Chapter 1 \u2013 \u201cHow it begins\u201d<\/strong> The mist clung low to the glen, curling around dark stones like breath held too long. A whisper of wind threading through ancient hawthorns. The Neolithic grave was barely marked: a scatter of moss-covered boulders beneath a twisted thorn, its branches clawing at the pale morning sky. Locals said it was a queen\u2019s resting place, though none had ventured near in years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then came a single sharp shot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It cracked through the valley like a whip, tearing across the heather like a wound. Moments later, the crunch of boots on gravel broke the hush.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A man burst from the bracken, blood gushing from his side, one hand pressed tight to his ribs. His eyes were wild, frantic. Behind him, two shadows gave chase, driving him onward.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The raven watched from the crooked tree, its eyes black as peat, unblinking. One drop of blood struck the stone below. The earth drank it greedily.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Beneath the cairn, something shifted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo point running, ya wee shite,\u201d came a voice from the mist. \u201cYou\u2019re a tout, and everyone knows what happens to those who talk too freely to the peelers.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The wounded man dropped to his knees, his back against a stone slab. \u201cBut I never,\u201d he gasped. \u201cI never said a word!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The two men stepped from the fog and loomed over him. One of them pulled a snub-nosed revolver from his coat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIf you\u2019ve a prayer, now\u2019s the time to say it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The man on the ground looked up, trembling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The gunman smiled slightly. The revolver coughed once.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And just like that, the man was gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They turned and walked down the hill toward the road.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWell, that\u2019s that. Another tout meets his maker,\u201d the taller one said. \u201cFancy a pint in Walsh\u2019s?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Their footsteps faded into the fog.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The raven fluttered down from its perch and landed on the dead man\u2019s head. It let out a harsh, gurgling croak.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Beneath the cairn, something moved again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Chapter Two \u2013 \u201cHappy to meet\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve O\u2019Connell pulled her scarf tighter around her neck, breath puffing in short white clouds as she jogged along the winding country road. Her trainers crunched rhythmically on the frost-hardened gravel, the morning cold biting at her cheeks. Sixty-two, and still running every day though the knees didn\u2019t always thank her for it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She ran past hedgerows heavy with old spiderwebs, silvered in the chill. The rising sun turned the mist over the glen to gold, but the hill above remained shrouded in grey. Always colder up there. Always quieter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Her thoughts wandered back to the half-finished hemline on the table, the thread she needed to pick up in town, and the silence of her cottage when she returned. The children had their own lives now. She wasn\u2019t bitter, not really. Just… alone. Most days she could live with that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then the shot cracked through the air.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She froze mid-step, one foot off the ground. The sound hadn\u2019t come from far just over the rise, up near the old stones. Her heart thudded louder than her footsteps now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve hesitated. Most folk wouldn\u2019t go up there. Old stories clung to that place like it had too many memories, but something curiosity, perhaps, or the same stubborn streak that kept her running each day pulled her forward.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She reached the rusted gate that led up toward the ancient grave. It hung slightly ajar, the lock broken years ago. Beyond, the fog was thicker, curling in eddies above the ground.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She stepped through.<\/p>\n\n\n\n At the crest of the hill, she stopped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A figure stood before the cairn. Tall. Still. Cloaked in something dark and hooded. Three ravens perched, 2 on the figure\u2019s shoulders one on the right arm silent, watching her with eyes that seemed too knowing and jet black.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve’s breath caught in her throat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The figure turned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The hood fell slightly back, revealing nothing of a face only the sense of presence beneath shadow. A voice rose from the fog, deep and resonant, layered like wind passing through stone halls.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAn iad \u00d3 N\u00e9ill f\u00f3s ina r\u00edthe ar Aileach<\/strong>?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve blinked. The words curled strangely in her mind old Irish, the sort Sister Catr\u00edona had drilled into them back in school. She hadn\u2019t thought of it in decades.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She cleared her throat; uncertain she arranged the English in her head translating Yes… I’m sorry,” she said, stumbling, “it’s been a long time… since then. No. There’s no king now. The last O’Neill… about five hundred years ago.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n The figure was silent for a moment. Then:<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cC\u00e9n bhliain \u00ed seo<\/strong>?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve hesitated. \u201cIt\u2019s 2025. After the death of the Jesus.. of the new god.