Birth of a Goddess (Reincarnation of the Morrigan Book 1)

by Renée Jaggér

  I should call Mother and tell her I arrived, I added to myself. She would be delighted to hear that I had confided in Gran about my burnout at work. I had just sat down and spilled. With my mother, it had been harder. Even to myself, it was difficult to admit I needed to rest, but somehow Gran had pulled all my feelings out of me.

  I thought back to my grandmother’s eager expression when she had first seen me. She was very happy to have me here, but if she’d really wanted to spend time with me before, why hadn’t she ever come to visit me? As far as I knew, she had never left her cottage to see any of her family. I chased my thoughts away as Gran began to murmur.

  “I remember the war.” The crackle of the fire joined her voice. “I remember hospitals being full and all the sick and injured to attend to.”

  My brows furrowed. Why were we talking about the war? Then I recalled that Gran often began telling stories out of the blue. Aloud, I asked, “You were a nurse?”

  Gran shook her head. “I was not a nurse, but I was there in the center of it.”

  “I often forget that it started in Poland since our country became involved so quickly.” I sipped my tea, momentarily forgetting it wasn’t coffee.

  “Ah, I do not yet speak of the Second Great War,” Gran corrected.

  “But Gran,” I started, leaning forward, “that’s impossible.” I laughed. “Forgive me, but you’re not that old.” World War One, I remembered, had ended in 1918. This was 2021, which meant Gran had to be...

  “I am quite old, yes.” Gran’s laugh was soft. Her expression became withdrawn and grave, but she did not add anything. She seemed to know I was thinking she didn’t look very old. Her body remained spry, her eyes light and searching, her movements intentional and firm.

  I sat back again, deep in thought, but what with the crow in the train and nearly getting lost today, my head hurt. “I feel quite at home here,” I heard myself say.

  Grandmother uttered a second soft laugh. “I should hope you do. The cottage is pretty enough, but I don’t believe that is the reason.”

  I raised a brow. What an odd thing to say. “What do you mean?”

  My grandmother’s gaze, which until this point had shifted between her tea and the dancing flames in the hearth, finally slid to meet mine. Her eyes were somber and almost glazed. I watched her swallow a visible lump in her throat. Then she leaned forward, set her cup on the table in front of her, and folded her strong and calloused hands together.

  “You have been taught about the gods, yes?”

  “We touched on Zeus and Olympus in school,” I started but paused when Gran shook her head.

  “I mean the gods and goddesses of our land. Have you ever felt it, Angelica? The power and magic in our land? Have you ever felt the power of the kings?”

  My first reaction was to shake my head, but Gran’s gaze was too serious. “What magic?” I asked instead. “And what kings?” Gran’s statement reminded me of the riddle in the forest. Did she know about it?

  Gran looked once more at the fire as if the flames were giving her the words she uttered. “There is birth and death, life and war. Our earth grows, and it withers. The cycle of life is all around us. Winter will soon be upon us, and the forest beyond my home will shed what it once so proudly wore. Then spring will come once more, and all will blossom into new life.”

  Yes, of course, I thought. What are you getting at? I’m not a child anymore. These are things you would have told me then, not now. When I was young, we would come here, and Gran and my mother would dangle crystals above their heads and read cards. They weren’t tarot cards, but they were similar. They would whisper when they thought I wasn’t paying attention. What New Age nonsense was I going to learn this time?

  Gran continued. “There is magic in the cycle of life, magic that propels it forward, keeps it turning, ever-evolving and growing. Some things change as the world continues to grow in the magic, but the power behind it does not.” She finally looked at me again. Her smile was sad. She sipped her tea, thinking before she said, “The power behind the cycle of life is in the Morrigan and the Three she is. You don’t have sisters, Angelica, but perhaps you will learn what it is like to have them soon enough.”

  I frowned, not restraining my confusion. My gaze slipped to the bottle of gin on the table, but I remembered that Gran had always made bold, eccentric statements. She was just saying batshit-crazy stuff. She was lonely. I would let her talk. Part of me thought, This is your chance to go to bed. You shouldn’t have to listen to this. I obliged her anyway.

