The Phantom Queen Awakes (4 page)

His ear was next to her lips. “Doom and triple
doom, upon you and your clan,” she whispered.

She vanished from beneath him.

****

Mother

Pwyll clambered to his feet, suddenly afraid.
He had ignored her warnings, and now he knew it was no mortal he
had taken. He scrambled to where he had first seen the washerwoman,
hoping to see her back at her task. He knew there was little chance
of asking for forgiveness, but maybe he could offer restitution,
for he had inherited a wealth of weapons and jewels. The clothes
were still beside the stream and seeping water; a pink-tinged
trickle that dripped steadily.

He picked up one of the items and stared at
it. It was a cape, twin to the one around his own shoulders. It
even had the same brooch; a gift from his father, except the stone
was black instead of blue. With growing horror, he held the other
clothing up and saw his shirt, his tunic, his trews, all sodden and
stained.

The girl had been the
Bean-nighe
, the
little washerwoman who would foretell your death. Sometimes, you
could escape your fate and it was even possible to ask the
washerwoman for a blessing. Pwyll had ruined any hope of a reprieve
from his death. However, there was still a chance he could avert
the doom he had placed on his clan
and
retain his honor. He
fell to his knees. He called up to the sky, “Oh great Morrigan, I
beseech thee. I will make restitution.”

Three crows started to circle overhead, a
wreath of dark feathers, their harsh cries a litany of accusation.
One flew down to land at his feet. The bird seemed to shimmer for a
moment, before it formed into a naked woman with hair as black as a
crow’s feathers, her belly swollen with a ten month child. Tattoos
covered every square of her skin in a complex pattern of dark blue
plaits, triquetra, knots, spirals, triskeles and wyrms; most of her
skin was a puzzle beyond the knowing of any man. However, Pwyll did
recognize the pattern on her stomach, a highly detailed tree of
life, its fruit and leaves twisting into runes. The tattoos made it
hard to read her expression, but her voice was hard and cold.
“There is no way you can avoid your doom, lad.”

“I know that. I accept my fate. But please, my
Queen, I would beg that you set no doom upon my kin.”

“It’s a little too late to be asking any
favors from me, isn’t it?” For one instant, she was again the
little
Bean-nighe
, and her hands gestured to the bite marks
on her neck, and the bruises on her breasts and thighs. There was a
trickle of dark blood on the inside of her legs, snaking its slow
way to the ground. Then, the goddess was back.

Pwyll groveled, holding his hands palm up
towards the goddess. “It was only I who committed the
crime.”

“Your clan raised you. They taught you the
manners of a man. They taught you poorly, and deserve part of the
punishment.” The woman was grim. “They must share your
fate.”

Pwyll pulled out his knife. “I’ll kill myself
right now, if you will forgive them. Will you accept a blood price
as payment for my great wrong against you?”

The goddess’ severe expression softened a
little. “You are prepared to make that sacrifice, and restore my
honor with your life?”

Pwyll shuddered, but he whispered, “Yes. If I
must.”

“So be it. I will accept your sacrifice, and
if you die like a warrior, I will bring no doom down upon your clan
or kin.”

****

Crone

Giving himself no time to dwell and despair,
he drove the knife deep into his chest. A gout of blood spurted
forth, painting a red crescent across the throat of the pregnant
woman. As though the blood were magic, she changed form.

The woman became a gray-haired crone, with a
battered green shawl enveloping her bony chest and shoulders. Rusty
blood dripped from the hem of her black dress, and the bright
crimson stain around her thin throat was now a copper torc. Her
face was both savage and sad as she watched the man bleed away his
life.

Pwyll’s vision grew dark and then his body
weakened and he fell to his knees. He refused to make a sound, and
he valiantly tried to remain upright.

The ground about the woman’s feet was a
tapestry of the rich red of his sacrifice.

Pwyll swayed, and the goddess caught him
before his head hit the ground. She held him to her chest, and
muttered, “You poor boy. You poor, stupid boy. I guard your death.”
He died in her embrace, his last breath rattling against her
neck.

The twin crows that had remained overhead
swooped down to land on her shoulders, their wings setting her
wispy hair fluttering like a battle flag. The crows pecked at his
eyes as Pwyll gazed blindly into the clear sky.

“What a waste,” said the Morrigan. She
abandoned the body and rose to her full height, the crows flapping
to keep their balance. For a moment, three women stood by the
stream, before three crows rose into the air, flapping determinedly
away.

****

Afterword

I am drawn to the knotted darkness of the
Celtic Twilight. Fairy tales were never meant to be politically
correct; they were originally about the dangers leering in the
shadows beyond the glow of the hearth, at the bottom of a loch,
behind that smile with the too-sharp, too-white teeth. I like to
walk into those mossy shadows and bring back the stories lurking
there, armed with my word processor and a pure heart. As a
mythogynoclast, it is my destiny to bring back the histories of all
the old goddesses, including the Morrigan. You asked to see the
Phantom Queen awake after all. I didn’t promise you that she would
be a tame goddess.

****

Biography

Lynne Lumsden Green is just about to finish
her second degree and embark on a further academic adventure:
Honors. Her topic will be firmly based in the genre of the Fairy
Tale, but not the sweet and twee sort; she prefers the older
stories still rife with sex and blood. (And if you want to know
what a mythogynoclast is, go look it up.) This year saw her helping
judge the Aurealis Awards for the third time, and working as a
volunteer for the Reality Bites Literary Festival and Voices on the
Coast Festival. If you run into her, give her a big hug...she needs
all the support she can muster.

