The Raven Queen

by Jules Watson

  Then those dazzling eyes staked Maeve to the spot. “We are not your lords—we serve the Source. We are the bridge for that light, so that it may flow between the Otherworld and Thisworld.” Slowly, like an unfurling bird-wing, the sídhe reached out her arm and pressed her white finger to Maeve’s brow.

  A brief pain pierced Maeve’s mind, but understanding came with it.

  A bridge for the Source. They gathered it, summoned it, and poured it forth. Of course. The sídhe were known as the guardians of the animals, plants, and sacred springs, which were filled with Source. Source was the flame Cúchulainn summoned in battle, and the essence of the otter that saved her life. It lay behind everything in Thisworld.

  “Though brethren to you, we do find humans hard to reach.” A smile flickered about the sídhe’s mouth.

  Unaccountably, Maeve’s skin grew hot.

  “And so … we now seek a bridge in Thisworld, between the sídhe and your own people in turn. To safeguard the life of Erin.”

  A shiver passed over Maeve from head to feet. “I will do whatever you want. You can take anything you want of me …”

  “Ah, you always see a fight brewing, don’t you, sister?”

  For the first time, Maeve felt cold, a flicker of fear arising that she would be called to arms once more. The longing to stay here with Ruán was all that existed in her now. “No,” she realized, and that utterance rippled out through the radiant air. “I am no warrior. I am no battle queen. I will not send men to war, or rule their wills, or trap them … or be trapped.”

  She had now glimpsed what lay on the other side of pain and sorrowed memories, what the light of the world truly was. She had felt, through her body, what her power could become, even if she did not know how. A cradle, not a shield.

  Maeve’s eyes did not waver before the sídhe. “You cannot take anything you want of me. But I will give of what I am, for him.”

  The maiden’s smile flowered. “The task of which I speak is more arduous than ruling a kingdom, make no mistake. It is a challenge of spirit, demanding surrender to the rivers of Source—and thereby belongs only to the bravest of souls.” She looked hard at Maeve and then glanced at Ruán. “He has at last found the God of the land in him, and so a bridge he will be, in some life. We could take him now to learn more of this.”

  “No.” Frantic, Maeve peered at Ruán’s face. She thought he was glowing brighter, losing the outline of familiar features. She went to clutch his hand, but a subtle movement of the oar stopped her.

  Maeve’s gaze flew back to the sídhe.

  The maiden was no longer smiling. “For him to claim his fate in this body requires the power of you both now, God and Goddess, Father and Mother, for all of Erin.” With an intense stare, the sídhe reached out her hand to Maeve. “So will you claim yours?”

  You have felt it already, little sister, when you flew with him above the hills. That joy can be yours, even in this mantle of flesh, if you still have the courage of your heart.

  Maeve’s heart gave its answer in a rush, without any thought at all. She reached out to clasp the hand of the sídhe.

  A dizzying storm caught her up, a tempest that blinded all her senses. When it set her down, she knew she saw a future—one that might, or might not, come to be.

  Maeve walked a sacred path by a vast lake. There was singing on the air, voices she knew to be sídhe as well as human. She immediately sensed the great upwelling of Source that was being gathered here, as of an immense spring of light.

  The joy of belonging spread through every part of Maeve. As she walked, it tingled through her hands and radiated from the crown of her head.

  By the lakeshore, a spring of water gushed from a hollow of reeds. There was Erna, her step graceful as she glided among the sick who came to seek healing from the Source-light.

  Set back in the trees was a hut, humble and thatch-roofed. Yet proud men came to its door, ducking beneath the lintel with swords at their waists and their eyes troubled. And they hearkened to a seer, a priestess with frosted hair and gray eyes, who bent the streams of Source to illuminate what was to come.

  A man waded through the reeds that fringed the lake. He had a net slung over his shoulder like any other fisherman, his blind face lifted to the sun. Maeve saw that much of the radiance of this place flowed from him, for Other lights swirled around him, and they were the ones who sang. The veils through which he walked made his body so bright he appeared to the people who came here as sunlight on water.

  And still there was her great task.

