The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4)

by Rebecca Lochlann

  Hands caressed her arms and shoulders. A face formed, one she had seen before. His eyes were Curran’s, seductive and darkest blue, like the heavens succumbing to night.

  I will have victory, Aridela. She heard the voice in the mist, like a whisper running across the surface of still, cold water.

  Longing swept through her, so terrible she woke and sat upright with a groan.

  “You’re safe.” Diorbhail laid a hand upon her forearm. “I am watching over you.”

  “I have such dreams,” Morrigan said. “They tear at me.”

  “Your power comes from your birth in this forest,” Diorbhail said. “The mountain is part of you and you part of this mountain, the flesh of Sgurr Mhic Bharraich. Your mam’s death blood bound your roots deep into caves and all the buried, fertile places.”

  Her voice diffused into a quiet thrum. “Against the mountain, the seal is powerless. Who is the mountain? Who is the seal? Faces and hair will change; clothing and station can change. You will have to see beyond the surface or you’ll be forever tricked. See beyond, and no face can ever fool you.”

  Consoled and intrigued, Morrigan lay down and closed her eyes. As she let herself float away, she thought she heard Diorbhail again.

  We’re all of us gathering, and no’ for the first time. We can make something happen, if we open our eyes and truly see. We can bring the Lady home. That’s what we’re meant to do.

  * * * *

  Sunlight poured through the window that last night had brought visions in mist.

  I must go home. Curran will be… fashed.

  But Diorbhail’s bothy possessed a spell, a spell of holding, while contrarily granting a sense of freedom.

  Perhaps, like the faery realm, a mystical barrier hid it from the real world, and while she was here, time outside would not pass. Curran wouldn’t worry, or even know she was gone.

  In this old, rotting place, she felt as though she could live that life she had once described to him. She would ride her stallion, swim naked in lochs, and make her own choices.

  Something else held her. For the first time, she felt as if another human being understood her completely. Odd, that this should come from poor, fallen Diorbhail Sinclair.

  Diorbhail brought her a sturdy stick with a forked end. Morrigan limped about with it, collecting wood, hauling water, and carrying eggs provided by the stolen hen. The habit of working came back as if no time had passed and she was still running to the demands of her father’s inn.

  When the sun passed the midday mark, they sat beside the burn and dipped their feet in the cold water.

  The things Diorbhail said lit a wild, livening pleasure deep inside, where the babe grew, almost as though it, too, listened. The woman had never been inside a school, yet she possessed surprising intelligence, and the courage to say what Morrigan had only thought.

  “The mushroom has shown me many things,” Diorbhail said. “That you were born to bring great change.”

  Morrigan believed everything Diorbhail said… everything except that she had the power to change anything.

  As they talked, Morrigan became aware of an eagle perched in a nearby tree. It was still and quiet, canting its head one way then the other as it watched them.

  “Would you look at that,” she said, low.

  “I saw it.” Raising her voice, Diorbhail spoke to the bird. “Am I pleasing you?”

  Morrigan sucked in a breath when the bird fluffed its wings, opened its beak, and replied with an eagle’s typical weak screeing. “Does it understand us?”

  “The Lady’s eyes and ears are watching you.”

  “What? An eagle!”

  “A deity can take any form, or she can send one of her maids. You are not alone, Morrigan Ramsay.”

  Warmth crept through Morrigan as she watched the bird. She remembered the eagle on her wedding day. Could it be true?

  When twilight fell, she reclined in the splintery rocking chair Diorbhail had salvaged from the midden heap, and listened to more revelations.

  “The mushroom showed me another time and place,” Diorbhail said. “In that land, woman could make herself pregnant. She chose it and caused it to happen. She used the north wind, or fertile water. Water is the beginning and the end of all things, and woman is water’s guardian.”

  Morrigan closed her eyes and rested her head against the back of the rocker. Now it made sense, the love she’d always felt for the ocean. The pull it exerted on her.

  “Who is this ‘lady’? I heard you say something last night, too. Something about bringing a lady home.”

  Diorbhail smiled. “I thought you were asleep. She is the Lady of Many Names. The Great Goddess, who even now has her eye on us all.”

  “Oh, Diorbhail. That’s wishful thinking. A dream.”

  “It’s you who’ve been dreaming, m’lady.”

  “You must mean God. You’re speaking of God.”

  Diorbhail’s mouth tilted up. “So you believe in that one, then?”

  “I… I don’t know. I suppose you’re saying if one exists, why not another.” Morrigan shrugged. “You’re right.”

  “I believe in She who plants every seedling, who stretches out her hand….” Here Diorbhail stretched out hers, palm down…. “And brings the rain. I believe in She who men face when they die. She was the one we all worshipped first. She made everything we see around us. She has been here from the beginning. This God of yours is a mewling wean compared to her. He was created from men’s fear of her, from their desire for power and their need to rule over women.”

