for sharing their
wonderful stories with us.
Reece Notley and Cecily Webster, for their
amazing artwork, inside and outside the book.
Tsana Dolichva, Sargon Donabed and Heather
Snow, for their selection work.
Michael Bailey, Kym MacFarlane and Sharon Ring
for their invaluable proofreading assistance.
An extra special thanks goes to Ruth Shelton:
contributor, selector and proofreader. You made this journey three
times as enjoyable and we are honored to have your presence so
apparent within this book.
****
Foreword
The Morrigan
Interesting, vital, violent, charismatic,
alluring; there are many ancient deities that may be able to
inspire such description, but few who linger in the modern mind.
The Morrigan ― Morrígu, Morríghan, Mor-Ríoghain ― otherwise known
as the triple goddess, was a deity of war, fertility, prophecy and
death.
Her name led scholars to translate her title
as ‘Sea Queen’, ‘Great Queen’ and, of course, as ‘Phantom Queen’.
Within the Ulster Cycle and other texts, she appears in various
guises; as a crone, maiden, mature woman, eel, cow, wolf and a crow
or raven. Her sexual love aspect was also related to fertility
cycles (this is also shown through her link to cattle) and luck;
when she slept with a great hero or god, it helped ensure his
victory in an upcoming battle.
The triple goddess included many aspects, and
Badb, perhaps the most well known, was but one of them. Badb was a
goddess in her own right, but was related to the battle crow. Badb
was also associated with the
Bean-sidhe
(fairy woman); the
Bean-sidhe
later became linked to the Banshee, a foreteller
of death. Macha was another aspect of the triple goddess, as were
Anann and Nemain, among others.
It is clear that the Morrigan was a goddess
created for story-telling; there was little she did not control or
influence. Thus, when Mark S. Deniz decided he wanted to create a
publishing company that promoted a darker brand of fiction, he
looked no further than the goddess who spoke through his own
writing. Thus, when it came time to produce the next Morrígan
Books’ anthology, where else was he to turn but to the namesake of
his company and his inspiration?
Then, when Mark suggested the idea of his
anthology to his in-house editor (that person being me), I waved my
arm around enthusiastically ― although with a shred more dignity
than a child waiting to be called upon in class ― and put my name
down for the job of co-editor. Wisely, Mark decided I would be a
valuable addition to the book.
Why me? Well, apart from being the in-house
editor (contrary to what you might hear, it really is all about who
you know), I have a university degree or three in archaeology. And
I’ve always had an interest in Celtic deities ― all ancient gods,
for that matter.
In fact, I specialize in Near Eastern
religion, and have come to dance a time or two with the gods of
Briton through studying the Roman Empire. So, when it came to
proposing the guidelines for this collection, Mark left it all in
my ‘capable hands’.
I knew what I was searching for and so did
Mark. We hoped to see stories that encapsulated the nature of a
goddess who failed to fit into any one mold. We didn’t want stories
that focused on a ‘Mother Goddess’, nor tales that were solely
gore-splattered renditions of war. No, we wanted stories that spoke
of the Morrigan’s various aspects, from death to love to hate and
hope.
We wanted stories that spoke of the nature of
man...and god.
Amanda Pillar & Mark S. Deniz
December 2009
****
Table of Contents
Rising Tide
: Ruth Shelton
Kiss of the Morrigan
: Anya
Bast
I Guard Your Death
:
Lynne Lumsden Green
Ravens
: Mari Ness
Gifts of the Morrigan
: Donald
Jacob Uitvlugt
Cairn Dancer
: C.E. Murphy
Washerwoman
: Jennifer Lawrence
The Raven's Curse
: Sharon Kae
Reamer
The Lass From Far Away
: Katharine
Kerr
The Trinket
: Peter Bell
The Dying Gaul
: Michael
Bailey
The Children of Badb Catha
:
James Lecky
The Plain of Pillars
: L.J.
Hayward
The Silver Branch
: Linda
Donahue
The Good and Faithful
Servant
: Martyn Taylor
The White Heifer of Fearchair
: T.A.
Moore
She Who Is Becoming
: Elaine
Cunningham
****
Ruth Shelton
A thousand tiny tidal pools shimmered in the
afternoon breeze, reflecting the sun overhead, while the last of
the storm clouds blew away to the south. I walked amongst them,
barefoot.
I picked my way slowly, careful not to disturb
the minute things swimming within, each little life clinging
desperately to the sides of the shallows or floating to the bottom
to lie still in the silt. I thought about the lifespan of those
frail beings ― so dependent upon the pull of the moon and the
seasons ― and I marveled that anything might find reason enough to
live when life itself was so short.
There was a rumble of thunder in the distance.
Across this low flat of land and water, the tide was rising.
Looking around at the shining pools of blue and green and brown, I
knew I hadn’t much time to work before the fresh tide washed them
all away.
And so, I reached down to the closest and
dipped gently into the iris with my beak, breaking the surface of
the now-still eyes of a warrior.
They would reflect the sun no
longer.
****
Afterword
‘Rising Tide’ was an attempt to describe
something felt and seen that blossomed fully-formed inside me. One
moment, I was washing a tile floor; the next, I was surrounded by
corpses on the sand and salt spray stung my face.
I hadn’t planned on writing a story. In fact,
I had no interest in even trying and nothing could have been
further from my mind, until about two minutes before the vision
grabbed me and my fingers hit the keyboard.
****
Biography
Since she’s far more accustomed to wielding a
red pencil than having it pointed in her direction, Ruth found
herself taken by surprise to be included in this anthology. Maybe
she’ll take a whack at writing fiction again in another fifty years
or so. Meanwhile, she’s content to read other people’s work, chase
down cat hair dirigibles, ride motorcycles, cook, and poke into
things which are both unknowable and ephemeral. Ruth shares some of
these hobbies with her sweet geezer in a home they share in
Louisville, Kentucky, US.
****
Anya Bast
Severus looked down at his hands. They were
roughened and dry from the handle of his sword, and blood had
filled the long cracks made from the cold, drying to a rust color.
Blood
. It was a familiar sight. He just wasn’t accustomed to
seeing his own.
The sounds of the camp swelled. Fires crackled
and snapped in the wintry air. Male voices rumbled and boomed: men
telling tales of battle, occasionally punctuated by the wails of
the dying.
They were familiar noises.
The sweet, sour stench of rotting wounds
filled the air. Not even the cold could banish it
completely.
It was a familiar scent.
But, if he concentrated, he could see the
wheat that grew tall and golden around his home in the summertime.
He could remember the color of his wife’s hair that almost matched
it. If he closed his eyes before sleep, he could sometimes hear his
eldest son laugh and almost smell bread baking.
Almost.
“It was a good battle today.” His friend,
Paetus, sat down beside him, now stripped of his gear. Almost all
the blood that had spattered Paetus’ forearms, face and hands had
been wiped off, though his close cropped, light hair still showed a
dried spray of it. He’d changed his clothes, but his eyes held the
shine they usually did after they fought the Britons.
“A good battle?” Severus ran his hand over his
jaw, feeling rough stubble. There was no such thing in his mind,
but Paetus thrived on taking new lands for the Empire in a way he
never could, though he did not express his true sentiments. “I
suppose it was.”
Paetus looked into the crackling fire and
shook his head. “These Britons have a spirit like I’ve never
seen.”