Foxfire, Wolfskin

by Sharon Blackie

  You grew up safe and you grew up spoiled. That night spoiled you, for sure.

  Fionn came, and the men of Ireland fought back; they battled for seventeen days. Each day, a new tragedy. Oisín, Fionn’s son, easily overpowered Bolcán of France; off that silly little man fled, into the hills. The young son of the King of Ulster, brave and true with his small band of hardly more than boys around him – slain soon after they arrived. But on they all fought, and hard. War is hard. It’s hard.

  He wasn’t laughing now, but your father was winning his war. Till Fionn called in the fairies. In they swept, the gleaming warriors of the Tuatha Dé Danann; before you knew it, the battle was lost. She was the key to it, their great, shining raven queen. The beautiful, terrifying Morrígan. Wings stretched impossibly across the sky like a vicious black storm. Her two mad sisters harried and shrieked; panic and terror followed wherever they flew. No omens now; Death was right in front of them. They had not known that such creatures existed. Scoffed at the stories of Irish fairies, and the music-filled, glittering halls they were said to inhabit in the hollow hills. ‘Tales for children,’ they’d said, and laughed. Never for a moment believed they were real. Laughed, and went to war. But they did not laugh when your brother was killed, or the Amazon Ógarmach, daughter of the King of Greece. They did not laugh when the inevitable happened. When your father, frenzied and furious as he watched the battle slip away, foolishly sought out Fionn.

  It was a fierce fight, they said, as they squared off. As they bared their smooth, gold-ornamented swords. It was a wondrous fight, they said; such feats of skill on both sides. Fionn, the stories said, could never be defeated; your father had never been wounded in battle. It was a fierce and skilful fight on both sides – but slowly, Fionn gained ground. Swept your father’s head clean off his body. Dead and dread, dread and dead.

  That was the end of the great Battle of Ventry.

  Mad Mis, mad as a fish – but no fish saw what Mis saw. Will you tell the story of what you saw? You saw what you saw, and what you saw haunts you still. Haunts you still, when Storm falls on Mother Mountain, her great black clouds like the raven-goddess’s wing. Death-bloated bodies, stacked in piles. Defenceless in the open field. Behind some rock, where they’d crawled to die alone. Clenched hands filled with fistfuls of grass, ripped from the ground in agony. Headless bodies and bodiless heads, swollen and blackened beyond all knowing. Severed limbs and the stench of blood; the stink of shit and spilled guts. Swords discarded, spears broken. Shields rent in two. A half-man screaming still for help. No place to hide and the sky pressing down, pressing them flat. Weight of that sky, grey and leaden. Sky sagging like a dirty grey blanket and they could not hold it off. They could not hold it up. It fell on them and they died.

  Mad Mis, mad Mis. There is no glory in war; there is no honour in battle. There is only the riven, blood-soaked land, churned and poisoned by so much hate. There are only the trenches and the killing fields. Rivers choked with the stinking remains of man’s unique insanity.

  But it is Mis, they say, who is mad.

  Listen now, and listen well, for here is the story of Mad Mis; it’s been brewing for seventeen days. It begins on a boat and it ends on a beach, with a battle lost and a king dead. It begins with a body without a head.

  You grew up spoiled, but you grew up safe. You never imagined this. You cry and keen and criss-cross the field; you clutch at too many final straws. Pick through all the body parts; turn over every severed head. You find his carcass, broken and bloody on the sand. You know it by his hands, by his jewelled, golden rings. By the giant knuckles laced with scars that gleam in the dawn like tangled white snakes. The King of the World has lost his head; when you find it, you lose yours. He is not laughing now. They say that you drink his blood then, but Dáire Donn has no blood left. You are licking his bruises and sucking at his wounds. Trying to clean them and trying to heal. But nothing you can do will bring back that dark, laughing head. Nothing you can do will set it back on the ragged remains of his body. Nothing will bring Dáire Donn back to life.

  You cradle your father’s body in your arms; you stare down the carrion crows of all Ireland. Refuse them his kidneys, his liver, his guts. Refuse them the jewel of his heart. Too many, too many; they will not let him be. You scream as they peck at the oozing hole where his head once joined his body. Cackle and screech and peck and prick and they will not let you be. They fall on you like sky; they fall on you and you die.

