Gates of Eden: Starter Library

by Theophilus Monroe

The Dagda's face turned red in a fury. "You cannot say you are not impressed by this!"

  "Impressed? And you call me a phantom... that thing is frightening!"

  With a fury, the Dagda covered himself again and stomped out of the room. I suppose wounding a god's pride might have consequences. But in truth, I felt sorry for whatever bull he must've stolen that thing from. It was hideous. And to think I'd find it pleasing? It seems the cluelessness of most men, when it came to the things that might please a woman, was a trait they'd inherited from the gods.

  Do not forget—I was once Babd, and her gifts remained mine. I was perceptive enough to realize that once the Dagda's fury had subsided he'd return to me like a puppy begging for a treat. Sure, he might have to go on a rampage through the countryside first. A few earthquakes and storms might befall the local clans as a result. But he'd get over it and come to his senses.

  I'd spent most of my life in trepidation. In different ways, as Macha, Anand, and Babd, I feared Fionn in various ways. I always used my various assets—Macha's beauty, Anand's intelligence, and even Babd's cleverness to remain aloof and unrecognized—to appease Fionn's wrath. I'd lived in fear of an insecure man before, and I wasn't about to do so again—even if that man is a god.

  I wasn't sure how I felt about my new divinity. I had all the memories of Macha, Anand, and Babd. None of them had died. Their lives now flowing together like three small streams now merged into a single, unruly, river. And like the mighty River Hafren, I was wild. Untamable. I would not be directed. I would forge my own path. And if I had to defy a god to do it, so be it.

  The door creaked. The Dagda walked in, his head hung as low as was possible for a deity of his towering stature.

  "My apologies, wife..."

  "What are you apologizing for?" I asked, smirking and mildly amused by the Dagda's predictable though sudden change of approach.

  "I have ruled eons without a woman that was at all near my equal. It is all I ever wanted. Yet, still, now that you are here I treat you like a mere mortal."

  "You treat humans like that?"

  "Most humans... they consider it an honor to..."

  I huffed. "Taking that thing would be no honor for anyone."

  The Dagda sighed. "My point is that I wanted to be loved by one who was in every way equal to me that once it became possible I did not know how I should behave. This union... it is as new to me as it is to you."

  "I doubt that," I said. "You're still yourself. I am... I don't know what I am. We are all here, all three of us. Which as I see it means your task is triply difficult. Should you desire that we desire you it takes more than demands or expectations. You must win over all of our hearts—even if our hearts now beat as one."

  The Dagda nodded. He opened the door and gestured toward its opening.

  I cocked my head. "You're kicking me out?"

  "I'm setting you free, Morrigan..."

  "Free?"

  "That I might win your heart properly. You are free to pursue a love of your own. You must come to know what I have known for ages upon ages... that love with mortals inevitably breeds only pain. And perhaps, in time, you will come to desire me as I do you."

  "But I am still your queen?"

  "You may rule the land of the dead, even as I rule the land of the living. You will be the Queen of Samhuinn."

  "You're making me a queen for dead people? Is that really a prize at all?"

  "You will stand at the precipice of life and death. You will usher fallen souls to the cauldron of rebirth where they might be reborn anew. You will determine the outcome of wars since war is nothing more than an instrument of death. Your influence will extend beyond Samhuinn—even the earth will cry out to you as it receives the blood of the fallen. And should you, from such a lofty role, find love from a mortal, one that satisfies your deepest longing, then I will cede my authority over the earth to you as well. But choose wisely the mortal upon whom you set your heart. For the love of a god or a goddess never wanes. When we love, we love eternally."

  I raised my eyebrow. "You'll let me rule both realms And you will restore my mother to me?"

  The Dagda nodded. "With your chosen beloved at your side. But should you grow weary of it all... I will be waiting. And should you desire it, we will consummate our union. The divide between the living and the dead will cease and we shall rule all, together, forever."

  "So that's it? I just need to compel a human, any man of my choice, to love me?"