****

Mari Ness

Ravens

She crawled along the roofs, harvesting black
feathers.

The first raven had fallen from the sky at
dawn, crashing upon a rock in front of the tanner’s cottage. The
fall had cracked its skull, and it bled while the villagers stepped
around it. The second had fallen but an hour later, landing outside
of the small chapel, hand built by one of the monks, a chapel many
of the villagers still avoided. The third fell as the sun reached
its peak, landing on the crossroads at the village center. By late
afternoon, clouds of ravens fell from the sky, their feathers and
blood blanketing the three small streets. By midnight, each straw
roofed house was littered with ravens.

The villagers shook their heads, and pretended
they did not know what this meant.

Maire knew. But still, she gathered the
feathers, soaking her hands in blood. The others stayed beneath the
roofs with their children, their mouths forming prayers in a mingle
of languages.

****

The first to die was a child, also at dawn.
Maire gathered feathers as she heard the cries of the mother; tried
to shut her ears against the father’s sobs. The monk emerged to
comfort them. They wrapped the child in rowan and rue, and sang the
old prayers over her.

The second to die was an ancient man, in the
evening, clutching at his heart and then falling to the floor.
Fewer wails this time, and stronger songs. He was buried under the
light of stars, over the protests of the monk, who wanted to say
more prayers.

The third was a young woman, just married, who
had never learned to bake decent bread.

Three days passed.

And then another raven fell.

****

“
I’m going to the mound,” Maire
said to the villagers who had gathered around to look at the fallen
raven.

“That will do us no good,” said the
miller.

“We have only the songs,” said Una, whom Maire
did not like.

“They will do no good either,” muttered
Sorcha, whom Maire did like. “The Raven Queen weakens.”

Maire listened for the hiss that should have
followed those words, but heard nothing.

“You might try praying there,” Maire said,
waving towards the chapel. “If the Raven Queen―” she said the name
coolly, but no one stopped her “―has lost all power, there’s a
magic there that might protect you.”

“Or it might be she needs their
blood.”

“Blood to restore the ravens.”

“Blood to restore her sight.”

“Blood to restore her flight.”

“Three deaths she’s had, three and three more
she needs,” crooned another.

Maire’s hands whitened around her walking
stick.

“Might be,” she said. “Might be. And I’ll be
going to find out.”

“And how will you see?”

Maire smiled. “I won’t need to. I’ll
feel.”

“And how do we know you will have the
strength?”

Maire held up her bag. “I have her wings,” she
said.

****

She ignored the hisses of the village women as
she left, along with the well meant prayers of the monk who called
out to her as she left; bag over one shoulder, a stout staff in her
left hand, tracing out the old road from the village that passed by
the mound.

In truth, it could hardly be called a road,
that path, though it led to other places; other villages, even
fabled cities and towns that Maire had never visited, but had heard
of from the few travelers and monks that entered their village in
search of bread or other goods. She did not think of those cities
now as she used her staff to push her way along the
path.

It had been a true road once, she’d heard, and
then the ravens had come, not dying. Her hands whitened again, and
she thought of the two babies still in the village, the other small
children playing in the fields.

She felt the first drops of rain touch her
face; felt an odd tug to her left, then her right, then her left
again.

She took three deep breaths, turned about
three times and followed the pull, feeling her feet walk up a
mound―

―and then felt the earth slide away beneath
her, felt herself falling, falling, wrapped in sudden chill, almost
thinking that she heard the feathers screaming...

****

She awoke in the cold and the utter
stillness.

She did not move for a long moment. This was
wrong, she thought; the underworld was supposed to be filled with
whispers, with music. She remembered the tales of the shadows that
pulled men into the mounds for dancing, of the little red capped
creatures that promised wealth and beauty to women.

No tale had mentioned silence. Or the cold.
For a moment, she heard the voices of the village woman ―
the
ravens are dead
. She shook herself, and reached behind her for
the sack of feathers. She pulled one out and stroked it.

She thought she felt a faint touch of cold
wind.

Sitting here would do no good. She raised
herself up, adjusted the bag around her shoulders, and stepped out
into the darkness, clutching the feather.

****

As she walked, she sometimes thought she heard
half whispers, or half snatches of songs, hushed before she could
catch a word. She was certain, however, that the cold kept
deepening. She had brought with her a cloak of double woven wool,
but it did little against the chill.

The path ― and it was a path, marked with
rough walls on each side, which to her fingers sometimes felt like
stone, and sometimes had the slippery feel of what might have been
bone ― followed, she could feel, a slow downward spiral. After what
seemed hours of walking, she wondered if she was heading in the
right direction, if perhaps she should head towards the top of the
mound. She paused, turned around on the path, and stepped
forward―

―only to feel herself heading down
again.

She reversed herself, hardly knowing why, and
continued in her original direction.

She lost track of time, of her steps, of the
depth, but felt she had travelled the lengths of many raven wings
when she heard the distinctive sound of raspy breathing.

Her footsteps froze.

“Who comes?” asked a voice.

Maire thought her hands had changed to solid
ice. Her throat hurt. “One who has summoned the raven.”