“And you,” the woman said.
“He spoke against my father’s plan,” Bebin said. Her voice trembled and cracked but did not fall silent. “Ennan urged my father to abide by his word and return the calf, but he would not listen.”
“And was that enough?” the woman asked.
Ennan raised his head.
“No,” he said. “No, Lady, it was not. I should have defied him.”
Bebin clutched his shoulder, digging her fingers in. “No! My father would have put him out and where else has he to go?”
“Better that, than to be so dishonored,” Ennan said thickly, “Then to bring this down on you and the farm.”
The woman’s long fingers scratched the bull-calf’s poll as a man would a dog’s head. Her smile was not cruel, but nor was it kind. It was her smile and as such, beyond understanding.
“What is it you ask for,” she said, “punishment or forgiveness? Would you ever decide?”
Ennan put his hand over Bebin’s to silence her and looked up at the woman, at her bright hair and her spear and her sharp glory, and he knew her. Dread was the frog in his throat.
“Is there forgiveness in you?”
Her smile widened and she shook her head, raising the spear she carried. Ennan closed his eyes. Some might watch their doom unflinching, but he was not so bold. He heard Bebin cry out and then hot agony lanced through his leg, from thigh to calf to heel.
The scream was wrenched from his throat, harsh as a crow’s call, and he would have toppled if not for the spear driven through his leg and into the ground. Her hand was still on the butt.
“No forgiveness in me and my gifts tend to sour. So you have this, Ennan mac Fearchair: a boon that will give you no joy.” She wrenched the spear free, shreds of flesh and muscle caught on the barbs, blood dripping from the point. “War comes, Ennan mac Fearchair, and the cream of Ireland’s men will die paying their toll to me: My name on their last breath in this life. You heard its ghost the other night. So, I give you your life, Ennan. A cripple will not be called to fight; a lame man cannot keep up with the warbands. You will live long and be content and never know glory.
“Remember me.”
****
Afterword
“It was when Queen Mebd saw the bull calf born of Donn Cuailnge and the Morrigan’s heifer fight Ailill’s white-horned Finnbhennach that she set her heart on stealing Donn Cuailnge away for her herd.”
I love Irish Mythology, so when Morrigan Books announced that they were publishing an anthology in honor of their patron goddess, the Phantom Queen of War, Death and Sovereignty, I was determined to have my name on the Table of Contents. The question was: what was I going to write about?
In the end, I decided on the ‘White Heifer’, because I wanted to explore an untold tale from the Ulster Cycle; and because I needed to tell the story of a man who was not a hero, but still had dealings with the gods. Ennan is a kind man, a good person, but neither goodness nor kindness are attributes valued by the Morrigan. Yet, she can be fair, in her own, hard way.
‘The White Heifer’ is also an exploration of something I have always found appealing about Irish Mythology: that the gods and myths are so intrinsically interwoven into the land and life of Ireland itself. They are not set above, below, or aside, but are an essential part of the world. It was a terrifying wonder to have Morrigan come visiting, but at the same time, it was an accepted one. Her presence in their life was like a storm; something to awe and survive.
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Biography
Elegant, disturbing prose is Northern Irish author, T.A. Moore’s, stock-in-trade. From the decadent, eternally decaying Even City to the worrying charm of Sol in ‘A Different Breed’, she weaves horror and beauty together to create worlds of dizzying variation and charm. Her first novel, The Even, was published in September 2008 and the sequel, Shadows Bloom, will be published in 2011.
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Elaine Cunningham
She Who Is Becoming
Any man who believes in unchangeable Fate has never stood in the shade of Yggdrasil, nor is he overly familiar with the ways of women.
Three sisters stood beneath the great World Tree, goddesses who spun the threads and wove the tapestry of mortal lives. They gathered around their silver loom and watched in silence as the fabric unraveled from the bottom up.
First, the warriors in the valley faltered and fell. Death continued upward, cresting the hill where a young bard stood. The curved frame of his great battle harp came unbowed. Gold-thread harp strings snapped free and writhed away like worms eager to feast upon unfinished lives.
Urd, the white-haired eldest, sighed and gestured with the distaff in her hand toward a pile of new-spun thread. “Eregar was fated to live long and win great renown as a bard. On this we all agreed.”
“I wove such skill into his fingers,” said Verdandi, the middle sister. Her round, matronly face was wistful as she ran her own deft fingers over the ruined work. “I fashioned for him the heart of a warrior-poet. Such a man could have written songs that would ring through Valhalla until the end of days.”
The youngest sister, Skuld, smirked and brandished the knife that had cut the bard’s life-thread.
“The decision was mine to make. If I undo your work, what of it?” She lifted her chin proudly. “I am unchanging Fate. I am Death, which cannot be denied.”
“There are three Norns,” Urd reminded her.
“She Who Was, She Who Becomes.” The maiden gestured to each of the older women in turn. “You may spin and weave the threads, but the future is mine. Only She Who Is Becoming determines the fate of mortals.”