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The fog thickened, and the three ravens shuffled their wings, but did not take flight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The figure nodded slowly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cFada go deimhin<\/strong>,\u201d it said. \u201cSo much time. So many years passed in silence.\u201d<\/strong> Maeve\u2019s breath hung in the air between them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat you see is not me, it is a memory of me, a shadow a ghost, I have things that need to be done and I need a vessel<\/strong>,\u201d the figure said. \u201cOne given freely, without reserve.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n The ravens cawed softly, like breath rattling in an empty room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWill you allow me to live in you<\/strong>?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve took a step back. Her heartbeat like a drum beneath her ribs, not from the run now, but from something older primal and uncertain. The figure stood unmoving, the three ravens still as carved obsidian. Their black eyes fixed on her, as if they could see right into her marrow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She swallowed. \u201cWill it hurt?\u201d she asked. \u201cWill I still be… me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The fog curled between them like breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThere will be no pain<\/strong>,\u201d said the figure. The voice echoed again deep, sonorous, and patient. \u201cPerhaps a moment of confusion. But you will remain. I will dwell within your soul, not overtake it. You will be yourself… and yet more<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve\u2019s hands trembled slightly. \u201cWhy me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBecause you are untethered. Strong in ways that matter. And because for this I always ask I can never take<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve stared at the figure, the shadow of it blurring in the shifting mist. Her life, so carefully arranged, unrolled in her mind like fabric on a cutting table. Safe. Predictable. A little lonely. A little dull. Her ex-husband was off playing Romeo with a girl half his age in Belfast. Her children were scattered across the world calls on holidays, the odd video chat, sweet but faraway lives. The men in the village were married or dead, and she\u2019d never been one to chase shadows or dreams.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She\u2019d never done anything reckless.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maybe once, just once, she should.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She looked again at the cloaked figure, at the ravens watching in absolute stillness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWho are you?\u201d Maeve asked, voice low.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The figure inclined its head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI am Morr\u00edgu<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The name echoed in the fog like a bell rung in an ancient chapel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve blinked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The Morr\u00edgan. The Phantom Queen. She remembered the name from some half-forgotten school lesson war, fate, death, sovereignty. A goddess. Or something older.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The wind rustled the grass at their feet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve\u2019s breath caught. The idea that she might go back to her little cottage, to the needlework and the quiet evenings and the same road every morning suddenly felt like a kind of dying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI haven\u2019t done anything brave in fifty years,\u201d she said, almost to herself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then, louder: \u201cAll Right!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She squared her shoulders, heart pounding. \u201cIf I\u2019ll still be me… and if you\u2019ll leave when it\u2019s done… you have my yes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Chapter 3 — \u201cInto the out of\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n The world slowed down and stilled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n For a moment, there was silence no rustle of leaves, no distant gull crying over the sea. Just the two of them beneath the crooked hawthorn, the tomb behind them silent as stone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve stood tall, though her knees trembled. Her hands, rough from years of sewing and sun, were open at her sides. Ready.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The Morr\u00edgu reached out not with menace, but with something older. Older than time, older than grief. Her long fingers, cold as moonlight, brushed Maeve\u2019s chest just above her heart.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A sigh escaped the goddess\u2019s lips, light and long and full of mourning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI have<\/strong> waited<\/strong>,\u201d the Morr\u00edgu whispered. \u201cNow, I am remembered<\/em><\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She began to fade.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Not like smoke. Not like shadow. But as if the world had forgotten how to hold her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n First her cloak, which once seemed made of thunderclouds and crow-feathers, unravelled into dusk. Then her hands, then her face ageless, unknowable softened and melted into the air.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Only her eyes lingered, and for an instant Maeve saw herself reflected in them not as she was, but as she would become.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then they too vanished.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And the ravens remained.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Three of them, perched now on the ancient stones: one on the broken lintel, one on the low wall, one at Maeve\u2019s feet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They cawed, not as birds, but as witnesses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve took a breath that was not quite her own.