Medb raced across the pasture, ringed in thick clumps of blackthorn, their branches still bare. Steam puffed from her mouth. Her nose and cheeks were a stinging red. The last snow had finally melted, but the pasture was covered in a layer of frost. It shone grey in the moonlight.
Soon the blackthorn would bloom with slivers of green leaves and bursts of white flowers. Soon color would creep back into the sky and earth. Spring was a time of growth, a time of warmth, for happiness, so her mother had taught her. But as the nights grew shorter, Medb felt heavier. It was harder and harder to force herself out of bed, about her daily routine. All she wanted to do was lie in bed until it was dark enough, until more everyone within the high wooden pallisade of the hill fort had gone to sleep. Then she would slip out of the longhouse.
Once outside, she ran. Quick and quiet with bare feet, she ran right to the gate. Sometimes someone saw. The men at the gate dozed most nights, but sometimes they came huffing and shouting after her. Sometimes someone was out, smoking a pipe by their door, laughing with a friend, then they'd stop to yell at her. They never bothered to stop her. The guards never caught her. She'd lose them in the dark of the wood surrounding the fort.
But she knew the way through the woods and the low slopes of the hills to the flat plain used for pasture and cultivation. The was to the very edge of her new "father's" holdings, to the thick tangle of blackthorn. Once there, she reached out to prick her finger on the shrub tree's thick thorns. She watched her blood well, dark against her pale skin.
"Pepín."
She whispered, the name as soft as the breath steaming from her thin lips, and the branches before her creaked. They bent and twisted to reveal the cloaked figure beyond. He stepped out, the dark fabric rippling round him. Beneath all that wool he was tall and lean. Pale hands knocked the hood off a head with hair such a pale blond, it was nearly white. Beneath pale brows were eyes of equally pale blue. All of him was equally pale, but for the tips of his ears permanently singed black. They ended in adrupt, jagged curls and poked through the long thin veil of his hair. His face was long, his features angled.
Smiling at Medb, he asked, "Why have you returned?"
"You offered me a deal, and I intend to take it."
"Have you? When I made the offer, you said—"
"I know what I said."
At the snap of her words, his brows arched. "Your mood has not improved. What troubles you?"
"I want to go home."
He frowned. "Then go."
"With my mother and sisters—I want us all to go back home. We should not be here."
Nodding, he asked, "Do you pledge yourself to my will?"
She chewed at the inside of her cheek. "If I do, you will teach me the old ways? The forgotten histories?"
"I will."
"You will take us all back home?"
"I will."
For a long moment, she worried at her cheek and over all the implications of such a pledge. He asked for so much. She wanted to trust him. She wanted to believe that she could trust these feelings—of safety, of familiarty. When she looked at him, she saw everything of which she'd dreamed, everything that could make life for her family as it should be, as they deserved. How could she not accept?
Setting her jaw, pressing her lips into a firm line, she held out her palm to him. "I pledge myself to your will."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Kneeling before her, he took her hands into his. Taller than him now, she looked down at him for the first time. She smiled.
"The first task is simple. You must write out all your mother has taught you."
"I could bring you her tomes."
"But that is not the task. Its purpose is to demonstrate your understanding of the knowledge as well as the knowledge itself."
"Very well. I will do it."
His hands were as cold as her. But they squeezed tightly.
"And we will learn to trust each other, as it should be between master and apprentice."
Ducking her head, she raised her shoulders and tried to hide her wide grin. He chuckled. Standing, he tapped at her head.
"Now get yourself to bed before you take a cold."
She fixed her expression. Glanced up at him. He'd already turned to wave aside the blackthorn. She watched him walk into the dark beyond then the branches thread and twist back together.
I decided what happens to Brigit, and I hate myself.
She develops dementia. It fits with everything. It explains why Máire finally decides to go forward, to let go of the past. It explains why Medb and Béi stay “home” with Jack and Will, when they’d sure love to be rid of their brothers. It’s probably some consequence orchestrated by Pépin (the Ankou), probably something to do with as much as she knows.
