Morg

Morg was cross. She was more than cross, she was furious. She had been chosen to mind her little brother, again. Normally she quite liked him, as he stumbled after her on his short legs, babbling in a way that made her laugh, but today there was something much more exciting happening. The men were preparing to go on a hunt. There hadn't been a hunt for months. First there was too much rain and then there was too much work with the harvest. But now the wheat was in and the grain was all stored in pits. The Druid was here, bringing blessings from the gods and medicines for the villagers. So the chief had decided that it was time. Outside the men were gathering and the Druid was chanting. Morg longed to be there.

     But Morg was not allowed to go. She wasn't even allowed to watch. Her brother was unwell. He had an evil spirit in his chest which was making him cough and cough. He had to stay warm, and to do that, he had to be in the hut. Therefore, while her mother was fetching water, Morg had to stay in the hut too.

     It was dark in the hut. A warm, rich, thick darkness, lit only by the glow from the fire which burnt in the middle of the room. Later, the fire would be built up so that flames would lick the round black cauldron and heat the stew for the evening meal, but for now turf had been laid on the logs. The fire would stay hot and alive, but would not need to be fed. Morg knew that fires were as ravenous as the wolves she heard howling in the woods at night.

     Morg could smell the fire and the smell was as familiar to her as the smell of her mother. She could sniff and tell in a moment whether the family were burning ash branches or hazel, hawthorn or coppiced elm. To Morg, it was the smell of home.

     The glow from the fire lit the face of the boy who lay next to it asleep on the blanket. Morg swept the floor around him savagely. Any crumbs or discarded meat would make food for the rats, and her mother hated rats. Morg decided that today she hated her mother. She knew her mother was anxious about the cough because her sister had coughed in the same way before she had died. That didn't stop Morg from muttering a curse against the unkindness that kept her inside the hut. As she said it, she wished she could swallow the words back, but it was too late. She looked around worriedly. Maybe nobody had heard. She chanted a good will incantation, and crossed her fingers.

<  2  >

     Outside, she heard a hunting horn, loud and sharp across the village. Morg sidled towards the doorway. She could see light through a gap in the planks, but that was not enough. She opened the door a crack. Maybe she could watch them from here? She might just be able to catch a glimpse of what was going on. But she couldn't see anything. The fence that kept in the pigs was blocking her view. She opened the door wider, and an icy blast of wind whipped it out of her hands. It banged crash against the side of the hut. Behind her the fire crackled into life and the baby opened his eyes. Morg did not notice. She fought for control of the door. She wedged it with a stone, so that it still looked closed at first glance. She slid out and across to the corner of the pig fence.

     Morg threw herself into the grass that lined the fence. It was crackly with the first frost of the season and Morg shivered. It was always cold and windy up here. The village was built on the flat top of a hill, a hill that looked as though someone had sliced the tip off with a sword. Morg knew that in a sense they had. One of her father's stories told of his grandfather's grandfather, who had come to this hill as a small child. He had been there when they had dug and burrowed and carved away the top, stone by stone, until it was flat and smooth and ready. The hill had been chosen because it was high and from it you could see for many miles across the forests and the river valleys. No-one could creep up to this hill without being seen. It was a good hill.

     From where she lay, Morg could see ten or twelve round huts with their pointy thatched roofs scattered roughly around a circular space of grass. Splodgy brown goats, tethered to thick posts, were grazing. A couple of fowl scratched beside her friend Olwig's hut. She could see the tall earth ramparts around the edge of the village which kept them all safe. Near the gate in the ramparts, the men were standing in a group. They were still and listening. Their long blond hair was blowing so hard in the wind Morg could hardly see their faces. Then a gust revealed her father, on the far side, standing between the horse and Arlen the hound, who he was holding by the scruff of his neck. Arlen's teeth were bared and he fought against her father's grasp. Arlen liked hunting, but he did not like waiting. There, beside her father, was Col, her brother. Morg gritted her teeth. This was the second time he had gone on the hunt, and he was only seven, one winter younger than her. He was shuffling his feet, bored by the Druid and his incantations, impatient to be off. She would not have been so insolent.