  As Maeve trod the spiral paths, she gathered the threads of Source and held them within the vessel of her body. And when people came for healing and told their stories, and summoned memories; when bards recited tales; and the glimpses of Otherworld knowing grew from a stream into a flood—so Maeve, Levarcham, Erna, and all the others who had chosen to serve wove those threads into the very fabric of Thisworld.

  The voice of the sídhe drew her back. “For even when the wind blows over those empty shores, the knowing we weave into the land now will arise in those who come after, and some will hear Erin’s song of what was, and can be again.”

  Maeve blinked as if waking. The river washed around her thighs, the light shimmering. The child on the banks was gone, but her hand was over her belly, and it was full.

  Tiernan’s dream. It was not Macha who gathered the Source, it was meant to be her. The destiny she always longed for—to protect the people, to be something greater, to be a mother of the land—it had only ever been an echo of this.

  Within the rush of that thrill, Maeve felt a presence greater even than the sídhe wordlessly ask for her allegiance: She who was not Bríd, Macha, or Danu; Nemain or the Morrígan; but all goddesses as one.

  The Great Mother, who wanted to claim her as Her vessel.

  Maeve bowed her chin, hardly able to speak. “I give myself to this fate.” She gazed at the luminous sídhe, and beheld at last the beauty she had never felt she deserved. “I give myself to you.”

  The sídhe’s grin was swift. “Then perhaps you may be worthy of him after all.”

  Sure now, Maeve waded to Ruán, and this time the sídhe made no move to stop her. As fluid as the water, Maeve leaned over the boat and wound her hand about his neck. Drawing his lips to hers, she breathed that glimpse of glory into him.

  At last she broke the kiss, leaving her mouth above his. “Ru, there is a baby.”

  His eyes opened, as brilliant green as the river.

  CHAPTER 41

  SUN-SEASON

  The little group stood beside two riders on the marshy shores of the great lake in the far north of Connacht. Late afternoon sun poured over them from the west, the water an expanse of gold etched with ripples. The bright-tipped reeds murmured and dipped, that stirring spreading back to the trees that fringed the shore and up the slopes of the hills that sheltered them.

  Beside Ruán squatted a statue he had hewn from the trunk of a dead oak tree. It bore the simple carvings of two faces, one on either side, with large eyes, long noses, and enigmatic mouths.

  “Is that to scare people away?” Finn asked.

  Fraech frowned. “Finn!”

  Ruán only chuckled, and lifting Dáire from his shoulders, bent down beside the wooden pillar. The little boy squirmed from his arms, toddling a few steps and falling over on his face. He sat up, too stunned to cry, his mouth and eyes round. Erna and Levarcham laughed.

  “Ruán spent many nights working on that,” Maeve explained to her daughter, with a smile.

  The carvings were a male figure looking out across the lake, and a female looking to the hills. They were meant to show the god and goddess of the land in harmony—a marker to point people the way to the healing spring.

  Ruán answered Finn, tracing the lines in the oak. “It is supposed to be your mother and me. Does she look grumpy enough?”

  Finn grinned. “Oh, aye.”

  Dáire tottered to the statue and clumsily patted the male car
ving. Ruán curved an arm about his son, and Dáire turned to his father’s face instead, his chubby fingers gentling when he touched the blindfold. “See.” Ruán’s voice was husky. “It must be a good likeness.”

  Maeve bent and kissed Ruán’s brow, then scooped her ruddy-haired son up, making him squeal. “You must go,” she said to Fraech, hanging Dáire over her shoulder. “I want you to camp long before dark—before the ground gets damp.”

  “Oh, Mother.” Finn rolled her eyes.

  Fraech was holding his horse by the bridle. His royal guards waited for them farther down the shore. “She shouldn’t even be riding.” Since Finn’s belly began to swell, that frown had become permanently drawn on Fraech’s brow. “I told her we could pack a cart with cushions and rugs, but—”

  “I’m not a sack of barley!” Finn retorted. She tossed her head, and with a subtle tug of her reins made Nél prance, pawing elaborately with one hoof.

  Fraech glanced at Maeve with a dark expression as he hauled himself into his saddle. “Speaking of likenesses …”

  “Oh, no, don’t blame me.” Maeve leaned up to kiss Finn and then held Dáire out for his sister’s hug, which made him squirm and shriek.

