Clare Reddaway

Morg
Morg was cross. She was more than cross, she was furious. She had been
chosen to mind her little brother, again. Normally she quite liked him, as he
stumbled after her on his short legs, babbling in a way that made her laugh,
but today there was something much more exciting happening. The men were
preparing to go on a hunt. There hadn't been a hunt for months. First there
was too much rain and then there was too much work with the harvest. But
now the wheat was in and the grain was all stored in pits. The Druid was
here, bringing blessings from the gods and medicines for the villagers. So the
chief had decided that it was time. Outside the men were gathering and the
Druid was chanting. Morg longed to be there.
But Morg was not allowed to go. She wasn't even allowed to watch. Her
brother was unwell. He had an evil spirit in his chest which was making him
cough and cough. He had to stay warm, and to do that, he had to be in the
hut. Therefore, while her mother was fetching water, Morg had to stay in the
hut too.
It was dark in the hut. A warm, rich, thick darkness, lit only by the glow
from the fire which burnt in the middle of the room. Later, the fire would be
built up so that flames would lick the round black cauldron and heat the stew
for the evening meal, but for now turf had been laid on the logs. The fire
would stay hot and alive, but would not need to be fed. Morg knew that fires
were as ravenous as the wolves she heard howling in the woods at night.
Morg could smell the fire and the smell was as familiar to her as the smell
of her mother. She could sniff and tell in a moment whether the family were
burning ash branches or hazel, hawthorn or coppiced elm. To Morg, it was
the smell of home.
The glow from the fire lit the face of the boy who lay next to it asleep on
the blanket. Morg swept the floor around him savagely. Any crumbs or
discarded meat would make food for the rats, and her mother hated rats.
Morg decided that today she hated her mother. She knew her mother was
anxious about the cough because her sister had coughed in the same way
before she had died. That didn't stop Morg from muttering a curse against the
unkindness that kept her inside the hut. As she said it, she wished she could
swallow the words back, but it was too late. She looked around worriedly.
Maybe nobody had heard. She chanted a good will incantation, and crossed
her fingers.
Outside, she heard a hunting horn, loud and sharp across the village. Morg
sidled towards the doorway. She could see light through a gap in the planks,
but that was not enough. She opened the door a crack. Maybe she could
watch them from here? She might just be able to catch a glimpse of what was
going on. But she couldn't see anything. The fence that kept in the pigs was
blocking her view. She opened the door wider, and an icy blast of wind
whipped it out of her hands. It banged crash against the side of the hut.
Behind her the fire crackled into life and the baby opened his eyes. Morg did
not notice. She fought for control of the door. She wedged it with a stone, so
that it still looked closed at first glance. She slid out and across to the corner
of the pig fence.
Morg threw herself into the grass that lined the fence. It was crackly with
Short Stories: Morg by Clare Reddaway http://www.eastoftheweb.com/cgi-bin/version_printable.pl?story_id=Morg911.shtml
1 of 9 03-11-2014 23:35
the first frost of the season and Morg shivered. It was always cold and windy
up here. The village was built on the flat top of a hill, a hill that looked as
though someone had sliced the tip off with a sword. Morg knew that in a
sense they had. One of her father's stories told of his grandfather's
grandfather, who had come to this hill as a small child. He had been there
when they had dug and burrowed and carved away the top, stone by stone,
until it was flat and smooth and ready. The hill had been chosen because it
was high and from it you could see for many miles across the forests and the
river valleys. No-one could creep up to this hill without being seen. It was a
good hill.
From where she lay, Morg could see ten or twelve round huts with their
pointy thatched roofs scattered roughly around a circular space of grass.
Splodgy brown goats, tethered to thick posts, were grazing. A couple of fowl
scratched beside her friend Olwig's hut. She could see the tall earth ramparts
around the edge of the village which kept them all safe. Near the gate in the
ramparts, the men were standing in a group. They were still and listening.
Their long blond hair was blowing so hard in the wind Morg could hardly see
their faces. Then a gust revealed her father, on the far side, standing between
the horse and Arlen the hound, who he was holding by the scruff of his neck.
Arlen's teeth were bared and he fought against her father's grasp. Arlen liked
hunting, but he did not like waiting. There, beside her father, was Col, her
brother. Morg gritted her teeth. This was the second time he had gone on the
hunt, and he was only seven, one winter younger than her. He was shuffling
his feet, bored by the Druid and his incantations, impatient to be off. She
would not have been so insolent.
