One weapon, one shot. Even our crossbows are more efficient.
The Crown had nothing to worry about, Morrígan reckoned, for Simian technology was far from ever competing with their magic.
“You’re late,” said Yarlaith. He held an envelope over a candle, letting its flame devour the paper.
“What’s that?” asked Morrígan. The envelope was addressed to Yarlaith, written in a crooked scrawl.
Her uncle closed his eyes tightly in response. “A letter… from the Academy. They wanted an update on my work, but its best that I pretend it never arrived.”
Morrígan watched as he turned the letter to ash.
If he wants to pretend it never arrived, then why bother burning it?
Part of her wanted to pry further, but she had more important things on her mind. “I’m ready, Yarlaith. I’m ready to bring back Mother.”
The healer glanced up at Morrígan. For half a second, she could have sworn she saw tears in his eyes.
“We only have one chance at this, Morrígan.” Yarlaith extinguished the candle and stood. “We can’t turn back now.”
We, he kept saying, as if they were a team. Morrígan knew all the spells, all about the Nature of Necromancy, but Yarlaith was the one who called the shots, no matter how many times he used the word “we.”
Morrígan slowly stepped back as Yarlaith paced around her mother. White robes, mottled and damp, swung in heavy strides as he walked. When he reached the head of the slab, he paused and turned, eyeing Morrígan from over his foggy glasses. His hands shook; his brow furrowed. Slowly, the old man placed his hands on the stone. He took a deep breath, turned his head upwards, and closed his eyes.
Then there was silence. Not even the rats stirred. The trickling of running water all around them seemed to have stopped, as if the whole world had paused to witness the end of death.
Morrígan knew what her uncle’s mind was going through behind those closed eyes. She knew that he was focusing on every part of the dead woman’s body, from where her muscles were bound to bones, to the blood that ran through her veins. Yarlaith seemed much older now than he had before, back when Morrígan had last seen him in the light of day.
His lips pursed, moving slightly in whisper. His brow narrowed further, and his eyes began to twitch, as if in a dream. Then, his body jerked.
A long, low moan escaped his mouth. It rang through the caves with a chesty rumble.
He’s done it! He’s grasped her!
Morrígan glanced down at her mother. She still lay motionless under the veil of her funeral garb.
Is it not working?
She looked back at her uncle. A frown crossed his creased, wrinkled face. He began to shake his head, bringing his hands up to cover his ears.
Then her mother rose, slowly sitting upright on the stone slab.
It was a moment Morrígan had longed for every day and dreamed about every night. Her mother was there, eyes open, alive, and looking at her daughter for the first time in almost a year. Her eyes, though cold and dead, were as deep and as green as Morrígan remembered. Her skin, once porcelain and pale with tiny freckles, now sagged loose and grey under her cheekbones. She had been preserved through alchemy, but the months in the cave had taken their toll on her appearance. Some dust had collected on her white funeral gown, but to Morrígan, she still looked as beautiful as a mid-summer’s bride.
“Mother… are you there?” Morrígan took a step closer. The dead women slowly twisted her lower body around, bringing her limp legs to hang off the side of the slab. She balanced herself with hands gloved in white silk and gave a gentle push until she stood on two feet.
Morrígan glanced back at her uncle, still in a trance with eyes closed and ears covered. In front of him, Morrígan’s mother stood hunched. She turned and looked right at Morrígan, then raised a hand towards her daughter and opened her mouth to speak.
But only a low groan escaped her twisted lips.
“Uhhhhh….”
“Mother.” Morrígan took a step closer, bringing a hand up to touch her mother’s cheek. “It’s me. Do you remember?”
“Morrrrr….”
“Yes! Morry. Your little Morry.”
As Morrígan touched her mother’s face, the dead woman’s head drooped crookedly to the side, hanging from where her neck was broken. From there, a thick bone emerged, pressing against her skin. Her eyes, still fixed forwards, now stared down at the floor.
“I can’t believe it. You’re back, Mother. You’re back!”
Then the dead woman opened her mouth wide and screamed.
It pierced the air and sliced through Morrígan’s soul; it gripped her heart and pulled the air from her lungs. But she did not balk.
“Don’t worry, Mother. It’s over. The troll is gone. You’re back now.”
Morrígan reached up to her mother’s chin and raised her head until their eyes were level.
“See, I’ve grown. I’m almost as tall as you, now, and I can use magic and….” Tears began to fill Morrígan’s eyes. “Oh, Mother, there’s so much to tell you. So much has happened!”
Morrígan embraced her mother, but the corpse did not respond.
“Don’t you remember me?” she asked, looking up at the woman’s blank expression, her dead eyes shimmering against the candlelight.
“Morrrrrrrrr…,” responded the living corpse. “Morrrr….”
“Yes, yes, Mother. You can do it. Morrígan. I’m Morrígan.”