...likely he had a hand in Brigit meeting Wigmund. likely he stirred the men who burned down her home. to destroy all those tomes and scrolls—all that knowledge and history. it wouldn’t be him directly. it’d be some wretched creature he’d left tethered to observe Brigit. some shapeshifter: a trickster spirit of the wood, broken and bound to the Ankou’s will.
It took fourteen days and fifteen nights to reach the coast. Every step, Wigmund leaned against Mama, and the three sisters stared at their backs. Sometimes Béi ran out ahead. Or left to forage. Or whatever else she did when she slipped off into the wood. Máire never asked. She barely spoke since leaving the cabin. Medb had said nothing since grabbing Máire's arm and howling, "We'll all die—far from home, all alone—we'll all die."
The words burned in Máire's ears, but she refused. Her will was unbound. She would find her dandelion hill, and she would not die. The burning came back. As she trudged behind Mama and Wigmund with green eyes affixed to his hand gripping tight at Mama's, Máire heard the words. She saw her sister's eyes, wide with fear, glowing from the flames swallowing their home whole. Máire reached over to grab Medb's hand. She had flinched the first time, during that frantic scramble from the cabin. But she'd stopped after the seventh, when the sun came streaming through the green boughs. Now she squeezed tight at Máire's hand.
"We'll go back," she'd whisper.
Medb would say nothing, but when Máire glanced over, her sister'd nod. Her grey eyes remained intent on Wigmund. He dominated Mama's focus. She never left his side, not that Máire saw. For fourteen days and fifteen nights, Mama always had a hand on Wigmund. They slept side-by-side. They whispered to each other in his harsh language.
"Do you still want to kill him?" More than once, over those days and nights, Máire would whisper those words to Medb, but she would only tap a finger against her lips. She kept her silence; Máire kept asking. She knew it was too late. It wouldn't reassemble the ash into the cabin, into the tomes, into all the pieces of her Papa that were left in this world. It wouldn't stop the deep hurt of a void opening inside her. It was like a hunger, but none of the bits Béi scrounged up could satisfy. Máire cried, sniffling and choking down sobs. So much at first that she thought she might retch, but then less and less as a cold numb seeped into her bones.
By the time an armored scout came charging up the surf at them, Máire was too tired to lift her eyes. Medb held Máire's hand, and she let her sister guide her. As soon as a bed was offered her, she fell into it. She pulled the blanket up around her face. Curling up into a tight ball, she shook until exhaustion overcame her. She slept without dreams.
Loud and low, horns shook her awake. She rubbed at her eyes and yawned. On the pallet beside her, Medb sat. Her grey eyes stared off at nothing.
"Have you slept?"
A corner of her mouth twitch up. She squeezed her eyes shut and sighed, "Yes."
"But not well."
Lifting a shoulder, she frowned at her sister. "It is not enough to go back."
"What do you mean?"
"We must undo—unravel what has been set. Change fate."
Máire giggled. "Is that all?"
"It cannot be done. What is done is done. What is gone is gone."
She had laid down again. She tried not to puzzle over her sister's expression, her words. They were heavy. They pressed down on her with their certainty, but she had never felt more unsure than when pinned by her sister's absolutism. Máire's will was unbound. That she knew. That was certain. Of that she could trust.
Mama shook Máire then Béi's shoulders. "You each must promise not to leave this tent." Mama looked at her three daughters from eldest to youngest. Her grey eyes lingered on Medb's matching set. "We shall talk when I return."
The three sisters were silent. They watched Mama slip through the cured leather and into the brilliant morning sun. Blinking away echoes of its light, Máire flopped back down. The tent was tight, the three girls on pallets beside each other. Mama had slept hunched up at their feet. Squeezing her eyes shut, Máire struggled to focus on that green hill dotted with yellow and white. She imagined the sky, a deep blue stretched out before her. Hemmed in distant mountains, the sky was without a single whisp of a cloud. But her sister's voices ripped dark gouges through the blue.
