Morrigan

by Jonathan King

  Morrigan took a seat and launched into her story. The whole affair seemed more dramatic than Abel remembered when she told it, like some medieval epic in which they were the heroes, ancient warriors come again. Her telling was kind to him in particular, cutting out his cluelessness and panic and making his defeat of the Red Caps seem like a brilliant and intentional bit of improvisation. He squirmed as Brigid and Mac looked at him in increasing awe. It was a respect he hadn’t earned and would never be able to live up to, much as he’d like to.

  “And then I saw your ad in the paper and found you here,” said Morrigan. “And here we are.”

  “And all the happier for it,” said Mac.

  “You know what I’m thinking?” Brigid said with a mischievous grin.

  “A welcome home celebration for our darling girl? I can’t think of anything I’d like better.” Mac wrapped an arm around Abel’s shoulders and ushered him to the door. “Boyle will be so pleased to meet you, boy.”

  “Who’s he? Another god?” Abel asked.

  “May as well be. The ale that flows from his establishment is practically divine.”

  Morrigan laughed as she followed them out onto the street. “Mac may be a god, but he’s a sailor first, and a sailor always knows the best pubs in any port.”

  “A pub, huh?” Talk about outside his experience. If the Reverend had caught him near a pub or a bar, he’d have dragged him away by the collar. Then he’d have pulled out his sermon about Wine the Mocker and Beer the Brawler and being filled with the Holy Spirit and not alcohol. Besides, imagine what people would think if they knew the preacher’s son was an “alcoholic.” Abel stifled a snicker. He’d never even seen a beer bottle that wasn’t empty or broken, much less gotten drunk, and he wasn’t eager to surrender control of his senses. Still…

  He slipped his hand into his pocket and rubbed the Freedom List between his fingers. He’d run away for a reason. When would he ever get this chance again?

  Abel grinned. “Lead the way!”

  12

  Abel wasn’t sure what shocked him more: the fact that the god of the sea drove a beat-up Chevy truck—they’d ditched Cora’s Mustang in case she came looking for them—or the inside of Boyle’s Pub.

  The only alcohol establishment in Pepper’s Mill was a squat windowless building his family drove past on the way to Sunday lunch at Aunt Sally’s Meat ‘N Three. It was half tucked behind a hill, a hollowed out concrete block in an empty parking lot. The place always had an air of dark mystery, and in his youth, Abel had longed to sneak through the rusted door and see the sordid secrets hidden inside. Now that he was older and possibly wiser, he suspected he’d overhyped the bar, that the interior would disappoint him. Probably some dingy room decorated with neon signs and sad people.

  Boyle’s, on the other hand, was equal parts fairy tale and home. Not the home Abel had run away from, but home, the essence of belonging radiating from the soft lamps and built into the wood-paneled walls. Here, among the dusty pictures and dustier customers, Abel felt a piece of his soul click into place. He closed his eyes and inhaled the musty scent of old wood and old grain, listening to the plunking strings of the live band in the corner.

  When he opened his eyes, though, he saw it wasn’t a band so much as some locals who had gotten together and circled around for a jam session, chatting to each other as they played. There were five of them: a curly-haired woman with glasses and a drum she held sideways (a bodhran, unless he was mistaken), a teenager with a guitar, a stick of a man on the fiddle, and an old lady playing a mean mandolin. As he watched, an older man in a wool cap and a goatee sat down and added his pennywhistle to the reel they played. Two men with long white beards watched over them like the patriarchs of the clan.

  That’s what it is, Abel thought as Mac went over to greet the group. That’s why I feel so at home here. These people had nothing in common except their love of the music they played. It brought them together, entwined their lives, in such an intimate way. It was like church with all the artifice stripped away. No masks here; no forced respectability. Everyone simply was, and that was enough.

  “He’ll be awhile yet.” Brigid led Abel and Morrigan over to the bar and left Mac chatting with the musicians. “They’ll want him to sing a shanty or two.” She sailed up onto a barstool. “Boyle! Drinks for everyone, on me!”

  Boyle, a balding man with liver spots, stopped mopping his glistening counter and stuck the bar towel in his vest pocket. “What’s the occasion?”

