Morrigan

by Jonathan King

  Brigid followed Cora’s gaze, and then she gasped. “Oh no.” Tears brimmed in her eyes … but smoldering anger turned them to little steam clouds when she looked at Cora.

  “What is it with people and that boy?” Cora sighed. “Fine. You wanna kill me for it, you’re welcome to try.” She threw her arms wide open.

  Brigid stepped forward, but before she could strike, the wail of distant sirens caught their attention.

  Cora rolled her eyes. “Goddamn it. I don’t have time for this. I’ve got to be at the cemetery by moonrise.” She looked at Morgan. “Look, maybe I overreacted. Maybe you’ve got a right to be angry. But come find me when you’ve had some time to think things over. You’ll see that I only did this for you.” She let off a burst of poisoned fire in Brigid’s direction and darted past her and out the front door. There was a roar and a whoosh and she was gone.

  Before anyone could say anything, Mac puffed his way up the steps. “They just flew away! Four of them, in a burst of green fire. The Dullahan, the vampire, and a lady and a man I didn’t recognize. Couldn’t stop them in time.” He cast a teasing glare at Morrigan. “And you better have a damn good explanation why my truck is smashed up. I didn’t put a tracker on it to find it in that condition—”

  “Mac,” Brigid said gently.

  “What?” Then Mac spotted Abel, and he dropped to his knees.

  “You have to help him,” Morrigan said. “Breej, you’re a healer. Heal him.”

  Brigid shuffled down the aisle and placed a hand on Abel’s face. “He’s gone, Morrigan. There’s nothing I can do for him now.”

  “Don’t say that!” Morrigan shouted. “There has to be a way. After everything she’s taken from me, I can’t lose him too.”

  “I’m sorry, lass, but you’ve lost him already,” said Mac, blinking away tears. “You know what you have to do.”

  Morrigan looked down at Abel’s face and shook her head. “No, I can’t.”

  “You’re sworn to help all the dead and dying find their rest,” said Brigid. “That includes Abel. You have to help him into the next life.”

  “No!” Morrigan cried. “I won’t do it.”

  “This is your only chance to say goodbye,” said Mac, “to end on a good note.”

  “I don’t want it to end at all,” said Morrigan. “I know that’s selfish, but I don’t care. Can’t I have one person I don’t have to say goodbye to?”

  “No one can,” said Brigid, looking at Mac. “No one knows that better than us.”

  “I know losing him hurts,” said Mac, rising to stand beside the war goddess, “but what’s worse? Losing him to eternal rest and a fond goodbye, or letting him lose himself between the planes and end up a phantom for the rest of his days?”

  Morrigan pressed her face to Abel’s chest. She hated it, but Mac was right. Death wasn’t the worst fate that could befall someone, and Abel needed a guide right now. “It’s not fair.”

  Brigid squeezed her shoulder. “No, love, it’s not.”

  Morrigan had seen a thousand battles, and over the years she’d thought her tears had dried up. But now, as she clutched this boy she’d only known a few days but who already held such a large piece of her heart, the boy who never failed to surprise her, who challenged her to be her best self, the boy she was supposed to protect—now the tears were back, flowing like a river in flood season.

  They stayed there for a good few minutes, not saying a word, letting Morrigan grieve. And then Mac began to sing.

  “Our anchors we’ll weigh and our sails we will set

  Goodbye, fare ye well

  Goodbye, fare ye well

  The friends we are leaving, we leave with regret

  Hurrah, my boys, we’re homeward bound.”

  The wind sang through the charred church rafters in musical accompaniment, sending a chill through all their bones. It mixed with the wail of the fire engine’s siren as it pulled up outside. Mac shook out his coat to cover them in mist, but no firemen entered yet. Probably they were confused by a church fire that put itself out, but to Morrigan, it felt as though the world were giving them a last moment alone.

  “So many lost,” Brigid muttered. “It isn’t fair at all, living long enough to see everyone you love die, and you unable to bring them back, however you may wish it.”

  Mac nodded … and then a spark came to his eye.

  “Actually, there might be one way.”

  Hey, God. It’s me, Morrigan.

