What would it be? Go to Dromán and leave her uncle behind, or stay in Roseán and possibly change the course of history? Perhaps by the time she graduated, her mother would be alive again. If not, she could provide even more help as a fully trained mage.
That’ll take years though.
There was the possibility that they’d revive her mother before then too.
Then I’d have to leave her again, just as Father did.
The thought of her father, galloping away through the mists, still managed to boil the blood in Morrígan’s heart. Even after all the time that had passed, nobody else in Roseán seemed to know what happened to him.
Maybe he’s drunk himself to death and rotting in a gutter somewhere.
She gazed down at the two dead animals; a swarm of sand-flies had gathered around the seal now, replacing the crows that had torn its chest open.
The Church praises Nature as if she were a mid-summer’s maiden, but in truth she’s a vicious bitch.
Morrígan stooped down and picked up the crow, rubbing a finger across its feathers. A voice called from behind.
“Morrígan? Is that you?”
She turned to see Darragh standing alone on the sand. He wore a greasy, blood-stained apron that hung down over his knees.
Gods, would it hurt for him to change out of those filthy clothes for once?
“Hello, Darragh,” she answered, stuffing the dead bird into a pocket on the inside of her beadhbh cloak. Her mind rushed through hundreds of excuses that would allow her to leave, but she couldn’t decide on one.
“How have you been, Morrígan? I haven’t seen you around town for weeks.”
Morrígan shrugged. “I’ve been busy. I’m learning how to do magic now, and I’m helping my uncle out in the clinic.”
“Oh yeah!” His eyes widened. “How’s Sorcha’s ma’ holding up?”
“Sorcha’s mother is doing fine. She’s still bedridden and can barely move, but Yarlaith keeps telling people’s she’s fine, so go figure.”
“Oh, okay. Sorry if I disturbed you, Morrígan.” Darragh stood in silence, staring out over the ocean as Morrígan searched for a reason to excuse herself.
“I miss the old days,” he said, eventually. “I miss the days Yarlaith used to teach us all about history and things. Before the garrison arrived, and when everyone used to drink down in The Bear and the… the Be-a-da-b—”
“It’s pronounced ‘beadhbh’!” snapped Morrígan. “It rhymes with ‘cave’ and ‘Meadhbh.’ Gods, don’t you even know your local inn’s name?”
Darragh’s cheeks turned bright red. “Sure, just everyone used called it The Bear, and I’ve only seen it written down in words.”
Morrígan rolled her eyes. “Well, what are you doing down here anyway?”
“I dunno.” he began. “I often come down here whenever me da’ gets angry at me. It’s always nice and quiet here compared to the shop. You have no idea what it’s like, to be surrounded by death all day long. Even after all this time, it still turns my stomach to see a pig get gutted.”
Oh, you poor thing! She wondered what kind of knots his stomach would form if he saw even a fraction of what she had.
“It’s stupid, I know,” he continued, oblivious to the seal’s corpse by his feet. “I just come here to get away from it all, y’know? Especially with me da’ and all….”
Morrígan had had enough. “Well at least you have a father!” She turned and marched back towards the village, her fingers wrapped tightly around the dead crow.
***
Morrígan walked down the Sandy Road in haste, passing her old house without giving it half a notice. The cobblestones were dry, for once, and the sun overhead brushed heat over the nape of her neck. A sea breeze added salted, cold air to her unkempt hair, which hung in thick black tangles over her shoulders. She hadn’t bothered fixing it up properly since she started working in the caves.
Besides, I could never do it as well as Mother did. She pushed open the door to Mrs. Mhurichú’s dressmakers.
“Hello, Morry! How have you been?” Sorcha was standing behind the counter, cutting through a swathe of cloth with large dress scissors. She smiled, perky and bubbly as ever, despite the fact her mother was on her deathbed.
She’s doing a much better job at pretending to be brave than I did.
Morrígan smiled, too, realising that Sorcha certainly wouldn’t be wearing her brave face if she knew what they had been doing down in the caves.
The shop’s lobby was quite small in comparison to the rest of the building. Mrs. Mhurichú herself specialised more in augmenting and repairing clothes than making or selling them, with most of the building reserved as workspace. Sorcha had taken over the business since her mother fell ill, and Morrígan couldn’t help but admire how quickly she fell into the role.
“How much for a needle and some thread?” asked Morrígan.
“Oh, three shillings,” said Sorcha, looking up from her work, “but you can just take whatever you need. I couldn’t possibly charge you after all your uncle has done. How’s Mother doing today?”
Morrígan sighed. “Fortunately, her condition is still stable, but she’s still not very lucid. Yarlaith’s doing all he can right now.”
“Well that’s still good to hear,” said Sorcha. “I’ll be over to visit again this evening if that’s okay. Will your uncle be free?”
“I don’t think so, but I suppose you can just come in whenever you want.” Yarlaith’s door was always open to those in the village, of course. Morrígan wouldn’t be surprised if he came home one day to find the clinic cleared of its contents.
He trusts these people far too much.
“Thank you, Morrígan. He’s done so much for us: Mother, Father, and everyone else in the village. He’s a great man.”
