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Authors: Mark S. Deniz
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until night, Sion! Hold until night, and then the
land is mine!” She looked back as she called the rally, and saw new
things in her peoples’ eyes. Belief, yes, but worse than that, oh
so much worse was the fear, for that was the price of calling a
goddess to battle.
“Hold,” she whispered again, and turned back
to make war on her enemy.
****
At dawn the ravens feasted, gorging themselves
on the slaughtered Fir Bolg and splashing red melted river
water over their sleek black feathers. They clucked and gurgled
over the dead villagers, but left them untasted, and one by one
those bodies were gathered, and brought to the cairns.
Sion O’Connail was the first to see the broken
body fallen amongst the tall stone piles. The first, and perhaps
the least surprised: it was he who knelt by Mairaed’s figure, who
tested her skin for suppleness and found it frozen through and
through. Dead a day, at least, and the spattered blood foamed at
her mouth said perhaps her heart had burst. Her eyes were open,
staring sightlessly toward the sky; her body was arched as though
caught in a moment of rapture, and her skull and frame were
cracked, as if she had fallen a terrible distance, when there was
no high place at all that she might have tumbled from.
It was not easy, closing those staring eyes,
and no one said him nay as he lifted her frozen body and took it
some little way away from the other cairns and there began to shift
the stones that would cover their dancer, and mark her place of
rest as a spot of especial honor.
“No more cairn dancers,” he said when her body
was hidden, and because he was their voice of wisdom, the villagers
listened. “No more,” he said again. “Mortals are not meant to call
on the gods. We have won the day, but we’ve asked too terrible a
thing. This will not happen again.”
Murmurs of agreement rose, the memory of
Mairaed’s twisted form too fresh to deny, and one by one the people
of her village turned away to do mortal honor to the fallen dead,
and to bury them properly. No more dancers, they said to one
another, and when the last of the cairns were built, they slipped
away, never to bury the dead in this place again.
And so no one saw a boy slip forth amongst the
tall stone graves, and begin to dance.
****
Afterword
‘Cairn Dancer’ was inspired by a watercolor
painting I own of the same title. It's a wonderful, vivid painting
of a beautiful woman swaying in front of stone cairns, and beyond
that there's no resemblance whatsoever between story and painting.
The painting's woman is quite modern; Mairaed's story was never
imagined as such. But the woman in the painting did beg the
question of why she danced at the cairns. Mark and Amanda's
invitation to write a story for The Phantom Queen Awakes gave me an opportunity to explore the answer to that question, and
I have to say I rather like it. Now, I can suppose my painting is
Mairaed's spiritual, if not physical, descendant, still dancing for
the souls of the dead after all these years.
****
Biography
C.E. Murphy is a fantasy novelist who makes
occasional forays into short stories, comics and photography. Born
and raised in Alaska, she now lives in her ancestral homeland of
Ireland. More information about CE Murphy and her career can be
found at http://www.cemurphy.net .
****
Jennifer
Lawrence
Washerwoman
Perhaps because the wind was uncommonly bitter
that morn, or because she could still hear the angry words
Aoibheann had whispered to her husband, Treasa’s son, in the
darkness last night, Treasa spent ten minutes scrubbing at the
laundry down by the stream before she realized that she did not
know the other old woman washing her clothes on the opposite
bank.
Treasa had long known her son’s wife did not
like her, wanted her gone so she could run the household in the
manner she preferred, but it had still been a shock to lay there on
her bed in the darkness
land is mine!” She looked back as she called the rally, and saw new
things in her peoples’ eyes. Belief, yes, but worse than that, oh
so much worse was the fear, for that was the price of calling a
goddess to battle.
“Hold,” she whispered again, and turned back
to make war on her enemy.
****
At dawn the ravens feasted, gorging themselves
on the slaughtered Fir Bolg and splashing red melted river
water over their sleek black feathers. They clucked and gurgled
over the dead villagers, but left them untasted, and one by one
those bodies were gathered, and brought to the cairns.
Sion O’Connail was the first to see the broken
body fallen amongst the tall stone piles. The first, and perhaps
the least surprised: it was he who knelt by Mairaed’s figure, who
tested her skin for suppleness and found it frozen through and
through. Dead a day, at least, and the spattered blood foamed at
her mouth said perhaps her heart had burst. Her eyes were open,
staring sightlessly toward the sky; her body was arched as though
caught in a moment of rapture, and her skull and frame were
cracked, as if she had fallen a terrible distance, when there was
no high place at all that she might have tumbled from.
It was not easy, closing those staring eyes,
and no one said him nay as he lifted her frozen body and took it
some little way away from the other cairns and there began to shift
the stones that would cover their dancer, and mark her place of
rest as a spot of especial honor.
“No more cairn dancers,” he said when her body
was hidden, and because he was their voice of wisdom, the villagers
listened. “No more,” he said again. “Mortals are not meant to call
on the gods. We have won the day, but we’ve asked too terrible a
thing. This will not happen again.”
Murmurs of agreement rose, the memory of
Mairaed’s twisted form too fresh to deny, and one by one the people
of her village turned away to do mortal honor to the fallen dead,
and to bury them properly. No more dancers, they said to one
another, and when the last of the cairns were built, they slipped
away, never to bury the dead in this place again.
And so no one saw a boy slip forth amongst the
tall stone graves, and begin to dance.
****
Afterword
‘Cairn Dancer’ was inspired by a watercolor
painting I own of the same title. It's a wonderful, vivid painting
of a beautiful woman swaying in front of stone cairns, and beyond
that there's no resemblance whatsoever between story and painting.
The painting's woman is quite modern; Mairaed's story was never
imagined as such. But the woman in the painting did beg the
question of why she danced at the cairns. Mark and Amanda's
invitation to write a story for The Phantom Queen Awakes gave me an opportunity to explore the answer to that question, and
I have to say I rather like it. Now, I can suppose my painting is
Mairaed's spiritual, if not physical, descendant, still dancing for
the souls of the dead after all these years.
****
Biography
C.E. Murphy is a fantasy novelist who makes
occasional forays into short stories, comics and photography. Born
and raised in Alaska, she now lives in her ancestral homeland of
Ireland. More information about CE Murphy and her career can be
found at http://www.cemurphy.net .
****
Jennifer
Lawrence
Washerwoman
Perhaps because the wind was uncommonly bitter
that morn, or because she could still hear the angry words
Aoibheann had whispered to her husband, Treasa’s son, in the
darkness last night, Treasa spent ten minutes scrubbing at the
laundry down by the stream before she realized that she did not
know the other old woman washing her clothes on the opposite
bank.
Treasa had long known her son’s wife did not
like her, wanted her gone so she could run the household in the
manner she preferred, but it had still been a shock to lay there on
her bed in the darkness
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