In the Moon of Asterion (The Child of the Erinyes)

by Lochlann, Rebecca

  Her opponent’s sardonic laughter echoed into the heavens. “Such legends become fact because many examples prove the truth behind them.”

  “Where were you?” She dropped her clumsy wooden sword on the ground, disgusted with it, herself, and most of all, her brother.

  “Here… there… in the sky, the ground—” he poked her chest— “in your soul.” Nicholas Lawton hooked his thumbs under his braces, cocky as a Spanish matador, then he plunged his own sword into the damp soil next to the boulder, where it stood, quivering like a naked girl.

  Polishing dirty nails on the front of his shirt, Nicky threw out another round of derisive laughter. It echoed off cotton-wisp clouds and frightened a covey of partridges from their moor nests.

  Goaded into fury, Morrigan bent and grabbed her sword. She thwacked at her brother, longing to replace his superior, ever-unquenchable amusement with fright, or at the very least, respect.

  But he caught her around the waist, lifted her with no apparent effort, and, dodging the snapping wooden blade, threw her backwards into a patch of gorse.

  She shrieked again, this time in pain. “Ow!”

  He dusted his hands, planted them on his hips, and grinned.

  One day, fate would serve him a well-deserved portion of comeuppance. Soon, she hoped.

  His teeth gleamed, set off as they were by ill shaven cheeks covered in black stubble. “Mind you,” he said, shaking a finger before turning and whistling at his horse. “The world’s designed for men, so you’re pretty much buggered.” He swung onto his skinny nag and perused the sky.

  With a hundred scathing retorts forming on her tongue, Morrigan untangled herself from the gorse. A sharp throb diverted her attention. She knew what it was even before she looked. A thorn, embedded in her right index finger.

  She pried it out, watching a crimson drop of blood balloon from the puncture.

  When the gorse is not in flower, love is out of season. So the saying went.

  Instead of calling him a filthy beggar like she’d planned, she heard herself say, “Is that the way of love then, bonny, sweet, yet ready to sting when you least expect?”

  “If you don’t get home to your chores, you’ll never have the chance to find out.” Nicky’s ready grin held a hint of devilry, as though daring her to defy their da and his temper.

  “I’ll be back before the train comes. Stay, Nicky. I’ll read you the tale of the labyrinth, and the black Minotaur. There’s plenty of time.”

  “Jesus, you never read anything else. One of these days you’ll fancy yourself Helen of Troy and we’ll have to put you in an asylum.” He leaned toward her. “Truth is, you’re a lazy red-headed female, more trouble than she is use.” He shrugged and pointed at her. “Don’t greet to me about your bruised backside. You make your own trouble like you cannot bear a day of peace.”

  That was Nicky, always trying to protect her from Douglas’s wrath. But in the end, he never told her what to do. He let her make her own choices.

  As he galloped away across the spring heath, Morrigan pulled her ragged Translated Greek Mythology from the pony’s saddlebag and settled on the grassy slope overlooking Loch Ryan, glancing with appreciation at its smooth indigo surface. “In truth, I’d love a day of peace,” she muttered, turning her head up to peer uneasily into the sky, where pale lavender trellised the eastern horizon, sweet with promise. It couldn’t yet be seven, and the first train didn’t arrive till eight-thirty. Douglas was in his fields and couldn’t have any idea she wasn’t at home. She wouldn’t get into trouble. He’d never know.

  Widdie pricked her ears and nickered after the retreating figure of Morrigan’s brother. The sound was half-wistful, and the way the mare swung her head around toward Morrigan suggested reproof. Oh, she was imagining too much again. A reproving horse? Nicky loved to claim pagan faery blood ran through her veins, and this was what caused folk to stare at her in confusion half the time. They’d lift their eyebrows and give each other those I told you, didn’t I glances while she cursed herself for trying, and failing, to be amusing, witty, or simply tolerated. Sometimes it did seem she’d come from the stars rather than the Highlands. Perhaps she suffered from insanity as Nicky often suggested… but she preferred to think herself possessed by magic spells.