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She blinked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The world had not ended.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She was still standing, though a sudden lightness in her head made her sway, like she\u2019d stood too fast after an evening of mending shirts on the worn couch in her sitting room. She sat heavily on one of the cairn\u2019s outer stones, the cold pressing through the fabric of her jogging bottoms. Her hands found her temples, cradling her head like a thing too full.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The dizziness passed. Her breath steadied.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She looked down at her hands, half-expecting them to glow, to tremble with unearthly power, to feel<\/em> like something other than hands. But they were just hers calloused, veined, honest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n No thunder cracked. No runes burned into her skin. No swirling vortex of ancient energy lifted her into the sky.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWell,\u201d she muttered. \u201cThat\u2019s a bit of a letdown.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She looked around the clearing. The ravens watched in silence, three dark commas punctuating the end of a sentence she didn\u2019t understand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve rubbed her arms, suddenly aware of the chill again. The breeze had returned, slipping through the trees like a rumour.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She cleared her throat. \u201cAre you there?\u201d she asked out loud, feeling vaguely foolish.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Nothing answered no voice from the heavens, no whisper in her ear. But one of the ravens tilted its head, as if listening. Or waiting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Nothing happened for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve sat there, waiting like a woman expecting a kettle to boil by staring at it. The wind stirred the leaves again. The ravens blinked, feathers ruffling as if bored.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then, like the first shimmer of a dream before waking, she heard a voice not in her ears, but deeper, somewhere behind thought.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “Yes. I am here.”<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n A pause.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “This English you speak is a hard tongue. It lacks beauty, passion, and fire. I sense the descendants of Quirinus in its bones.”<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve frowned. She had never heard of Quirinus, but somehow, she knew<\/em> or rather, the knowing bloomed in her like a memory not her own. Legionaries. Marching feet. SPQR on weathered standards. Dust and blood and sun.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh. Romans, you mean,\u201d she murmured. \u201cYes, there’s a lot of Latin and Greek in English. My old literature teacher called it a Romance language, but I\u2019ve never seen much romance in the words of the men around here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The voice laughed rich, warm, like the sound of peat fire cracking on a cold night.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “Men? If they had brains, they would be dangerous.”<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve couldn\u2019t help the smile tugging at her lips. \u201cNow that,\u201d she said, \u201cis a truth I\u2019ve lived.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n A moment passed in stillness, the air dense with something old and watching.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She spoke again, quieter this time. \u201cWhat now?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The Morr\u00edgu’s voice returned, more focused, colder. Maeve turned sharply, heart rising into her throat. She stood and walked toward the trench in the earth, the ancient stones silent around her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n There, just visible in the shadowed hollow, was the body.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cJesus Mary and Joseph<\/em>,\u201d she gasped. \u201cThat\u2019s wee Liam McManus. I know his father. What what happened?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n “Hold out your arm and ask Badb to show you,”<\/strong> came the Morr\u00edgu’s answer, firm and low.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve didn\u2019t question how she knew which raven was which. She just did<\/em>. Badb, the death-seer. Macha, of land and horses. Nemain, shrieking through the blood of battle. The names came to her as if remembered from the womb.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She extended her arm. \u201cBadb,\u201d she whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The raven flew to her without hesitation, its talons surprisingly light. It stared at her with one glossy, fathomless eye.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cShow me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The air shimmered like heat rising from summer tarmac.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A vision unfolded before her thin as mist at first, then clearer: Liam, staggering into the cairn, blood blooming through his shirt. Two men following. Angry voices. A gun raised. The crack of a shot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve\u2019s breath caught in her chest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She knew the shooter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSeamus Byrne,<\/em>\u201d she said aloud. \u201cBloody hell. That\u2019s my brother-in-law.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Seamus: a brute cut from the same cloth as her late husband had been running with paramilitaries since before his voice broke.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The vision dissolved.<\/p>\n\n\n\n In its place, the shade of Liam emerged, gray and flickering like ash in the wind. His eyes were empty, but his voice echoed with bitter purpose.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cRevenge.<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cCan he see me?