The Hounds of the Morrigan

by Pat O'Shea

  All the other mares and young horses were out to pasture on the summer grass.

  ‘I should have gone down myself last night to look at them, after the heat yesterday. I can’t think why I forgot,’ Michael continued, looking very uncertain as he tried to remember the evening before, exactly.

  It was obvious that he couldn’t remember how he had been, at all.

  Everything was wonderfully right.

  Pidge knew that, throughout the day, interested neighbours would be calling in to see the mare and to nod their heads wisely and knowingly as they admired her many fine qualities, and, in the ordinary way, he would be sorry to miss any of this clever talk. Now, however, he was glad of the chance to get off somewhere with Brigit, to be by themselves so that he could find out about her dream, at last.

  They had left the farmyard through the way between the cow-house and the turf-shed, when Pidge suddenly remembered something.

  ‘Have you got your brooch?’ he asked.

  Brigit opened her cardigan; the brooch was pinned on her dress.

  ‘Where are your other things?’

  ‘Under my bed; hidden,’ she said.

  ‘Wait here a minute; I won’t be long,’ he told her, and ran back to the house.

  The kitchen was empty and the churn was scalded and standing ready to be filled. He could hear Auntie Bina in the dairy, humming to herself as she skimmed the cream from the big, wide-necked crocks of milk. So that was all right; he wouldn’t have to answer any awkward questions.

  He hurried up the stairs to his room and got his scrying-glass and the bag of nuts and put them into his pockets. He went into Brigit’s room and put her Swapping Sweets and her penny whistle inside her school satchel and fastened up the buckle. And then he came back downstairs, glad to find the kitchen still empty, and went out into the farmyard again.

  The mare was in her loose-box, gazing out over the half-door at a small part of her new world; so, his father must have already gone to the phone-box to ring the papers. That meant that there was no one to ask: “What have you got there?” or: “Where did you get those things?” and he didn’t have the difficult problem of trying to explain without really explaining, and that was an ease to his mind. Later, perhaps, he could tell everything; but not yet.

  He caught up with Brigit.

  ‘I went back for these,’ he said, showing her.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It might be as well to have them handy. They were given to us for a reason, even though we don’t know why, yet. I want to know about that dream you had, Brigit.’

  ‘It was the most real dream I’ve ever dreamed. Now I don’t think dreams are fuzzy anymore; only that I wake up too fast and all the lovely colours and things go away, because my eyes are too wide open and the eyes inside my head don’t get a chance to see anymore.’

  They walked along and Brigit told her dream.

  Pidge listened, impulsively butting in from time to time, as detail matched detail and Brigit told him his own dream. So she really had stood beside him and they had indeed shared it all.

  He explained this to Brigit, who wasn’t in the least surprised, and he told her about the scrying-glass and the mare and the fair woman.

  ‘Why didn’t you wake me up and let me look too?’

  There just wasn’t time; it all happened too fast and I would have missed some of it.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have missed a bit for my sake?’

  ‘If I had, I couldn’t be telling you all about it now. Neither one of us would have known the whole thing. This way, we both know.’

  ‘That’s true; I suppose,’ she said a little begrudgingly. ‘I wish I’d seen the ugly one though.’

  ‘You’re lucky you didn’t!’

  ‘The nerve of her, getting inside our mare like that! Tell me it all again!’

  Again Pidge told her all that he had seen in the little glass ball.

  ‘How do you mean they crashed into each other when they were dancing? I don’t know what you mean?’

  ‘They sort of became one person for a while and then they broke away in three again.’

  She asked many more questions and had heard it all twice over in pieces, by the time they reached Fouracre and Thorn-field.

  Fouracre was first.

  They went in, shutting the gate after them, and walked among the horses. Everything seemed to be fine; the horses were all busily tearing at the grass, moving at a steady pace from one cropping-spot to another.

  They went through the wide gap that led into Thornfield and found all as it should be. There was a large three-sided shelter there, where the animals could take refuge from the flies or the heat, or when it was unpleasantly windy or wet. From the amount of droppings there, it was plain that the horses had spent a good deal of time inside, during the heat of the previous day. Between them, Pidge and Brigit cleared it all away to the heap, using shovels and a barrow, that were kept beside the shelter for that purpose.