Behind her was a shriek, and a high howling. Morg leapt to her feet and
was in the hut and beside the child in a moment. His face was screwed up and
tears were spurting down his cheeks. He was waving his arms and arching his
back. He hit Morg hard in the face but she managed to pick him up. She tried
to soothe him, but he would not quiet. Then Morg smelt burning. A log lay
smouldering on the blanket. Quickly thrusting it back into the fire, she
stamped out the embers and guessed what had happened. The fire had flared.
The child had seen the pretty flames and crawled towards them. He'd grabbed
at a log. She looked - one of his hands was tightly clenched. Hurriedly, she
grabbed the leather water bottle and sloshed water into a bowl. She thrust his
hand into it. The palm was red and blistered. She had caused this, she
realised, with her curse. Slowly, slowly his howling gentled. She smoothed
his face and hummed gently to him, rocking him backwards and forwards on
her lap.
Morg heard the door creak open. It was her mother. She had carried the
heavy clay water pot all the way up the hill on her head. The youngest baby
was strapped on to her back the god of fertility had looked kindly on the
family. Morg's mother looked exhausted. Morg stared at the floor.
"Morg?"
"Burnt," Morg muttered, as the howls started up again. Her mother strode
across the hut.
"Tell," said her mother as she picked up the child. Morg explained. Her
mother aimed a swipe at her head. Morg ducked out of the way, but her
mother was more weary than angry as she comforted the child.
"Oh, useless Morg," she said. "Go. Spend the day with the sheep. I do not
want to see your face."
Morg turned away and left. It was the freedom she had wanted. But
somehow she didn't want it any more.

*
Morg slouched out of the hut. She heard the horn blast again the hunt was
away. She saw the men leap astride their shaggy horses, controlling them
with hands laced through long manes. All except for Col. His horse, Branrin,
was wheeling, refusing to let Col mount. Morg clenched her fists. There is a
knack to mounting Branrin, she thought. Even Col should know that. At last
he was up, face burning red with shame.
The horses stamped and tossed their heads, their breath like smoke in the
cold air. The dogs barked impatiently. Her father, as the leader of the hunt,
led the throng through the high walled passage that linked the village with the
outer gate. The watchman waved as they passed. Morg stared as the long line
disappeared. She scowled.
"Morg!" She heard a shout. It was her friend Olwig. "We're late taking the
sheep down to the lower field. Will you come?"
Morg could not decide. To refuse to look after the sheep would make her
Short Stories: Morg by Clare Reddaway http://www.eastoftheweb.com/cgi-bin/version_printable.pl?story_id=Morg911.shtml
2 of 9 03-11-2014 23:35
mother angrier. On the other hand, she wanted to follow the hunt. However,
the hunt was gone. Even the Druid had gone back into his hut.
"All right," she said sulkily. "Where are they?" Olwig pointed and Morg
saw Olwig's tiny brother Pridoc chasing three of the sheep with a hazel
switch. For a moment, he had them cornered, until they turned as one and
each jumped straight back over his head. He was so surprised he sat down in
the midden. Morg was forced to laugh.
"Come," she said to Olwig. They were the experts. They set off to round
up the flock.
This was a winter job. All the villagers' sheep stayed out in summer, but
now the nights were darker and longer, and the sheep were easy prey. So each
night the children took turns to drive them all in, and out again each morning
to the fields for food. Today, the sheep were skittish and jumpy, perhaps
sensing the excitement of the huntsmen and the dogs. It took all of Morg and
Olwig's skill to calm and herd them through the narrow passage to the gate.
As the final ram passed, Morg patted its thick, dense wool. In the spring, as
the sheep started to moult, the wool hung off them in lank, brown strands.
The children had to pluck the wool to be made into cloth if they could catch
the sheep first. Only the very fleet of foot could race the sheep and corner
them. Morg remembered that she had cornered the most sheep, and plucked
the largest bundle of wool. Her mother and father had been so proud of her.
They will be proud again, she thought fiercely, and she aimed a kick at the
ram, who jumped nimbly out of the way with a swift flick of his heels.
"May the goddess Alos bless the hunt, eh?" shouted Olwig back to Morg.
As Olwig said this, as she had said a hundred times, Morg had an idea.
The goddess might bless the hunt. She might bless Morg too. She might lift
the ill wishes Morg had so foolishly let loose. Morg herded the sheep through
the heavy gate to the fort. She was deep in thought.
The ground sloped steeply down from the gate and the way was
treacherous. She had to watch where she stepped to avoid losing her footing.
The tribe kept the path rough to deter any unwelcome visitors. The sheep
skipped down lightly. They knew their way to the recently harvested field.
They would find food for themselves, and fertilise the field for next season's
planting at the same time.
"Olwig?" wheedled Morg, when the sheep were grazing and settled.