  The Dagda shook his head. "The mortal must love you even as you love him. You cannot compel a human to love you, nor can you violate the will of others to bring it about. You may whisper suggestions to mortals, you might appear to them in various forms, but you cannot bend their will to yours."

  "It is agreed," I said with a nod. "But should a mortal petition me, and if I fulfill his request, and by doing so he comes to love me..."

  The Dagda nodded. "You may respond to any petition made by a mortal with your own judgment, but the petition must be made by the mortal freely."

  I grinned. A part of me, it must've been Anand, was already trying to imagine ways we might identify such a lover. Macha, too, was already swooning at the possibility of romance. It seemed almost too good to be true... but how could I turn the offer down?

  Either way, as I saw it, I would end up a queen... and that's not a bad outcome for a girl who was once deemed of little more value than a maid. Better than the life of a beauty desired by men but respected by none. And far superior to living a life serving tyrants as a sort of strategist. We had a better opportunity as one, as the Morrigan than the lives any of us three were destined to before.

  13

  CÚ CHULAINN RAISED his spear, blocking a strike from Forgall Monach. Forgall was a retired but renowned warrior. There hadn't been a single occasion for Ulster's warriors to go to war in many cycles. Not since before Cú Chulainn had come of age. A few skirmishes with roving bandits in the surrounding countryside hadn't given him much of a challenge. Thus, King Conchobar saw fit to pair him with Forgall Monach. Forgall didn't have the strength or agility he'd had when he was once the hero credited with expelling the Fomorians from the countryside. But Forgall had skill. As adept as Cú Chulainn was in combat, he'd never faced a genuine champion. He'd never fought in a real war.

  King Conchobar was determined to see that his would-be hero was well prepared.

  The problem was that Cú Chulainn was distracted.

  Emer, Forgall's only daughter, caught his eye—taunting the young warrior with her beauty as he sparred with her father. Her hair was long, wavy, and red. She wore a thin, nearly translucent dress that showed off her athletic frame. She wasn't thin—though Cú Chulainn typically found smaller women more alluring, something about Emer captivated him. He appreciated a woman who had a certain strength to her, a confidence. Even from a distance, Emer's blue eyes drew him in, as if he were a salmon on the end of a baited line.

  Emer only caught his eye for a moment—but that was all it took. With a quick strike, Forgall knocked Cú Chulainn's spear from his hand. Forgall jabbed his sword toward Cú Chulainn's neck.

  "A warrior must be ever attuned to his surroundings, but always giving his opponent his full attention," Forgall said, gripping his blade by the hilt.

  Cú Chulainn rolled away from Forgall's blade. "How can one do that? It seems to be a contradiction. If I am paying heed to my surroundings how can I maintain a full focus on my enemy?"

  "You have more senses than sight, young warrior."

  "So I should listen to my surroundings?"

  Forgall nodded. "Open your ears, yes. But you must also use your sense of touch, you must learn to feel the battle around you..."

  Cú Chulainn rolled his eyes. "How can I feel what I do not touch?"

  "Do you think your sense of touch is limited to your skin? An accomplished warrior has a range of touch, a sense of anything that happens within his sphere of presence."

  Cú Chulainn shook his head. "I don't eve
n know how to develop that kind of sense."

  Forgall pressed his lips together. "You have trained, too, as a bard, have you not?"

  Cú Chulainn nodded. "Of course."

  "Then you know of the Awen. How it inspires your tales."

  "I do."

  "The Awen is not exclusive to poets. Tell me, when you tell a tale for the first time, how is it you know what to say, how to inflect your voice?"

  Cú Chulainn shrugged. "It's just a sense, an instinct. I don't know how to explain it."

  "It is the same for the warrior," Forgall said, tossing Cú Chulainn back his spear.

  Cú Chulainn reached up and caught it in mid-air. "So I need to just sense what's around me?"

  "There is an art to a tale. A battle is a kind of poetry, a tale unfolding at the moment."

  "How do you know so much about being a bard?" Cú Chulainn asked.

  Forgall pressed his lips together. "When you've been around as long as I have you don't miss much. For instance, do you think for a moment that I haven't noticed how you've been eyeing my daughter?"

