Liv Unravelled

by Donna Bishop

  “So, there was a method to his madness...sorry! A poor choice of words, considering his current mental state.”

  Liv gives a little chuckle, amused in spite of herself by Celeste’s faux pas.

  “OK, enough of Ross. Let’s see what Moragh is up to.”

  12

  ~ Defiance ~

  Session No. 6 transcript, Sept. 27, 1987

  Moragh of Pine Glen, 1745

  I call a greeting to Moragh and hear her welcoming laughter as I ride the trail of blue light to her door. We join at once, our spirits joyful at the reunion.

  She’s at her son’s bedside, looking fondly down at his angelic face as he sleeps. The light is dim — it’s early in the morning. She quietly dons her cloak and steps outside her door.

  Plump rainclouds are gathering in the sky. Carrying a wide basket with the handle over her crooked arm, Moragh makes her way along the hillside, stopping now and then to collect some of the useful herbs she will need to attend to her fellow country-folk over the coming months — comfrey, St. John’s Wort, borage, milk-thistle — each with their own purpose. She visualizes her medicine cupboard, trying to remember what items are running low.

  Despite the impending rain, it’s a glorious day. The sun has yet to be engulfed in clouds and it warms her face as she walks, holding up the hem of her long green dress as she wends her way amongst the heather and waving grasses. Her bright auburn hair, long and loose around her shoulders, is fanned by the billowing wind.

  She spots some raspberry leaf and dandelion in the distance, and while keenly aware she’s wandering far from her sleeping son, she climbs quickly to the top of the hill to gather these needed herbs. She pulls out her small knife and quickly harvests a few raspberry stems with healthy leaves, then bends and uses it to loosen the soil around the dandelions, trying to get the roots as well. As she rises and turns back toward the cottage, she sees a group of people approaching and a dark fear creeps over her.

  They walk toward her purposefully — there’s no point hiding, they’ve clearly spotted her. Five men, followed by another two on horseback, stomp through the heather. They’re not farmers — they wear tall boots and dark cloaks, except for one who wears long black robes and the white collar of a priest. Witch hunters. Possibly the same ones who torched Grandmother Fee’s cottage. Two dogs burst into sight and lope toward her. It’s then Moragh recognizes the cursed figure of Christo Mirabella amongst them and she knows it’s he who has brought the men here.

  “Fie on him! May my curse forever plague his pathetic member!” She mutters to me.

  Like a trapped wild animal, Moragh looks for a direction to run. The men block her path to return to little Nicolai — besides, if she were to run to him it would only put him in more danger.

  She considers running in the opposite direction to lead them away, like a sandpiper will do to protect its nest. But no. There are far too many of them, and they are far too close. She must face these evil men, and all she has to defend herself is the small knife she uses for cutting stems.

  My heart is pounding along with Moragh’s and I desperately wish there was something I could do to help, but there isn’t. I am merely a spirit, along for the fated ride.

  “Liv,” Moragh calls me by name for the first time. “This is surely my last day in this lifetime. I’ll not have you harmed, but I’d have you be my witness. Take to the sky, cast your spirit line to that rosy thrush in that tree there. See and remember — because what is remembered, lives.”

  I already know from the story told by Uncle Olav in Norway this does not end well, but I can give her some comfort by imparting one bit of information.

  “Moragh, be assured that whatever happens, your Nicolai will avenge your death tenfold and join you and Nic in the hereafter. Your spirits will live on together.”

  “This fortifies me, my spirit friend. Now go, for they are almost upon us.”

  I cast my glowing blue thread at the thrush, unsure whether it will accept the intrusion.

  ~ ~ ~

  Suddenly, there is silence. All I am is one bright eye, looking down from the branch of a tree and viewing the scene as if through a spyglass.

  Moragh stands proudly, ready to face them. She looks so strong and determined, for a moment I wonder if she can fend them all off with her knife. I can still hear her thoughts.

  “I honestly wish I did have the powers these horrible men believe I have. I would make myself invisible and fly off with my child. I would kill them first to put an end to their murderous rampage. Yet the wise part of me knows there would be others who would gladly take up their cause.”