  “I’ve heard of the Morrigan. Irish goddess of war, right?” I had seen a picture of the goddess, an obscure witch-looking creature with a black-feathered cloak. I knew she was often called the Phantom Queen, and the banshees were loose representations of her.

  Gran nodded. “Yes, but her power is in all our land. She is the very bloodstream of magic. Without the blood, there is no life, and there is no war if there is no bloodshed.”

  I leaned forward, giving in even though I knew I would regret it. Asking questions meant more time awake and less time recovering through sleep. I didn’t care, though. “The Morrigan is the goddess of both? War and life?”

  “Birth and death. Life and war,” Gran repeated. Her gaze seemed far off as if a hundred memories were rushing into her at once. A second later, something in her expression snapped, and once again, her eyes were clear and directed toward me. She drew a deep breath as though she was gathering the courage she needed to utter her next words. “I am not your grandmother, dear Angelica, but your great-great-aunt, sister to your dear mother’s grandmother. Your mother was kind enough to persuade you to come here. She knows it is time, as you will also soon know.”

  “What? Great-aunt? Time?” I echoed. What the hell was she talking about? Just minutes ago, we were sitting and eating a hearty supper and talking about medical chaos during a worldwide pandemic. Now ancient goddesses and magic were on the table. I might need some of that gin, I decided. “What are you talking about? Why did you and my mother never tell me?”

  “I am telling you now since it is your time. I was never able to have children, dear Angelica, since I served as the Morrigan until the end of the Great War. What followed was the Sundering. I couldn’t do it on my own anymore.”

  “Do what on your own?” I asked in as kind a tone as I could manage. I was beginning to wonder about her belief in her own words. I still thought of her as my grandmother and made a decision to keep calling her Gran unless she asked me not to.

  Her eyes appeared haunted. “I couldn’t hold all her magic in my body. You see, the Morrigan’s power is most commonly divided between three bodies since the three deities of the Morrigan bring balance to our world by controlled power, wisdom, and strength. War, life, and death. Her all-encompassing power could not be held within just me anymore. And now...” She paused as if her words weighed her down. “Now our world is on the brink of an imbalance like the one we had during the Great Wars.”

  “Imbalance” was one way of putting it. With political unrest stirring across the globe, combined with sickness in every country on top of the hunger and poverty much of the world experienced even before that...

  I could hardly wrap my mind around all of it. I had always had a small yet important role in helping the world. Speaking with Gran made me feel like there was more. Her words caused a warm stir within me. “How does this relate to me?”

  “If you can be patient for a moment, I will tell you. My time as the Morrigan has passed. It is your turn to take up the mantle now,” Gran said in a somber tone.

  My heart rate increased. I gripped my cup and shook my head. This is crazy. It’s the gin working on her mind. She’s old and not thinking straight. I remembered that Gran had always had a vivid imagination. When I was little, Gran had been as much a playmate as anyone my age.

  That she had been alive and fighting in 1914 gave me pause. That war was over a century ago. It was impossible. But then, there were many things I d
idn’t know. I had been told she was my grandmother. Why had my mother lied to me? Who was my real grandmother? I needed answers, but I was exhausted. Was I making this all up? Was I already asleep and dreaming?

  Gran’s grin reappeared. “You have always had a spirit of fire, my dear Angelica. Time to put it to use.”

  I laughed. “You’re the first one to talk about me like that and sound positive. And what do you mean, ‘take up the mantle?’”

  Gran shrugged, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. “You’re like me in more ways than you know.” She didn’t speak of the mantle. How long was it going to take for her to tell me what this had to do with me?

  As far as I could see, the similarities between the two of us were few. “I see you don’t agree with me,” she commented after taking a drag, and her eyes glimmered with mischief. Her childlike aura had returned. “You will in time.”