<  3  >

     Behind her was a shriek, and a high howling. Morg leapt to her feet and was in the hut and beside the child in a moment. His face was screwed up and tears were spurting down his cheeks. He was waving his arms and arching his back. He hit Morg hard in the face but she managed to pick him up. She tried to soothe him, but he would not quiet. Then Morg smelt burning. A log lay smouldering on the blanket. Quickly thrusting it back into the fire, she stamped out the embers and guessed what had happened. The fire had flared. The child had seen the pretty flames and crawled towards them. He'd grabbed at a log. She looked - one of his hands was tightly clenched. Hurriedly, she grabbed the leather water bottle and sloshed water into a bowl. She thrust his hand into it. The palm was red and blistered. She had caused this, she realised, with her curse. Slowly, slowly his howling gentled. She smoothed his face and hummed gently to him, rocking him backwards and forwards on her lap.

     Morg heard the door creak open. It was her mother. She had carried the heavy clay water pot all the way up the hill on her head. The youngest baby was strapped on to her back – the god of fertility had looked kindly on the family. Morg's mother looked exhausted. Morg stared at the floor.

     "Morg?"

     "Burnt," Morg muttered, as the howls started up again. Her mother strode across the hut.

     "Tell," said her mother as she picked up the child. Morg explained. Her mother aimed a swipe at her head. Morg ducked out of the way, but her mother was more weary than angry as she comforted the child.

     "Oh, useless Morg," she said. "Go. Spend the day with the sheep. I do not want to see your face."

     Morg turned away and left. It was the freedom she had wanted. But somehow she didn't want it any more.

<  4  >

*

Morg slouched out of the hut. She heard the horn blast again – the hunt was away. She saw the men leap astride their shaggy horses, controlling them with hands laced through long manes. All except for Col. His horse, Branrin, was wheeling, refusing to let Col mount. Morg clenched her fists. There is a knack to mounting Branrin, she thought. Even Col should know that. At last he was up, face burning red with shame.

     The horses stamped and tossed their heads, their breath like smoke in the cold air. The dogs barked impatiently. Her father, as the leader of the hunt, led the throng through the high walled passage that linked the village with the outer gate. The watchman waved as they passed. Morg stared as the long line disappeared. She scowled.

     "Morg!" She heard a shout. It was her friend Olwig. "We're late taking the sheep down to the lower field. Will you come?"

     Morg could not decide. To refuse to look after the sheep would make her mother angrier. On the other hand, she wanted to follow the hunt. However, the hunt was gone. Even the Druid had gone back into his hut.

     "All right," she said sulkily. "Where are they?" Olwig pointed and Morg saw Olwig's tiny brother Pridoc chasing three of the sheep with a hazel switch. For a moment, he had them cornered, until they turned as one and each jumped straight back over his head. He was so surprised he sat down in the midden. Morg was forced to laugh.

     "Come," she said to Olwig. They were the experts. They set off to round up the flock.

     This was a winter job. All the villagers' sheep stayed out in summer, but now the nights were darker and longer, and the sheep were easy prey. So each night the children took turns to drive them all in, and out again each morning to the fields for food. Today, the sheep were skittish and jumpy, perhaps sensing the excitement of the huntsmen and the dogs. It took all of Morg and Olwig's skill to calm and herd them through the narrow passage to the gate. As the final ram passed, Morg patted its thick, dense wool. In the spring, as the sheep started to moult, the wool hung off them in lank, brown strands. The children had to pluck the wool to be made into cloth – if they could catch the sheep first. Only the very fleet of foot could race the sheep and corner them. Morg remembered that she had cornered the most sheep, and plucked the largest bundle of wool. Her mother and father had been so proud of her.

<  5  >

     They will be proud again, she thought fiercely, and she aimed a kick at the ram, who jumped nimbly out of the way with a swift flick of his heels.