  The hunters form a circle around Moragh and their large salivating shepherd dogs jump on her and knock her to the ground — but then begin to lick her face. The dogs know she’s a threat to no one. She struggles to her feet, stands erect and looks into the eyes of each and every one of the men, even the two on horseback — and detects varying degrees of hatred, fear, self-righteousness and lust in each of them. Not an ounce of shame or compassion. When her eyes land on Mirabella, he leers at her, thinking he’s won.

  “A curse to last a lifetime, you dirty cur,” she sneers.

  His eyes widen.

  Moragh’s composure belies her inner terror. She’s thinking only of her son. She knows she’s strong enough to face her own death, but the thought of his suffering is too much to bear. The only small chance she has is to find a way to outsmart these men. It looks to me as if she’s trying to reduce their bloodlust by exuding calm. It’s not working. They will frenzy until she cowers.

  The largest man, a portly fellow with a red leathery face, saggy bags under his eyes and a bloated nose, asks her name.

  “I am Moragh Shannon of Pine Glenn.”

  “You have been accused of causing grave damage to this man,” he says, indicating towards Christo Mirabella.

  “Aye, I arranged to purchase some herbs and spices from this man, and in return he attempted to rape me, ransacked my home and stole my money.”

  One of the men strides to her and grabs her by the arm, forcing her roughly to her knees.

  “You can’t rape a whore, witch.”

  His company snickers.

  “Moragh Shannon of Pine Glen, we charge you with witchery and attempted murder by way of a lethal potion. These crimes are punishable by death.”

  These words pierce my heart. I lose my connection briefly — my companion, the thrush, is startled and takes off, me with it. From a dizzying height, I watch Moragh being dragged through the field, which from here looks like a flowing sea of waving green grass studded by islands of mauve-blooming heather and lavender. The thread that bonds me to her spirit has become tenuous, but I can still feel Moragh’s strong presence.

  Desperate to follow the action, I cast my spirit line toward her once again, but I remain with the mindless thrush. Perhaps she’s blocking my soul from re-joining hers? But, maybe as a result of my efforts, the bird coasts above the humans and I am able to watch from above.

  The hunters have their prey and are satisfied now that she is fearful and subdued. They bind her hands and begin to shove her back and forth between them, groping her. They make their way to the edge of the cliff and then prod her down the path to the sea. Now the storm is upon us — the thrush, buffeted by the gusting wind, shapes herself into a bullet and plummets down to the branch of a gnarled, storm-twisted tree. Huge, icy drops of rain pelt down, driven nearly horizontal by the mounting wind.

  I realize there will be no trial — or at least not in a court. They plan to throw Moragh into the very sea that she loves and that has sustained her. I’ve heard of this archaic test for witches — if she doesn’t drown it will prove without a doubt that she’s a witch and then she’ll be burned. If she does drown, it’ll mean she’s not a witch — but by then it won’t matter.

  When they reach a point on a rocky ledge overlooking the roiling sea, they bind Moragh from neck to feet with an old, prickly rope taken from a dinghy lashed to
the rocks below. A few people from her nearby village have gathered, attracted by the commotion. Someone shouts, “Kill the witch!” But most of the onlookers are clearly horrified to see their neighbour, their healer, in such peril. Moragh meets their eyes, wordlessly thanking them and cautioning them not to step forward, for there’s nothing to be gained except more trouble, hate and horror.

  Her fear has been replaced by defiance. She looks up at my terrified spirit cowering on the tree branch and silently communicates to me: “No matter what happens, by flesh or by spirit, help me to be with my child, Liv. I must be with him at the end.”

  The clergyman stands over Moragh. His white collar is stained with sweat and his drenched cassock flaps wetly around his stumpy, somewhat bowed legs.

  “Moragh of Pine Glen, I declare you a heretic, the devil’s gateway, who has come to poison God’s kingdom. In God’s name, you will be cast out, subject to His judgement.”

  Four men spin Moragh around until she’s dizzy and disoriented and then hurl her over the rocky ledge into the sea below.

