What had Diorbhail meant, calling her that? And what women, other than her mother, and perhaps Beatrice, had cleared the way for her? Beatrice could hardly be considered a warrior.
Human incarnation of a deity. Morrigan felt as though the Norse god Thor was smashing his hammer against her skull, shouting Listen! Listen, you vexing girl!
She looked into the canopy of leaves, clenching her hands and fighting an angry sense of helplessness. “If I were a man, and had freedom….”
“No. Don’t use that excuse. You’ll be lost before you begin, and the fighter’s soul will wither. Aye, for a woman, it’s harder. But give yourself honor anyway, even if no one else does. Respect the strength inside you.”
She pondered the name she’d chosen for Curran’s dog. She’d thought it fine and bold. But Antiope had broken faith with her tribe for love of Theseus. She’d fought at his side against her clan, her people, only to be forsaken by him, the king who desired a new wife.
At every turn those mythical females had collapsed beneath the Greeks. If any lesson survived, it was that women could never triumph against male authority.
Yet even loyalty, conforming, and submitting brought abandonment.
“Is my only choice Penthesilea, then?”
“I don’t understand.”
She started. How far her thoughts had traveled from this shady pool, back in time to the beloved tales taught by a dominie as Greek-mad as herself. In Morrigan he’d found the perfect pupil, one willing to delve into ancient myth for as many hours as she could escape her father and her chores. This particular tale had been the source of much discussion between them. At first, when Morrigan was young, the dominie had been circumspect. Later, around the time Douglas stopped her schooling altogether, he’d revealed more.
“Penthesilea…” Louis murmured. “I know that name.”
“The Amazon queen.”
“She was defeated by Achilles outside the walls of Troy.”
“Some think she killed him.”
“Aye.” Louis nodded. “And Zeus brought him back to life….”
“So he could kill her.”
Louis’s gaze faltered and he turned once more to regard the water.
“She was wounded, at the end of her strength,” Morrigan said. “It was underhanded. Unfair. And after Achilles defeated her, he attacked her again… in the vilest manner.”
He tossed a pebble, watching it skip across the water. “I misjudged you, Miss Lawton,” he said. “This makes me more certain than ever. Because you understand the power, the lessons in the tales of our past. Whether or not they’re true doesn’t matter. They hold messages for all times, all people. That fighter inside you? She’s an Amazon. I think a bit of Penthesilea has lived on in you, lass.”
“Curran said….” She didn’t finish. First Curran— You’ve a wild Amazon heart— and now Louis Stevenson, the poet. She gazed at him, wondering what these men saw that she couldn’t. Perhaps the secret wild girl inside her was becoming more visible. She had to admit she’d done things over the last few months she never would have considered doing before, risky, reckless things. Was that what Amazon women did?
He regarded her, waiting for her to continue. What use was there in encouraging her to choose her own path, when the whole world was carefully designed to humiliate or destroy women who tried? “You haven’t answered me,” she said.
“How can I? It’s too easy for me to advise you this way or that, when the outcome will no’ affect me in the slightest. I’ll only broach a question for you to ponder. Who assigns women their place? What happens to you, to your daughters, if you allow it? No, don’t answer. Follow your path, whatever it is, wherever it leads. I’ve a notion your heart will steer you rightly.”
“What if I submit, and take the easier path?”
Louis’s next words struck deeply. Morrigan knew she would never forget them. He said, “Then that is the lesson you needed to learn.” After a moment, he added, smiling slightly, “This man of yours is lucky.”
And so will any lass be who wins you. She wanted to say it, but wasn’t sure she should, and the moment passed.
Though Louis offered singular comfort, a sense that everything would turn out all right, he couldn’t stay. He had companions waiting for him in Germany. He left on the late train, promising to write.
Remember to mix in a smattering of Athene with Penthesilea, and you’ll be unstoppable, he said next to her ear, and kissed her cheek. His kindness promised friendship, and she had few enough friends. The fact that he’d been Nicky’s first made him even dearer.