  Maeve propped her son on her hip, and when Finn’s gaze locked with hers, she took the girl’s fingers. “It will not be long,” she murmured. “We will be with you at Cruachan for Lughnasa, and you will come back with us for the birth.” Maeve allowed the deep welling of peace within her to flow from her flesh into her daughter’s hand.

  As that warmth poured forth, it brought color back to Finn’s cheeks, and the fear in her eyes softened. “Yes, Mamaí.”

  Maeve kissed Finn’s fingers. “Erna will bring you through safely. She has the most skilled hands in Erin, they say.” She grinned at the dark-haired druid. “Well … the men all say.”

  Erna flushed and gave a little bow toward Finn. “I will be at your service, lady. There is no safer place in Erin, I promise.”

  With a last flurry of farewells, the King and Queen of Connacht rode away southward, down the shore of the great lake toward Cruachan.

  Maeve watched Finn kick her horse into a gallop, streaking away with Fraech hard on her heels. His shouts floated back to them on the wind.

  “Poor man,” Maeve remarked.

  Ruán was still smoothing the carved hollows on his statue, picking out shreds of wood he had missed. “I will do one for you,” he said to Levarcham as he straightened. “For outside your hut.”

  Levarcham snorted as they all turned back. Ahead, the little scatter of thatch roofs glowed in the lowering sun, and the smoke of cookfires curled into the purple shadows that stretched over the ground. There was a haze over the spring, glimmers of silver dancing like dragonflies.

  “Make me look like an ugly crone, my boy,” Levarcham said, “and you might find your supply of honey-cakes suddenly drying up.”

  Ruán grinned. “I can only imagine what your voice brings to mind, Lady Levarcham.”

  Maeve glanced at him. Without distraction, and buoyed by the powers of the sídhe, he could see, at times. It was a secret, though, between them. Ruán sensed her thought and turned his head a little, so she caught the gentle curve of his mouth.

  Her fingers could not hold back from curling in the hair at Ruán’s nape, touching his sun-browned skin in answer.

  “Maeve, you will explain to your man I am not ancient yet.”

  The last of the golden light was pooling on the shores of the lake. It had been a warm day, and a slick of sweat ran down Maeve’s back beneath the thin linen tunic.

  Abruptly, Ruán’s head was drawn toward the water. He spun on his heel and then plucked his son from Maeve’s arms. “Will you take him back for us?” He swung Dáire toward Erna.

  Startled, Erna grabbed the babe. “Of course! Come, little one.” Erna placed Dáire on the ground, and she and Levarcham each took one of his hands.

  Ruán pulled on Maeve’s fingers, his voice dropping. “You come with me, ceara,” he breathed.

  Maeve paused, breaking his hold and glancing over her shoulder as Ruán continued toward the water. Bent to one side, Levarcham was shuffling in time with Dáire’s dawdle, Erna nodding gravely as he babbled. The setting sun wreathed the three of them in gold.

  The sense of the life of this place rushed through Maeve and overflowed.

  Light on her feet, she ran after Ruán, throwing her arms about his neck and nearly bowling him over.

  He chuckled and turned, catching her around the waist. “It is not suppertime yet.” His kiss was fierce at first, a hand in the small of her back drawing them together. Then his fingers cradled her cheeks and his lips softened until Maeve forgot everything else. The moment she sank against him, though, he backed away, tugging her along.

  Laughing, they raced to the water’s edge, Ruán’s damaged leg breaking his stride. He did not pause but flung himself through the shallows, wading out from shore until it was deep enough, then diving in headfirst.

  Holding her breath, Maeve walked in more slowly, the lake floating her tunic around her. She watched Ruán streak along underwater, sleek and cloaked in ripples, his hair streaming behind him. Despite the cold, she had to smile at his delight in that freedom of his body, the glee that filled him when no one else was watching.

  Ruán flipped over beneath the surface, his skin gleaming like an otter-pelt. His hands reached out for her ankles as they always did, ready to yank her in.

  No … she must jump.

  A gust of wind broke the sunlight into dancing sparks that blinded her. Before Ruán could reach her, she took a great breath and flung herself into that flood of brilliance.

