The Phantom Queen Awakes
Edited by
Amanda Pillar and Mark S. Deniz
Published by Morrigan Books
Smashwords Edition
Östra Promenaden 43
602 29 Norrköping
Sweden
http://www.morriganbooks.com
http://www.smashwords.com
All stories copyright 2009 by their respective authors. Published by permission of the authors
Cover art by Reece Notley
Internal artwork by Cecily Webster
Design and layout by Mark S. Deniz and Amanda Pillar
Typeset in Garamond and Times New Roman
Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook my not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.
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Dedications
Amanda:
Love: For Tom Bicknell, fiancé extraodinare.
War: To my grandfathers, survivors of war: Jack: the soldier, and Stan: the POW.
Death: For my stepfather, Boris, who is fighting it.
Mark:
Love: For Etina Deniz, my life, my love.
War: To all those brave women; waiting and hoping that their husbands, lovers, brothers, fathers, sons and friends would return: keeping hearths warm, children fed and schooled. And to those who have fought/are fighting for their beliefs.
Death: For my mother, Lesley and grandmother, Christine; women who taught me the value of life before their journey to the undiscovered country.
Mark and Amanda Would Also Like to Thank:
The editors would like to thank: Katharine Kerr, Elaine Cunningham, C.E. Murphy, Anya Bast, Michael Bailey, Peter Bell, Linda Donahue, Lynne Lumsden Green, L. J. Hayward, Jennifer Lawrence, James Lecky, T. A. Moore, Mari Ness, Sharon Kae Reamer, Martyn Taylor and Donald Jacob Uitvlugt, for sharing their wonderful stories with us.
Reece Notley and Cecily Webster, for their amazing artwork, inside and outside the book.
Tsana Dolichva, Sargon Donabed and Heather Snow, for their selection work.
Michael Bailey, Kym MacFarlane and Sharon Ring for their invaluable proofreading assistance.
An extra special thanks goes to Ruth Shelton: contributor, selector and proofreader. You made this journey three times as enjoyable and we are honored to have your presence so apparent within this book.
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Foreword
The Morrigan
Interesting, vital, violent, charismatic, alluring; there are many ancient deities that may be able to inspire such description, but few who linger in the modern mind. The Morrigan ― Morrígu, Morríghan, Mor-Ríoghain ― otherwise known as the triple goddess, was a deity of war, fertility, prophecy and death.
Her name led scholars to translate her title as ‘Sea Queen’, ‘Great Queen’ and, of course, as ‘Phantom Queen’. Within the Ulster Cycle and other texts, she appears in various guises; as a crone, maiden, mature woman, eel, cow, wolf and a crow or raven. Her sexual love aspect was also related to fertility cycles (this is also shown through her link to cattle) and luck; when she slept with a great hero or god, it helped ensure his victory in an upcoming battle.
The triple goddess included many aspects, and Badb, perhaps the most well known, was but one of them. Badb was a goddess in her own right, but was related to the battle crow. Badb was also associated with the Bean-sidhe (fairy woman); the Bean-sidhe later became linked to the Banshee, a foreteller of death. Macha was another aspect of the triple goddess, as were Anann and Nemain, among others.
It is clear that the Morrigan was a goddess created for story-telling; there was little she did not control or influence. Thus, when Mark S. Deniz decided he wanted to create a publishing company that promoted a darker brand of fiction, he looked no further than the goddess who spoke through his own writing. Thus, when it came time to produce the next Morrígan Books’ anthology, where else was he to turn but to the namesake of his company and his inspiration?
Then, when Mark suggested the idea of his anthology to his in-house editor (that person being me), I waved my arm around enthusiastically ― although with a shred more dignity than a child waiting to be called upon in class ― and put my name down for the job of co-editor. Wisely, Mark decided I would be a valuable addition to the book.
Why me? Well, apart from being the in-house editor (contrary to what you might hear, it really is all about who you know), I have a university degree or three in archaeology. And I’ve always had an interest in Celtic deities ― all ancient gods, for that matter.
In fact, I specialize in Near Eastern religion, and have come to dance a time or two with the gods of Briton through studying the Roman Empire. So, when it came to proposing the guidelines for this collection, Mark left it all in my ‘capable hands’.
I knew what I was searching for and so did Mark. We hoped to see stories that encapsulated the nature of a goddess who failed to fit into any one mold. We didn’t want stories that focused on a ‘Mother Goddess’, nor tales that were solely gore-splattered renditions of war. No, we wanted stories that spoke of the Morrigan’s various aspects, from death to love to hate and hope.
We wanted stories that spoke of the nature of man...and god.
