Morg

Chapter 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.

     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.