     "May the goddess Alos bless the hunt, eh?" shouted Olwig back to Morg.

     As Olwig said this, as she had said a hundred times, Morg had an idea. The goddess might bless the hunt. She might bless Morg too. She might lift the ill wishes Morg had so foolishly let loose. Morg herded the sheep through the heavy gate to the fort. She was deep in thought.

     The ground sloped steeply down from the gate and the way was treacherous. She had to watch where she stepped to avoid losing her footing. The tribe kept the path rough to deter any unwelcome visitors. The sheep skipped down lightly. They knew their way to the recently harvested field. They would find food for themselves, and fertilise the field for next season's planting at the same time.

     "Olwig?" wheedled Morg, when the sheep were grazing and settled. Olwig knew this voice and she was not happy.

     "What?"

     "I am your friend, am I not?"

     Olwig was wary, but she nodded.

     "Would you do something for me? For me, your friend. I would be forever in your debt." Morg bowed humbly to her. Olwig sighed.

     "What?"

     "I need to go. I need you to look after the sheep."

     "Alone?" Olwig was surprised.

     "I will come back soon."

     "Where are you going?"

     "I need to go to the grove." Olwig's eyes widened. To go to the sacred grove alone was a fearsome prospect.

     "What will you offer to the goddess?" she asked, at last.

<  6  >

     "This," Morg said simply and she fingered the brooch at her throat which was holding her thick brown cloak around her neck. It was a twist of beaten bronze, with curling patterns dancing on it. Her father had bought it for her when he had travelled away some moons ago. She remembered him leaning down from his horse, his hair tickling her face. "And this is for my little Morg," he'd laughed and he'd pinned the brooch on her tunic. She loved the brooch more than the world.

     Olwig gasped. She knew Morg was serious.

     "Go now," she said. "The gods be with you."

     Morg turned and walked away into the forest. Olwig stared into the trees long after she had disappeared.

*

Morg loved the forest, and she was afraid of it. Her people needed it to survive, but sometimes it swallowed them up. Morg knew the edges of the forest well. She was often sent out with Olwig to collect hazel or beech nuts in the autumn. The tribe would store them in pits, like the squirrels, and make them last through the barren winter months. Morg loved picking the blackberries that appeared in late summer. Her tunic was still stained purple with their juice. Her father had laughed and asked how many of the blackberries they'd picked had actually reached the village. Morg knew where to pick the leaves of the green melde the family liked to eat with meat, and where to find gold of pleasure, the plant they crushed to make oil.

     Indeed it was Morg who had once found mistletoe, the sacred all-healing plant. She had shown the Druid where it hung and he had been pleased with her. He had placed his pale hand on her head and looked deep into her eyes and told her that she had done well and that she would be blessed by the gods. Morg was so proud she thought she'd faint. The mistletoe had been gathered on the sixth day of the moon, and the Druid had sacrificed three fowl to the Mother Goddess to bring good fortune. He had taken the mistletoe into his hut, and Morg imagined that there he would make healing potions for the tribe.

<  7  >

     That was three seasons ago, in the spring. Now Morg did not feel blessed by the gods. Ever since the new baby had been born, in her mother's eyes she could do nothing right. Her mother was always tired and angry. She walked with a heavy step and Morg had twice seen her doubled up, clutching her stomach, weeping with pain. Morg wondered whether the mistletoe could drive out whatever possessed her.

     Morg thought about her mother as she tramped into the forest. It was a long way, and she would have to go into parts that she did not know. As she walked, the path became narrower, and less well used. The trees were closer together, and Morg could hardly see the grey sky through their bare, interlaced branches. She knew that as long as she kept to this path, she should get to the grove, but she was nervous. She reminded herself that the last time someone saw a wolf was when neighbour Daroc's near-grown lambs had been stolen and that was a full three moons ago. Wolves would not attack in daylight, she thought. A twig snapped behind her and she broke into a run. She ran and ran, until her breath was ragged and she felt as though a dagger was pressed into her side and she had to stop. She looked fearfully behind her. There was nothing there. Keep calm, she said to herself, keep calm and you will be safe. Still, she tried to walk soundlessly and kept her fingers crossed against the evil eye.

