C.E. Murphy - Raven Calls

I did very well, all things considered. Instead of collapsing, I carefully knelt until my forehead touched the ground and folded my hands at my nape while I took some deep breaths. Being that close to the earth didn’t make it any worse. There were mitigating factors at play, which probably helped. Saint Patrick really had been here once upon a time, and whether I approved of going around converting the masses or not, the guy had apparently wielded—welt?—some significant power. The land had been healed to some degree, the deepest of the bloodstains washed away, and several hundred years of ordinary human worship had gone further yet in wiping out the death magic that had been done here. Had gone a long way, in fact, because otherwise I’d have known from Westport’s streets that the mountain was a blight on the land. That didn’t make it any more pleasant to discover now that I was up here. Muffled, because I was mostly talking into the dirt, I said, “So who was the Crúaich guy your father fought here, Méabh?”

“Cromm,” she said. “Crúaich is the mountain itself.”

If I wasn’t trying so hard not to puke I’d have gotten up and kicked her. “What. Ever. ”

Sensitive creature that she was, she picked up on my irritation. “He was the Fomorian king. It was his people we drove from this land so we might call it our own.”

“Fomorians. I don’t know the Fomorians.” I’d been doing so well to pull the Fir Bolg out of my sketchy memory. Discovering there were still more ancient Irish peoples I’d missed was kind of depressing.

“Dark and cruel monsters,” Caitríona said, but she said it with an edge. I turned my head half an inch to peer at her. She clearly didn’t know which of us to glare at more fiercely. “Cromm was defeated by Nuada of the Silver Hand when the Tuatha de Daanan came to Ireland.”

I decided Méabh was getting the hard end of the glower. That was okay with me. I put my head back where it had been and kept breathing deeply. The impact was lessening some. I was reminded of the baseball diamond back in Seattle where three ritual murders had been carried out. It had been a literal black stain on Seattle’s psychic energy. Croagh Patrick was both worse and better than that. The deaths here were far more numerous, but also much older, and a lot of effort had gone into cleaning them up. They still made my stomach churn, and the sweat standing out on my body wasn’t from hiking up the hill. I snaked an ever-so-tentative thread of power into the earth, torn between hoping to help and terrified at how my magic might respond to being used. Bizarrely, it didn’t object at all, and the ground sucked it down greedily, like a drink it was dying for.

While I did that, Méabh, serenely, said, “Yes. My father was Nuada, and he would be your grandfather a thousand times removed.”

“Jo anne! ”

I had never had a younger sister, but I imagined that was exactly what one sounded like when someone older and presumably wiser was giving her a line of bullshit and she wanted Big Sis to make it stop. It was kind of nice. It was equally annoying. I wondered if that defined the relationship between most sisters, and thought maybe I was glad I didn’t have one. “I told you she was Méabh.”

“Yes, but—em. Em. What are you doing?”

I’d forgotten how many of the Irish said “em” instead of “um.” It had driven me crazy when I’d visited the first time. Now it was more of a charming idiosyncrasy. “Trying not to puke.”

“No, I mean like everything’s glowing so.”

I peeled one eye open. Caitríona was right. The ground half an inch away glowed with my magic, silver-blue power pouring into parched earth. I’d done something like that one other time, in Cernunnos’s home world of Tir na nOg, but it had taken it out of me then. This was a much more gentle flow, magic seeping down dry cracks and swelling them with revitalization.

All of a sudden I had the distinct feeling it had been one year, and possibly as many as, oh, twenty-eight come May, since someone had been up here to offer anything other than ordinary human worship to the mountain’s hungry stone. “You said my mother would like to be burned up here. Did she come up here a lot?”

“All the time. On the holy days when she could, but she’d say there were so many sites that needed tending to that she couldn’t always be here on the day itself. So she’d use other holy days instead. There isn’t a day in the year that someone doesn’t hold high, she’d say. I liked that idea, so I did. It’s why I didn’t worry about coming to the graveyard on the equinox proper. There’s always something special going on in the world. Always a reason to give thanks to God. Always a good day to worship.”

This was probably not the time to get in a theological debate with my Irish Catholic cousin. Besides, regardless of who or what thanks might be given to, she was right. It was a nice idea, and it was probably true. “How many holy days? Or not holy, whatever.”

“Every six weeks or so. Imbolc, Beltane, Lughnasa, Samhain and the quarterly days. The solstices and equinoxes.”

Eight times a year. And she’d missed at least three while we’d traveled Europe together eighteen months earlier. No wonder the ground was parched. I nodded against the stone my forehead rested on. “Just how glowy are we talking?”

“The whole of the mountaintop,” Caitríona said in satisfyingly obvious awe. “Even the chapel is alight.”

“I thought ye hadn’t the power.” Méabh sounded one note shy of accusing. I tipped my head sideways again, prepared to leap up and defend my cousin at any moment. As soon as the nausea finished fading. Surely Méabh wouldn’t smack her around until then.

“I haven’t, but the glow is plain to see.” Belligerence met accusation, Caitríona’s Irish getting up in fine form.

“Only to one with the power!”

They were going to get in a knock-down drag-out. It was a small mountain compared to the Rockies, but it was plenty big to do Caitríona a lot of harm should she get thrown off. I had no doubt it was she who would lose, since even if Méabh wasn’t a trained fighter, she had a good solid foot in height on the O’Reilly girl. “Maybe,” I said loudly, into the ground, “ maybe it’s me. I’ve put on visible fireworks before. Or maybe Cat’s got the power and just doesn’t know it yet. Or maybe it’s the goddamned stars aligning, but whatever it is, I would like to invite you to shut the hell up, because the last thing I need right now is your petty bitching adding to the weight of a few hundred human sacrifices. Capiche?”

“Sacrifices?” Caitríona’s voice shot up into a squeak just like mine did when I got alarmed. Then she downshifted into mortally offended historian mode, which I also might have done if I had the right knowledge. “That’s just a story they made up to scare people off from being pagan. The druids didn’t sacrifice anybody.”

“No,” Méabh said hollowly, “but my mother did. And today she seeks to again.”

A red-capped man with a scythe erupted from the earth and took a swing at Caitríona’s head.

I went head over heels, dislodged earth scattering in arcs of still-brilliant power. Metal clanged somewhere above me. I ended up on my back with Méabh standing above me, and between Red Cap and Caitríona. Méabh’s sword tangled his scythe, and she looked like she’d finally found her purpose in being here.

Red Cap was the grimmest, nastiest-looking little man I’d ever seen. Barely four feet tall, his scythe was half again his height, but he used it with brutal confidence: a sharp twist dislodged it from Méabh’s sword. She blanched with surprise and rolled the hilt in her palm to keep a grip on it. Nasty pleasure warped his deep-set wrinkles into smug superiority. His red cap, shoved far down over furious black eyes, made his ears poke through wild hair of a begrudging filthy gray. He bared his teeth at Méabh in a nasty grin—look, he was just nasty, there was no other word for him—and showed off vicious pointed teeth with the expression.