Morg

Chapter 7

 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.

     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 to the goddess. When she turned back, Arlen the hound emerged from between the trees, nose to the ground, following the trail of the boar. He caught Morg's scent and barked with joy. He leapt up at her and licked her face all over. Morg laughed and pushed him away.