  She rose to pat my hand, then leaned down and kissed my cheek. “About the mantle. All in good time, my dear. I am sure you are tired, and I have gone and unloaded your destiny upon you.” She laughed, and I heard a hint of bitterness in it. “We will speak more about it tomorrow.”

  Destiny? I had never been one to believe in the universe directing my path. Perhaps this was some “release your inner-goddess thing” to help me relax. My mother had always been into yoga and New Age ideas for connecting with oneself. But...if Gran wasn’t my grandmother, what was Mum hiding?

  Aloud, I said, “I’m still going to call you Gran, you know.”

  Gran smiled with affection. “Of course, dear. Now, to bed. Rest well. We will talk more tomorrow.”

  Like I was going to sleep well after she dropped that bombshell. But I guessed I had to wait.

  Chapter Four

  “Power. Strength. Wisdom.

  These are the three.

  Broken apart, hewn together.

  Separated for a time, bound for eternity.

  One in three forevermore.

  One in three forevermore.

  One in three forevermore.”

  —The Ancient Book of Morrigan, Passage XIII

  The wind whispered in a taunting tone as if it were calling me beyond.

  I followed the wind, wings outstretched. I rose and flapped for a second before gliding. The hills rolled under me, and I could see the dense green of the land through the mist that lay over it. Overhead, thick clouds obscured the sky. The wind touched my beak, and for a moment, it was all I felt. The wind, or whatever was thrumming through me, pulled me forward.

  Where was I? I had the feeling I’d been here before but also as if I were laying my eyes on it for the first time. Why was I in the air, flying?

  I approached a cloud bank and glided through it. For an instant, all I saw was the paleness of the water that had collected in the air. What lay beyond it was obscured, but then I was through. I flew out to find carnage below me.

  The muddy ground was churned up, and barbed wire lay in tangled masses across the plain. Smoke rose in tendrils at some spots and in massive plumes in others. The wind increased, and I had to tightly control myself to stay in the air. I smelled the oncoming rain.

  I smelled the blood of those dead and those still fighting.

  A gun went off, then another. And another.

  The sounds of the weapons clashed with the cries that rose up. Screams. Wails. I felt weakness in my wings and prepared to land. I swooped lower but not low enough to become entangled with the soldiers colliding on the battlefield. Wait, soldiers? Why am I here? Why am I not at the hospital?

  I glided between two narrow walls of rock and dirt. Here, men holding rifles were bent over, faces obscured by their helmets.

  A trench, I realized. A manmade trench.

  Sickness churned within me. My wings were unsteady, but I made myself fly out of the trench and beyond. Damn these wings. I wasn’t used to them yet. I glimpsed a charred and smoking building a few yards off.

  They kept fighting, and I kept flying despite my desire to land. I tried to hear only the wind, to not allow the cries of battle to penetrate me. A gust carried me to the building, and I landed atop it. I folded my wings and watched the carnage unfold. Where was the hospital? They need me there, I thought. I looked down at my taloned feet. I’m of no use in this body, though. Get me out. Get me out.

  The chaos unfolded too rapidly for me to see everything. I could tell the battle had been going on for some time. Hundreds, if not thousands, lay dead. Many others were whimpering, limbs and torsos torn, wounds gushing. Sitting and leaning against the building was a man with his helmet and head bashed in. No sound came from him.

  My heart sped up. A cry rose within me, but when I uttered it, it was a caw. That sound coming from my body startled me. I was a creature, and I was alone. My heart sank. Only the wind answered me. It surrounded me and seemed to be saying, Look.

  I did as it directed me.

  Everything but the wind, it seemed, had stilled. The soldiers, who just seconds ago had been running, shooting, ducking, and dodging, turned away from one another and looked at me. My wings lifted a fraction. Everything within me told me to take flight as every living pair of eyes gazed at my crow body.

  Fly, I thought. You don’t have to be here. Set yourself free.

  The wind and the soldiers said otherwise. Stay. You belong here.

  Then a whistling artillery shell came toward me, and before I knew what was happening, the building collapsed beneath me.

  I woke with a start to find that I did not have black wings.