  When it was all tidy, they left Thornfield by the gate in the farthest wall, which bordered the little boreen. A thorntree grew there and the field was named after it. As they passed by the tree, Brigit plucked a few leaves and put them in the pocket of her dress.

  They walked along the little road, turning for home.

  ‘I gotta message for you from P. Whelan, Esquare,’ said a familiar voice and to their great delight, there was Bagsie Curley, sitting on a flat stone.

  ‘Oh! It’s Bagsie Curley!’ Brigit cried.

  ‘That’s me. Yes, Bagsie Curley,’ said Bagsie.

  ‘Where’s Puddeneen?’ Pidge asked him.

  ‘He is Lordin’ it on a desirable lily-pad, in a detached, perminint puddle; and I gotta message for you from him.’

  ‘What’s the message?’ Brigit asked eagerly.

  ‘Dis is it: “Tell dem,” he said, “I hev done da doings an’ dat it’s a wonder me hair heven’t gone snow-white from shock, after all I bin through—if I had any”.’

  ‘Why didn’t he come himself?’ asked Pidge.

  ‘Miss Fancy Finnerty is kickin’ up a racket an’ woan let him out today, dat’s why. She is watchin’ an’ clockin’ over him like an old hen. She sez he’s gotta stop where he is, cos of all da shocks he got, lass night an’ yesterday. Now, I gotta tell you what happen lass night.’

  ‘We know; we saw it all,’ Pidge said.

  ‘In a dream,’ Brigit added.

  ‘You mustave ett cheese,’ Bagsie said knowingly.

  ‘Is Puddeneen all right?’ Brigit wondered. She looked concerned.

  ‘Accordin’ to her, he’s prostherated an’ flattened an’ not worth washin’ dis mornin’. “Tell dem,” she sez, “dat he’s not worth a rat’s ransome; dat he hev about as much pep as a washleather, an’ he look like a wackwork. He’s a wrung-out frog,” she sez, “an’ dere’s no more pitiful sight on dis earth, den a frog wit’ no puff left in him. An’ I wudden be serprised,” she sez, “if he doan come down wit’ da hoopy-cough or queasles, cos of all he bin through. He look like an old prune from Outer Magnolia,” she sez, and he can’t go out today.’

  ‘She sounds very bossy,’ Brigit observed.

  ‘Oh, she’s a Perfect Polygon,’ Bagsie answered, ‘da kind we ought to take our hats off to—if we had any. She’s spittin’ wit’ temper; she’s like a wasp!’

  ‘Is Puddeneen really sick? I hope he’s all right; he was so brave last night. He’s not really sick, is he?’ Pidge asked hopefully.

  ‘His Grannie, Big Julia—nearly threw him out wit’ da tea-leaves dis morning’ he wuz dat dessicrated. Dey are spoonin’ him now wit’ herbaceous tea, but he keeps askin’ for grapes.’

  ‘I don’t want Puddeneen to be sick like that,’ Brigit said.

  ‘Oh, he’s not really suffrin’, you know. He’s just got brain-fag an’ is a bit underblown. He’s goin ta get a big plate of muffled betaytas an’ onyins an’ gravy in a little while, to plump him up. An’ after dat, dey’re given him a mugga brawth wit’ barley a
n’ thin, buttered toast. An’ after dat, he’s gettin’ a big dish of strobberies an’ cream wit’ nuts an’ chocklit an’ minced chickweek. An’ after dat; he’ll just rest for a while an’ read da Connacht Tribune; atin’ a bitta tuffy an’ a Chester cake or two; until he rises up again wit’ his figure back nicely. Miss Fancy Finnerty wuz all for takin’ a short-cut wit’ a bicycle-pump, but Big Julia wudden hear of it and said da old-fashioned remedy wuz da best, an’ she don’t want no new-fangled Nightingales round da sick bed of no Whelans. Dere’ll be trouble dere yet, mark my words,’ he finished significantly.

  ‘She could have burst him with a pump,’ Brigit said indignantly.

  ‘Tell him that we hope he gets better soon and thank him for all he did. I don’t know what would have happened if he hadn’t got that ballet going,’ Pidge said.