* * * *
Four days after Nicky’s funeral, Morrigan returned from town to find a crate propped against the sideboard. It was covered in heavy brown paper, and her name was scrawled on the outside.
“Two lads brought it an hour ago,” Ibby said. “What do you think it could be? Open it, do, Morrigan.”
As tall as she, wider too, and so heavy it couldn’t be budged, the mysterious container gave no indication of its origin.
“Hurry!” Ibby cried. “Don’t you want to see what it is?”
Morrigan ripped the paper. It fell, crackling, revealing slats of nailed plywood. Using a pry bar, they loosened the nails and wrenched the beams apart.
“Michty me,” said Beatrice.
Morrigan herself gazed out at them, painted in oils, so real and responsive that the living, breathing girl who had inspired the work wondered if her likeness might step from the frame, bringing a burst of sea-drenched wind.
Her image sat on a slope next to Loch Ryan, in a dress fashioned of water and spindrift. Meadowsweet, fairy ink cap, and a perfect conch shell were scattered across her lap. One bared shoulder, a low-dipping bodice, and the direct gaze suggested daring. Innocence was there too, in the gown’s virginal color and the blush layered upon the lass’s cheeks.
The skirt foamed like a wash of tide onto a beach. Water drops, flung by the wind from her phantasmal costume, were forever trapped in midair, reflecting fine-spun rainbows. The girl’s mouth was solemn, her brows feathered and low, lending an impression of gravity. Her hair, loose and blown by the wind, revealed her face in minute detail, from forehead to the subtle cleft in the chin. Finally, Morrigan saw webs of flesh between the girl’s fingers, and knew what fantasy the artist intended to create.
“That is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” There was a catch in Ibby’s voice.
Beatrice said, “It reminds me of your mother, the way she was when we first went to Glenelg. It reminds me of the legends I learned there, on the far side of the Five Sisters.” Her voice, when she spoke again, was low. “The foam-born goddess.”
“Who did this?” Ibby asked, after glancing askance at Beatrice.
“It has to be Kit.” Morrigan knew it without looking at the scrawl in the corner.
“The veterinary’s son?” Ibby asked.
Beatrice plucked an envelope from the base of the container. She glanced at it then passed it to Morrigan. There was her name, neatly inscribed. Morrigan tore it open and read the enclosed note aloud.
Dear Miss Lawton,
I found this painting in my son’s room, and thought you should have it. I do not know his desires concerning the work, but as we are unlikely to hear from him for some time, I send it on to you, trusting it will not cause embarrassment or distress.
Again, my deepest condolences on the passing of your brother.
Most sincerely,
Ian Lindsay
“But why would he paint you?” Ibby asked.
“I don’t know,” Morrigan said. An aching sense of loss washed over her. “He’s gone. Those I love all die, or leave.”
“You loved him?” Ibby now appeared shocked as well as puzzled.
She caught herself. “No,” she said. She’d looked upon Kit as a means of escape, as a bright spot of romantic excitement in an otherwise dull existence. But love? Love was something terrifying. “I liked him. He was blithe and bonny, and mad
e me laugh.”
“Well, I have not left you, and here is Beatrice. We’ve both been with you your entire life, and that will never change.” Ibby put her arm around Morrigan’s shoulders. “There must’ve been more to that lad than I ever imagined. The work… the hours he spent on this.” She brushed her fingertips over the painted lass’s cheek. “It will be an heirloom. Your great-grandchildren will know you through it.”
“This is how he sees me,” Morrigan said, marveling. “As he learns how to help kye give birth. He swore he’d never do that.”
“Maybe someday he’ll come back and you can thank him properly.” Ibby used her let’s be cheery voice. “I feel a need for Beatrice’s strengthening tea. What about you?”
They left the oil painting there, propped against the sideboard in the dining room. Giving off a blue-green flash of prismatic light, the lass observed all from between slats of wood, ready to catch the eye of any soul who might happen along.
* * * *
Douglas slammed the door against the wall as he strode into the kitchen, shouting, “Who brought that shite into this house?”
Morrigan jumped halfway out of her chair and nearly tipped over her teacup.