"Will you speak to me now?" Béi's voice was brittle.
"I have nothing to say." Medb spoke low and even.
"You left me no choice."
"Is that what you think?"
"He is an innocent."
"He is a warrior, who invaded our land."
"And a guest in our home. He came to us injured, and Mama--"
"He has her enchanted."
"He is no magician. Mama knows what she is doing."
"That is what scares me."
"You should talk to her."
"She should talk to us. She's the adult. As Máire keeps saying, we're just kids. I've no idea what to say. Do you?"
Béi scoffed, and Máire knew she had that scowl, twisting up her lips, furrows bunching up between her eyes. "A poor excuse. She's enough on her mind. I doubt she realizes you're upset. How would she?"
"If she doesn't realize her daughter isn't speaking to her, then she isn't the woman who raised me."
"And what do you want her to do? She can't bring the cabin or anything else back. What is gone is—"
"Be quiet. I am done talking."
They were quiet, and it was heavy, buzzing in Máire's ears like a lazy summer heat. She thought of laying awake between her sisters, both sleeping with their backs to her. That's how it'd be now, she saw. Even without grey eyes, she knew how it would go. Every disagreement between Medb and Béi was the same. For hours they sat in silence.
But all around were voices, loud and rough. Now and again a horse whinied or nickered. Somewhere to their right a hammer beat a savage but irregular rhythm. To the left, men groaned and cried out in pain. Máire heard her sister's howl again. Propping herself up with one arm, Máire brushed her hair back from her face.
"It's the grey eyes—that let you see glimpses of what may be. The same grey eyes Mama has. Isn't she teaching you—"
"No tomes or scrolls to teach now." Medb's voice snapped, and Máire glanced over at her sister. Features twitching, Medb had her eyes down. "But, yes, grey eyes mark us as filiae sortis."
"Why hasn't Mama taught Béi or me about this?"
"Mama doesn't want you believing in anything but the freedom of your unbound will."
Máire frowned and shook her head. "What are you on about?"
"It means daughters of fate," Béi said.
That phrase knocked a memory loose from the haze of despair. Máire remembered sitting at the table, with her sisters and Mama, with a thick scroll carefully rolled out across its length. Bent over the text, Mama brushed a feather below the precise block letters and read the histories of the Liberi.
Máire asked, "Like Aquila?"
Medb began to laugh. Soft and low, then louder and louder with each gasping breath, she laughed. Her sisters stared at her, and she laughed until thick tears rolled down her cheeks. Choking on her laughter, she bent over. As she coughed and sobbed, Béi crawled over. She pulled Medb tight to her chest. Lips on Medb's forehead, Béi whispered and rocked her sister.
Máire chewed at her lip. "I'm sorry."
Sniffling, Medb lifted her head. "No, Aquila is the one they call the first, though history is full of grey-eyed people with the gift. She was the only one who would dare stand against Illa Regina. She had the sight, and she meant to change the fate of her people." Medb sighed. "And she failed."
"Not completely." Béi rubbed at Medb's shoulder, and she smiled faintly.
It wasn't that night or the next. Or even the one after that. It was nights after, near enough a week. Máire had woken that morning with a bad taste in her mouth—bitter and thick, like milk going bad. All day she was queasy. She barely ate her creamed oats that morning, and Mama frowned at how little stew Máire took for herself. She asked to lie down in the midst of eating it, when Medb again pressed their mother to leave.
"Take the man and go. We will protect the cabin from that rider's army. When they find only children—"
"I shudder to imagine, and I marvel at your tongue. 'Take the man and go,' my youngest says to me. What fine ladies I'm raising."
"If you'd wanted fine ladies, you wouldn't have taught us to read."
Mama laughed at that, and Máire left as Medb tried another tactic. She'd been relentless in her pursuit, but Mama and Wigmund disagreed on every bit of every plan put before them. Máire had begun to think it all nonsense. It had been near enough a week since they saw the rider. Since then, there'd been no sign of him or his army. Medb had been wrong about the whole thing.