\u201d Maeve asked, chilled to the marrow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “No,”<\/strong> said the Morr\u00edgu. “But he can sense me<\/em>. His was an innocent death. There is no stain on his soul but he cannot rest. He has placed a Geas<\/em> upon me.”<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve knew that word. Around the hearth fires of her youth, the old ones had told tales of heroes bound by sacred vows terrible and binding.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She swallowed. \u201cWhat do we do?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The goddess hesitated, as though choosing carefully from the strange, angular vocabulary of this new century.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “Simple,”<\/strong> she said at last. “We go and kick some ass.”<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n A beat passed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “…Though I still do not understand why one would wish to kick a donkey.”<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve barked out a laugh, sharp and genuine. \u201c’Ass\u2019 can also mean \u2018bottom.\u2019 Or \u2018bum.\u2019 You know. As in giving someone a good thump.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The Morr\u00edgu chuckled in reply. Chapter 4 — \u201cRun Woman\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve continued her jog into the dawn of a new day, breath misting in the cool air. The three ravens flew ahead, landing every so often to wait, like impatient children on a school run.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The Morr\u00edgu was silent for a while. Then she asked, “What??” said Maeve. “No, no, no. This is jogging. It’s for my health most importantly, my weight.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n “You do this… willingly?”<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n “<\/strong>Yes well, willingly is for the young. I may not enjoy it, but I miss it when I don\u2019t do it.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n There was a pause. Then: Maeve squinted at the ravens, picked out the one that always looked like it was judging her, and said, The raven cocked its head at her and gave a sharp, metallic caw.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Suddenly, Maeve felt lighter. Her legs stronger. The air itself seemed to flow into her bones, into her heart. She felt as if she were drawing energy from the earth and sky<\/em>. The Morr\u00edgu whispered, And Maeve ran.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She ran like she had never run before. Her body no longer wobbled like jelly on a plate. Muscles contracted and released in perfect harmony. The dull ache of her arthritic hip was gone, vanished like mist under sun. She moved like the wind along the country road. Hedges blurred. Her feet barely touched the ground. And she smiled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n So this is what it\u2019s supposed<\/em> to feel like.<\/p>\n\n\n\n On the outskirts of town, she slowed to a more normal pace. She didn\u2019t want that auld witch Sheila seeing her run properly next thing she\u2019d be asked to referee the Under-14 Camogie team, which, in Maeve\u2019s opinion, was a fate worse than death.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “So… people still play the old sports?” <\/strong>asked the Morr\u00edgu.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “Yes. Hurling for the men. Camogie for the ladies,” Maeve replied.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A pause.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “Do you still use the heads of your enemies?” <\/strong>There was a definite tone of pleasure and anticipation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve grimaced. “Hmm. Pity,” <\/strong>said the Morr\u00edgu, \u201cI do like a good game of Hurley\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n They arrived at Maeve\u2019s small house. The front door creaked open, and the Morr\u00edgu seemed to hesitate at the threshold.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “Interesting,” <\/strong>she said slowly. “Your dwelling… it is very… square.”<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve stepped inside and closed the door behind her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “Ahh yes,” she said, glancing around her tidy little hallway. “The last time you were around, we humans lived in roundhouses.” She smiled, amused by the thought of smoky huts and mud floors.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “Yes,” <\/strong>the Morr\u00edgu replied thoughtfully. “Your home… smells much better.”<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve raised an eyebrow. There was a pause, and then the voice within her shifted growing deeper, darker, echoing with something old and unrelenting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “Now prepare yourself, woman. We have much to do.”<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve sighed. “Of course we do.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n She kicked off her running shoes, and went to the kitchen, and muttered. Chatper 5 \u2013 \u201cIntroductions\u201d<\/strong> Maeve filled the kettle and set it on the hob. Steam curled upward. She leaned on the counter for a moment, catching her breath. Just a jog, she thought and yet somehow now it felt like the beginning of something much larger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The Morr\u00edgu\u2019s voice stirred within her again, quieter this time, almost reverent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “You should introduce me to the Good People tell them I am an invited guest who means no harm and who will bring blessings to them.”<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve frowned. “No,” <\/strong>came the reply, tinged with something ancient and firm. “Not fairies. That word is too light, too playful. These are the ones who have always been here the manifestations of all the beings that lived on this land for thousands of years. They live beside you. Inside your homes. They tend to the knots and twists in your life\u2019s thread. Where they can, they protect. But they are older than their stories, and not to be taken lightly.”