  Mad Mis, mad Mis. Do you remember how you were born? Claw at your face, and blood runs down your soft white cheeks. Soft and spoiled and nothing safe now. Nothing ever safe again. Keen as the crows tear strips from his flesh, scream as the stench of him tears the contents out of your stomach. Throw back your head, long black hair dripping tears of clotted blood. Open your mouth and shriek, as great black birds tear the fingers from Dáire Donn’s hands. Toss them to each other across his corpse, cackle at his glittering rings. Tear at your gore-covered gown. Breasts bare to the icy wind and the shock of it tears at your mind. Leave your mind there on that battlefield, along with the shreds of your gown.

  Next thing you know, you are airborne. Rising up above the field, up through the stinking air. Up and up, head and arms thrown back; screech at scattering crows. Shudder as feathers burst like blades from your shoulders, convulse as arms become wings. Shudder and scream and up and away Mis flies, away into those mountains like a bird.

  Away she goes, Mis. Away she goes.

  Everything lost. Away.

  Sliabh Mis: the mountains of Mis. It is fitting that those mountains were named for you. They saved you; they sheltered you from the storms unleashed that day. This mountain mothered you and that forest fathered you; Mad Mis is their holy child. Will you sing the songs that the mountain sang, as you roamed through the folds of her green-and-brown skirts? The deep Gregorian chant of the rocky heights, the tinkling voice of the stream-strewn lowlands. The wind section sounding through close-knit trees. Mother Mountain showed you the way. Brought you to River, whose sparkling, tumbling water washed you clean. No battle, no death, no father here. Here was only now, and now was good.

  How long and beautiful were the feathers you grew for wings; how thick and glossy the fur which clothed your naked body. Oh, it was a fine madness that came upon you then. You could fly; you could run like the wind! You flew from your grief and you ran from your rage; you leapt from tree to tree. You outstripped the deer and outpaced the hares. Practised the perfection of your long claws. Strong claws, and sharp. All the better to quickly dispatch the creatures you took when you needed to eat. Sweet blood pulsing down your throat; sweet entrails smearing your face. Life was good, and death came only when it must. Death came only when something was given in return.

  Eating was all you did, but terrorised was what they said. Killed things, ate people. No living thing safe.

  The stories they told about you made their way into your mountains. Stories made up to frighten their children. Of dead and dread, of dread and dead: the cautionary tales of Mad Mis. But you killed no one. Ate no people. Took only what you needed to stay alive. They have to say such things, the men: can’t have their women running wild. Must keep the women in their places. Dress them all up, nice and pretty. Jewels, always, and gowns. No feathers and fur for them.

  There were feathers and fur aplenty for Mad Mis. For the terrifying bird-woman who haunted the green fields of Corca Dhuibhne. You could snarl, and you could bite. You scared them, all right. Kept them away from Mother Mountain; kept them away from Sister River. It wasn’t killing you wanted – you’d seen enough of their filthy death. You wanted to be left alone. Had enough of their civilisation. Had enough of men’s wars. Their voices were horrors to you; you had lost your faith in words. It was not words you trusted now, but the barking of foxes in the wood. And the harsh shriek of the slate-grey crane down by the glittering loch.

  *

  The king didn’t like you, either. Not him. Didn’t take kindly to his mo
untains and forests being stolen away. No more hunting and fishing for the poor king and his men. And you were glad of it. No more slaughtering and maiming for sport. Sliabh Mis was a paradise for wild things, for the people of Kerry had fled from it. But the king had lost his mountains, and the king had lost his pride. A reward for anyone who could capture Mad Mis. Land and riches for the brave man who would return you to civilisation. Land, and the prize of your hand in marriage. What a bargain – to marry Mad Mis! But you were the daughter of the King of the World, and once you’d been known to be beautiful. Who would come forward, then, that generous king asked, to save Mad Mis from herself?

  Save you from yourself, as though you were split and not whole, holy, holier than them, wholer than them, than any of them. Not a one of them could save you, would save you, really wanted to save you. Mad Mis wasn’t for saving. But one after another they set off into your mountains, the brave and ambitious young men of Munster. And one after another you frightened them away. Clawed at them, tore at them. You would not be taken, not you. Would not be taken alive. Saw what they did to women; remembered those fine warrior men. Saw the raping, saw the burning. Saw their dead and dread. So one by one you frightened them all away. No more dashing young men to accept the king’s challenge. Their greed was no match for their fear. Mother Mountain grew quiet again. Wild things crept from their holes and caves – slept safe by the side of Mad Mis.