She kept arguing with Mama. Their voices followed Máire up into bed, but she bundled up tight in her blanket. She squeezed her eyes shut. She built up her hill and covered it once more in dandelions. She ran up it, rolled back down, ran up, rolled down again, ran up, and rolled down. When she was tired, she remained splayed out on her back across the dandelions. She slept.
Máire—Medb—Béi—Mama screamed. Their names were a curdling howl that ripped Máire from the dark. She burst up, onto her feet, and she stumbled back as a wave of thick smoke rolled up the underside of the roof. Coughing, she stared at the orange glow licking up the boards as the thatch roof caught fire. She was still standing there staring when Mama started shaking her by the shoulders.
"Run."
Mama shoved Máire toward the ladder, but when she stepped up to the edge, she froze. Flames rippled up, engulfing the tomes and scrolls which lined the cabin's wooden walls. Mama screamed—that desperate sound tore at Máire. She swung over the ladder and slid down. Mama and her sisters were right behind. Kicking at the flaming doors of a cabinet until they swung open, Mama snatched out weapons. Then she kicked out the back door.
Two men with swords, more with short spears and flaming cudgels were waiting. They rushed at Mama, but she knocked them all back with a gale, sent out with a wave of her hand and a shout. The force knocked them back into the trees. With Wigmund half over her shoulder, she started to lead them away. Béi rushed forward to help her with his weight. They ran down to the river. They crossed, and the men followed after. Mama had heard the men coming.
"Go north, baby. Where the river meets the sea, Wigmund's people have a camp. Find us there. Go."
Mama's voice echoed. It lingered in the grey which swallowed Máire whole and then dropped her back at that first day. Her knee knocked against Medb's arm, and she frowned up at her sister.
"You went to the river without me."
"I saw a stag."
"But you brought this one back."
"Should I have left him?"
"Absolutely not!" Mama snapped.
"But if they find him, they'll burn the cabin down."
"Who is they?"
"She's talking about a dream she had," Medb said. "It woke her in the night. She thought the house was burning down around us because of this man."
"You dreamed of his face?" Mama asked, and Máire blinked up at her.
"She described it to me, and she said his name was Noll Wigmund."
Mama frowned. First at Medb, then at Máire. "Baby, I need your help. Need to wrestle down the spare mattress from the loft then get him settled on it."
Sometimes I feel bad for Cian Aed, but then I remember he promised the life of his first born to save his people and I don't care. I just don't. He can stay trapped between worlds.
Once a month, Mama packed up the gelding and led it up the river to the hill fort. It belonged to the [Connacht] tribe, who claimed the farms and woodland surrounding. They kept to themselves and were more than a bit mistrustful of the lone Brigit and her three daughters, but they needed her remedies. The druids had been their healers, but the elders of the druid order had recalled all their members. It'd been at least a decade since a druid was seen in these lands.
But the new moon was fast approaching, and Mama had given no indication of making the trek. She was too busy fussing over Noll Wigmund. The man had woken several nights after Mama had dragged him in. His recollection of events before he was found tangled in the roots of a pine were lost. But he knew his name and from where he came. He spoke a strange and harsh language. Máire understood not a word, though Mama spoke it easy. And Medb could follow mostly, though she had difficulty translating in terms Máire could understand. Still Medb reported what she could to her sisters. They laid awake some nights. Whispering to each other, they tried to grasp the shift which had occurred since the arrival of the man.
But Máire was twelve, Medb and Bébinn were ten. They didn't understand how their mother could be lonely.
Máire spent her days by the river, though she dreamed of a dandelion hill. She walked up and down the bank. She didn't see the stag again. She dreamed of it, though it was white. It spoke to her. It whispered like the wind, and its words faded upon her waking. That morning she woke with a strange twisting deep in her guts. It cramped hard, nearly doubling her over as she walked down to the river. She felt something cool and wet on her leg. Glancing down, she saw a dark red dribble.