<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve felt a chill that wasn\u2019t from the morning air.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “Tear up some bread. Small pieces. And place them, with a saucer of milk and honey, on the floor. They deserve an offering.”<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve obeyed, placing the torn bread carefully in a shallow dish and pouring warm milk into a saucer, adding a swirl of honey. She set it down gently on the kitchen tiles near the hearth, almost embarrassed by the ritual but unable to deny the sense of ceremony that hung in the air like the scent of bog myrtle and wild heather.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The room held its breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then the air blurred<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Tiny shapes emerged no taller than six inches, shifting in and out of sight as though moving faster than the eye could track. At first, they appeared red, like embers flickering in a breeze. But as they lingered, their hue began to shift from red to a shimmering blue, like the deep pool of a forest spring at dusk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Inside Maeve\u2019s chest, the Morr\u00edgu began to speak in a language that wasn\u2019t Irish not even Old Irish. It was something else. Something before<\/em>. A language born of stone and storm and bone, from before the Milesians brought their Gaelic words to the island. Maeve couldn\u2019t understand a word, but the meaning hung in the air, electric and full of memory.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The tiny beings gathered near the saucer. They did not bow, nor did they smile, but their colour settled into a steady blue, and Maeve felt<\/em> something relax in the house. The walls seemed to breathe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Acceptance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The Morr\u00edgu fell silent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve stared at the place on the floor where they had flickered and danced. She shook her head slowly, as if trying to clear a dream from her eyes. Maeve watched the last of the milk swirl in the saucer, the golden thread of honey dissolving like morning fog. The small, blue beings flickered around the offering, luminous and strange, their presence more felt<\/em> than seen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The Morr\u00edgu\u2019s voice stirred once more.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThe head of your… other household is named Naoise. She has lived here or hereabouts for a long time. She remembers Fionn mac Cumhaill sleeping beneath an oak tree that once grew in your garden. She remembers C\u00fa Chulainn, striding past on his way to face the army of Queen Medb in the T\u00e1in B\u00f3 C\u00faailnge.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve blinked. \u201cNaoise is the duine a cuimhin<\/em>,\u201d <\/strong>the Morr\u00edgu said. \u201cThe one who remembers, for her Clann. She holds their past and future in story and song. She is their memory, their keeper, their fire.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n One of the small beings had separated from the rest, stepping forward with grace and composure. Unlike the others, who flickered with constant motion, she was still perfectly still and her form was clearer: delicate features like a carving of wood and wind, eyes dark and ancient. A soft blue glow shimmered around her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd she is very pleased to meet you, at last.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve, overwhelmed but oddly serene, smiled and nodded at the figure. The tiny being inclined her head, and for the briefest moment, Maeve felt<\/em> known. Not just seen, but known<\/em> as if her whole life had been leafed through by gentle, careful hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But then the Morr\u00edgu\u2019s tone shifted, sharpening like a blade being drawn.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBut we have a job to do. A soul to free.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n At once, the Good People stopped. The rustle of tiny feet, the flicker of movement it all ceased. The blue glow that bathed the kitchen dimmed, then flared into a fierce, fiery orange<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve\u2019s breath caught.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She felt<\/em> their anger. Not noisy or wild but deep and righteous, like the tremble of ahill before a landslide. It passed through her bones and set her teeth on edge. These beings, ancient and hidden, had sensed<\/em> the Morr\u00edgu\u2019s geas the divine obligation and they responded not with fear, but agreement.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She heard no words, yet the meaning rang clear in her chest:<\/p>\n\n\n\n This wrong must be righted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They blessed the intent<\/em>. They blessed the plan<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve, stunned, looked down at the now-fiery figures still gathered around her floor. A job to do. A soul to free. Chapter 6 \u2013 \u201cThe Direction of travel\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve stood for a moment after the last of the Good People had vanished. The kitchen was quiet again, almost too<\/em> quiet. She looked down at the offerings on the floor most of the bread was gone. The milk had a faint shimmer to it now, like something sacred had passed through.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She exhaled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWell. We can\u2019t just go barging into the underworld or whatever it is you have planned. Not yet.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The Morr\u00edgu stirred within her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThere are steps to be taken, I know,\u201d Maeve said. \u201cBut the first is this: someone needs to call the police. That boy\u2019s body can\u2019t be left out there in the moss to rot. His people deserve the solemnities. The decency of closure. Someone needs to mourn him properly<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n There was a long pause. Then the goddess replied, her voice low and solemn.