Amanda Pillar & Mark S. Deniz
December 2009
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Table of Contents
Rising Tide: Ruth Shelton
Kiss of the Morrigan: Anya Bast
I Guard Your Death: Lynne Lumsden Green
Ravens: Mari Ness
Gifts of the Morrigan: Donald Jacob Uitvlugt
Cairn Dancer: C.E. Murphy
Washerwoman: Jennifer Lawrence
The Raven's Curse: Sharon Kae Reamer
The Lass From Far Away: Katharine Kerr
The Trinket: Peter Bell
The Dying Gaul: Michael Bailey
The Children of Badb Catha: James Lecky
The Plain of Pillars: L.J. Hayward
The Silver Branch: Linda Donahue
The Good and Faithful Servant: Martyn Taylor
The White Heifer of Fearchair: T.A. Moore
She Who Is Becoming: Elaine Cunningham
About the Editors
About the Artists
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Ruth Shelton
Rising Tide
A thousand tiny tidal pools shimmered in the afternoon breeze, reflecting the sun overhead, while the last of the storm clouds blew away to the south. I walked amongst them, barefoot.
I picked my way slowly, careful not to disturb the minute things swimming within, each little life clinging desperately to the sides of the shallows or floating to the bottom to lie still in the silt. I thought about the lifespan of those frail beings ― so dependent upon the pull of the moon and the seasons ― and I marveled that anything might find reason enough to live when life itself was so short.
There was a rumble of thunder in the distance. Across this low flat of land and water, the tide was rising. Looking around at the shining pools of blue and green and brown, I knew I hadn’t much time to work before the fresh tide washed them all away.
And so, I reached down to the closest and dipped gently into the iris with my beak, breaking the surface of the now-still eyes of a warrior.
They would reflect the sun no longer.
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Afterword
‘Rising Tide’ was an attempt to des
cribe something felt and seen that blossomed fully-formed inside me. One moment, I was washing a tile floor; the next, I was surrounded by corpses on the sand and salt spray stung my face.
I hadn’t planned on writing a story. In fact, I had no interest in even trying and nothing could have been further from my mind, until about two minutes before the vision grabbed me and my fingers hit the keyboard.
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Biography
Since she’s far more accustomed to wielding a red pencil than having it pointed in her direction, Ruth found herself taken by surprise to be included in this anthology. Maybe she’ll take a whack at writing fiction again in another fifty years or so. Meanwhile, she’s content to read other people’s work, chase down cat hair dirigibles, ride motorcycles, cook, and poke into things which are both unknowable and ephemeral. Ruth shares some of these hobbies with her sweet geezer in a home they share in Louisville, Kentucky, US.
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Anya Bast
Kiss of the Morrigan
Severus looked down at his hands. They were roughened and dry from the handle of his sword, and blood had filled the long cracks made from the cold, drying to a rust color. Blood. It was a familiar sight. He just wasn’t accustomed to seeing his own.
The sounds of the camp swelled. Fires crackled and snapped in the wintry air. Male voices rumbled and boomed: men telling tales of battle, occasionally punctuated by the wails of the dying.
They were familiar noises.
The sweet, sour stench of rotting wounds filled the air. Not even the cold could banish it completely.
It was a familiar scent.
But, if he concentrated, he could see the wheat that grew tall and golden around his home in the summertime. He could remember the color of his wife’s hair that almost matched it. If he closed his eyes before sleep, he could sometimes hear his eldest son laugh and almost smell bread baking.
Almost.
“It was a good battle today.” His friend, Paetus, sat down beside him, now stripped of his gear. Almost all the blood that had spattered Paetus’ forearms, face and hands had been wiped off, though his close cropped, light hair still showed a dried spray of it. He’d changed his clothes, but his eyes held the shine they usually did after they fought the Britons.
“A good battle?” Severus ran his hand over his jaw, feeling rough stubble. There was no such thing in his mind, but Paetus thrived on taking new lands for the Empire in a way he never could, though he did not express his true sentiments. “I suppose it was.”
Paetus looked into the crackling fire and shook his head. “These Britons have a spirit like I’ve never seen.”
“They’re fighting to protect their way of life; we would do the same.”
“It may mean an end to us both.”
Severus nodded. “It may. No one can foretell the fates of men but the gods.”
“So accepting of destiny. You’ve always been that way.” Paetus rubbed a hand over his scalp, bowing his head a little. “You and I have traveled together, fought side by side for a long time now. I can see you slipping away within your head more and more, Severus. Where do you go to escape the blood?”
Severus lifted his gaze to Paetus’ and allowed a smile to flicker across his lips. “I go home, Paetus, home.”
Paetus looked past the fire and into the forest beyond, the slight smile he wore dropping away and his eyes losing a bit of their shine.
At the beginning of their journey together, they’d agreed to watch out for each other and to look after the other man’s family should one of them fall to a Briton’s spear or sword. It was a good pact, an honorable one. One born of pietas. Paetus had four children, a wife, and a farm not far from Severus’ in Rasenna. Both he and Paetus were Etrusci. It made them brothers.
