Morg

Chapter 11

"What a demon you have brought us, daughter," gasped Morg's father. Morg smiled.

     "But now it is caught it is good. It can breed with our pigs to strengthen them. The boar will bring us luck. You have done well." He turned and left the hut.

     "Come near to the fire, child," said her mother. "Drink some of this," and she offered Morg a cup of something hot and delicious.

     "It is mead," said her mother. "It will warm you." Morg sipped the honey drink and felt the ice melt inside her.

     "Mother," she hesitated. "How is my brother?"

     "The Druid treated the burn with herbs, and bound it. He has coughed less today. See, here he is sleeping."

     Morg looked at her mother. Did she look different?

     "Mother? Are you better?" she said.

     "Perhaps. The Druid gave me an infusion. He burnt some mistletoe to drive out the foul spirit inside me. I feel more myself now."

     Morg smiled to herself. She knew that it was Alos that had cured her mother. She was glad.

     The door burst open.

     "Are you warm now, child?" said her father. "Because it is time for the feasting."

     Morg's mother took the lid off the wooden chest that stood at the head of her straw pallet. Inside were the best cloaks, that the family wore for feast days. She carefully took them out, one by one. Col's cloak was the yellow of buttercups. Her own was the green of new oak leaves and Morg's was the colour of the sky at twilight, a misty grey-blue. Morg stroked it and remembered choosing the colour and dying the wool. They had found the weld in the forest, and soaked the plant in hot water. Then they had taken the wool that they had spun and laid it in the dye. She giggled to herself when she thought of her mother telling her to squat and wee into it.

     "It will fix the colour," her mother had said.

     They had left the wool in the dye for days, just stirring it occasionally, until the colour had taken. Then she had helped her mother set up the loom and watched as the threads went back and forth and built up the cloth that would form her cloak. She loved this cloak. It was soft and delicate and the blue matched her eyes.

     She put it over her shoulders.

     "Pin it child," said her father and Morg hung her head.

     "I gave the brooch to the goddess," she mumbled. Her father crouched down and looked into her eyes. Was he angry? she wondered.

     "What did you ask for?" he said quietly.

     "For mother to be well. And to love me again."

     "Your mother loves you very much," he said. "And I think she will be well now. Here." He unpinned the brooch that held his cloak in place. "Just for tonight," and he used it to pin her cloak closed.

     Then Morg dared.

     "I also asked if I could go on a hunt," she said and she looked at him, her eyes full of mischief. There was a moment, before her father laughed.

     "The goddess cannot do everything," he said.

     When they went outside the fire was already burning huge and bright in the centre of the ring of huts. Turning on a spit was one of the boars that the hunters had caught earlier in the day. It crackled and splattered as the fat fell into the flames. The smell of roasting meat filled Morg's nostrils and her mouth watered. She realised she had not eaten since the morning. The villagers were gathered around the fire and Olwig's father was slicing great hunks of meat off the beast. Morg elbowed her way to the front.