Olwig knew this voice and she was not happy.
"What?"
"I am your friend, am I not?"
Olwig was wary, but she nodded.
"Would you do something for me? For me, your friend. I would be forever
in your debt." Morg bowed humbly to her. Olwig sighed.
"What?"
"I need to go. I need you to look after the sheep."
"Alone?" Olwig was surprised.
"I will come back soon."
"Where are you going?"
"I need to go to the grove." Olwig's eyes widened. To go to the sacred
grove alone was a fearsome prospect.
"What will you offer to the goddess?" she asked, at last.
"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
Short Stories: Morg by Clare Reddaway http://www.eastoftheweb.com/cgi-bin/version_printable.pl?story_id=Morg911.shtml
3 of 9 03-11-2014 23:35
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.
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.
Short Stories: Morg by Clare Reddaway http://www.eastoftheweb.com/cgi-bin/version_printable.pl?story_id=Morg911.shtml
4 of 9 03-11-2014 23:35
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.
"Off, Arlen. Get off me," she said.
One moment there was just Arlen, then the grove was full of hounds as the
rest caught up. They sniffed the ground, tracing the boar's movement. Then
one of the dogs howled. He had caught the scent. He plunged back into the
forest and on to the trail of the boar. The rest of the hounds followed. Arlen,
with a backward look at Morg, went too.
The grove was empty. Morg could hear the hunting horn in the distance,
and the yells of the huntsmen as the hounds picked up the scent. But they did
not come into the grove. No-one saw her victory over the boar.
Morg sat flat down. She thought for a moment of finding the hunt, of
telling her father what had happened. But she'd never catch them, and
anyway they would not believe her. When the boar had turned and gone back
into the forest she'd thought that the goddess had answered her prayer, that
the boar was a test. The boar was, after all, a sacred animal. Maybe the
goddess had taken on its form. She had hoped it was a sign that she would be
allowed to go on the hunt. But now the hunt had moved on and she knew that
no-one had heard. Her voice was too small, too unimportant. Probably the
goddess was angry with her.
Morg was hungry. She had forgotten to bring any food with her. She did
not even have the chunk of flat bread her mother would usually send with her
into the fields. She cupped her hands and drank some of the water from the
goddess' stream. Perhaps it would bring her fortune. She needed it, she
thought.
Suddenly she shivered. It was getting colder. All the warmth had gone
from the sun and it would not be long in the sky. The nights were squeezing
the days hard at this time of year. Morg slung her cloak around her shoulders,
and started to scramble back down the bank.

*
Morg was tired. Her legs were as heavy as the trunks of trees. Her stomach
rumbled with hunger and misery. She dragged herself on, eyes to the ground.
The path to the sacred grove was usually well-used by the tribe, but there had
been no ceremony there for some time. In places the way was not always
clear. So Morg did not notice that she had strayed off the path, and that now
she was walking along a new track.
Morg was thinking about the cold in her toes and wiggling them as she
walked when she heard a rustling in the undergrowth to her left. She
hesitated. She should go on. It was getting late. She did not want to be in the
Short Stories: Morg by Clare Reddaway http://www.eastoftheweb.com/cgi-bin/version_printable.pl?story_id=Morg911.shtml
5 of 9 03-11-2014 23:35
forest in the dark.
Morg heard the rustling again. Curiosity overcame her. She had to know
what was in the bushes. The noise was coming from a group of low thorns.
Walking round she saw a space that she could slither through. As she slid
along on her front, she heard thin squeals. Something knew she was coming.
The thorns opened out and she came upon a clearing in the centre of the
bushes. A shallow bowl had been scraped away and lined with leaves. On the
leaves were four little wild boar piglets. They were each the size of three of
her hands, and they were squealing and tumbling over each other to get to
her. They can only be days old, thought Morg. Pale brown and cream stripes
ran from the tips of their snouts to their tails, which were twitching with
excitement. They're just like bumble bees, she smiled. But it was late for a
boar litter. She knew that they usually had babies in the sowing season, that
was when boars were most dangerous. Perhaps this was a second litter.
Then she frowned. Where was the piglets' mother? Female boars stayed
close to their babies, to protect them. Which meant it was not far away.
Which meant that Morg needed to get out of the bush quickly. She hesitated.
She'd had an idea. Everyone was going to be cross with her when she got
back to the village. But if she came with some boar piglets....
She reached out for the nearest one. It slipped through her fingers. She
crawled slowly towards another and tried to grab its tail, but it twisted away
from her, then looked back over its shoulder. This is a good game, it seemed
to say. She ground her teeth. She threw herself on to the third, but somehow it
squeezed from under her. It was like trying to catch water. Then her cloak
hooked on one of the thorns and she had a thought. Holding the cloak on both
edges, she threw it over the nearest piglet, and then threw herself on top of it.