She stopped. Dropped right to the ground and followed the trail up her thigh. Tugging down her leggings, she peeked into her underthings and began whispering, "No, no, I'm not..." She pulled up her leggings. Pushed herself back onto her feet. She ran. Her guts kept twisting up inside her. Wading out into the water, she began to cry. She walked out until the water was at her neck. She took a deep breath and folded down. Settling on the silt of the riverbed, she scrubbed her legs clean. She stayed under until her lungs burned with their emptiness. Pushing herself up, stumbling back, she coughed and gasped. Her head was light, fuzzy, spinning around and up. Her green eyes blinked up at the white and blue sky.
She didn't feel any different. Aside from the twisting in her gut. Mama had told Máire this would happen, her body would change, and so much else. But she didn't want to believe Mama. Máire prayed most nights to the child hunter, and she loved them. Their kind, round face, their songs, their story, their presence--as warm and welcome as her blanket--but when a girl began to bleed, she became a woman. The child hunter no longer protected her in the night. Máire would have to pray to the green man now. Or the dark mother. Or any number of other deity who watched over humans.
Mama had taught Máire their proper names. The child hunter was [Aodh], a god whose sole province was the care and nurturing children. Forever a child himself, he revealed himself to the tribes of the [Green Isle] long ago, when a pestilence threatened the lives of near every child on the Isle. The green man was [Cernunnos], the god of the grove, called Lyaeus by the Liberi Imperium. The dark mother was the Morrígu, queen of phantoms, sometimes a young girl, sometimes a wizened crone. Both frightened Máire with their imposing visages in every rendition Máire had seen. (Which numbered six. One set of small wooden coins, one set of wooden statues, both which Papa had carved. The rest were scattered through the many tomes and scrolls Mama kept. The main floor of the cabin was surrounded in shelves and reading desks.) She knew their stories, but she'd never felt their presence. They were not her gods; they were strangers.
She dropped her eyes to the forest on the far bank. Máire could barely remember the days she'd spent away from the cabin and these woods. She was twelve, she was bleeding, and she'd never been across the river. So she swam across. Her heart was pounding as she walked up the muddy bank. The woods looked no different from the other side: old hardwoods with clumps of younger evergreen, few smaller trees, brush and here. Now that she stood, looking it up and down, she noticed much more undergrowth than in the woods she knew. She stepped lightly, weight mostly on the balls of her feet. Creeping across a blanket of long dead leaves, branches, and knotted vines covered in thorns, she picked her way through the brush. It was slow going. Within a few feet, her legs were striped with thin cuts weeping blood. But she kept on. She wasn't sure where she was going, and once she admitted that to herself, she stopped. Holding her breath, she listened. She could hear the [songbirds] singing from their nest across the river. Looking up, she oriented herself with the sun. She was headed north. Home was to the south, a simple walk back, Máire assured herself. She didn't know what was ahead, only that it pulled at her. Like a thread 'round about her heart, it tugged with every thump. She held back leafy branches and saw a small clearing. Several pine had toppled over, their roots an exposed mess at the far side of the clearing. Their branches bared her way, through she could see through. She could see the white stag.
She scrambled forward. Trying to push and pull her way through the pine branches, she watched the stag go bounding off into the trees. She sighed. It took her too long to pick a path through to walk down the decomposing trunks. Bits of bark flaked off here and there beneath her feet. Hopping down into the tall grass, she scanned the woods. Not a single sliver of white as far as she could.
She continued. White flashed and darted away to her left. She turned too late and saw only more brush, more trees. Still, for a long moment, she stood and stared. How far north of the river was she now? If she started east, would she still be able to head south and find the river? She charted its crooks and stretches as she chewed at her lip. She'd count her steps. Then she could back west a near enough distance.
Still a simple walk back. Mama always said she could go far as she'd liked, so long as she could get back before dark. So long as it was a simple walk back. She took a moment to find the sun again, to note it was still before midday. She could follow until the sun began to dip a bit. That'd leave her plenty of time to get back. The undergrowth thinned in a path ahead. She eyed it, and the surrounding thick brush. Frowning, she glanced back to the south.