  I don’t know why I’m doing this. But I saw Abel writing in this prayer journal all the time. I asked him about it once, and he said it was like being your pen pal. It seemed so silly then.

  But he’s dead now. And I’m trying to grab onto literally anything so I don’t slip away into the darkness.

  I don’t know if you’re there. In all my years of traveling the back roads of life and death, I’ve never seen you or any other master being, never seen inside heaven or hell. It was enough that they were there, and people went to them, and I was sworn to take them. But now…

  We’re going to try something. And I want so badly for it to succeed, but at the end of the day I know I’m just a girl with some flashy powers and an extra-long lifespan. I don’t always win. You’re supposed to. You do miracles, and resurrection is Your thing. So You bring him back. You give him back to me. I need You to I can’t do this without Please help me

  This is stupid.

  28

  Abel was sure he was dead. So imagine his surprise when he woke up.

  He was even more surprised to find he was no longer in the church, but in an empty parking lot thick with fog. Two roads led out to a highway that seemed just as empty, except that he could hear whines that might have been passing cars and might have been otherworldly wails. Behind him was a grove of trees—hazel, judging by the shape of the orange leaves—sheltering sidewalks, picnic tables, trash and recycling cans, and a blue sign that read REST AREA. The arrow on the sign pointed to a small brick building with glass sliding doors, and he moved towards it, slowly, as if in a dream.

  As he moved, the surrounding landscape seemed to shimmer and shift. He put his hands out, pushing them through the fog, and the rest stop he’d been looking at swirled and bulged. Then it clicked. He wasn’t seeing the world through the fog; the world was being projected onto the fog.

  And that’s when he knew he was still dead.

  Abel kicked at a hazel nut on the sidewalk, and it skipped away. It felt solid enough against his shoe. That was another thing: he was still wearing his clothes, even though he was dead. He felt up and down his back, but couldn’t find a hole in the cloth, much less in himself.

  So how much of this is real, and how much is my mind conjuring up? And if I’m not at a rest area, where am I? Is this heaven? I really hope it isn’t hell.

  The doors slid open, giving him entry to a room as empty as the parking lot outside. Men’s restrooms were to the right, women’s to the left, and in the center was a mural of souls ascending to heaven and being dragged down to hell. Below the mural was a goldfish pond with electric waterfalls and lily pads. A single silvery fish swam circles in the shallow water, keeping lazy time with the peaceful tinny music echoing from speakers in the ceiling.

  “Great,” Abel muttered. “All of eternity ahead of me, and I’m spending it in a rest stop listening to elevator music.”

  The fish poked her head out of the water. “Actually, that’s Led Zeppelin’s ‘Stairway to Heaven.’ It was released on November 8, 1971, for the band’s fourth album with the unimaginative name Led Zeppelin IV. It placed quite high on several rock music charts and is widely considered a classic. It has a little broader fan base than people who ride in elevators.”

  Abel stopped still. “You know all that about this song?” He shook his head. “Wait a minute. Back up. You talk?”

  “In every language known to man,” the fish said in a refined accent.

  Abel nodded absently. “The fish talks. Sure, why not? I’m dead.
Why wouldn’t there be talking fish?”

  “I’m not just any talking fish,” the fish said, drawing herself out of the water. “I am the Salmon of Knowledge.”

  Abel blinked. “Uh huh.”

  “Compendium of all information on earth?” the Salmon tried. “All that ever was or ever will be known? None of this is ringing a bell?”

  “Afraid not.”

  The Salmon drooped. “Isn’t that just like the world? No one remembers you after you’re gone.” She looked back up at Abel. “And yet I can tell you everything about yourself, Abel David Whittaker, from your favorite color—emerald green, by the way—to the title and contents of that romance novel you flipped through at the library on October 5, 2013.” She cleared her throat, making her gills puff. “‘The duke ran his thick, manly hands around her—’”

  “Okay!” Abel shouted, flushing hot from hairline to collar. “I get it. You know stuff.”

  The Salmon huffed. “‘I know stuff.’ That’s what I boil down to? ‘I know stuff’?”

  Abel hurried to change the subject. “So you’re dead too?”