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYes. You are right. The soul must pass, but the flesh must rest. These rites matter.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve nodded and picked up the phone. She called the anonymous hotline. Her voice was steady, carefully vague. She gave directions to the place near the tomb enough to find Liam, not enough to trace her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When she hung up, the kettle was still hot. She poured herself a mug of tea, sat at the kitchen table, and waited.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The Morr\u00edgu spoke again after a long silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThe soul is bound<\/em>. It cannot move forward. It cannot return to the land of the ever-young, to T\u00edr na n\u00d3g. This is why I am here. A geas<\/em> was laid upon me long ago: I must answer when a soul is caught between worlds by violence and injustice. Especially if no one else will act.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve looked into her tea. \u201cYes<\/strong>,\u201d the Morr\u00edgu replied. \u201cBut not just a duty it is a thread of fate, braided into one\u2019s essence. To break it is to unravel part of your being. In the old days, heroes would live by their geasa. Some even died by them.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd this one?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cTo answer the unavenged. To carry the soul of the wronged across the threshold. To do otherwise would be to deny the shape of who I am.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve sat back in her chair. The news would be on the news by noon, another statistic to add to the bloody history of her home. She knew it wouldn\u2019t take long for people to start whispering.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI suppose you don\u2019t know what paramilitaries are?\u201d she asked aloud.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201c<\/strong>They were once freedom fighters, some of them. Fighting for a cause, they said. Ireland free or united or pure or whatever it was.\u201d She waved a hand. \u201cBut that\u2019s over now. The cause has long since curdled. The ones still out there Loyalists or Republicans are just gangsters with flags. They deal drugs, run guns, smuggle people into the sex trade, poison their own for power and money.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Her voice tightened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSeamus is one of those. Rotten to the core. Always was. Everything he touches turns black. All he sees is his stuff<\/em> flashy car, expensive watch, imported whiskey. All bought with blood and pain.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The Morr\u00edgu said nothing. She was listening.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve stared into her mug. She looked up. There was silence for a beat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then the Morr\u00edgu said, Maeve set down her cup and stood. Chapter 6 \u2013 \u201cThe Punisher and Potatoes\u201d \u201cThere aren\u2019t just bad people in there,\u201d Maeve said. \u201cIt\u2019s the worst of the worst, drinking most nights. Even the police only go near it when they absolutely have to in full riot gear.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The goddess nodded thoughtfully.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLet\u2019s go there<\/strong>,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNO!\u201d snapped Maeve. \u201cThere is no way in God\u2019s green earth I would set a foot in there. Within thirty seconds, the tongues would be wagging and my reputation such that it is would nose-dive like a gannet after mackerel\u2026 but\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She hesitated, thinking. Then her tone softened slightly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThere\u2019s a chip shop next door. Best in town, I could wait across the road until that awful Range Rover Seamus drives shows up. Then we\u2019d be on the pavement to meet him but what then?\u201d She turned to the goddess, concerned. \u201cHe\u2019s dangerous. All of them are.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The Morr\u00edgu gave a faint smile that Maeve felt more than saw.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHaving a soul as guest to a ten-thousand-year-old goddess has some\u2026 advantages,\u201d<\/strong> she said. \u201cYou need not worry. All will be well.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBut he\u2019ll recognise me! And you don\u2019t know these people. If you annoy them once, they get you back a thousand times over.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The goddess tilted her head, considering.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWell,<\/strong>\u201d she mused, \u201cdid you ever hear of how I would appear to C\u00fa Chulainn in different forms?\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh yes,\u201d replied Maeve. \u201cYou\u2019re a shapeshifter!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIndeed.<\/strong>\u201d There was something quietly proud in the way she said it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBut,\u201d Maeve continued, \u201cchanging into a bear or a wolf or an eagle isn\u2019t going to help much in this day and age.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDo you have something in mind?\u201d<\/strong> the goddess asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve thought for a moment, then went to the spare room. She rummaged in an old box and returned with a DVD.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLet\u2019s watch this,\u201d she said, sliding it into the machine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The goddess stared at the television in awe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat is this magic<\/strong>?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s not magic it\u2019s a DVD and a TV,\u201d Maeve chuckled. \u201cElectronics. Wait until you see the internet.