The piglet wriggled and squiggled under the brown wool cloth. Standing on
two of the corners with her feet, Morg scooped the other edges under the
piglet and grabbed all four corners into her hands. She had a brown wool
bundle with a piglet squirming in it. Triumph!
She looked around. The other three were nowhere to be seen, hiding in the
undergrowth. She felt the weight of the piglet. It might be young, but it was
heavy. One was quite enough. She'd better get moving before the boar came
to find her offspring. She started to crawl along another tunnel out of the
thorns when she bumped into something soft.
It was a dead boar. She must have been the piglets' mother. Morg realised
that was why she'd been able to catch the piglet - it was exhausted and
hungry. Morg crouched over the boar. She'd been killed a couple of days ago,
Morg reckoned. She looked harder and a chill ran down her spine. She saw
that the boar had been killed by a wolf.
Morg scuttled out of the bushes as fast as she could. It was only when she
was back on the path and walking a walk that was nearly a run, that she
realised she did not know where she was. The path started to drop down
through a steep sided gorge she had not seen before. Her throat tightened. She
was lost.
For a moment Morg panicked. It was almost dark and she was lost in a
forest full of wolves and no-one knew she was there. Then she took a deep
breath. Then another. She decided she had two choices. She could go back,
and hope to join the old path. Or she could go on and hope to recognise
something.
She thought hard. Perhaps the sun could help her. She couldn't see it, but
she could tell the sky was lighter ahead of her than behind. If it was lighter,
that must be where the sun would set. She'd walked towards the sun when she
left the village, in the morning. The sun had crossed the sky since then and
was now going down. Head towards the setting sun, she thought. She hoped
that she was right. As she was deciding she heard a noise, not very loud, far,
far away. She was not sure, but it sounded a little like the howl of a wolf.
Morg set off at a brisk trot. She started to chant a prayer to Cerunnos, the
god of wild beasts, but then changed her mind. She should stay loyal to Alos,
who had helped her so far. The boar had been a test, and the piglets,
somehow, an answer to her prayer. Alos had chosen her own way. Would the
goddess now help her safely home?
She did not hear the wolves again. She decided that she had imagined the
sound. Or that they were hunting in another part of the forest. But she kept
her ears pricked, and the hairs on the back of her neck refused to lie flat.
The path became muddy. Morg squelched on, trying to keep to the firm
grass hillocks, jumping from tussock to tussock. Her shoes were made of thin
leather, and they were soon soaked. The path had disappeared into a bog.
Morg hesitated and looked around. The trees were thinning. She could see the
beginnings of a stream, and maybe a clearing. She took a step, and went in up
to her knee. She nearly lost hold of the piglet. She pulled out her leg. It was
Short Stories: Morg by Clare Reddaway http://www.eastoftheweb.com/cgi-bin/version_printable.pl?story_id=Morg911.shtml
6 of 9 03-11-2014 23:35
coated in thick, stinking mud.
I mustn't lose courage now, thought Morg. If I do, I'll never get home.
Clutching the piglet with renewed determination, she took a leap onto a patch
of grass. Soon, she was through the trees and she was right. There was a
clearing. Best of all, from the clearing she could see her hill, rising tall and
black above the forest. Morg nearly sobbed with relief.
As she did so she heard a howl, the long wailing howl of a hungry wolf.
Goose pimples rose on Morg's arms. The howl came again, rising high over
the dusk of the forest. It's nearer, she thought, I'm sure it's nearer. Morg
started to run. She could see the hill, but she was still a long way away from
safety. She reached the edge of the fields where she had put the sheep just
that morning. They were empty now, the sheep all safe in the fort. The howl
came again, and then a second and a third. Of course there are more than one,
she thought, as she stumbled on. A whole pack. They are following me, they
are definitely following me.
Then she realised. Of course they were following her. She smelt like a
boar, carrying the piglet in her cloak. What an idiot I am, she thought. She
was about to drop the cloak and let the piglet free, when she paused. No, I've
got this far, she thought. I can't just leave it now. Not after all this. She started
to scramble up the rocky path to the gate. I'm nearly there, I'm nearly there,
she thought. The howls were so close Morg thought she could hear the
snapping of the wolves' jaws and feel the warmth of their breath on her heels.
The gates of the fort were closed. Morg summoned all her energy.
"Open! Quickly!" she screamed.
A pale round head appeared over the ramparts and looked down.
"Who goes there?" called the watchman.