  Thankfully, she’s been thrown with such force that she doesn’t hit any of the rocks on the way down. Silvery white flashes cut lines in the sea, streaks that race to meet Moragh as she falls through the air. Watching her descend, I leave the thrush behind me as I instinctively reach out to her, and this time my spirit thread connects with hers. As she hits the water, I am with her once more.

  Moragh has the presence of mind to fill her lungs with air during her fall, but the shock of impact and the cold water almost make her exhale. She relaxes her body as she sinks, and as she starts to rise, she kicks her bound legs together, like a mermaid, propelling herself away from shore. I feel myself kicking along with her — kicking out the injustice, hatred and fear and pushing powerfully with the water and praying for a miracle.

  “These waves could dash me on the rocks,” she thinks. I marvel at her fearsome will to live. But her breath is running out — she begins letting bubbles of air escape from her mouth to make it last as long as possible. She squints through the salty water at the silver sky, aching for air, but stays submerged, fearful that she’ll be seen. Suddenly, from out of the depths, two ghostly white figures flash into view — Hannah’s splendid belugas! They swirl effortlessly beneath her and, cradling her body with theirs, propel her through the water at great speed. They pop her up to the surface, out of sight, in a shallow bay she doesn’t recognize. As her head breaks the surface of the water, Moragh gasps for air. The whales circle around her as if in encouragement before scooting back into the satin darkness.

  I urge Moragh to shore — she’s limp with exhaustion, but she must keep moving. Somehow the rope that bound her has frayed and broken. She rips it off and hobbles over the pebble beach to the shelter of a rock overhang. She’s breathless and shivering. I’m relieved, but fearful of what might happen next. I feel compelled to feed her tired spirit.

  “Moragh! Your strength astounds me. You survived.”

  “Aye, my sister soul. But my son is still in danger.”

  Her breath returning, she sheds her sodden dress, leaving only her light cotton shift. She appears to have lost her shoes to the ocean. She cautiously begins to explore, looking for a route back up the cliffs. She finds a trail that looks promising and begins to climb, her strong body negotiating the hazards of the path by instinct rather than thought. Her mind is churning with fear for Nic.

  “For the first time in my child’s young life, I wish I had not borne him to this world. I cannot bear the thought that his life may be taken for reason of being my son — the son of a witch.”

  She is staggering by the time she reaches the top of the cliff, where her trail meets another that runs north and south along the crest. She crouches low to make sure it’s safe to proceed. In this pause, she addresses me in her mind.

  “Thanks be that you are with me,” then her deep, now hoarse voice calls,

  “East, give me Air so that I may breathe,

  South, bring me Fire, so that my strength will be forged like an arrow

  West, bring me Water, so that I may bathe in love

  North, let my hands touch fertile Earth that I may dig for wisdom.”

  I feel Moragh regaining her strength and summoning her resolve. She rises and begins to walk quickly along the trail, ever watchful.

  “Mo cridhe,” she says to me in a loud whisper. “There has always been, in the back of my mind, a strong feeling that my little Nic would not be with me for a long time, at least not in this lifetime. This premonition always damped the joy I felt at bringing him into the world and loving him more than I ever thought it possible to love another. I must get to him.”

  She seems unaware of being drenched and cold. Her feet are bare and bleeding, her hair dripping and matted. She pushes on, moving at a brisk walk and breaking into a run for brief periods, until her heart begins to thud dangerously.

  Her mind is thundering with horrible images — her worst imaginings. She consciously pushes them away, distracting herself by singing a song Grandmother Fee taught her. She sings it silently in her mind and imagines she can hear that dear woman’s husky voice singing along.

  Back to the river, back to the sea

  Back to the ocean, one with thee

  Back to the forest, back to the fields

  Back to the mountains, her body revealed

  Back to my bones, back to my skin

  Back to my spirit, the fire within

  As she nears the crest of the hill overlooking her cottage, her pace quickens. Finally, she reaches a point where she can see her home — a sweet, welcome sight — on the opposing hillside. But as she stands there looking, she’s alarmed to see a wisp of smoke rising at the roofline, then a flash of white flame at its base.