  “Killed by some fool named Finnegas. It’s disgraceful. He could have asked me anything he wanted to know, but noOOoo, he had to drag me out of the river and roast me over a fire. He didn’t even eat me in the end; he gave me to some boy who bit his thumb all the time.” The Salmon rolled her thick, glassy eyes. “I could have solved world hunger, cured cancer, taught everyone the meaning of life. But I can’t. Because I’m dead.”

  “What is the meaning of life?” Abel asked.

  The Salmon peered at him. “I don’t see how it’s going to do you much good now.”

  “Okay, I’m dead,” Abel said, sitting with his back to the pond. “You don’t have to rub it in.”

  “I’m only stating a fact,” said the Salmon. “It’s what I do.”

  “Yeah, Salmon of Knowledge. I got it.” Abel looked around at the foggy rest area. “So tell me, Smart Fish, what is this place?”

  “Smart Fish,” the Salmon muttered. “Not that I’m obliged to tell you, but this is your first stop on the road to the afterlife. There are many liminal spaces between planes, worlds that only exist to lead to other worlds. This one exists primarily for the dead. Someone will be along shortly to guide you to your final destination. I know where that is, by the way, but I’m not telling.”

  “It’s okay,” said Abel. “I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

  “People get all kinds of escorts,” the Salmon went on. “Some get Valkyries, others get Keres. I’ve seen skeletal boatmen and gods with the heads of ibises. You’re most likely to be led to your fate by the Morrigan, given your personal relationship with her.”

  Abel dipped his head to hide a smile. “I hope so. It’d be nice to see her one last time.”

  “You’re quite fond of her,” said the Salmon. It was a statement; the Salmon didn’t ask questions.

  Abel nodded. “She can be bloodthirsty and difficult and a little loose on morals, but she really cares about people. That’s something I haven’t seen much of in my life.” He laughed. “Guess I don’t have to worry about my life anymore. I’ll miss her, though.”

  “Which is your only qualm about dying.”

  “Like I said, I know where I’m going.”

  “Knowledge can be a comfort,” said the Salmon. “Sometimes.”

  The glass doors slid open, and an older man in a bathrobe and moccasins shuffled in, glancing dazedly around.

  “Of course,” the Salmon said with a sigh. “I should let you people accrue more before going through this whole spiel.”

  “Hi there!” Abel leaped to his feet. “Welcome to the afterlife!”

  “Liminal space before the afterlife,” the Salmon muttered.

  “I’m Abel,” Abel said, shaking the man’s hand.

  “Terrence,” said the man, his voice shaking. “I’m sorry, why am I at a rest stop? And why doesn’t my back hurt?”

  “You’re dead,” the Salmon explained. “Someone will be along shortly to escort you to your final destination.”

  “Oh,” said Terrence. “I suppose that explains the sharp pain in my chest. It’s gone now too. So’s the arthritis. So that’s good.” He cocked his head. “And this must be heaven. I can hear the loveliest music.”

  “It’s not heaven,” said the Salmon. “Does no one listen?”

  “It’s ‘Stairway to Heaven,’” said Abel.

  “Not that,” Terrance said, shaking his head. “Something else. It’s got to be an angel singing.”

  “An angel?” Abel didn’t hear anything … and then he did. And it was all too familiar.

  The doors opened once more, and the Dearg-Due stood in the opening, singing her haunting a cappella tune and beckoning to the old man. Abel’s breath caught in his chest. She couldn’t be here, not in the safety of death. But she was here with a siren song, and Terrence floated toward her with a trembling smile and tears shining in his eyes.

  “Oh, not again,” said the Salmon. “Miss, I have to insist that you stop this. This will only end in tears. I would know. I know everything.”

  “Terrence, don’t! It’s a trap!” Abel grabbed the man’s arm, but Terrence was stronger than he looked and shook him off. Then the song started seeping into Abel’s brain, and he scrambled for focus. The commandments backwards: Thou shalt not covet, thou shalt not give false witness, thou shalt not steal, thou shalt not commit adultery…

  “Terrence!” he called again, but the old man had already taken the Dearg-Due’s hand. The vampire flashed Abel a wicked wink and led her prey away, and the doors slid closed behind them. Abel chased after them, but when the doors opened again, they were gone.

