Whispers of the Mórrígan

On eel’s slither and cow’s teat,

In the howl of the wolf,

In crow’s caw we meet.

On this liminal night,

In your cave of darkness,

We bring our shadows to seek our light.

The wind whistled in response, but the candle’s flame at the entrance to the cave remained steadfast, as if beckoning the Aisling to make her journey down below. Her auburn locks framed her porcelain face, though she was anything but fragile. She turned towards Conor, urging him onwards. He met her gaze, her obsidian stare a stark contrast to his vibrant green. In another time, his would have matched the verdant landscape, but the eve of the new moon cast a darkness on the grass below. He nodded in unspoken understanding, leading the way down into the cave.

Brigid followed shortly behind, her torch lighting the red fruits which bloomed on the brush above the entrance, as Aisling took up the rear. Three people would be a tight squeeze, but the rule of three resided in all that they did. Their ancestors may have come and passed, but they each did their best to carry their wisdom with them.

The mouth to the Otherworld lay before them. Oweynagat was a place renowned for its myth and magic, but was not for the faint of heart. Its initiates, like soldiers in battle in times of yore, were known to pass through with fragile minds to either emerge men or with shattered psyches, away with the faeries. Their mounds were many in this place, and those who dared to trod did so with the respect commanded by the land.

The cave was said to be the entrance to Hell, a place where spirits would emerge to do their evil bidding, but the coven was not deterred by such nonsense. The spirits that lay within were nothing more than the shadows of the self. To be feared? Perhaps. But worse to be ignored. They knew change was uncomfortable, and that transformation was what was demanded of all who entered. The Mórrígan did not call upon anyone who was not ready, and this was her most sacred space. The Great Queen, the Goddess of prophecy, of battle, knew what struggles lay ahead, and knew the trials one must undergo to be forged within the fire. She knew those who dared to bare themselves before the flame would find their light within their shadows, but they must first face their darkness.

Conor clumsily made his way through the interior, grabbing the soft stones and slick clay of the walls for purchase. The air was significantly cooler, his breath painting the blackness in small puffs. Brigid’s torch cast shadows upon her feet before illuminating the sinuous sides of the walls within. Aisling stood in awe, feeling a distinct shift in the energy as she paused in reverence. They had arrived.

“Listen”, Aisling urged. A soft trickling of water echoed, drowning out the wind that had blown above.

With a buzz and a crackling sound, Brigid’s torch shone brightly, bathing the corridor ahead in bright light, before flickering to a fault.

The darkness was deafening.

Aisling felt a stirring within, a calm sense of knowing as the blackness enveloped them. She reached out, her hand finding Conor’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “Fear not the dark, for it is in darkness that we truly see.”

Conor, usually a beacon of strength, found comfort in her words. He took a deep breath, letting the cool, damp air fill his lungs. The darkness, though impenetrable, seemed to hold a sacred silence, a waiting, a pause.

Brigid, feeling around in her bag, pulled out a small box of matches. Striking one, she lit the torch once more, its flame catching quickly, though it now burned with a softer, gentler light. “The flame understands,” she whispered, almost to herself. “It knows when to roar and when to dance softly.”

The trio continued through the cave, guided by the gentle flame and the soft, trickling sound of water. The walls, once rigid and confining, now seemed to breathe with them, expanding and contracting in a silent rhythm.

As they walked, the cave began to open up, the ceiling rising, the walls receding. They found themselves in a larger chamber, the heart of the cave, where the energy was palpable. Aisling felt a pull, an urge to speak. She closed her eyes and began:

“In shadows deep, in dark’s devour,

We find our strength, we heed your call.

Great Mórrígan, we know the hour,

The time is now to our selves recall. "

Her voice echoed through the chamber, a melody of power and vulnerability. And then, a rustling, a fluttering of wings. A crow, large and majestic, flew into the chamber, circling above them before landing gracefully on the ground.

“The Mórrígan,” Aisling whispered, her voice full of awe.

The crow spread its wings, leaving behind a silence that was full, complete.

“They have seen,” the crow’s voice echoed in their minds. “They have understood.”