  Maybe her mother hadn’t really been Hannah Stewart Lawton, the lass from whom she’d inherited such an unfortunate color of hair. Maybe she was a faery, a changeling… a witch. That would explain Papa’s reasoning in never allowing anyone to speak of her, or of their old life in the North Country. Maybe Hannah still lived up there, enchanting virile men in the forest, making them forget their pious Christian roots. And maybe, just maybe, the sorceress had managed to bequeath a few fey tricks to her daughter. Tricks the wild girl who lived inside Morrigan used often enough. For sure, that hidden evil lass caused nothing but trouble for hapless Morrigan, daring her to wile away hours on the moor and goading her into flirting with the lads in town. The wild girl had a fierce angry voice that proclaimed these rules, chores, and constrictions so much muck to be shoveled away. The two Morrigans battled incessantly, the secret one haranguing her to mischief, while the other, the outer Morrigan, longed to make everyone, especially Papa, happy and proud.

  Impossible task. No one could please him.

  Morrigan opened the book and ran her fingertips over the faded lettering. Papa’s sister, Isabel, had given it to her on her tenth birthday. The title page held a message, written in fine, trembly script.

  Someone once said you’re the finest miracle I’ll ever see, and I’ve come to believe it. I was told yours is the name of a goddess, dear Morrigan. So here is a book about Greek gods and goddesses. Perhaps you can see yourself in these ancient tales.

  Page sixty-seven, to which the book opened naturally, carried the chapter heading “Theseus and the Minotaur of Crete.” Even after hundreds of readings, the names Theseus, Minotaur, and Crete awakened an involuntary shiver, as though invisible sprites blew through pursed lips across sensitive flesh.

  Theseus was still young, the account began, when shipped along with six other youths and seven maidens to the isle of Crete as slave-payment to King Minos. These youths and maidens were to be fed to the gruesome Minotaur— half-man, half-bull, the product of an ungodly physical union between Minos’s wife, Pasiphaë, and a magnificent white bull sent by the god Poseidon.

  She could picture it— lasses weeping as dark-skinned Cretan soldiers prodded them onto the vessel. Proud Theseus, though, would never give in to such weakness.

  Morrigan chewed on a fibrous stem of grass and rested her head in the crook of one arm. Weeds rustled against her ears with a soothing murmur. Stay… relax… dream. She closed her eyes and drifted into the old familiar fantasy of beloved Greek characters and their grand adventures.

  The Athenian prince swaggered off the Cretan dock, not bothering to hide his contempt. Among those watching was Minos’s daughter, Princess Ariadne, who would soon fall in love with this barbarian from the northern lands. Truly, could she help it, when moonlight and magic brought a god’s statue to life and transformed it into the foreigner’s likeness? As it crossed the clearing it changed from cold marble to living man, and this man lay upon her like a lover. For longer than you can imagine, he promised, I will be with you, in you, of you. Together we bring forth a new world, and nothing will ever part us. He kissed her, adding, Save me, Aridela. Open your heart.

  Morrigan settled more comfortably into her grassy nest. The statue called the princess Aridela, not Ariadne. Yet Morrigan knew it was no mistake. Aridela and Ariadne are one, her mind asserted. She must have read it somewhere. Aridela was the older name, the origin from which transpired the popular fable of Ariadne. She also knew, though she couldn’t remember how, that Aridela’s father was listed in the oracle logs as Damasen, royal consort who met his death bravely, and Aridela’s mother was Helice, renowned queen of Crete.

  Picturing herself as Aridela, her hair no longer auburn but black as nights
ky, eyes not green but ebony, and lined with a substance that made them mysterious and seductive, Morrigan watched the marble statue blossom into life. How wonderful it felt when he lay on her, stone warming into smooth flesh against hers, breath ardent and sweet on her cheek. She would love him forever. For as long as wayfaring stars sailed the midnight sky.

  For as long as the pyramids stand in Egypt.

  Startled, Morrigan scrambled from her springy bed, blinking to clear her sight. The hillside was empty but for her pony and the foraging curlew, which flew up, screeching, at the human’s sudden movement.

  She must have fallen asleep and dreamed the words… but they sounded so clear, so close, as if a man spoke right next to her. Maybe the loch washing against the shore had mimicked the voice. Truly, the sea could make uncanny sounds.