  “No!” Abel spun around and strode back to the Salmon. “Where did she take him? How can she be here? And why didn’t you stop them?”

  “The Dearg-Due collects souls like him and stows them between the planes as ghosts,” the Salmon said, answering the questions in order. “She walks a line between life and death that allows her access to this liminal space. And while I am decidedly the greatest mind the world has ever known…” She waggled her fins. “I. AM. A. FISH. I’ve tried for the better part of a century now to dissuade people from following her, but no one ever listens to me. As per usual.” She gave a frustrated growl. “I’m almost surprised you weren’t seduced yourself. Almost, mind. I knew you wouldn’t be.”

  Abel shrugged. “Once bitten, twice shy. Literally. I don’t get it, though. She’s a vampire. She needs their blood, not their souls. What does she get out of kidnapping them?”

  “Aside from the perverse thrill? She’s employed to do so.”

  “Cora.” Something clicked into place in Abel’s mind. “She’s collecting ghosts. She’s had the Dearg-Due take Morrigan’s place and siphon off souls. A hundred years’ worth.” He gave a low whistle. “That’s a lot of souls. Is she building an army?” Her promise of an empty world rang in his ears.

  “Yes,” said the Salmon, “though I don’t know what for. Not because I lack the ability, only the desire to know what goes on in the twisted brain of the Caorthannach.”

  “The queer what now?”

  “The creature you call Cora is really the Caorthannach, a demonic entity older than the world. Some say she birthed the devil himself, which is patently absurd, but understandable, as she’s given birth to most of the great evils.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Abel pressed a hand to his forehead. “I can’t die now! Morrigan doesn’t know about the ghost army. I have to warn her!” He kneeled by the pond. “Is there a way back?”

  “There’s always a way back,” said the Salmon. “The question is, should you take it?”

  “And what’s the answer?”

  “How should I know? I’m the Salmon of Knowledge, not the Salmon of Wisdom.” The Salmon looked down into the pond. “But it would appear you don’t have a choice.”

  Abel followed his gaze to see that the bottom of the pool
had disappeared in a void of black that turned indigo, then cerulean, then sky blue, and finally dazzling white. Then gravity wrapped him in a bear hug, and down he went into the deepest part of the water.

  “Wait! Before you go!” the Salmon’s voice echoed after him. “The meaning of life! It’s—”

  Abel sat bolt upright, taking in a lungful of air in one gasp. The world around him was solid again. It was a second before he realized he was in the bed of Mac’s truck, surrounded by Mac, Brigid, Morrigan, and a dozen thick shards of dark wood.

  Abel blinked furiously and then glared at them. “You couldn’t have waited five minutes? A dead fish was about to tell me the meaning of life!”

  They all stared at him.

  “Oh, tell me that’s any weirder than anything else in your—” Abel started, but before he could finish, Morrigan tossed aside the splintered stick she’d been holding, threw her arms around him, and squeezed him tight.

  “I thought I’d lost you,” she said.

  “You will again if you don’t loosen your grip a little,” Abel choked, but he hugged her back all the same. It felt better than he could express to hold her in his arms.

  He pulled back and picked up the stick. He recognized the wood. “This was the Dagda Mor’s club?”

  Mac nodded. “One end dealt death, the other life.”

  “I thought you didn’t want to use it again because it might break.” Abel looked around at the blackthorn shards surrounding him. “Which apparently it did.”

  “We all agreed it was the right thing to do,” said Brigid. “We weren’t about to lose anyone else.”

  Morrigan swallowed hard and nodded.

  Abel smiled. “Well, it’s a good thing you did. I found out a lot during my little trip to the afterlife. For starters, Cora is—”

  “The Caorthannach,” Morrigan interrupted. “We know.”

  “Oh.” Abel cleared his throat. “Did you know that the Dearg-Due is shanghaiing souls into a ghost army?”

  Morrigan’s eyes grew dark. “That witch. Escorting the dead is a sacred calling. To pervert it like that…”