The Phantom Queen Awakes (25 page)

Morrigan soared over the battlefield,
recalling the carnage and blood-mud and rotting corpses. All was
peace now. The plain was returned to them, the glory of their land
their own once more. Yet as the world moved on, Morrigan could
still feel the tug of the past, the killing and the loss would
never leave this place. It would reach forward into the future from
the past and shape the destiny of men and gods.

Despair filled her breast as she fled the
Plain of Pillars and sang out at long last the prophecy she had
feared to tell Dagda when he came to her on Samhain...

****

“I shall not see a
world

Which will be dear to
me:

Summer without
blossoms,

Cattle will be
without milk,

Women without
modesty,

Men without
valor.

Conquests without a
king ...

Woods without
mast.

Sea without
produce...

False judgments of
old men.

False precedents of
lawyers,

Every man a
betrayer.

Every son a
reaver.

The son will go to
the bed of his father,

The father will go to
the bed of his son.

Each his brother’s
brother-in-law.

He will not seek any
woman outside his house...

An evil
time,

Son will deceive his
father,

Daughter will deceive
...”

~ Translated from the ‘Cath Maige

Tuired’ by Elizabeth A. Gray.

****

Afterword

Back when I was discovering fantasy as a
genre, some of the first books I came across (and loved) were
Katharine Kerr’s
Deverry
series and Kenneth C Flint’s
Sidhe
series. Needless to say, these books inspired a
fascination with all things related to Celtic mythology and it
paved the way for an interest in ancient history in high school.
All that led to a university degree and a subsequent working life
in science. Logical, really.

When the call for submissions for this
anthology came out, I was thrown right back into those days of Kerr
and Flint devotion and the decision to submit was made for me. The
tripartite nature of Morrigan intrigued me, so I set about reading
everything I could about her, searching for that spark of
something
to inspire the unfathomable creativity of the
back-brain. Nothing jumped out at me. Then I found a translation of
the
Cath Maige Tuired
, the tale around which Flint set some
of his
Sidhe
stories. Still, little in the tale stood out to
me. Morrigan’s part was vague and confusing. Then I reached the end
and found her prophesy. The opening lines―

I shall not see a
world

Which will be dear to
me

―caught my attention like a sprung bear-trap.
This woman had just fought tooth and nail to save a world she
believes will turn into something she could hate. I was immediately
struck by the disparity between the two images of Morrigan in the
tale ― the cucumber-cool creature who went to King Indech and took
from him “the blood of his heart and the kidneys of his valor” and
the heartbroken woman who saw a future world she could not love.
What would make a person swing between these opposing
natures?

The only answer I could find was love. Love of
a man. Love of country. Love of life. The Morrigan loves Dagda, so
she listens to his council, takes his comfort and lets him talk her
into doing things she otherwise wouldn’t do. She loves her country,
so she fights for it and sacrifices the lives of her people for it.
She loves life, so she despairs over the losses, and grieves that
perhaps those losses were in vain.

Morrigan isn’t just a goddess of war,
fertility and prophecy. She’s a woman with doubts, fears, passion
and hormones ― as well as a kick-ass ability to turn into a bird.
Awesome.

‘The Plain of Pillars’ is a war story. It’s
about greedy kings and larger-than-life heroes. It’s about honor
and betrayal. But mostly, it’s just about a woman doing anything
she can to protect the things she loves.

****

Biography

L.J. Hayward lives in southeast Queensland.
Well, she works there and sometimes makes an attempt at this thing
called ‘life’. She’s had stories published with Eneit Press,
Aurealis and Morrigan Books and is still working toward that
editor-eye-catching novel. Like Robert A. Heinlein, she feels that
writing isn’t something to be ashamed of, but she does do it in
private and washes her hands thoroughly afterward. You can read her
idle prattle at Plot Happens:

http://l-j-hayward.livejournal.com
.

Linda
Donahue

The Silver Branch

The hound bayed mournfully, refusing to
approach the river. Aodhan petted it, wondering what had gotten
into the beast. Then he saw the washerwoman.

A wretched crone hunched across the ford,
frothy water rushing around a lump of stone beside her. Furiously,
she washed a goblet ― Aodhan’s goblet, the amber pattern embedded
in the silver a unique design. His daughter Bav had made the
cup.

Aodhan waded halfway across, shouting, “Who
dares steal my cup? Do you not know of me?”

The hag raised her head. “You are Aodhan,
chieftain of your tuath.”

He moved closer. Her tattered robes fell about
her bended knees and stretched long on the ground. Nearer now, he
saw that the stone wasn’t stone but a man’s body dressed in dark
leather, half on the shore, half in the stream. The corpse had worn
his beard trimmed short and neat. What showed of his flesh bore a
sickly pallor.

Recognizing his own clothing on the corpse,
Aodhan staggered backwards, nearly slipping in the stream. Though
he knew the answer, he asked, “Who are you?”

“I am she who sleeps on Mount Knocknarea deep
in the Cairn of Maeve.”

“The Phantom Queen,” Aodhan whispered. The
Morrigan. His steps faltering, he retreated to where his hound
waited. “How do I die?”

“By poison.”

“Who would do me such harm?” he
asked.

“Your death comes at the hand of one you
trust.”

A poor death for a warrior chieftain. Death at
a coward’s hands. Aodhan returned home, his heart burdened ― not so
much by the knowledge of his death, but that someone would want to
murder him.