“Christian Lindsay’s father,” Beatrice said. She, too, looked wary. “The boy painted it, we think.”
“That rutting dog! He still wants to shame her, and me.” He rammed his fist against the table, making the china clatter and pitch.
The sight of his crimson face sent Morrigan’s heart palpitating. She ducked her head and gritted her teeth to keep from saying It isn’t my fault. I didn’t ask for it.
He bent over her, cutting off the light through the door. “Why d’you never look at me? At least she did that. Hannah wouldn’t have feared a lion.”
She kept her eyes downcast as she realized what had set him off. In the painting, she resembled too much the woman in the daguerreotype.
“You let him have his way, didn’t you? Virtue did no’ paint that bloody hoor picture.”
“Damn you!” She did meet his gaze then and slammed her own fist against the table. “Damn you for always thinking the worst of me!”
His head reared. He grimaced and seized her shoulders. “Foisting bastards on innocent men, driving us daft over your shameless ways. You deserve what you get. You well deserve it.” His breath wheezed and spittle struck her cheek. “Your brother would be alive but for you. It was your punishment he took, your fault he left, your fault he died.”
“Have you lost your senses?” Ibby pried at his fingers. “Get away from her, you foul man.”
Douglas slapped his sister so hard she stumbled. A drop of blood glistened on her lip and her cheek turned bright red.
“Don’t you ever come between me and mine.” He dragged Morrigan from the chair, pinning her against the table. The next thing she knew, he had slapped her as well. Exploding stars and a blood-red flower of pain burst through her cheek. Her teeth jarred. For an instant, all went black.
“You’re thinking of Hannah.” Beatrice gripped his forearm, forcing it down, but she spoke calmly. “This is Morrigan, a luaidh. Hannah cannot lie to you anymore.”
Douglas abruptly released Morrigan. He stared a moment longer then stalked out of the room.
“Why… why did he do that?” Ibby turned on Morrigan, tears spilling from her eyes. “What am I saying? I know what he’s like… I’ve always known.” She began weeping in earnest, and fell into a chair. “Ever since Neala died.”
Morrigan fetched a dishcloth and bent over her aunt, dabbing gently at her lip. “No harm done, Auntie. I’m used to it.”
“But you shouldn’t be!” Ibby propped her elbows on the table and pressed her cheeks against her palms as though she was too weary to hold her head up. “Plenty of harm’s been done if you ask me.”
“Go to bed,” Beatrice said to Morrigan. “I’ll give your aunt some tea. She’ll be fine.”
Morrigan started to protest, but exhaustion washed over her and she couldn’t find the strength to argue. She hugged Ibby and climbed the back stairs, closing her bedroom door behind her, only realizing how badly she was shaking as she unfastened the buttons on her blouse.
She pulled on her nightgown and crossed to her window, leaning out. Low, heavy clouds released a spatter of rain and there were intermittent rumbles of thunder. She closed the window so she wouldn’t have to wake up later and do it.
* * * *
Morrigan was lost in dreamless sleep when her door was thrown open. It struck the edge of the wardrobe hard, startling her awake. At first she couldn’t place where she was. She seemed to be falling through endless black space, punctuated by the warning pummel of thousands of tiny fists against glass.
Hands pulled her off her pillow. She couldn’t see anything, but she felt a close presence, looming over her like an incubus. She cried out, terrified.
“Long past time,” the darkness said. She knew then who it was, and instinctively began fighting. It was oddly easy to shove her father. He took several rapid steps in an effort to keep his balance. Wasting no time, she scrambled across the bed and off the far side, retreating until she could go no farther, and was trapped against the cold window. Behind her, rain drummed furiously.
He spoke from across the room. “Time… to pay for what you did to me. Did you think you would never face the… consequences?”
She wished for light but not a hint came through the window. She could smell though, a noxious aroma of strong, coarse whisky and sweat.
“Go to bed, Papa.” She tried to keep her voice calm, like Beatrice did. “Leave me alone.” But her voice shook in spite of her effort, like a frightened child’s.