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n They sat together as the screen came to life. The film began The Punisher<\/em>, something Maeve\u2019s grandchildren had left behind during their last visit. As they watched, Maeve had to explain a great deal: that fiction wasn\u2019t real, what the police were, what guns did, why things exploded, and what kind of world this was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n By the time the credits rolled, the goddess sat in thoughtful silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYour world is strange<\/strong>,\u201d she said at last. \u201cBut I approve of this Frank Castle. \u2018The Punisher\u2019 it is a good name. Quite close to what I have been\u2026 and what I am, even now<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She paused, then added with a gleam of interest, \u201cDo you have a shirt like his? I adore the skull. And the black it is\u2026 very me<\/em><\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve laughed. \u201cI think everyone wants to be Frank Castle. Or maybe Robert McCall in The Equalizer<\/em>. I\u2019ll play that one for you later. There\u2019s a part of everyone that craves justice real justice beyond what society\u2019s willing to give.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The goddess frowned. \u201cWhy are your people unwilling to give firm, hard, and fair justice?<\/strong>\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve was quiet for a moment, then said slowly, \u201cBecause there\u2019s a very fine line. If you cross it, you can become as bad as the people you\u2019re punishing. That\u2019s why we make films like this. We cheer on the Punisher or the Equalizer\u2026 but we\u2019re quietly glad it doesn\u2019t happen.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI have heard<\/strong>,\u201d murmured the goddess, \u201cthat nature abhors a vacuum. Perhaps that is why I exist. To fill the void left by the absence of true justice<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She looked up suddenly. \u201cSo, tonight, we go to the chippy?\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve nodded. \u201cYes but remember we wait beside the church hall until Seamus\u2019s black Land Rover parks up in front of the pub. And then<\/em> you can take over. But I\u2019m telling you now: no killing. Not even a little<\/em> killing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The goddess tilted her head again. \u201cOne more thing what is a \u2018chippy\u2019? I sense something called a potato is important in the answer.<\/strong>\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve smiled, delighted. \u201cA potato is the best thing that ever came out of the ground. Boiled, mashed, roasted, fried feeds you, fills you, warms you. In a chip shop, it\u2019s sliced and fried till golden, then salted until it could raise the dead.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The goddess gave a satisfied nod. \u201cI approve of this potato<\/strong>.\u201d CHAPTER 7: \u201cThe First Visit\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve waited for Seamus on the bench outside the chip shop, legs crossed, eyes on the passing traffic. A battered Nissan Micra coughed its way by, trailing smoke. The Morr\u00edgu sniffed as another diesel groaned past. Maeve nodded slightly, then caught sight of Seamus\u2019s Range Rover cresting the hill. She rose, dusted off her skirt, and crossed the road to stand by the shop window of Spiffy Homeware<\/em>, pretending to study a pine wardrobe she\u2019d never buy. The Range Rover pulled up, engine grumbling as it parked half-up on the kerb. Seamus stepped out, all swagger and cheap aftershave.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve muttered under her breath, \u201cOver to you. And remember no killing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The air shimmered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It felt like her body was melting, as if she were hot wax slipping down the side of a candle. Not painful, exactly just deeply strange. Maeve no longer stood behind her own eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Instead, she watched through them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Her reflection in the shop window caught her attention.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She was a man. Square-jawed, broad-shouldered, wearing a black T-shirt with a gleaming white skull emblazoned on the front. In her hands his<\/em> hands was a hurley stick, monstrous in size, dark and gnarled like something carved from myth and there was something in her trousers!<\/p>\n\n\n\n Frank Castle. Maeve Frank turned and strode across the road.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Seamus blinked at the approaching figure; brow creased.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat the fuck who are<\/em> you?!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n No reply.<\/p>\n\n\n\n In a blur, the hurley swung low, cracking into Seamus\u2019s right shin with a sickening thwack<\/em>. \u201cFuck! You broke my fucking leg!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The hurley rose again and slammed into the other shin. Seamus screamed high, ragged, animal.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cJesus, Mary and fucking Joseph!<\/em> Do you know who I am?! I\u2019ve got very<\/em> bad friends, you mad bastard!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The figure raised the hurley, held it horizontally between both hands like a staff.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThis is not revenge,\u201d<\/strong> came the low growl, an accent more Hell\u2019s Kitchen than Donegal. A pause. Then: Seamus whimpered on the ground, blood seeping from his trouser leg. The figure said nothing more. Just stared down with something far colder than rage contempt<\/em>. Then turned and walked away, rounding the pub and heading back toward the chip shop.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The shimmer returned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The wax flowed backward.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve blinked and found herself in her own body again if slightly off-balance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSee?<\/strong>\u201d said the Morr\u00edgu cheerfully. \u201cNo killing. But plenty of hurting. That should focus his mind. Now. Let me try these chips you mentioned<\/strong>.\u201d Maeve stumbled into the chip shop like a woman emerging from a very weird dream.