  Reassured, she lay back in the grass and closed her eyes. It was a bonny saying, wasn’t it? For as long as the pyramids stand in Egypt. Aye, the princess would love her Theseus that long, maybe longer.

  She sighed. Now she was in an arena of some kind. Hot sand scalded the soles of her feet. Rising onto her toes, she ran, buoyed with the lightness of a butterfly, the swift danger of a wasp. The gate creaked behind her. A snort, heavy and challenging, was followed by the thud of massive hooves. Aridela! the people thundered.

  She turned, laughing. The black bull trotted into view— her bull, an aurochs, it was called. It pawed the sand and lowered its head.

  The crowd’s chants lengthened into a continuous roar as she ran toward her destiny— what her people called moera.

  Fly high. Grip the horns. The bull’s heated breath clouded her face then vanished as she soared above him, propelled by the upward jerk of his head. She turned a graceful somersault, losing herself in the rush of wind. Everything slowed to a groggy pace. Cheers echoed, fading into an angry snort that reverberated through her eardrums. There was an instant of dizzy vertigo as the sky yawled below and sand stretched above. Then she righted herself, landing on the bull’s hindquarters, her toes searching for firm hold in its prickly hair. She made a quick, final leap, into the arms of her primped and painted half-brother, who placed her safely on the ground and made a grand flourish to impress the audience. What was his name again? Isandros.

  The cheering and foot stomping intensified until she thought the bullring would collapse. Only her mother, the queen, refused to join.

  Aridela… Aridela… Daugh… terrrrr of the Calesssiennnda!

  Morrigan started, blinking against bright light that struck her full in the face.

  There it came again. Shrill, echoing, accusatory, the train whistle shivered up the moor from Stranraer. She should be at the Wren’s Egg, helping Aunt Beatrice prepare breakfast. If the train brought hungry guests to the inn and she wasn’t there, her father would be furious.

  But what did it matter, since he was always furious, no matter what she did.

  “Fool.” She sat up. Widdie nuzzled her cheek with damp, grass-stained nostrils.

  “We’re late.” Morrigan rose, picking weeds and thistle from her skirts. The sky had gone pale as a shallow bowl of water. Looking at it, she knew with a sinking sense of dread that he would flay her livid.

  She mounted her pony and headed for the downward slope leading to the inn on Cairnryan Road.

  Then she paused. Another moment or two wouldn’t change her fate. Why not make a pleasant memory for later, after the thrashing?

  Kicking the mare into a gallop, she raced along the cliff’s edge, pretending she rode with her lover, Theseus. They were escaping their obligations, running to a ship hidden in the cove.

  “Hurry or they’ll catch us,” she cried, looking over her shoulder at imaginary pursuers.

  A sudden gust of wind tugged at her green velvet hat, the one Aunt Isabel had given her last November for her eighteenth birthday. It flew into the air, long plaid scarves fluttering.

  Morrigan pulled up the mare and jumped off, but the hat sailed over the edge and dropped away to Loch Ryan.

  “Feich! Damn this bloody wind!” If her Aunt Beatrice heard her speak such language, she’d no doubt rip every last hair from her head and slap her raw, but Morrigan went on spouting the words she’d heard her brother and his comrades use. That hat had been her favorite.

  There it lay, wet and bedraggled on the rocks. A spotted gray seal gave it a curious sniff before tidewater reached out, grabbed it, and dragged the wretched thing into the loch.

  Eerie premonition crawled through her spine, tickling, lifting her skin into uncontrollable goose bumps.

  The seal peered at her.

  Come to me.

  Morrigan pivoted in a breathless circle. There was nothing, anywhere, but waving grass, gorse, and thistle.

  I need you.

  She closed her eyes, hard, and when she opened them, gasped at the shimmering, almost transparent image of a man standing on the beach where the seal had been. His white knee-length tunic, topped by a leather cuirass, fluttered at the hem. Sunlight glinted against the hilt of a sword at his waist. One hand rested on his chest and waving golden hair framed an uncompromising, sun-bronzed face. He seemed to stare directly at her.

  The sea claims final possession, and leaves nothing behind.

  Morrigan clapped her hands over her ears, shut her eyes, and counted to ten.