  Brigid put an arm around Morrigan. “The Prodigal has returned.”

  Abel couldn’t help smiling as he thought of his own reverse prodigal story, leaving home instead of running back to it.

  Morrigan squirmed away. “Come on, Breej. You don’t have to make such a big deal about it.”

  “Ah, but they do if you’re Morrigan,” Boyle said with a smile that made his eyes disappear. “They’ve been looking for you for years. Tell an old man, where’ve you been hiding yourself?”

  Morrigan’s jaw tensed. “I wasn’t hiding myself, I can tell you that.” She shook her head. “It’s a long story for another time.”

  “Another time,” Brigid agreed. “For now, it’s time to celebrate. Our girl’s home!”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Boyle, drawing four pints for his guests and one for himself.

  In the corner, a new song started up. Mac grinned, and his lusty baritone rang out across the pub:

  “It was down by Swansea barracks

  One May morning I strayed

  A-viewing of the soldier lads

  I spied a comely maid

  It was o’er her red and rosy cheeks

  The tears did dingle down

  I thought she was some goddess fair

  The lass of Swansea town.”

  Abel looked over at his own goddess fair, and the song dimmed to a rhythmic drone of a melody. Morrigan had her eyes closed and a smile on her lips, her head tipped back and swaying in time to the music. He hadn’t seen her this relaxed, this happy, since … well, ever. It was as though Cora had never been, as though scars had never been erased and ankles had never been shackled, as though she were still as free as she’d been in ages past. He pictured her then, walking the grassy hills of Ireland, hair blowing behind her, a crow resting on her arm. She’d laughed, he imagined, easy and happy knowing another battle was on the horizon, another chance to test her mettle.

  The Morrigan here and now opened her eyes and met his. For a split second, Abel felt caught, but she didn’t look angry that he’d been staring. In fact, she stared back. And he could tell from the look in those emerald eyes she wouldn’t be looking away anytime soon. Which was fine by him. Neither would he.

  He was finally roused, not by the ending of the song or the applause that followed, but by the press of a cold mug against his fingers. Abel tore his gaze away from Morrigan and stared at the drink in his hand. He tried to protest, but Boyle was already bringing a round of drinks to the jam session, careful not to interrupt the patriarchs, who had taken up a rough-voiced a cappella whaling chant.

  “Isn’t he going to card me or something?” he asked Mac as the ancient sailor heaved himself up on the barstool beside him. Not that he knew what it meant to card someone, but he had read it in a book once. It had something to do with the legal drinking age, and he knew he wasn’t old enough to drink.

  Mac roared with laughter, joined by Brigid’s bubbling chuckle. “Boyle’s been drinking beer since he was weaned from his mother’s milk. He’s not about to stop a strapping young man like you from tossing one back.”

  Abel eyed his drink, unable to shake the feeling that there was something illegal about it being in his seventeen-year-old hands. But Morrigan’s emerald eyes were still on him, waiting to see what he would do. He froze.

  Brigid raised her glass. “To Morrigan and her safe return! Continued long life to her, and Danu’s blessings in the days ahead.”

  Mac thrust his glass into the air in agr
eement, spilling some of its contents. “To Morrigan!”

  Morrigan toasted herself half-heartedly, still watching Abel.

  The moment of truth, he thought, and his mind went back to the Freedom List in his pocket. Number One on the list was “Go to a bar and have a drink taste.” Even writing the list, he couldn’t commit to a full drink. Now that it was in his hand, the idea both repulsed and attracted him; he could almost feel the taboo-ness of the glass pulling him in like a magnet. And what was the point of coming to this pub if he wasn’t even going to take a sip? He was free. No church, no rules, no father watching over his shoulder. This was his chance to try the forbidden. And he couldn’t back down, not with the gods expecting him to follow. Not with Morrigan watching.

  Taking a deep breath, Abel put the rim of the glass to his lips and sucked in the tiniest amount possible.

  It wasn’t the taste that got him; there wasn’t enough liquid in his mouth to wet his tongue, much less to taste it. It was the smell. The stench of spoiled grain forced its way up his nostrils and refused to come back down, soaking his eyes in tears and making him gag. He slammed the glass down on the bar, coughing like a TB patient.