"It is me. Morg. The wolves -"
The watchman disappeared and Morg heard him shout out a warning
inside. She heard footsteps running down the passage to the gate. He opened
it.
"Let me in!" gasped Morg. She turned to look behind her. She was sure
she could see yellow eyes glowing in the darkness. The guard slammed the
gate tight shut behind her.

*
The guard tried to take her bundle but Morg's fingers were frozen to it, so he
led her along the twisting passage through the walls. By the time she came
out her father was there swooping her into his arms.
"Morg, Morg," he whispered into her hair. "My dearest girl. My brave
girl." Something squirmed against his arm.
"What is that?" he said, nearly dropping Morg.
"It's a piglet. A boar," she told him. "I thought it would please you. And
mother."
Then her father threw back his great head and roared with laughter, his
whole body shaking.
"Morg, have you been out this late hunting piglets? This prize indeed."
And he laughed again.
"Father," murmured Morg. "I'm cold." She started to sway. He stopped
laughing abruptly. He took off his thick red cloak and wrapped her and the
piglet together in it, scooped the bundle into his arms and strode across the
enclosure to the hut. He kicked open the door.
"Brigd. Morg is back," he said and to Morg's astonishment her mother
dropped the pot of water that she had been holding and ran towards her.
"Morg! My beautiful Morg," and her mother hugged her tightly, kissing
her face. "I thought I had lost you."
"She is cold. She used her cloak for the piglet," said her father, and as he
did so Morg's fingers, warmed by his cloak, unclasped. The piglet wriggled
from its bundle and ran squealing into the hut. Morg's father beat it to the
door, which he kicked closed, and then he tried to catch it. But the piglet was
fast, and furious at its captivity. Round and round the fire they raced. Col
joined in, trying to head the piglet into a corner. Two bowls of water were
smashed. The loom was knocked over. The piglet squealed. Morg's mother
grabbed the baby. Morg's father flung himself at the piglet, but only managed
to land face forward on the blankets. Col grabbed at the straw to make a wall,
and Morg's father pushed some wood and the edge of the loom to form a pen,
and the piglet was trapped. Morg's father and Col were exhausted and Morg
and her mother were weak from laughter.
"What a demon you have brought us, daughter," gasped Morg's father.
Morg smiled.
Short Stories: Morg by Clare Reddaway http://www.eastoftheweb.com/cgi-bin/version_printable.pl?story_id=Morg911.shtml
7 of 9 03-11-2014 23:35
"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.
"Little Morg, some for you," said Olwig's father and she grabbed it and
tore at the flesh with her teeth, burning her tongue and her lips with the
scalding fat. It was delicious. Morg's stomach was still hollow with hunger. It
took barely a minute before she had swallowed the last morsel, and was back
for more. She grabbed at another slab. She saw Olwig and Pridoc on the other
side of the spit, surrounded by neighbours tearing at the meat, fingers and
mouths glistening with fat, laughing in the firelight. Although the villagers
occasionally slaughtered their pigs and sheep, it was moons since they had
had meat in such abundance. There was more than enough for everyone, with
some left over. The bones would be picked clean, then boiled for their
goodness before they were carved into spoons and combs. Not one piece of
this prize would be wasted.
Gradually, stomachs were filled. Blankets and straw bundles surrounded
the fire and the tribe lay back on them, happy. Now was the time for fun. The
mead was flowing. The drums were brought out, and the drummers started
their rhythmic beat. Dancers began to sway. Then Morg's father called for
silence.
Short Stories: Morg by Clare Reddaway http://www.eastoftheweb.com/cgi-bin/version_printable.pl?story_id=Morg911.shtml
8 of 9 03-11-2014 23:35
"I want to tell you a story of the goddess Alos, our goddess of the forest."
People hushed. He was a good storyteller. He told a new story, of Alos and
Morg, of a small girl who had dared to ask the goddess and whose wishes
were granted. The crowd cheered and Morg smiled. She didn't mind, she
thought, that not all the wishes had come true. Not really. But she had to
squeeze her lips together very tightly to stop herself crying.
When the drums had started up again, her father sat down next to her on
the straw. He didn't look at her.
"I'll need to take Arlen into the forest soon," he said. "He needs practice
with some of his hunting skills." Morg was very still.
"But I can't manage on my own." He looked at Morg. Her eyes were full
of hope.
"Me?" she said.
"You," he said, and he smiled. Morg flung her arms around his neck.
"Are you sure?" she asked.
"I'm sure, my little huntress."
Short Stories: Morg by Clare Reddaway http://www.eastoftheweb.com/cgi-bin/version_printable.pl?story_id=Morg911.shtml
9 of 9 03-11-2014 23:35