She heard him coming around the bed. He grabbed her, yanking cruelly on her arm as she fought to escape. “You thought no one would ever make you pay for what you did? Well I’m pure weary of waiting.” He placed both hands around her throat and squeezed.
She clutched at his hands, pulling, ripping with her nails, but his grip was inexorable. Stars exploded before her eyes. She scrabbled, clawing his face, and gouged four deep furrows in his flesh.
Cursing, he released her. She sucked in a lungful of air and screamed.
He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her violently. “It was that bastard’s wean! You only used me to protect Seaghan, didn’t you? Tell me! It’s my right!”
Morrigan gasped. How had he discovered she was carrying a child? No wonder he was enraged. He truly would kill her for this, and no doubt go unpunished. She struck the side of his head and fought to twist free of his grip, though his violent shaking made her dizzy.
Light flickered at the open doorway and there were her aunts in their nightclothes. “What’s happened?” Ibby cried. Beatrice lifted her candle, sending a wavering flare over the tableau.
Douglas turned his face as though the light hurt him. Keeping a pincer-like grip on Morrigan’s shoulder with one hand, he rubbed his arm with the other, up and down, repeatedly. His upper lip lifted like a snarling dog’s. His face was darkly shadowed, evil, the skin drawn in around his eyes.
She ducked and nearly freed herself before he swept his hand to her throat and again throttled her. She fought him blindly, or thought she did. She was no longer certain of anything beyond the whine in her ears and bursting spots of color disrupting her vision.
“Sweet Brigit,” she heard Ibby scream. “He’s trying to kill her!”
“He’ll listen to me,” Beatrice said. “I’ve always protected her. You’ve never known, never. Be quiet, Isabel. You’re making it worse.” She set her candle on the commode and approached him. “Douglas… Douglas. Do you know what you’re doing?”
He glared at her. “Get out,” he said, his voice thick and slurred.
Morrigan rallied, a desperate will to live flooding like fire through her. “Don’t leave me!” she rasped, and again tried to gouge his face, but he struck her arm away.
His skin was sheened with oily sweat. “Did you think I would no’ r
ecognize the bastard? She’s turned out like you, a hoor, her soul as black as sin.”
Beatrice pried at his hand. Ibby grabbed his other arm, half-sobbing. “Dear Lord, I’m to blame for this. I’ll never forgive myself.”
Douglas shook his head and grimaced, much like a bull tormented from too many directions. His shoulders hunched. He released Morrigan and staggered. “What the devil….”
His eyes rolled up. He groaned and pitched forward, slamming into Morrigan and knocking her into the window. Glass exploded like a shotgun blast, drowning Ibby’s screams.
Awareness faded in and out as her father’s weight bore down on Morrigan’s spine and pressed her into glass splinters on the windowsill. He lay motionless, his arms hanging limp on either side of her head. She pushed at him but he was so heavy, and she had no balance, no strength. Vertigo swirled through her head, making everything spin drunkenly.
A large, triangular-shaped chunk of glass swung above him, shooting out reflections of candlelight. Free me, Morrigan thought; before the words finished forming, the shard dropped, swift and silent as a dagger blade into Douglas’s spine.
His body jerked. Blood trickled over Morrigan’s throat.
She couldn’t hold her head up any longer, and closed her eyes against pelting rain. Had he not been on top of her, the shard would have pierced her, and possibly the babe inside her. But if Douglas hadn’t begun this sorry attack, the window wouldn’t have broken. She wouldn’t be here. She’d be asleep.
“Help,” she gasped, without any hope.
“I’m getting him.” Was that a man’s voice?
The suffocating weight vanished. Morrigan slid off the sill and onto the bedroom floor, drawing in lungfuls of air. The circulation of blood slowly returned to her legs, making them sting.
Strong arms picked her up and placed her on the bed. Gentle fingers removed bits of glass from her hair.
“What happened here?” Again, she heard a man speak.
“It was an accident,” Beatrice replied.
“My eye… oh, it hurts.” Morrigan hardly recognized her voice.
The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) Page 18