  Mac and Brigid laughed again, as though Abel were a toddler who had tried to sound very grown up. Morrigan looked at them wide-eyed, and then down at the table. Decidedly not at Abel.

  Abel narrowed his eyes, even though he couldn’t see through the tears that way. Morrigan had described him as a hero, and now they saw through that story. Well, he wasn’t going to let them dismiss him that easily. He picked up the glass again and gulped down more of the foul brew, whole mouthfuls at a time. It was bitter and a little spicy, but still nothing compared to the smell that clung to his nostrils and made tears stream from his eyes.

  He was halfway through the pint glass before Mac reached over and pushed it away from Abel’s face and down onto the counter. “That’s enough for you, Young Master Abel. Don’t hurt yourself.”

  Brigid slipped off her stool and slapped him on the back, which only made him cough harder. Then she pulled the kerchief from her hair and wiped the foam from the corners of his mouth. Abel tried to push her off, but she wouldn’t be dissuaded from her motherly duties. And that’s what she was in her mind; not an equal, but a mother looking after a child who couldn’t take care of himself. If he hadn’t been red-faced from choking on firewater, he would have blushed crimson just from that. And Morrigan still wasn’t looking at him.

  “Cheer up, darling,” Brigid said. “Lots of young men react that way to their first drink. The important thing is that Morrigan’s back safe. Now it’s the first flight back to Ireland, and it’ll be as though she’d never left.”

  “We can’t,” said Morrigan.

  Brigid stopped, and Abel pulled away.

  “All these centuries of searching for you, and now we can’t go home?” Mac asked, his near-constant laugh quieted by uneasy nerves. “Why ever not?”

  “Because Cora’s still alive.” Morrigan lifted her eyes to his. “And I’m going to fix that.”

  Abel coughed out a chuckle. “I wondered when we’d get back to that.”

  Brigid placed a hand on Morrigan’s arm. “Dear heart, you can’t mean you’re going to try to kill her. Look at how easily she bested you last time.”

  “She caught me off guard,” said Morrigan. “This time I’ll be ready.”

  “But you don’t have to do this. That woman kept you locked up for years, but you’re free now at last. She doesn’t hold any power over you anymore. It’s over.”

  “It’s not over,” said Morrigan. “Not while that woman is still breathing.”

  “Why?” asked Mac. “What’s she done that’s worth killing her for?”

  Morrigan’s laugh was cold. “If you don’t know that, Mac, you don’t know me at all.”

  “What’s your plan, then?” asked Brigid, hand on her hip. “Run back to her and try to slice her head off?”

  “I’d think you of all people would have come up with a more creative plan than that,” said Morrigan.

  “So you try stealth, or magic, or modern guns, or any of a hundred other ways to kill her off. Say you burn her home down, or surround her in salt, or bury her deep beneath the earth. What makes you think any of that would work?” Brigid threw up her hands. “We don’t know who or what she is. All we know is that she held you prisoner, hindered your powers, for two hundred years. What kind of being can do that? She could have powers we haven’t seen or even imagined. You want to risk your life with that little intel? I’d think you of all people would know how terrible that strategy is.”

  “Then what?” asked Morrigan. “Run back home and hope she doesn’t follow you?”

  “We swore to rescue you,” said Mac. “That’s all that’s kept us going these many years. Cora has never been our problem.”

  “Save the girl without slaying the dragon?” Morrigan smirked. “Is that what you’d do for your daughters, Mac? Is that how you saved Lugh?”

  Brigid gasped and Mac’s thick face reddened. Abel squished himself lower on the stool, wishing he could disappear. It was like he was back in the kitchen at home, except he didn’t know what line Morrigan had crossed. He was sure Mac would explode like his father or mother, but when the old sailor spoke, he was as quiet as the sea about to birth a storm, and somehow, that calm was far scarier.

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Neither is what Cora did,” said Morrigan, “to me and to those under my protection. Now, for the first time in two hundred years, I can choose my own path, and I will do anything to make sure she doesn’t take that freedom away.”