He crossed the narrow bridge to the crannog, a
fortress built upon an island of rocks. For the night he ensconced
himself in his chambers, seeing no one, not even his wife or
daughter. When he greeted the sun the next day, he wondered if he
had bested the Morrigan, if fate had been averted.

Nonetheless, for a fortnight he refused to
drink from his goblet and refused any food or beverage he did not
prepare himself. Thus he survived until summer’s end.

****

On the first night of Samhain, his tuath
always feasted, celebrating the harvest and a wealth of trade.
Among Ireland’s many clans, none were as skilled at working with
silver as Aodhan’s people.

“You do not seem to enjoy the music,” Dagda
said, seated beside him. “And you haven’t touched your
mutton.”

Aodhan took his wife’s hand. “I feel too
thankful to be alive to eat.” He smiled, his words a half-truth.
The image of his poisoned corpse still haunted his
dreams.

“If you won’t eat, shall we dance?” she
asked.

Aodhan escorted his wife amidst happy
revelers. Not a one cast him an evil eye. No one appeared devious.
But that was how a murderer must be, if he wasn’t to be
caught.

So while he danced, he kept an eye on the
table, remembering all who paused near his plate.

“I believe our daughter fancies that young
man,” Dagda said. “She’s danced with him three times
now.”

Aodhan nodded in the young man’s direction.
“He’d make a fine alliance.”

Then his gaze fell upon a woman, tall and
slender, not of this tuath or of neighboring clans. Long blonde
hair fell to her hips. She glided like mist between the revelers.
Her red gown clung to her, seeming to drip down her body and puddle
over her feet.

As the woman moved towards the door, Aodhan
kissed his wife and promised to return...hoping he could keep that
promise.

He followed the Morrigan. Seeing her head for
the river, he paused. A gift might appease her.

Aodhan ran to his chambers and took his best
creation, a silver branch with filigree leaves and flowers. He ran
after the Morrigan’s shadow, hearing the throaty caw of crows and
wolf howls rising on the misty air. Her animals called to
her.

Yet the Morrigan wasn’t by the ford as
expected.

A lone white heifer plodded towards a sidhe, a
passage grave, this one an ancient mound as old as the land. Atop
the rise stood a dolmen, a portal tomb. The moon shone upon the
dolmen’s massive capstone, making it brighter than the silver in
Aodhan’s hand.

Singing, like none Aodhan had ever heard, came
from the portal.

“I know you’re here,” he shouted.

The heifer reared onto its hind legs. As it
straightened, it became the Morrigan wearing a white cloak. The hem
of her gown trailed across the land like a bloody streak. She
strolled beneath the capstone, neither shunning nor acknowledging
Aodhan’s presence.

Aodhan quickened his pace. He paused but a
breath at the portal entrance before entering the
Otherworld.

There, the sun shone at midday.

The Morrigan, her hair as golden as honey,
strolled towards a stout keep surrounded by a gleaming brass fence.
A moat, shimmering like glass, surrounded her fortress. And a brass
net hung from a frame.

“Have you another prophesy for my death?”
Aodhan shouted.

The Morrigan turned her head, her neck long,
pale and graceful. She swept out her arms, spreading her white
mantle, its beauty so great it would shame a swan. A silver brooch,
decorated with twisted gold knotwork, held her cloak.

Aodhan offered her the silver branch. “A
gift,” he said, his voice softer, his tone less abrupt. “I have not
yet died of poison. Might this old warrior have a better death
waiting?”

“You die by poison,” she said. “But not
today.”

Joy lifted his heart, temporarily. Would he
live only as long as he was careful? That, too, was undignified for
a tuath chieftain.

The Morrigan took the branch. “The
craftsmanship is superb. Come inside. I have enjoyed the
hospitality of your celebration. Allow me now to return the
gesture.”

She lifted her hem. Silver sandals graced her
feet.

Aodhan followed her across the narrow bridge
to her keep. Inside the Great Hall, she placed the silver branch in
a vase.

When she served him food and wine, Aodhan
harbored the fear that perhaps hers would be the hand that murdered
him. Yet no food had tasted better and no wine sweeter.

Sitting before a hearty fire, Aodhan said, “I
do not wish to die of poison.”

“I do not write the fates of men.”

“But you can change them.”

The Morrigan remained silent, neither
confirming nor refuting Aodhan’s words.

“Who would murder me?” Aodhan asked. “I have
no enemies.”

The Morrigan extended a hand. “Serve me for a
day and I shall reward you.”

Grateful, Aodhan agreed.

For the remainder of this day, into the night
and until midday again, Aodhan served the Morrigan. He fetched
water. He polished the brass fence and mended the brass net. He
repaired the clasp on her cloak-brooch. He did all that the
Morrigan bid.

At midday, she approached with the same silver
branch he had given her. As she waved the branch, he heard a
musical tinkling. Now, instead of three silver flowers, the branch
contained eighteen crystal blooms.

“You have seventeen true enemies, Warrior
Chieftain Aodhan,” she said. “Whenever you wish the death of an
enemy, speak his name and crush a bloom. Sometime before night
descends on the day, your enemy shall fall.”

Aodhan dropped to his knees, clutching the
precious gift. “May I ask why there are eighteen blooms if I only
have seventeen enemies?”

“One of those blooms holds power over your own
life. When you crush that bloom, your life is forfeit.”

“Which one is mine?”

“Only I shall know that.”

Then I must choose carefully, lest I crush my
own bloom by mistake. Naturally, the Morrigan wouldn’t give him
such a powerful gift without any risk involved.

The branch in hand, Aodhan returned the way
he’d come.