  Cú Chulainn blushed. "My apologies. I mean no disrespect."

  Forgall laughed. "Do you think I'm unaware of Emer's beauty? You are not the first young warrior to find himself... distracted by my daughter."

  "You told her to tease me. To test my focus."

  Forgall shook his head. "I did not. But my daughter is strong of will. She is taken with you."

  "Then grant me her hand," Cú Chulainn said, taken aback by his own suggestion.

  Forgall chuckled. "Do you think I'd wish my own daughter to become a widow?"

  "I'm healthy. Not planning to die anytime soon."

  "None of us plan to die. But should Ulster go to war, and you are the King's champion, we will all be doomed."

  "You're forgetting. I still have the ríastrad. I do not use it when we spar."

  "That's your problem. The beast inside of you—you may have it tamed, but the beast is still reckless even as you are. Perfect your skill, refine your ability, and even the ríastrad will fight with precision. You fancy yourself a bard... tell me, can you name a single warrior of old who had the ríastrad and died of old age?"

  Cú Chulainn bit his lip. He hadn't thought of that. Nearly every story of a hero with the ríastrad ended the same way—they fell in battle. Yes, they died as heroes, but they died young no less. "I suppose you have a point."

  "Of course I have a point! And you imagine you will be the exception, that you won't leave my daughter without a husband when you are so reckless in combat?"

  Cú Chulainn took a deep breath. "Tell me what I must do to earn your blessing."

  Forgall stroked his beard. "There is another warrior... one who might aid you better than I."

  Cú Chulainn cocked his head. "Another warrior? I know of no such accomplished warriors in all of Ulster."

  "She is a Scot."

  "Seriously?"

  "What, you don't imagine that a Scot would be a warrior?" Forgall smirked.

  Cú Chulainn chuckled. "It's that you called this warrior, 'she' that took me off guard!"

  "The warrior-queen Scáthach is not one to be underestimated, young man."

  Cú Chulainn stared at Forgall incredulously. Scáthach was known for more than her valor in battle—she was known for her short temper and the fact that most whoever defied her, even her most trusted companions, often found their heads divorced from their bodies. "Are you hoping to make me a warrior that I might earn your daughter's hand? Or are you hoping to simply put me away?"

  Forgall grinned widely. "The way I see it, Cú Chulainn, is that if you should die at her hand then at least I've spared my daughter a widow's fate. If you should survive her methods... well, then, I should have reason to hope you might be the sole warrior with the ríastrad to defy the tradition of premature death."

  Cú Chulainn glanced again at Emer, who now sat upon the balcony rail to so tempt him with a display of her crossed and shapely legs. It was the first time a mortal woman had captured Cú Chulainn's attention since he'd been but a boy. Ever since his encounter with the faerie, Fand, no human woman had managed to draw more than a fleeting glance from the warrior bard. Emer wasn't Fand. But Cú Chulainn couldn't deny that he desired her.

  And if it took him training with the brutal queen, Scáthach, to earn Forgall's blessing, that's exactly what he'd do.

  "Very well," Cú Chulainn said. "I will go to Scáthach. I will prove myself worthy. And I will return to make your daughter my wife."

  14

  HOW DOES A goddess know when to open her heart to a mortal? It was my opportunity to choose my beloved for myself, the only time in my life—in any of our lives—that we'd had the freedom to make any such choice. If I resented the Dagda for everything else I was at least grateful that he'd afforded me this chance. But I had to wonder if this was all but some kind of trick. He'd almost admitted it when he'd revealed his design that I might, by having my freedom to love whomever I would, eventually return to him.

  I couldn't allow that to happen. I'd rather wander, unloved, but a goddess nonetheless—even if only the queen of the realm of the dead—only engaging the earth in matters of death and war—than spend eternity married to the Dagda.

  The strange power that coursed through my divine body...

  What was it?