Should go home. Should tell Mama—but she doesn't want to yet. She's not ready. She ran down the path, snaking back and forth, but always heading east. She stayed light on her feet, only the balls tapping at the muddy leaves covering the worn earth. She ran and ran until the sun was high overhead.
She stopped. Peared up through the branches of oaks. The sun was there, burning bright, but beneath it, she could see the blue moon. It hovered like a faint ghost. But its light flared in a rush of yellow that knocked her back. She fell into darkness.
She came up on the crest of a hill covered in dead grass. A red sun hung low in the sky above a burning city. The sky was bruised, a deep purple beneath the billowing grey and black of the smoke. Words rung in her ears: you must turn back. Their sound was a grating burning, and she collapsed under the weight.
When she fell this time, she landed on hands and knees. She blinked at the muddy leaves beneath her and struggled to breath. Sitting back on her ankles, she stared up the path. The white stag stood in the distance.
She scrambled to her feet and chased after it. It led her up over a low hill, but when she reached the top, a figure in a white cloak blocked the path. She nearly ran into it. She jumped back, but the figure did not move.
"Who are you?"
The cloak parted. A pale hand reached up to brush the cowl back from an equally pale head. It was a man, from what Máire could tell, with the palest blond hair she'd ever seen. His eyes were pale blue, larger and more angled than she'd seen. His features were angled, his nose long and pointed.
"Are you an elf?"
A scowl rippled over his features. "Silence, child. You must turn back."
"No."
He laughed. "You speak as if you have a choice."
"I do. My will is unbound. You'll not deter me."
"Ignorant witch-child, the world has no need for the likes of you. It has moved on. This is a new age, and you will not interfere with my plans."
He threw off the cloak with a wave of one arm. She darted past him and up the path.
"My will is unbound." She shouted the words. They echoed back to her, and she could not recognize her voice. It was full of thunder. "You'll not deter me. [Aodh] protects me from the likes of you, pale man."
She ran until at last she saw the white stag again. It waited at the path's end: a grove of oaks. Looking at it now, she could see its antlers had only four points. The oaks grew in precise circles, radiating around the circle of stone monoliths. The stag stood in the very center. Máire stood panting on shaking legs at the grove's edge.
This was a holy place, but there no druids, no priests. Mama had never mentioned it. But Máire had the sense of having been here before. If she imagined it at night or in the faded light of early dawn, it looked almost like her dreams. She pinched at her nose, but the grove and the stag persisted.
Still she hesitated. She glanced back, though there was no sign of the pale man. That had been incredibly foolish, she realized now. If Mama knew, she'd be furious. Máire stared at the stag and wondered what Mama would say about it. Were stags to be trusted?
She should go back. She didn't have to tell Mama. She could keep it all to herself, carry the secret with her through life. Feeling its weight on her shoulders, she shifted. Then took a step into the grove. She could bare to keep a secret, but she couldn't bare coming this close and not knowing. She walked through the oaks; she walked up to the stag. Its nostrils flaring, it dipped its head. It sniffed at her, so she held out her hand. It rubbed its nose into her palm. Cold and wet, it snuffled against her skin, and she giggled.
Its head lifted. Then it shrank back, down. Its white peeled and faded away into the shape of a woman, her hair a shock of grey, her eyes black. She wore leathers, painted and adorned with silver. In one hand, she held a gnarled walking stick. On the other, a crow perched. It stared at Máire, and she stared back.
"You are the stag?"
The strange woman smiled. "I have been known to be."
"Are you the dark mother?"
Sighing, she turned to the crow. "When did they start calling me that?"
It gave a sharp call in reply, and the woman chuckled.
"That's what I call you."
"Do you know my true name?"
"The Morrígu."
She smiled. "You outran the Ankou. Outplayed by a child, he must be out of his mind with rage."
"I'm not a child anymore."
"It doesn't happen all at once, witch-child. It takes time. You're not a woman yet."