     The path started to climb upwards. Soon it was very steep. Even the trees leant into the hill to stop themselves sliding down. The path was treacherous, covered in loose rocks. Morg had to scrabble to keep her footing and used her hands to pull herself up. Then she heard tumbling water and she knew she was nearly there. A few minutes later she clambered over the last rocky ledge and came out of the trees. She had arrived. The grass in the clearing was fresh and green, greener than she had seen for moons. Facing her were two enormous rocks, crushed against each other. From the crack between them flowed a steady stream of cool, clear water. Where it ran, the grey rocks shone red and black. Overhanging the spring was an oak tree, so huge that even if Olwig and Morg had held hands and stretched as wide as they could, their arms would not have reached around its trunk. This was the sacred grove of Alos, the goddess of the forest.

<  8  >

     Morg hesitated. She was suddenly afraid. What if the goddess decided she had been insolent? That she, alone and a child, should dare to approach her without a priest or priestess? Morg sank to her knees, and then bowed her head to the ground, reaching her arms out to the spring.

     "O Goddess, protect me and bless me," she mumbled. "I'm sorry it is just me here. I mean, that I have not brought a Druid or anyone. There was no time you see." She looked up. She hoped that Alos would understand.

     "I've brought you this," she said and she unpinned her brooch. Her cloak slipped off her shoulders. She held the brooch tightly in her fist.

     "It is my favourite thing. I want to give it to you." She held the fist out under the spring water and slowly opened it. The water ran through the twists of bronze. It looked so beautiful, and her fingers clasped over it. Perhaps she could offer something else. A shiver of wind passed through the oak leaves. It was the answer. It had to be the brooch.

     "I'm sorry for my curse. Please, make my mother better. Drive out the spirits that inhabit her. Make her proud of me. Make her love me again."

     Then, she couldn't help it, it just slipped out, "I want to go on a hunt. Col can go, why can't I?"

     Morg let the brooch slide out of her hands and into the pool at the bottom of the waterfall.

     "Is that too many things to ask?" she said. She stepped back. As she did so, the grey clouds lightened, and a pale sun came out. It made the brooch glitter under the water and lights dance on the surface. The goddess had accepted her offering.

     Morg took a step back from the stream and looked around. The grove was silent and still. Morg felt cold. She didn't know what to do. Perhaps she should just go home now.

<  9  >

     As she tried to decide she heard a fearful crashing and clattering. Out of the trees on the other side of the stream burst a full grown boar. It squealed with surprise and skidded to a halt. It stood facing her, its tusks so sharp they could gore a man to death. Its mean little eyes stared at her.

     Morg stared back.

*

The boar was as tall as she was, but wider, heavier. The eyes were level but its snout was long and covered with short black bristles. Its ears were pricked in her direction. She could see the wetness of its nose, and how it could hardly close its mouth over the long sharp teeth. She could see its tusks, jutting out past its jaw. She could hear it taking short, ragged breaths and she could smell the rank smell of its sweat and its fear.

     The goddess had not protected her. She had put her in mortal danger.

     Morg's scalp prickled as the hairs on her head stood up. Her mouth was dry. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest. She wanted to run, but she heard her father's voice in her head, "Never run. Never show you are frightened."

     The boar lowered its head. It snorted. Morg realised that it was about to charge. She thought back to her father's words. "Pretend you are a boar." She screamed, a high-pitched, resonant scream. Morg raised her arms and flapped them threateningly at the boar. She screamed again. It was not a scream of fear, but of threat. The boar was startled. It hesitated, then turned and crashed back into the forest.

     Morg took a deep shuddering breath. She started to tremble and clasped her arms to stop them shaking. She felt cold, and turned to grab the cloak that had fallen off when she was praying