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She\u2019d never been in a fight. Not even in school. But now she\u2019d stood in a stranger\u2019s body, beaten a man senseless, and and<\/em> been in temporary possession of a penis. That, more than the hurley-swinging, rattled her bones. She ordered a battered sausage supper, paid, and stepped back outside. A small crowd had gathered around the fallen Seamus. He was still screaming and swearing, but nobody seemed moved to help. One lad popped his head into the pub to alert the barman. As she walked past, not a soul looked at her twice. An ambulance roared past her cottage just as she reached the gate, siren howling, blue lights bouncing off windows as it sped toward the pub. Inside, Maeve unwrapped her supper. The chips were warm but, as expected, under-vinegared. \u201cShe skimps on it,\u201d she muttered, dousing them properly. \u201cProfit margin, my arse.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n A splash of ketchup. A pot of tea on the hob. She sat. \u201cRight,\u201d Maeve said aloud, staring at the skull-faced man still lingering in her mind. \u201cWhat the hell was that<\/em>?\u201d \u201cThe flickering box<\/strong>,\u201d said the goddess. \u201cYou called it Dee Vee Dee Last night; you showed me this Frank Castle. I thought, since you didn\u2019t want to be recognised, he was a suitable proxy. He reminds me of a young Lugh of the Long Arm nice chap. Very… symmetrical. And not hard to look at.\u201d<\/strong> Maeve blinked as a memory rose unbidden: a tall man, muscles like sculpted bronze, blonde hair tousled in the wind, standing on a green hill beneath the sun. The curve of his bottom was she conceded to herself, not hard to look at. \u201cNext time,\u201d she said sternly, \u201cwe\u2019re using Black Widow<\/em>. That way I get decent boobs and a firm bum not a bloody willy. That was… disconcerting.\u201d The goddess giggled like a schoolgirl.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYes<\/strong>,\u201d she said. \u201cIn ten thousand years of shapeshifting, that still<\/em> makes me cringe. You should see what it feels like when you get exci\u2026..\u201d \u201cNo. Just no!<\/em>\u201d Maeve cut in, holding up a finger. \u201cDon\u2019t finish that sentence. Not now. Not ever.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The kettle began to sing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maeve poured the tea, took a bite of her sausage, and stared out the window.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Chapter 8 Sausage supper and Fiadh the Cat<\/strong>
<\/p>\n\n\n\n
and said in Irish<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The voice dropped lower, the syllables soft, almost tender. \u201cT\u00e1 m\u00e9 traochta… I am weary.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n
“There is a body behind you, in the cairn. The soul of the dead man is… unhappy.”<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n
“Ah. That makes sense. Then yes, let us go. Let us kick some ass.”<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n
“Nemain wants to know: are we going to a battle? Do you need help to go into a fight frenzy?”<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n
“Ahhh. I see. Tell Nemain: fast<\/em>.”<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n
“Nemain. Fast. ,\u201d she paused and then added \u201cplease.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“You are doing exactly that , run woman.”<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n
“Ahhh, no. That\u2019s not allowed. They just use a ball now.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“Thanks. I think.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“Let me just put on the kettle first. You might be a death goddess, but this<\/em> is an Irish house.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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“The Good People<\/em>? You mean the fairies?”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“Well,” she muttered, “this is very odd!”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“And here I thought the weirdest thing today would be running like a banshee.”
\u201cMy sister is many<\/strong> things<\/strong>\u201d whispered the goddess \u201can athlete is not one of them<\/strong>\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s\u2026 some memory.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAs I am to meet you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWell,\u201d she murmured, half to herself, \u201cI suppose it\u2019s official now.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cA geas… that\u2019s like a sacred command, isn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBut Liam\u2026 he was just a boy. A quiet one. Always polite. Did well in school. Got an apprenticeship with a plumber, for God\u2019s sake. He was doing well.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSo why kill him like that?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe need to find the killer. This Seamus.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAye. I suppose we do.\u201d
<\/p>\n\n\n\n
<\/strong>Maeve explained that there was a pub on the edge of town called Davitt\u2019s<\/em>, run by the paramilitaries. Ordinary people didn\u2019t drink there not because they couldn\u2019t, but because it was far too dangerous.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n
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\u201cThey\u2019re like chariots,\u201d she explained quietly to the presence within her. \u201cBut with engines instead of horses.\u201d
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\u201cModern magic<\/strong>,\u201d the goddess murmured. \u201cIt reeks of Fomorian forges. Something their dark mages might have conjured on Tory Island<\/strong>.\u201d
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Bloody hell,<\/em> she thought.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He collapsed, wailing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s punishment<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThis is the first of three visits. At the end, you\u2019ll have paid the full price<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cPrice for what<\/em>?\u201d he groaned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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