  ‘Doan worry; he’ll be awright. It’s a day’s work gettin’ him up in da mornin’ his grannie always sez; so he’s only too pleased dat he kin lie dere all day, stuffin’ himself,’ Bagsie said, sounding envious and looking hungrier with every word. ‘I fancy a mouthful or two, meself; I’ll be going now.’

  One spring and he was gone.

  They watched to see if he would re-appear in jumps, and they saw him bob up and down from moment to moment, going really fast. They saw him hop up a wall by doing it in stages, from perch to perch where the stones stuck out, and then he jumped over and was out of sight.

  They turned away and walked slowly on.

  ‘I love Puddeneen, he’s my favourite; and I love Bagsie, too,’ Brigit said.

  ‘So do I. I think Puddeneen was really great last night and truly brave.’

  ‘Pidge,’ Brigit said, dragging her feet.

  ‘What?’ he stopped and looked at her.

  ‘I wish we didn’t have to go home yet. I’d like to stay around and about to see if any more things will happen. I don’t want it just to finish.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ Pidge said, understanding perfectly. ‘It’s good fun, really. And a wonderful adventure.’

  ‘I was hoping you’d say that,’ said a friendly voice to the left of them, and they stopped at once and looked to see who it was.

  Chapter 14

  ‘COULD I have a few more vocables with you, young sir?’

  It was the old angler and, as before, he was sitting in among some bushes by the roadside.

  Pidge felt a wave of pleasure at seeing him again. Brigit looked at him with great interest.

  ‘Are you the old fella who warned Pidge about the cross-roads?’

  ‘Brigit!’ Pidge said sharply. He hoped that the old angler would realize that she wasn’t really being rude and ignorant.

  ‘That’s me!’ the old angler chuckled. ‘The Old Fella! As old as the bush behind the house; as old as the far-away bygones; an eld and a hearty friend to many old bones, once audacious,’ and he laughed a wheezing laugh like a ruptured bagpipe.

  ‘Older than mardykes, highways, byways and broadways; older than ring-a-ring-a-rosie; older than boats and even older than that brazint serpint, if all is known.’

  ‘I thought so,’ Brigit said, looking at him intently. ‘Your face is as wrinkled as a curly cabbage; it’s got lines on it like a chicken’s leg.’

  ‘Brigit!’

  ‘What?’

  Pidge’s face was going red with embarrassment, but the old angler didn’t seem to mind.

  ‘Never mind that the truth is not good manners; it seldom was,’ he said. His old face smiled and was more wrinkled than ever, but somehow the wrinkles looked delicate and perfect, and reminded Pidge of poppy petals, newly opened and all creased and papery. ‘Especially in babies,’ he finished and winked at Pidge.

  Luckily Brigit didn’t catch all of his meaning but she knew that he was excusing her.

  ‘See?’ she said.

  ‘You didn’t get sniggled like an eel, then?’ the old angler said to Pidge.

  ‘No. Thanks to you, I didn’t.’

  ‘You came this far without damage, anyway.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If a good-willing party was to say—can you go further?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ whispered Pidge, beginning to wish now that he hadn’t said it was all a wonderful adventure.

  ‘What is the pretty name of this place?’

  ‘Shancreg. It means Old Rock.’

  ‘Yes, Shancreg,’ Brigit said, not to be left out.

  ‘Ah,’ the old angler murmured, ‘it’s a nice name.’

  Something in the way he said this made Pidge feel that the old angler had known well that the district was called Shancreg, and that there was an old, old rock standing in the middle of one of the fields, with other old stones tumbled down around it, like fallen trees. Once, they had all stood upright in a pattern, with one or two arranged as capstones, so the old people said; once, they had a purpose and a meaning, way back in ancient times; but the knowledge of these things was now lost.

  ‘If you go further, young mortal sir—Shancreg is your path.’

  Pidge was sure that the old angler had only asked about the name, to be able to give him this information. This must mean that the whole thing had been bound in some way to the district in which he lived, right from the very beginning.

  ‘Will you tell us some more, please?’ he asked.

  ‘It might be beyond your liking. It might raise your hair and quiver you and even cause you to refuse the venture, though it has been in your hands now since the beginning.’

  ‘The beginning was in the bookshop?’

  ‘Two long fingers have been moving you, but you spied that soon enough.’

  ‘Yes. Was one of them someone called—The Dagda?’

  ‘To be sure.’

  ‘Who is The Dagda?’