  As Macha, I was clueless but appreciated the beauty of the mysteries that had melded to my tripartite soul. As Anand, it was something I could use. I needed to explore it, figure it out, subdue my power. But as Babd, it was just magic. Powerful, mysterious, and useful. I couldn't master it. I had to honor it, revere it, allow it to grow within me as a part of me. It was not some kind of mysterious, otherworldly, power. I was an otherworldly goddess. It was as natural to me as it was for an infant to seek her mother's breast, to explore the world and come to know what works and what doesn't. Yes, the power, the magic, whatever it was. It was a part of me.

  I just had to grow into it. I had to learn and explore.

  A black raven soared overhead. I heard its thoughts. It was hungry and on the hunt. It eyed the ground hoping to see a field mouse scurry through the clovers. It scanned the trees looking for a nest and unguarded eggs it might claim as a meal.

  Did the raven hear me, too?

  "Come here!" I commanded.

  The raven started to circle, spiraling its way toward me as it perched itself on my shoulder.

  I grinned widely. Yes, it was my magic. Was such power called magic when wielded by a goddess? No, this wasn't some kind of power I had to master, it wasn't an ability acquired by appealing to a deity or offering a sacrifice. I didn't need a trinket or an enchanted object to wield this power. It was simply me... Yes, that was it. It was as natural to speak to the bird as it was to move an arm or leg, to inhale a breath of air, to scratch and itch.

  Just as natural as it was for me to spread my arms, which quickly turned to wings, as I shifted into a form that matched my raven friend. Together, we expanded our wings and returned to the skies.

  The thrill of the breeze fluttering through my feathers...

  Could I change into any form I desired? It took no effort at all. I didn't even know I'd done it. But here I was, now a raven myself, soaring through the skies.

  I released a loud caw.

  Yes, I was still a goddess. But I was a raven, too. And I could be a maid. I could be a hag. I could even become a man—not that I had any desire to. Maybe I could become a bear or, perhaps, a dragon. My flesh was like clay, subject only to my will. I could do anything... I could be anything...

  Why did the Dagda think, with such power, I wouldn't secure the affections of a man should I find one upon whom to cast my heart? From what I've experienced—or at least what I observed as Babd during our divided human lives—was that the affections of men were achieved first through the eyes, then the flesh, and only later by the heart.

  It's why our father had believed that Macha would one day be wedded to a king or s
ome noble who would see her as a prize. It was purely on account of her beauty. No betrothal was ever exacted by a suitor who spent time conversing with a potential bride. Rather, as was usually the case, the supposed suitor would examine a female from afar, seeing nothing but the appearance of her body, and decide on such scant a basis whether she was desirable.

  As Macha, I'd been oblivious to that. I'd thought that the men who gawked over me were interested in me. But as Babd, even as Anand, I always knew better.

  As I soared next to my raven companion I observed the world below. It was a beautiful place from this perspective. I dared imagine if humans saw the world from this point of view they'd imagine they'd become gods themselves, fashion a fantasy that they could rule this place. But nature could not be ruled. Not even by me. Not by the Dagda. The bird's-eye-view was as deceptive as it was thrilling.

  A voice cried out to me in agony.

  I turned to see a single man fallen, his blood soaking into the earth... it was his voice that cried to me, still. It was like his soul, now soaked into the blood-stained ground, was pleading for my aid.

  Then I saw why. A group of bandits circled his carriage—the fallen man's wife and children inside. The thieves... there wasn't much more to take from this family. But I heard the bandits' thoughts... their vile thoughts... I had to do something.

  I dive-bombed to their position. I sensed the fear of the mother and her children as one of the bandits approached, loosening his trousers.

  I settled on the mother—was I still a raven? It didn't feel like it. It felt like I'd merged with the mother's spirit, with her soul.

  The woman stood up and with a fury charged the man. Her anger, her rage. It was mine, too.

  But with my aid she was more than furious, she was courageous.

  She quickly grabbed a small knife and dove at the thief, gouging him between his thighs.

  The bandit released an ear-piercing cry as blood soaked through his trousers. I was certain that whatever it was he'd planned on doing to this woman or, I shuddered, her children... would no longer be possible.