  “Then come with us and we’ll go somewhere she can’t touch you,” said Brigid.

  “I won’t run away,” said Morrigan. “I’m a fighter, and I will take this fight to Cora. And if she kills me, then I will die on the battlefield like my mother before me, but it’ll be on my terms, not hers or yours or anyone else’s.”

  “You do this,” said Mac, “and you’ll do it alone. I’ll not help you kill yourself.”

  “Mac!” Brigid cried.

  “Stop it, all of you!” Abel broke in. He couldn’t stand by silently like he had all those years; he wasn’t a child, and he wasn’t a trained dog. He was a hero. It was time he acted like it. “If I’d wanted to be part of a family fight, I could have stayed home.” He paused to let everyone catch their breath. “Look, we don’t have to decide this now, do we? Let’s give this a couple of days and think it over.”

  “Give it all the time you want, but I won’t change my mind,” said Morrigan.

  “Neither will I,” said Mac.

  “The lad’s right, though.” Brigid put her hands on their shoulders. “We’ve been apart for so long. It’d be a shame to part again so soon, and angry into the bargain.”

  “And how do you suggest we spend these days together in the meantime?” Morrigan asked.

  Abel raised a tentative hand. “I might have a few ideas about that.” He pulled the Freedom List from his pocket, and his breath caught in his throat. He’d never shown this to anyone. “I just got my freedom too, and I’ve had a long time to think about what to do with it.”

  Mac raised his eyebrows, some friendliness returning to his face. “Of course. You’ve done so much, it’s only fair that we help all we can.”

  Abel smiled, cleared his throat, and read. “‘Go to a bar, have a…’” He trailed off. “Well, that’s taken care of.”

  “The drink?” The corners of Mac’s mouth twitched. “Aye, that didn’t go so well, did it?”

  Abel cleared his throat again. “‘Watch an R-rated movie.’ I’m open to suggestions if you have any. ‘Listen to secular rap. Learn to play poker.’”

  “You’ve never played poker?” Mac asked. “Where were you that you couldn’t enjoy a simple card game?”

  “My dad’s a preacher,” Abel said. “He wasn’t big on gambling. Or much of anything on this list.”

  “So now that you�
��re out from under his roof,” said Brigid, “your big goal is to change the radio station?”

  Abel’s ears burned as he read on. “‘Get a tattoo or piercing.’ That one’s got a question mark by it because I’m not sure I want to do anything that permanent to my body. I was just brainstorming ideas at the time.”

  “Of course you were,” said Brigid.

  “Do you remember when warriors were covered with tattoos and piercings?” Mac asked Morrigan.

  “Mm-hmm,” Morrigan replied, studying her beer and avoiding eye contact with everyone.

  “Now Mac,” said Brigid, “the child has a right to second thoughts about what he does to his body.”

  Abel ducked his head. The child. And Morrigan was almost as red as he was. He embarrassed her.

  “So you want to go to the movies, listen to some different music, open a pack of cards, and maybe, maybe get some kind of tattoo,” Mac summarized. “Anything else on that list of big dreams?”

  The list crumpled in Abel’s fingers, but he was too near the end. Better get it over with. “‘Flirt with a strange girl.’ I kind of already did that with Morrigan.”

  “Well, you tried,” Morrigan muttered.

  There was a twinge in Abel’s heart. I did flirt with you. At least, you made it seem like I was being smooth. Was that an act? Did I misread everything?

  One more line, and by now it seemed too silly for words. “‘Go shirtless in public.’”

  “That was all you wanted?” Morrigan asked, finally looking at him. “I’ve seen you almost naked by now.”

  “Ooh, do tell,” said Brigid, leaning close.

  “It was nothing,” said Morrigan. “Just getting our clothes cleaned. And he wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about it.”

  “I’m right here,” Abel murmured.

  “I’m sorry,” said Morrigan, “but I thought you’d have bigger dreams than that. I’ve got big plans for my freedom, once Cora’s dead. Feasts overflowing with food and ale, skirmishes with the toughest of warriors and beasts. Nights of wild passion.”