Severus’ wife had borne a daughter that hadn’t lived, but his two sons were robust. His older son was six and his younger would be close to two by now. The child had been but a tiny infant when Severus had left the farm. If he fell in battle, his friend would care for them.
“Home would be a good place to be, my friend,” answered Paetus. “Gods willing, we’ll soon be back there tilling our fields.” He glanced at Severus. “I will keep you from slipping over the edge of insanity until then.” Paetus clapped Severus on the knee, laughed heartily, then rose and walked toward the cooking fires.
The spitting fire he sat before warmed the front of his body and left his back icy. Pushing up from where he knelt, he made his way to the edge of the camp and into the dark woods. He needed to be away from the men for a moment.
Twigs snapping under his boots and cold dry branches caught his leather bracae ― one of the items of clothing the Romans had adopted from the Britons ― as he made his way to a half frozen river not far from camp. Here, the naked winter tree limbs dipped bony fingers into the dark water. Camp noises could be heard even here, but they were muffled under the heaviness of the silent, dead forest. Ice cracked beneath his feet as he knelt and pressed his bloody palms to the river, letting the cold leach into his skin and blood swirl with the current.
He’d been fighting for so long now, too long.
The tribes they fought were courageous and bold, their battles hard won. Sometimes these people turned up in naught but thin tunics and bracae, other times they wore nothing but paint. But always they fought with their hearts to defend their lands and families ― just as hard as Severus would fight to protect his.
Severus looked up at the stars and quickly figured out what direction home lay. Bowing his head, he raised his near frozen hands to his face, welcoming the bite of the cold to temporarily numb the longing for his hearth.
Water sloshed to his left and he glanced over. A woman in a black hooded cape knelt at the river with a pile of laundry beside her.
Severus blinked, wondering if it was an apparition he saw. It was nighttime and they were near a battlefield, not to mention his legion’s encampment. It was more than passingly strange to see a local woman here; she had to be from one of the nearby villages.
He stood. “What do you think, old woman, coming out here so late at night?”
There were some men at camp who were riled by the battles they fought, others had simply gone half crazy and were lost in lust for violence and death. A frail, elderly woman like this one would be in danger if her path crossed one of theirs. Luck was with her this evening, that it was he who’d encountered her.
She rocked back on her heels and turned her face up to the moonlight. She wasn’t old at all. She was young and very beautiful. Pale skin and long dark hair. Well formed features. Slight of build. She wore a coarse black cloak, the hood halfway over her head. Her narrow hands gripped a piece of clothing plunged into the icy water, but she didn’t seem to feel the cold.
She didn’t answer him. No great surprise. He spoke in Latin, not knowing the dialects of these local tribal people, and she likely didn’t speak his tongue. Still, it was odd she should not react at all. She was clearly a woman of the area and he was the enemy ― an invader and conqueror. The mere sight of him under this full moon should have put the fear of the gods within her breast.
The hair on Severus’ neck rose and a chill that had nothing to do with the weather stole over him. What was wrong with her?
“Did you not hear me address you?” he asked, again in Latin since he couldn’t question her in any other language.
Finally she turned to look at him. It was more of a glance, really, a cool dismissal. “I am not deaf.”
So she did speak Latin. It wasn’t unheard of, but it was unusual. Everything about this encounter was unusual.
“You’re endangering yourself by being here. A woman cannot venture this close to our camp under these circumstances and not expect to be raped or worse.”
A smile flickered over her full mouth. “I can take care of myself.”
Severus shifted, studying her. The women in this part of the world were unlike those of Rome in many ways, but not unlike his own wife. His wif
e held the fury of the gods within her and he dared not anger her. Here, the females were even more so. Here, they came from warrior stock and it was common enough to find women who believed they could hold their own against a stronger man, but generally they were mistaken.
As this one was. Such a delicate, lovely creature wouldn’t stand a chance.
“What are you doing out here so late?”
She held up the item of clothing she washed ― a coarsely woven green tunic with the likeness of a hawk embroidered with care near the hem ― and pushed it under the water again. “It’s clear what I’m doing.” Then she wrung the water from the tunic, placed it on the pile and stood with the laundry in her arms. She turned toward him and tipped her face to the bright moonlight again.
The breath rushed out of him in the full face of her exquisiteness. Her cheeks were rosy against the perfect, pale skin of her face. Her eyes ― in contrast to his wife’s cornflower blue ― seemed nearly black, fathomless. Her hood had fallen with her movements, revealing long, silky dark hair. Her lips were as pink as her cheeks and her chin contained the slightest cleft.
Never in his life had Severus encountered a darker, more superb beauty.
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