  ‘The Dagda is the Good God. He is God of the earth and the life in it; he arranges the run of the seasons. He is the Lord of Great Knowledge.’

  ‘And the other one—was The Mórrígan?’

  ‘Oh her!’ Brigit said with a fine show of scorn. ‘Cabbages to her!’

  ‘Do not be cabbaging nor slighting such as would make Nero look like a bit of fried bread. She has set her evil heart—which is so small it would flap about inside a midge’s skin—on gaining Olc-Glas; but such a thing would be ruin and destruction and full of sorrow.’

  ‘Who exactly is she?’

  ‘She is the Goddess of Death and Destruction.’

  ‘What?’ said Pidge. He thrilled with horror and fright and remembered the ugly fires in the mare’s eyes. He caught hold of Brigit’s hand and wanted to simply walk away and go home.

  The old angler looked at him searchingly and said:

  ‘If she adds the vile poison that belongs to Olc-Glas to the evil that still sleeps within herself, all creation will suffer for it.’

  Pidge made no answer. He just stood and wondered what on earth he could do to get out of all this. It’s too much for one boy and one little girl, he thought.

  ‘The Dagda is your strong friend in this,’ the old angler said softly.

  Pidge hardly noticed.

  ‘I freed Olc-Glas when I peeled away St Patrick’s words,’ he said miserably.

  ‘He must have been an elegant, powerful Druid, that Patrick,’ the old angler said admiringly.

  Brigit was shocked.

  ‘He was a Saint, not a Druid; I thought everyone knew that! I can’t imagine how you didn’t know it,’ she said.

  ‘Ah well! Sometimes we miss the latest news. I’m a bit behind the times and I never did go to school,’ the old angler smiled.

  ‘Why don’t we just destroy Olc-Glas?’ Pidge asked.

  ‘It’s your task, if you’ll do it.’

  ‘Couldn’t we just tear the paper up or burn it?’

  ‘That would only release him.’

  ‘Is that why he couldn’t be burned with the rest of the rubbish from the old pawnshop?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How could we do it?’

  ‘With The M
órrígan’s own foul blood.’

  ‘What!’ Pidge cried again, appalled at the dangers and horrors that this suggested.

  ‘One drop.’

  ‘But we’d never get it. She’d kill us first.’

  ‘Kill us?’ Brigit said. She looked around wide-eyed at the idea of anyone even thinking such a thing. Everything the old angler was saying was miles above her head; all that she really understood was that there was some sort of game going on. ‘I don’t think that’s a very nice thing to say,’ she said, ‘it hurts my feelings.’

  ‘Could it be,’ the old angler asked wistfully, ‘that you have ever heard the name of Cúchulain?’

  ‘Of course. He was the Great Hero who lived long ago in olden times, who was the most skillful warrior ever known,’ Pidge replied.

  Delight spread across the old angler’s face: ‘The prophecy was true,’ he whispered to himself. ‘On the day he first took arms, it was said that his life would be short but his name would be greater than any other in Ireland.’

  ‘I’ve often heard stories of him and there are some in my schoolbooks as well.’

  ‘Cúchulain spilled three drops of The Mórrígan’s blood. To find even one drop would be enough,’ the old angler said quietly.

  ‘Was she around in those ancient times?’ Pidge asked.

  ‘Indeed she was,’ the old angler replied emphatically. ‘Three times she went against Cúchulain during the battles of The Cattle Raid Of Cooley and three times he gave her a sharp answer. It was while he was standing in the waters of a ford fighting his enemies that she came the first time as an eel. She wound herself three times round his feet to trip him and hinder him in his striving, but he struck back at her and crushed her ribs against a green stone in the waters, and a drop of her blood turned them dark crimson. That was the first drop. Next she came as a grey she-wolf and attacked him again. He fought back using his slingshot, and his swift pebble wounded her in the eye. The third time she came as a red heifer without horns, with a herd of cattle following her, and they stirred up the waters of the ford so that Cúchulain lost sight of it and couldn’t tell deep from shallow or where he would be safe, so he flung a second stone from his sling and broke her legs. The first blood-drop was lost, but the two pebbles of her wounding are stained with her blood and lie somewhere in this land. If one could be found! If only one could be found,’ the old angler finished, even more wistfully than before.