She frowned. "But I bleed."
"There's so much more to being a woman than that. You'll see as you grow up."
"Who is the Ankou?"
"You know him as death. He is your destiny."
"My will is unbound."
The Morrígu smiled. "You cannot resist fate. You will see. When your eyes turn grey, you will see. You will know my words are true."
"Mama said it was my magic making my eyes grey."
"You were not meant to be gifted, but you are the first. You have been promised to the Ankou, so you must be gifted."
"I don't understand."
"And I don't have the time to explain. You will understand. You will see."
The Morrígu stepped forward. She tapped Máire's forehead with the worn handle of her walking stick. The light touch was enough to knock Máire into darkness once more.
She woke in her bed between her sisters. Blinking up at the roofboards, she struggled to understand. Had it been a dream all along? Then her guts twisted. She scrambled from the bed.
Her frantic retreat woke both her sisters. They pushed themselves up. Yawned. And snapped, "Slow down before you hurt yourself." But Máire was already skipping every other rung on her way down. She dropped down.
"Mama."
But she was still asleep, her back to Máire. She crossed to her mother's bed.
"Mama, my stomach hurts."
She rolled over. Rubbing sleep from her eyes, brushing her hair back, she yawned.
"Mama?"
"I heard you, baby. Waking up. What hurts?"
"My stomach." Stepping closer, Máire mumbled. "I'm bleeding."
"I'll warm some water, so you can watch. Then I'll brew you some tea." Pushing herself up, Mama smiled. "It's strange, isn't it?"
Máire shrugged. She thought of the pale man and the dark woman, and she chewed at her lip.
"I didn't think I would ever start. I dreaded it."
"Does this mean I'm a woman?"
"Not yet, baby."
"When will I be?"
"When you decide."
"I don't understand."
Mama ruffled the tangle of Máire's hair. "Don't be in a rush to grow up, baby. You can't go back."
"Then I can still pray to the child hunter?"
Mama smiled. "Of course, Máire. You can pray to whomever you want."
Máire sighed. "The Morrígu scares me."
"Why do you say that? I know she can seem harsh, but remember the stories—"
"She wasn't anything like the stories. She had short grey hair, and she laughed when I called her the dark mother."
"What are you talking about?"
"I—I saw her. I thought I had woken early to go down to the river, but it was a dream. I saw her, and she said I had been promised to the Ankou."
For a long moment, Mama sat there staring at Máire. Mama began to shake her head. She kept shaking it as she stood and crossed to the hearth. Clearing out the remains of last night's fire, Mama didn't say a word. She poured water from one of the buckets by the hearth into her large clay pot. It was well stained with soot, its sides a deep black though its rim was a warm, ruddy orange. She built a fresh fire and hefted the pot to sit in the cradle of the crackling logs. Wiping her hands on the front of her sleep tunic, Mama turned back to Máire.
"Nothing is set. Even stone weathers away. Wind and water can wear it away to nothing. Your fate is of your choosing. Do you understand me, baby?"
She frowned. "No, Mama."
Mama smiled. Resting her hands on her hips, she shook her head and looked away. "Your father should be here."
Máire didn't know what to say. She stared up at her mother, who kept her focus on the fire.
"He made a promise, to a man we had once trusted, but the man was false. Everything about him was false. So, why should your father's promise be worth anything? It was coerced. That taints it. Do you understand?"
"This man was the Ankou? He was pale—his hair nearly white."
"He was in your dream?"
"He tried to stop me, but I wouldn't listen. I ran away. I followed the white stag."
Mama tapped her on the nose. "That's my bright girl. A white stag will never mislead you."
Máire grinned. "When will we go up river again?"
Mama folded her arms across her chest. "We need to go before it starts getting cold. I don't have as much stockpiled to trade. I've been too..." Sighing, she shook her head.
"He's better every day."
Mama curled her lips up in a smile, but it didn't reach her grey eyes. "So he is. Guess it won't be trouble for us to leave tomorrow morning, then."