The older sisters exchanged a quick glance. Unspoken agreement passed between them.
“Then sharpen your knife, Sister, and get you to Eire,” said Verdandi. “It is mine to know what is, and I tell you that as we speak, five Danish warships sail for that green shore.”
The maiden frowned. “But those are the Morrigan’s lands.”
“What of it? Death cannot be denied,” She Who Was said mildly.
Skuld eyed Urd suspiciously, but there was no hint of mockery on her sister’s time-worn face. After a moment, she nodded and spun away to climb the Great Tree.
It took her less time than that which passes between two beats of a mortal’s heart to reach the place where a broad limb arced up into the clouds. Her flaxen braids trailed behind her as she ran, and the raven’s cries that burst from her throat soared off to ride the winds.
An answering call came, then another. The clouds parted as Gunnr and Rόta, sister valkyries, rode to meet Skuld on horses made of air.
The youngest Norn leaped into the sky and gathered the reins of the wind. They sped toward Eire, crossing silver seas and soaring over awakening villages. If any mortals in the lands below noted their passing, it was only as a keening wind and the distant calling of crows.
Finally Skuld saw five slim ships riding the waves, swiftly closing on the island’s southern shore. She and her sister Valkyries circled down for a closer look.
Signal fires burned on scores of hilltops and the swift heartbeat of drums sped the men of Eire as they ran to meet the invaders. Skuld noted with interest the many Northmen among the Celts ― tall men with hair as bright as flame or as fair as her own. She’d heard it said that the green island held a magic to rival Annwn’s cauldron, for men who came to these shores were soon reborn as sons of Eire.
The ships spilled Danes onto the shore. Eire’s sons ran to meet them with axe and sword.
Weapons thundered against wooden shields, battle cries mingled with the calls of gathering crows. Skuld soared above it all, choosing, choosing. Her knife scythed the air, harvesting the souls of heroes. Their blood stained the rocks and ran in rivulets toward the sea.
After a time, Skuld noted that some of the ravens had taken human form. Her gaze went to a woman of middle years standing near the battlefield. A red cloak draped her shoulders, and the long spear in her hands se
emed more support than weapon. Gray threads dulled her black hair; lines etched her long, pale face. Perhaps she’d once been beautiful. Now she was invisible ― not as a goddess might choose to be, but in the way of women who were neither maidens nor crones.
Skuld’s lip curled as she beheld Medb of the Friendly Thighs. Once, Medb had been the mortal queen of Connacht, a temptress to rival tragic Deirdre and fabled Helen. But long years had passed since men began seeking friendship elsewhere. What immortality could Medb achieve, but to add her faded visage to the Morrigan’s many faces?
The thunder of falling sail-cloth stole the smirk from Skuld’s face and drew her gaze to one of the Danish ships. The Danes had dropped the square red and white sail, and two men hauled at the ropes that raised the great Raven Banner.
White silk, it was, unmarked as new snow. If the gods deigned to answer, Destiny would be written upon it.
Skuld threw back her head and gave herself up to joyful laughter. She was Death, she was Fate, and this choice was hers to make!
Flinging her arms wide, she gathered the raven to herself and prepared to give the Danes the answer they sought.
A roar of triumph arose from the invaders, for on the white silk appeared the silhouette of a great black bird, wings spread wide and beak open in a silent screech of victory. Fate had spoken; the battle was theirs.
But the men of Eire roared back, louder still, and they fell upon the invaders with renewed frenzy.
And Medb?
The aging goddess dropped her cloak to free arms still slim and hard with muscle. She lifted the spear high over one shoulder and hurled it toward shore. It burst into flame as it flew and tore through the banner, sizzling as it quenched its fires in the raven’s silken flesh.
****
Skuld awoke on the shore, flat on her back, her arms still flung wide in an attitude of triumph. Overhead the Raven Banner still flew, but the silhouette had changed to a bird with folded wings and downcast mien ― a sign that the invaders would lose the battle. Strangely, the Danes fought on, paying no more heed to the augury than had the men of Eire.
Skuld hauled herself up, using a broken oar for support, and nearly stumbled over a new-bearded lad who clutched the spear in his gut and in his agony called for his mother.
A stout, gray-haired goddess gathered him into her arms. She wrapped her red cloak around him and crooned softly until he quieted. When his spirit pulled free, she rose with him and gave him a mother’s blessing. And she stood smiling while he strode off, as was fitting, without a backward glance.
Nearby a fallen man called his beloved’s name. As Medb turned toward him, her face became as young and lovely as Skuld’s own. She smiled and extended a hand to the dying warrior. His spirit began to peel free of the battered flesh.
But a keening cry rose over the noise of battle. A girl ran along the shore, heedless of danger, and fell to her knees beside her lover. The spirit faltered, hesitated. Medb nodded and turned away.
“He is yours,” Skuld protested.
“Perhaps.” The Morrigan shrugged. “He might yet live. He has not chosen.”