  “Arms,” I muttered. “Normal human arms.”

  The room I occupied admitted the gray light of the morning. I slipped aside the curtain that shielded my room to find the sun was just beginning to peek through the clouds and strike the earth. It had only been a dream. One hell of a dream, I thought. I hadn’t had such a vivid dream in years. Great. I saw one crow on the train, and then in my dream, I was one.

  The goats were bleating for food just outside my bedroom window. My stomach rumbled. I shook off the strangeness of my dream and made my way downstairs.

  Gran was awake and puttering about in her tiny kitchen. The kettle was on, and steam rose from the frying pan. She turned when she heard me enter and flashed me a cheerful smile.

  Part of me hoped she’d forgotten what we talked about last night. But did I really? Gran had never lied to me. If she said I had a new mantle and it was my time, I had to hear her out. Besides, I wanted to know what she was talking about, especially after that dream.

  “Ah, good morning, my dear. Breakfast is just ready,” Gran announced as she extracted the eggs from the frying pan and slipped them onto two slices of toast. She slid the plate across the tiny round table. I considered the table more of an obstacle than anything of practical use. I skirted it as Gran offered me tea.

  This time, I shook my head. I had brought my own stash of coffee, and just now, I wanted to pat myself on the back for it. I needed it, I thought as flashes of my dream reentered my mind. I could almost feel the barbed wire of the battlefield puncturing my skin. I could almost feel the smoke in my lungs. What the hell was wrong with me?

  I put the coffee, which I had had the foresight to bring downstairs with me, in the single-cup filter, poured water over it, and sat down at the tiny table. Gran asked, “How did you sleep, my dear?”

  “Quite comfortably,” I replied. I had been surprised the old mattress and the musty-smelling quilt had cradled my body so well.

  Gran frowned at me from where she stood by the Aga. “You seem troubled.”

  “Troubled?” I echoed. Troubled was the least of what I felt. What I had seen had been more than troubling. For a brief moment, I was transported not only back to my dream but also to two days before when I had found the beaten girl and taken her to the hospital. If I searched my memories further, images from Haiti would provide the same beyond-troubling feeling. It had followed me most of my life, it seemed, and it would follow me into my future, if the dream was any indicat
ion.

  “Troubling dreams?” Gran’s voice was soft.

  I glanced at her and nodded, then put the filter on a plate and took a sip of my coffee. I hoped the taste would make me forget the tightness in my stomach. Why did you never come to visit me when you knew about my supposed future? I wondered. I needed to finish the coffee before we talked about that, though.

  “What did you see?” Gran asked, breaking the spell the coffee had cast upon me.

  I hesitated, then, with a sigh I hoped didn’t sound rude, described what I had seen. I was so not ready for this. I started with the rolling hills blanketed in mist but did not mention I had not been in my human body.

  “You saw this from above, yes?” Gran asked, listening attentively.

  I nodded, the dream now feeling like a far-off thing with little significance.

  Gran tapped her chin. “Hmm. It wasn’t a dream but a memory. Do you know anything about the Battle of Verdun, my dear?”

  I had just taken a bite of eggs on toast and had to quickly swallow to respond. Here we go again. “A World War I battle, right?” I had heard about it in school but knew little about its significance in the war.

  Gran nodded, and the confirmation increased the tightness in my stomach.

  Gran sat down, leaned forward, and to my quiet dismay, began to explain. “The Battle of Verdun was fought over the course of ten months, from February 21 to December 18, 1916, on the western front in France. It began at 7:12 a.m. when a shot from a German Krupp 38-centimeter long-barreled gun struck a cathedral in Verdun, France.”

  Gee, sounds like I should be writing this down, I thought.

  “German General Erich von Falkenhayn believed the war would be won or lost in France. The morning the battle began, over twelve hundred guns on an eight-mile perimeter opened fire. It was, to say the least, a shell storm. It was the longest conflict of the war and was the last time during which I was the full Morrigan.” Gran spoke with the assurance of someone who had been there.