Awakening the Gods

by Kristin Gleeson

  The key turned in the lock with ease and I pushed the door open. The kitchen was cold and I shivered a little when I entered. There were some unwashed ware in the sink, which for some reason brought tears to my eyes. He’d not long been gone, it said to me. An “I’ll be back” promise of washing up. I moved through the kitchen to the sitting room beyond and looked around me. The stove was cold, the fire there long burned out beyond embers. I picked up the book that had been placed face down on the table with its pages open. It was a fantasy. I nearly laughed with the absurdity of it.

  I moved over to the fiddle, shut up in its case and lying in the corner of the room. Carefully, I opened the case and withdrew the fiddle. I put it up to my chin and moved the bow across its strings. I played a little tune, badly, because I only had only the rudiments of a notion how to play, but it somehow made me feel closer to Smithy. I couldn’t help but think of him as Smithy when I tried to conjure him with the fiddle. That was who he was to me when we’d played.

  The notes resonated mournfully inside me. It was a keening of sorts, the sort of sound that shows all the aches that are too awful to say. It reached out and connected with me, communed and commiserated. It understood and allowed me space to feel the loss and the pain of what we had been and what I had rejected.

  After a little while I put away the fiddle and went into the bedroom. The bed was unmade and full of promises of later, too. There were clothes draped across a chair and at the end of the bed, as if he had changed hurriedly.

  I hadn’t been here since those few nights we’d shared together. Those special, wonderful nights when I’d become one with him in a way I’d never done with anyone else. I knew that it was special and there was something between us that was strong, a bond that no man or anything else could put asunder, not even death. I just didn’t recognise it for what it was because it didn’t seem possible. But it had nothing to do with possibility, it just was.

  One of pieces of clothing draped on the chair was a black hooded sweatshirt. I picked it up and held it to my nose. I inhaled deeply. I could smell him in the fabric, his scent embedded deeply and difficult to describe. Not a man given to aftershave or cologne, but a scent that was just him. On impulse I removed my jacket and pulled the sweatshirt over my head. It settled down around my body, big and bulky, but it felt good. I placed my hands in the pockets and snuggled into it, trying to draw his scent around me. It gave me comfort, made me feel as though he was here with me. I closed my eyes, drew in my breath and let it fill me up, give me strength.

  I grabbed my jacket and made my way to the sitting room and then to the kitchen. Once there, I had a quick glance around to see if I needed anything and decided I didn’t. I locked the door and made my way to the forge, used the other key to open it. Once inside I flicked on the light. It came on with a hum and I stood there, blinking in its brightness and surveyed the space.

  It was so neat and tidy. So much more so than the house. A place of a man who loved what he did. Despite the number of blades scattered across one of the worktops, it was a place of work, a place of creation and craftsmanship.

  I moved over to the worktop holding the blades. I picked up one of them and realised it was the blade we’d created together, polished and finished, all except for a hilt, in the time when we spun, twirled and wove ourselves together. I felt something stir in me as I held the blade in my hand, felt its weight. It was beautiful, almost mesmerising, and so balanced. I don’t know how I knew that but I did. The only thing lacking to make it perfect was a hilt. I looked around for something that would suffice, knowing all the while I was so very ignorant of all of this.

  In the end I spied a ball of string and began to wind the string around the hilt end of the blade so that each line of string lay next to the other. I kept winding, building up the layers until I ran out of the string and tucked the end inside the layers. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do. I slipped the blade with its string hilt into the pocket of the sweatshirt and looked at the other blades on the counter. There were no others that approached a finished state.

  I turned my eyes to the various items hung on the wall. I spied a small shield, nearly as small as the targes I’d seen in films of Scots fighting on the battlefield. Next to it was a sheathed dagger, the hilt displaying stylish embellishment, as if it were a prop for a film. I took the two items down from the wall and examined them.

  The shield was on the heavy side for me and it seemed bulky when I slipped my arm through the leather straps. I clasped it firmly, spread my feet apart and bent my knees slightly in a defensive stance. I took up the dagger, removed the sheath and pretended to lunge and stab. A moment later I dropped the stance and rolled my eyes, thinking how ridiculous I looked. Was it all just a farcical idea?

  I looked at the dagger, still held in my hand and realised there was something different about this one. It didn’t feel like the other, the one for which I’d fashioned the string hilt. The one we’d made together. That one felt almost alive, part of me. Ready to do what I bid. It had talked to me, told me things without anything other than a knowing. It gave me a knowing. A knowing of its wants, a knowing of “should dos” and “will dos”. This dagger, well it was just dead. It lay heavy in my hand, telling me nothing, imparting nothing.

  It was a weapon, though. I couldn’t dispute that. I needed it. I replaced the dagger in its sheath and tucked it inside the pocket of my sweatshirt with the other blade. Maybe it would learn a thing or two from the other, I thought with a little laugh.