  As she sank through the shimmering veils, the bubbles from Ruán’s laugh tickled her skin.

  Maeve put her head back, eyes closed. She floated in light.

  The story of Deirdre of the Sorrows and

  Naisi and the Sons of Usnech is told in

  The Swan Maiden.

  NOTE ON MYTHOLOGY AND HISTORY

  The Raven Queen mixes Irish myths with Iron Age history and my invention. It is about the famous Irish queen Maeve (also Medb, or Meadbh).

  Unlike Deirdre of the Sorrows—the subject of my previous novel, The Swan Maiden—Maeve does not appear in one coherent tale that I could follow. This novel is therefore a “reimagination,” not a retelling: I used scraps of the stories about her, then invented the rest to fit my own tale and the Maeve I wanted to bring to life.

  However, readers like to know which parts are which, so I will try to give a summary of what is taken from other sources versus my own storytelling.

  MYTH

  Stories of Maeve of Connacht are part of the group of old Irish tales called the “Ulster Cycle,” the most famous of which is the “Táin Bó Cúailnge,” or simply “The Táin,” translated in English as “The Cattle Raid of Cooley.” The classic version of this tale is The Táin, by Thomas Kinsella (Oxford University Press, 1969); there is also a new translation of The Táin by Ciaran Carson (2008). In addition, there are versions all over the Internet.

  The Ulster Cycle revolves around the exploits of King Conor and his Red Branch warriors, including the famous Irish hero Cúchulainn.

  Maeve appears mainly in “The Táin” but also crops up in other tales, some of which contradict each other in terms of timeline and events. Her name—“she who intoxicates”—is related to “mead,” a sacred alcoholic drink. In the tales she is married to many kings, and so some scholars propose that Maeve might originally have been a goddess. The stories might therefore retain an echo of kings being ritually wed to the land by pledging themselves with sacred mead to “the goddess” Maeve and vowing to protect her and thereby their territory.

  In later tales, however, Maeve is portrayed as a very human and ruthless warrior-queen: sexually voracious, bloodthirsty, and power-hungry. But the context is important here.

  The early peoples of Ireland were not literate, and the tales were passed on by word alone. Nothin
g was written down until after the coming of Christianity in the fifth century, but the earliest surviving manuscripts were made in medieval monasteries much later than that.

  Some therefore see Maeve’s unflattering portrayals as simply attempts by a new religion to replace the old religion, as well as a negative attitude toward pagan goddesses and a fear of women’s sexual freedom. They see in the stories a medieval attempt to “downgrade” Maeve from a goddess to a sinful woman: someone who could then be derided and belittled.

  I wanted to resurrect the powerful Maeve, and imagine what it was about her that could have inspired such censure.

  In the ancient tales, she was married to various kings, including Conor of Ulster, from whom she did run away. She did marry Ros Ruadh of Laigin, and later, Ailill of Laigin. She did become Queen of Connacht in her own right.

  The story about Macha Mong Ruad and how she found Emain Macha is a genuine myth. I could not ignore the opportunity to connect Maeve to Macha. Both were red-haired warrior-queens; Maeve was—possibly—a goddess in origin; and Macha is portrayed as a goddess of the land and of battle and death, as well as sometimes assuming human form. The similarities were startling, and gave weight to my portrayal of why the people of Connacht might choose a queen over a king.

  In the myths, Maeve is strongly associated with cats. Cats are not native to Ireland, so my original idea was to associate her with otters instead, since they have some of the same “catlike” grace. I eventually decided to also give Maeve a cat that originally came from Egypt.

  Finnabair was indeed Maeve’s daughter in myth, but I made up their early estrangement. In “The Táin,” Finn’s great love is the young warrior Fraech; however, I made Fraech of royal kin and Maeve’s war-leader so he could be king at the end of the book.

  “The Táin” describes the war between Maeve of Connacht and Conor of Ulster over two famous bulls—the white bull Finnbennach and the brown bull Donn Cuailnge. It starts when Maeve and Ailill are comparing each other’s wealth, and Maeve realizes that Ailill has Finnbennach but she does not own a bull of equal stature, so she goes to war with Conor to steal his bull.