The Call of the Morrigan
I knew her when I was young. I knew her when i was a little wild thing, running through forests like a hound, following crows, crouching low to spy through trees at fawns and does.
I knew her when I was young. When I was strong and sullen and speaking brave and acting bold, when fear gripped me in both hands like I was a sword to be swung, wringing out in a battle-tongue. I took fists and spat blood, felt the crack of my skull burn against walls. I knew her then, when I went silent, and she knew all.
Years hazed over, like a purple twilight, from the wild wood to the city pressed tight. I learned so many things. I swam in words. I followed streams. I dived into deltas, forded rivers, jumped like a salmon back to the source.
It was a greening time. A wing-spreading time. I met more spirits, I made more friends, I followed different paths, I divided, and multiplied, and divined.
But time, and life, as they do, circle back. The wheel turns, and we turn with it. I didn’t know she had perched and roosted close, watching me grow, like an oak, into strength and womanhood.
She had waited. She had patience. She dropped feathers while I quested, and hesitated. Waited until I too, went to the ford, to wash the ghosts from my clothes, to bash them on the rocks, and send them from me in moving waters, loving waters, released from their bonds.
She has been waiting to show me how to scrub just so against the blood, how to slap the cloth and drown the stain, how to kill it and clean it, and become my own, again.
And when we’ve done the laundry, she will teach me how to guard my newfound country. She will stand sentinel with me. She will teach me what it is again to be a bird and a sword, a witch and a wild thing, and free.