  When she opened them, she saw nothing but bright sunlight and a network of spider-web clouds. There was the seal, rubbing its nose with one flipper. The only sounds were the quiet wash of Loch Ryan against the rocky shore, and a curlew’s sad call. It was a typical country scene, no different from a thousand other mornings.

  She’d heard no soft voice. Wind, ruffling through weeds, had fooled her. As if in confirmation, the seal barked as seals do, not sounding even remotely human, and slipped into the sea.

  For years Morrigan had questioned if other people dreamed like she did, of places, people, and events that often had her twisting in her sheets and waking in a sweat. She never voiced the question aloud— not even to Nicky, for she believed she might truly end up locked away in some fearsome place with mad folk.

  Come to me, the voice had said. I need you. She’d heard those words before, but never so clearly. She’d dreamed of that man, too, with his long golden hair and green eyes. They could be pitiless or tender, depending on his mood. Theseus, she’d long ago started calling him, magnificent, larger-than-life barbarian from Greek fable. Whenever she experienced the dream, she longed for… something. Her arms felt empty. Her heart ached. She knew none of it was real, but the beloved dream gave comfort, something to wish for.

  She could almost believe, though she’d never even been kissed, that out there in the enormous, fathomless world, love waited. Impatient, ardent love. It came from a honey-haired man, who searched for her, called to her, spoke into her mind. When, if, he found her, he would snatch her out of this unhappy life. He would give her a castle with turrets that pricked the clouds. She would be safe.

  The sea had sucked away her hat, but Morrigan felt it would like to seize her as well, yank her into its deep, inscrutable reaches. She shivered.

  Come to me, her dream lover urged. I’ve waited so long.

  Oh, find me, her heart cried. I need you, too!

  * * * *

  Curran Ramsay stifled a sigh of boredom. How he’d managed to get roped into being Isabel MacLean’s traveling companion quite escaped him. Somehow she’d contrived it, the moment she’d glimpsed him at the train station and waved her handkerchief, screeching to draw his attention. He was in no mood for the woman’s constant chatter, though he was fond of Isabel, and hadn’t seen her in several years. He suspected she was lonely since her husband died. He should invite her to Kilgarry for a change of scene. But she never stopped talking, and this morning, he found listening to her with the required expression of interest exhausting.

  If only they’d met some other day. He would have dealt with it in a much more gentlemanly fashion. Today, however, he was thickheaded, blear
y after a night of disruptions, moments of rest interrupted by long stretches of a recurring dream— nightmare, really. He’d spent most of the night tossing and turning, and had to struggle to keep from yawning in her face.

  He’d planned to hide behind a newspaper and spend the journey dissecting the dream. It always began with a spiraling sensation, like he’d been pushed into a hole or over a cliff, and was falling end over end. Just as suddenly, he would find himself carrying a child up out of the ground, a child who was bleeding profusely. To a chorus of crying doves, he would run up a seemingly endless staircase as the girl peered at him, her black eyes huge in a pinched little face. Striving to offer reassurance, he would kiss her forehead, not wanting her to see how terrified he was that she might expire in his arms. Sometimes the dream ended there, with him hurtling out of sleep, gasping. Other times it continued. He would emerge from the underground and race into a large open space. Men and women would surround him, shouting in a language he couldn’t begin to understand. They’d rip the child from his arms and carry her away while soldiers held wicked-sharp blades against his throat and chest.

  That particular dream never went any farther. He never knew if the child lived or died. Maybe it was the not knowing that filled him with this awful, lingering sense of guilt.

  “I sold the gown to the lady and she showed it to her wealthy comrades. I have so many orders coming in I almost think I should hire an assistant. What d’ye think of that, Mr. Ramsay?”

  “What? Oh… aye, Mrs. Maclean, it’s bonny news. Soon you’ll be making dresses for the royal family, I have no doubt of it.”

  Her gaze narrowed, making him fear he’d said something wrong. “I swear you look as though you just lost your home and livelihood. Are you certain you’re all right? Where is it you’re off to, again?”

  With determined effort, he smiled. “Larne, Mrs. Maclean, to buy a puppy out of a champion greyhound. The owner has promised to hold the best of the litter for me. And what of you? What is your destination?”