  Then along he came, your Dubh. Along he came, your love.

  You had never wanted any man. You felt no lack of human company. Wanted only the rushing air lifting you up on fine-feathered wings, wanted only the singing mountains below. Wild woman, they called you; gone feral, they said. Mindless, they muttered: no memory, no dreams for Mad Mis.

  But you know the memories of mountains, the dreams of the drowsing land. Sister River dreams crane. Flying high along the winding thread of her; standing still in the bubbling rush of her. Nesting tight in the marshy field to the side of her. Dancing in the mountains like Mis. Brother Plain dreams horse. Wild horse, galloping across the green of him, drumming hooves deep through the heart of him. Grandmother Forest dreams fox and badger – sheltering in the dark depths of her. Dreams berries and mushrooms, feeding her roots. You’ve heard what the valley whispers in the night. The slow conversations between stones and crows. The tall tales that magpie tells to the old ash tree where he thinks of building a nest. This land weaves her dreaming, and Mad Mis follows her threads. The quicksilver slinking of salmon and trout; the paths made through the soft bog by red deer. This land holds them. Gathers them into her dreams as she bleeds out into theirs. She has dreamed them into being through the long ages of the world. Now, this land dreams Mis. What are you, in her dream? A fleeting visitor, for sure. But she will remember you when you are gone. She will remember Mis, the wild woman of Corca Dhuibhne. Who fell headlong, eyes closed, arms outstretched, into the arms of this land like a lover.

  If this is madness, then Mis is gladly mad.

  But then he came, your love, your dove. And whether you wanted it or not, you woke up. He woke you up. It was early still, but he imagined it late. He was no proud warrior, Dubh Ruis: he was a harpist at the court of the king. The last man to chance his fate in the menacing mountains of Mis. Took up the challenge that no other now dared. The king’s men mocked him, angry at his presumption. But the king, all out of options, listened and finally agreed. Gave him the gold and silver he asked for; gave him the fine gown fit for a princess. Then he sent him on his way.

  Dubh Ruis, Dubh Ruis. See how the wind sings back his name? He set off with his harp and his coins; he travelled to the rough wilderness of Sliabh Mis. Beautiful was the heart of your valley, and cosy your cave at the foot of the singing mountain. Watercress grew thickly in clear-running springs; the woods were lush and deep. No humans tore down trees. No foxes trapped here, no wise old salmon punctured for sport. No trace of war, no whiff of men, no stain of civilisation. Then one day Dubh Ruis, son of Ragnall, came calling. Love crept over the threshold of your world.

  You had forgotten the music of men as you had forgotten their words. Cared only for the consonance of streams chasing each other down the mountain; for the canticles of birds playing hide-and-seek in the trees. But this transgressive melody snaked its way into your woods. It parted the trees for you and beckoned you on. Blindly, you followed its enticing strains. At the music’s end you found a harp. Attached to the harp you found a man. A young, soft and handsome man. Naked, he sat on a plain brown cloak, surrounded by silver and gold. The beauty of him. The peace.

  But you had never wanted any man, and you wanted no man now. Men were dread and dead; it was music that reeled you in. It ambushed you, it wounded you – as no fine warrior of Munster ever could. Music drowned out the songs of the mountain; shattered the clear-sounding bell of the river as if it were so much glass. You shuddered; young alders rustled their alarm. By the tension in his pale, strong body, you saw that he knew you were there. The music broke you open. Broke open your mouth; a groan spilled out. No words then for the wild woman; you had spoken no words for years. Words were lost in the woods long ago, for words obscure the wild. And what are words to him now, little man, face to face with claws of Mad Mis? On he played, though; on he played. As if you weren’t even there. And then he stopped, and opened his mouth. Softly, he began to sing.