  I picked up the shield and headed for the door. I’d got what I’d come for. Once the forge was locked I headed back to the house. I unlocked the kitchen door once again and headed directly through the kitchen to the sitting room and then on to the bedroom. I could only hope what I needed was there. It took a little searching among the clothes in the wardrobe, but I finally found two belts. One of them I buckled around my hips, using the last hole and placed the two daggers, side by side through the loop of the belt end that I’d tucked up. I pulled the sweatshirt over it, satisfied that the weapons were more or less concealed. I slid the other belt across one shoulder, under the sweatshirt and slung the shield along my back under the sweatshirt. It was awkward and bulky but I had little choice about it.

  I caught myself in the mirror, the long plait of hair I’d woven that morning bright in the strong light of afternoon. Impatiently, I stuffed my plait down the back of the sweatshirt and decided I looked like a maimed hunchback with all the bulk back there. It had to be done, though. It kept my hair out of the way and made me less conspicuous. Or perhaps not conspicuous because I really did look like a deformed hunchback, but at least I was less recognisable. I left the bedroom and made my way to the outside door, giving everything only a brief glance as I passed. I inhaled one last time, imprinting his scent in my mind and in my body. I hoped that soon I would replace the memory with the real thing.

  27

  Saoirse

  I stood in the yard, glancing around one last time. I was suddenly startled by a large crow that landed almost in front of me. I gaped as I watched it transform into a woman.

  “Maura!” I said, her name escaping from me. If I’d had time to collect myself I would have given her true name. Morrigan. I was under no illusions now, and if I had been they would have vanished the moment she shapeshifted in front of me. No more pretence. She wanted me to know. Maura the Rookery, indeed. No wonder Smithy had said her name with such irony. Goibhniu, I corrected myself.

  “What brings you here?” I asked.

  She studied me carefully, her eyes taking in my clothes and my stance, which had assumed a slightly defensive posture.

  “Going somewhere?” she said. She smiled slyly, leaned forward and touched my waist where the daggers were hidden. She arched a brow.

  I hardened my gaze. “Perhaps.”

  “Oh, Bríd, don’t be coy with me. I’m here to help you.”

  I remained silent, my expression settled into distrust. “That’s ve
ry kind of you, but I don’t need your help,” I said eventually.

  I was fairly certain that any help from Morrigan, the Goddess of War, would lead to nothing good. I was also fairly certain that she’d had a good hand in all things concerning Goibhniu and me coming together. That should have made me glad, for I was happy that the two of us had come together, I had no doubts about that, but anything with Morrigan involved was bound to have unforeseen dubious complications.

  She tsked. “Bríd you’re armed with weapons I doubt you know how to use, most likely to go to a place you’ve never been before. You need my help. It’s what I do.”

  “Warfare? I’ve no intention of going to war. And as I understand it, you enjoy fomenting conflict. That’s not what I want.”

  “Fomenting?” She laughed. “You sound like you’re narrating one of those hero cycles of the mythic tales. Morrigan foments conflict among the Fíanna.” The last phrase she intoned with a deep voice of an onstage narrator.

  I frowned. “I mean the words, whatever you may think of my choice.”

  Morrigan sighed. “I have no intention of creating any new conflict. We have enough brewing for me to handle.”

  I remained silent, waiting for her to leave. I could wait, I had no problem with that. I knew, with that knowing, I needed to do this by myself.

  Perhaps she sensed my intransigence because she softened her stance and her face took on a pleading expression.

  “I want to help,” she said quietly. “Because it’s important that you stay safe, that Goibhniu returns quickly. The two of you are important to our chances of succeeding against Balor.”

  “So, you’ve chosen to support the Tuatha de Danann again?”

  I had tried to assemble all the pertinent facts about Morrigan as soon as I’d seen her. Facts? Really? I nearly laughed. I supposed they were facts, to the extent that it was the only information available about Morrigan. Daghda had persuaded her to choose to side with the Tuatha de Danann in the second Battle of Maigh Tuireadh. Had Daghda persuaded her again this time, or had she never shifted her loyalties since the battle? These were all things I didn’t know. I had yet to encounter Daghda and knew nothing really about his current status. Was he back in the Otherworld? My ignorance overpowered me for a moment.

  “I am with you. All of you. So, yes, I want to defeat Balor as much as you do. He has no liking for me after the last battle. You must realise that, at least.”

  I nodded, not so much that I believed her, but because it made sense.

  “So, let me help you. At the very least I can show you how to wield the dagger.”

  “Wield?” I said mockingly. “Are you out of a novel set in medieval times, my lady?”

  She widened her eyes in annoyance and gave a momentary flash of anger. “I have lived centuries. You have not. Well, at least in your present form and with the memories you have currently. My speech is my own.”

  I nodded an apology. That was as far as I was able to go. “Right, fine. You can show me how to use the dagger.”

  Before I could utter any more words she had whipped the hilted dagger from my waist, the blade drawn from its sheath, and was holding it up against me.

  “See how vulnerable you are?” she said. “Anyone could disarm you in a few seconds.”

  “You’ve made your point,” I said, flatly. “Just get on with it.”

  She smirked at me. “Just showing you what can happen. It’s part of the lesson.”

  “Okay. Got that point.”