  Moragh races down the hill and across the meadow. Her mind is teeming. She had been hoping the witch-hunters, having fulfilled their angry mission by tossing her into the sea, wouldn’t bother to return to her cottage and her sleeping son. She grasps at the possibilities — perhaps Nic woke up and escaped to the safety of the neighbour’s, or maybe one of them, aware of her capture, ventured to the cottage to rescue him. But she knows he’s probably inside.

  She reaches an oak tree near the cottage and hides behind its trunk to take stock of the situation. The men are on the far side of the cottage, stomping on her garden and celebrating loudly. The flames are building from the foundation, licking up the walls of her home. She cannot wait for a safe moment — she must rescue Nic — so she scurries to the door and opens it. Smoke billows and then is sucked inside as the fire gasps for fresh air. She plunges in and shuts the door behind her. Despite the thick haze, she can see that Nic is not in the room.

  “Nic?” She speaks in a normal voice, so as not to startle him — although she’s aware of the irony. She hugs the floor and searches the small space, lifting blankets and looking under and behind the scant furniture. She scrambles to her herb cupboard and reaches behind into Nic’s favourite hiding spot — her hand touches his solid, unconscious form.

  She pulls him out and gathers him in her arms, murmuring his name. He stirs weakly.

  “Mathair!” It is an exhalation.

  “Ah, my wee bairn.”

  With tears in her eyes, she lays him tenderly on the floor where the smoke is thinnest and nestles beside him, touching his face and whispering reassuring words. But she can see he’s fading away. The men still rant outside, fortunately unaware of her presence inside the house.

  There is no escape. There is no magic to break the evil that has been set upon them. Moragh clutches Grandmother Fee’s pendant, hoping to access some of the wisdom it contains. Her mind clears and she makes a decision.

  “Wait for me, leanabh mo chridhe. I will come with ye.” She rises and selects two bottles from the shelf, one a tonic for pain and the other belladonna. She empties the vial of powdered root into the thick liquid, recorks it and shakes it as she sinks to her knees at her son’s side.

/>   “Nicolai.” His deep blue eyes open and strain to focus on his mother’s lovely face.

  “Drink, my son. Your pain will away.” She tips the vial to his perfect mouth and lets several drops fall onto his tongue. Then she tilts the bottle to her own lips and drains it.

  She lies down beside him, wraps him in her arms and nuzzles his ear, telling him she loves him and they’ll always be together.

  They glow with an eerie, opalescent light.

  Our connection is growing hazy. It’s as if I’m spinning around them but it’s Moragh and Nic who break away and begin to flow upwards, as if they’ve been turned to pearly smoke. Holding hands, their spirits lift together and rise above the cottage. They pause and look down for a moment on their earthly bodies, emitting love and light to those who have loved them. Then they are swept away like dust out to sea. And I am alone.

  “Come back to the present now, Liv. Slowly waking up to your current life…ten, nine, eight…letting go of the trauma of this past life …seven, six, five, four…holding onto the knowledge, insights, wisdom and love that you gained…three, two, one. Here you are. Breathe, relax and re-enter, feeling refreshed, safe and well.”

  Liv opens her eyes to see her friend’s face etched with concern.

  “Oh, my dear friend, what a tumultuous path your soul has traveled. Poor Moragh. Take a moment to get yourself back to this century.”

  Liv gazes around her, marveling at the almost surreal clarity of seeing through her own eyes as opposed to those of Moragh, her brave sister soul.

  Liv suddenly remembers a moment several years ago when she visited a psychic while pregnant with Micah. It was kind of a lark — she went with Kat, just for fun. The thing was, she didn’t know she was pregnant yet. Ross had had a vasectomy three months earlier and they’d only had sex maybe once or twice after that. She didn’t know that unless a man frequently ejaculates, it takes time to diminish the little swimmers. So, although she was having a few pregnancy symptoms, like sore nipples and a bit of nausea, it didn’t even occur to her that she could be pregnant.