She Who Is Becoming opened her mouth to protest, but found she could not. She shrugged and tossed a glossy black braid over her shoulder. The new color surprised her, but it seemed fitting. Perhaps goddesses, like ravens, would do well to watch and wait.
And so Death stood in silence, while all around men raised their swords and carved their own destiny, knowing in their blood and bones what gods sometimes forgot.
****
Afterword
‘She Who Is Becoming’ grew from several seeds. I started out writing a story about the Norse goddesses in conflict with the Celtic Morrigan, but that story just didn’t want to happen. Blending the Norns and the Celtic triple goddess made a lot more sense to me on a number of levels ― the universality of certain themes across cultures and belief systems, the blending of Scandinavian and Celtic cultures in Ireland, the ever-shifting face of the Morrigan herself.
Also, the question of personal choice was very much on my mind at the time. My sons bought the book 13 Things that Don’t Make Sense (Michael Brooks) as a birthday gift for their father. One of the essays in it deconstructed the concept of “free will”. Their father and I grew up in a fundamentalist church, and free will is a central pillar of that mindset. (How else to reconcile the notion of a loving, omnipotent God and the existence of suffering and evil?)
Religious background aside, free will is such a widely accepted, deeply ingrained cultural assumption that neither of us had ever thought to re-examine it. Our sons, university students studying mathematics and philosophy, grew up with a very different world view. There was much discussion around the household about choice and determinism. Since I tend to think about issues on two levels ― real world and implications for fantasy ― this got me thinking about the roles of Destiny and Choice in fantasy fiction. Admittedly, I’m not entirely sure how this works in Real Life, but it seems to me that while the concept of Destiny is powerful and enduring, what turns a character into a hero is the choices he or she makes.
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Biography
Elaine Cunningham is a former music and history teacher with a lifelong fascination for mythology. She has written twenty fantasy books, a couple dozen short stories, and a graphic novel.
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About the Editors
Mark S. Deniz is a novelist and short fiction writer, who recently turned his hand to screenwriting for a short film, Silverudden, which was screened at festivals worldwide in 2007. His published short stories (under the nom-de-plume Sin Deniz) can be found in the Big Finish anthologies: A Life Worth Living, Something Changed, and Collected Works. He also features in FlashSpec: Volume Two, and the Black Box anthology, and will have poetry published in Doorways Magazine in 2009.
After a successful year at Eneit Press, Mark started his own dark fiction publishing company, Morrígan Books, closely followed by its imprint Gilgamesh Press, which is to focus on Assyrian topics. More can be found regarding Mark on his blog: http://mark.deniz.wordpress.com.
Mark S. Deniz lives in Norrköping, on the south-east coast of Sweden, with his wife and their two children.
Amanda Pillar is a speculative fiction author and editor who lives in Victoria, Australia, with her partner and two children, Saxon and Lilith, Burmese cats.
Amanda has had numerous short stories in print and is also the co-editor of the anthologies, Voices (2008), and Grants Pass (2009), both published by Morrígan Books. She is currently editing Scenes from the Second Storey, due out at Worldcon 2010.
Visit Amanda’s website at http://www.amandapillar.com or read about her adventures at:
http://amandapillar.livejournal.com.
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About the Artists
The Cover Artist
Reece Notley was born and lived in Hawai’i until her late teens when her feet grew itchy, and she wandered off to see the world. After chewing through a pile of books, a lot of odd food and a stray boyfriend or two, she eventually landed in Southern California which she believes to be a very nice place but seriously needs more rain.
She has a day job herding pixels for the marketing department of a nice company with a fantastic view of the San Diego seashore and fits in editing Three Crow Press, a sci-fi, horror, fantasy, and speculative fiction e-zine http://www.threecrowpress.com in her not-so-spare time.
As of this moment, she admits to sharing the house with three cats, a black Pomeranian puffball, a bonsai Wolfhound and a ginger Cairn terrorist and is enslaved to the upkeep of a 1969 Ford Mustang Grand Coupe, a 1979 Pontiac Firebird and a Toshiba laptop.
The Illustrator
Cecily Webster was born in London, studied archaeology at Bristol and is now drawing things in Orkney. She collects bones, feathers and shiny things, enjoys the company of corvids and believes there's more to the world than can be seen or current science accepts.
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Where to find us On
line
Website:http://www.morriganbooks.com
Twitter:http://twitter.com/morriganbooks
Facebook:http://facebook.com/pages/Morrigan-Books/59256739661
Table of Contents
Rising Tide
Kiss of the Morrigan
I Guard Your Death
Ravens
Gifts of the Morrigan
Cairn Dancer
Washerwoman
The Raven's Curse
The Lass From Far Away
The Trinket
The Dying Gaul
The Children of Badb Catha
The Plain of Pillars
The Silver Branch
The Good and Faithful Servant
The White Heifer of Fearchair
She Who Is Becoming
About the Editors
About the Artists
The Phantom Queen Awakes Page 23