  It was words that dealt the final blow; words that were the final straw. It was words that brought it back to you. Screams and swords, and your father’s body adrift on a sea of blood. There were things that you remembered. Heads; bodies to remember. You threw your arms up over your face. You backed away. No fierce claws now for Mad Mis. You grew up soft but first you were safe. And then there was dead and dread.

  The dove-man turned; he saw your body shaking through summer-leaved trees. You were flexing your wings – but before you could fly, you looked at him, and were lost. All that you were was lost, because words came back to you now. Words gathered together in your chest, crowded into the clean, empty chambers of your heart. Words made themselves known to you and you remembered who they were. Words inside undid you: they unzipped your mouth. And out they tumbled, and said. They said. The words said.

  ‘At my father’s court,’ the words said, ‘there were things such as that.’ You nodded at his harp.

  ‘Were there now,’ said the dove-man, his speech as sweet as his song. ‘Well, won’t you sit down with me, and listen for a while?’

  But still you did not trust these words; words obscure the wild. You shook your head; you stepped back into the wood. The dove-man turned again to his harp. You saw him watching you, out of the corner of his eye. Then you noticed them, the piles of gold and silver by his side. Words rose up in you once more like gorge. Before you could cram them back into your mouth, out the words spilled.

  ‘At my father’s court,’ the words croaked, ‘there were things such as that.’ You pointed at his coins. Coins, and court; memories of family and home. The mountain fell away from you; the foxes receded into the wood. Blackbirds scattered among brambles, and the old crane shrieked her dismay into the midday sky. Suddenly, you found you were lonely. You yearned, now; you were ravenous. You were afraid still, but now there was something more. Something. You hungered for something. You took a step closer, licked lips that once had tasted death and tears.

  ‘Were there, now,’ said he. ‘Well, won’t you sit down and look at them, while I play?’ You shook your head, took back your step. Put your hands to your mouth to stem the flow of words. The dove-man shifted his body round to face you. Your eyes moved from the treasure scattered on his cloak to the treasure that rose up like a flower in his lap. You stared long and you stared hard. Then you took a step closer.

  ‘What is that?’ the words said. ‘At my father’s court, there was nothing such as that.’

  ‘It’s a tricking staff,’ he said.

  ‘What’s the trick?’ – and closer again you came.

  ‘Sit here beside me,’
he said, ‘and I’ll do that staff’s trick for you.’

  Closer you came, and closer still. He could reach out his hand and touch you, if he chose. But something held you back from him. Something which knew what was at stake and knew what was in store. Knew the love he would give to you; knew the freedom that he’d take from you. An exchange you weren’t sure you wanted to make. So you halted in front of him, and pushed aside the words. You closed your eyes and saw right into his heart.

  And there was no harm in the gentle heart of Dubh Ruis. No harm to the fox, no harm to the blackbird or crane. No harm to Mad Mis. So you let him take your hand.

  Slowly, he pulled you down beside him. ‘You wouldn’t be hurting me now, would you, with those claws?’ Shocked at the touch of human skin – no feathers, no fur – you shook your head. He squeezed your hand; reached up and touched your face. You reached for him in turn, claws tucked carefully away so as not to tear. Examined him for wounds; found none. His head was set on his neck and his arms were attached to his shoulders and there was no death to be found in the bright young body of the harpist, Dubh Ruis.

  When he entered you, the mountain screamed; when you cried out, the skies wept. And when it was over, you asked for more.

  Brought her to her senses, they said – but what do they know of senses? What do they know of wind stroking furry breasts, of hot sun arousing the place between naked, splayed legs? Senses you knew already – but it was a fine thing nevertheless, the strong, hard tricking staff of Dubh Ruis.

  When you woke, you were ravenous; your new love was hungry too. He reached into his bag and brought out a piece of bread; he offered half to you. You lifted it to your nose. ‘I remember this!’ you said, and ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you do. It is bread.’ So patient, your dove, your love – but all the bread in the world could not satisfy the hunger of Mis. Away from him you ran, away into the woods to hunt. You found a young stag – you would not take a hind – killed it quickly with beautiful, long claws. Thanked it for the gift of its life; hoisted it on strong shoulders and carried it back to your dove. He would not let you eat it raw; he would not let you rip and tear. He built a fire and heated stones; he placed them into an old cooking pit. He waited till the water in it boiled. Skinned the deer and cut it, and set it in the water to cook.