  She raised the dagger and took my hand. Carefully she showed me how to hold it, how to draw it quickly, how to safely store it. Once I had those actions proficient enough to satisfy her she showed me how to use it, the best manner for defensive use, and then as an aggressor. She moved with lithe grace, her body easily finding the rhythms, her strength more than I expected, even for knowing who she was. I couldn’t match her strength or her quick movements, but after at least an hour spent practising, she finally gave me a satisfied nod.

  “That will do for now. It might serve to get you to Goibhniu. Then he can keep you safe.”

  I hoped her words were true. “So you know where I’m going and what I intend to do?”

  “Of course. Didn’t I say as much?”

  I shrugged.

  “Do you even know how to get there?”

  “I watched Goibhniu. I was there in the boat and then went with him to the banks of the Otherworld.”

  “But you don’t know how to summon the boat.”

  I shook my head.

  She nodded and bit her lip. “Okay. I hope your memory is good. If so, I’d say you’ll be able to manage it.”

  “Thank you,” I said sarcastically.

  Sarcasm was all I had at this point. My “whys” and “hows” and “what ifs” and all those clauses that crowded my head were nearly making me sick with anxiety and I knew that I must put all that aside. I had to push into the “will do” territory and leave all those others in the dust of doubt and impossibility. I couldn’t afford any of that.

  She gave me a doting smile that nearly patted me on the head by itself. I flinched a little at the condescension so evident there in her.

  “What do I have to do?”

  “Okay. Listen carefully.”

  She began to repeat a string of words. I had no idea to their meaning, their language, or even if they made any sense at all. I listened with all the attention I could muster, using my experience picking up tunes to imprint the sounds, the rhythms and every other clue that would help me to remember the words.

  “Is it an incantation?” I asked when she was done.

  She laughed lightly. “I suppose. Just think of it as a summoning and direction.”

  I nodded and left it at that. I didn’t want any distractions from my efforts to memorise the summoning. Slowly I started to repeat the phrases she’d intoned, doing my best to replicate her. Finally, when she was satisfied I had it down sufficiently, she nodded.

  “Good,” she said. “You’re as ready as I can manage at the moment.” She eyed me up and down. “Take off the hoodie,” she said.

  “What? No.”

  “Take it off.” Her voice was sharp, permitting no refusal.

  “Why? I put it on because it disguises the fact I’m carrying daggers. And a shield.”

  She laughed. “All it does is make you look ridiculous. And suspicious.” She removed her black leather jacket. “Here, wear this, if you must.”

  “But it doesn’t have a hood,” I protested. “My hair. I can use the hood on the sweatshirt to cover my hair.”

  “Do you think you’re the only one with that hair colour in the Otherworld?” she laughed again. “Just tuck your plait inside the jacket. That’s good enough.”

  “But the shield. I can’t travel to Cork with a shield on my back. Did you think I would put it in a shopping bag?” My anxiety gave an edge to my voice. This direction I was taking was suddenly becoming so real and dangerous, I wanted to remain as inconspicuous as possible.

  “Of course not. Why do you need to travel to Cork? It’s risky. Too close to Balor. What’s so important that you have to go there?”

  “To summon the boat from the River Lee in the spot Goibhniu used,” I said impatiently. “Why else?”

  “There’s no need,” said Morrigan. “I’ll show you a place near here, where it’s more secluded.”

  I frowned at her. “Really? There’s more than one place to summon the boat?”

  She nodded. “There are several scattered all over the country.”

  “There’s one near here?” I asked. But of course there was. Why else would they cluster here? Goibhniu, Morrigan, Anu. And for all I knew, others. “Where?” I asked.

  “Just over the hill. Just outside of the village. We’ll go the back way. Through the woods.”

  “Fine,” I said.

  I removed the hoodie silently and handed it to her while I took off the shield slung across my back. The daggers hung at an awkward ang
le in the belt, but at least they were secure. Morrigan eyed the hiltless dagger curiously, then looked up at me. I shrugged. Her eyes widened a moment, but she made no further comment. The shield removed, I put on her jacket and for a moment I was surprised at how well it fitted, but then my body had changed from the slender figure of months ago. The jacket felt safe, thick and quilted, almost like padded leather armour from medieval times. It was long enough, ending at my hips and just covering the points of the daggers.

  Morrigan came over to me, made a few adjustments to the belt so that the daggers hung low to my left side, below the jacket.

  “There,” she said. “You can reach them with more ease.”

  I nodded, uncomfortable with her meaning, but acknowledged the wisdom of it. I took up the shield and belted it across my shoulders again. I was ready.

  We set off, Morrigan tying the hoodie around her waist and leading the way, up along the small track and then heading into the woods. They were mostly silent, the only noise a few birds twittering and singing, and the sound of our feet treading along the ground. I fell into a kind of reverie, reviewing the words she’d had me repeat, and eventually they led my steps, created a rhythm that I fell into as if it was drawing me to where I was meant to be.

  And when we emerged from the woods, crossed a field, and then another we came to the river bank. The Sullane. The only male river in the whole of Ireland, or so I’d been told. Would he take me to where I needed to go? To the right time? I could only trust that he would.