  Morrigan started to scoff, but stopped and considered. She didn’t have to pretend, not with Diorbhail. “I knew it,” she said. “I knew there was another.”

  “She lives,” Diorbhail said, “though She is quiet now. Watching. Waiting.”

  “How do you know all this? Why do you see so many more things than I ever have, if I am supposedly the special one?”

  Diorbhail didn’t answer for a moment, and seemed to ponder. “I think it’s because I’ve been alone. Except for my child, no one ever spoke to me. All I ever had were my own thoughts, and the mushroom. You were busy every day, and you seldom had a chance to be on your own. Maybe she tried to get your attention but you couldn’t hear.”

  “When I ran away from my chores to the forest, or the moor, or the edge of Loch Ryan, I did have… thoughts. I saw things. When I was alone, and quiet.” Morrigan tapped the arm of the rocking chair. “You listened. You paid attention, and I didn’t, or when I did, I denied it, or told myself it was a dream, or I was hearing things, seeing things that weren’t there.”

  “I wish I had more of the mushroom. Maybe it’s for the best though, since it does make you ill.”

  “Why do you say that? It didn’t make me ill last night. I feel better than I have in a long while. Tell me… what else has the mushroom shown you?’

  “I saw that it would help you mind what you’ve forgotten.” Diorbhail’s head leaned to one side and she frowned. “Have you had more dreams since you came to Glenelg? Does it feel as though this place is making you dream?”

  “Aye. Strange, strong, loud dreams. Frightening, sometimes. Sometimes magical and inviting.”

  “My dreams are loud here, too. My skin feels like it’s had too much whisky. I’m itchy and tingly all over.”

  “Aye.” Morrigan nodded. “Aye.”

  “One day, we women will rise again. Our Mother, Lady of us all, will step from her cave. She will open our hearts and we will have thousands upon thousands of years of joy, not just men, and not just women, but all of us, together.”

  “When will it happen?” Morrigan asked, enthralled, wanting it to come now.

  Diorbhail smiled. “When you bring it.”

  * * * *

  Early in the morning, before the sun had fully risen, the door to the bothy crashed open, waking both women. A whirling fiend rushed in, spouting curses and leveling a stout cudgel.

  Morrigan rose, using Diorbhail’s shou
lder as a crutch, rubbing her eyes as she recognized who had found them. Eleanor Graeme.

  Fright subsided into relief. Eleanor would unwind these ropes of lassitude. She would crush whatever it was that had put Curran and her life as Lady Eilginn far away in a distant, foggy place that no longer mattered.

  “What is going on here?” Eleanor’s glare would have cowed anyone. Not surprisingly, shy Diorbhail cringed. “What d’you think you’re doing to Master Curran’s wife, you cursed bogle?”

  She lifted her stick, and Morrigan quickly stepped between them. “She saved my life. Stop shouting and brandishing that thing.”

  “D’you realize Master Curran is half out of his wits?” Eleanor’s voice was quietly dangerous, in a way that reminded Morrigan of Douglas.

  “I could hardly walk yesterday. My ankle’s swollen. Diorbhail was going to take me home today or tomorrow. As soon as I was better.”

  “Could you not send word? Could this… woman… not walk down for you to let us all know?”

  Morrigan and Diorbhail glanced at each other. Morrigan saw the same truth in Diorbhail’s eyes. Neither had wanted this time to end. Neither dared admit it.

  “Let me see.” Eleanor gestured impatiently as she propped her cudgel by the door.

  Morrigan sat in the rocking chair and Eleanor knelt to inspect it. “It is swollen,” she admitted reluctantly. “I can see it would have hurt to walk down this hill. But you—” she sent a venomous stare towards Diorbhail, “should have. Now I will take you.” She stood. “You can lean on me and we’ll go slowly. No doubt we’ll soon come across other searchers. They’re everywhere.”

  “Can she no’ wait one more day?” Diorbhail asked, her voice halting.

  “No, she cannot! You’ll be lucky if the master doesn’t put you up on charges of kidnapping.”

  “I… I… kidnapping?”

  “She did nothing of the sort!” Morrigan jumped up, forgetting her injury until the stab of pain reminded her. She quickly took her weight off that foot, hissing. “Would you have wanted her to leave me in the forest? I lost my horse and the gig. I was alone. She brought me here. She fed me. She’s taken care of me!”

  After a pause, Eleanor said, “Well,” in a calmer voice. “That’s as may be, but now we need to get you to Kilgarry.” She slung Morrigan’s left arm over her shoulder. “Don’t be afraid to lean on me. I’m strong.”

  Morrigan tried to look back at Diorbhail as Eleanor propelled her towards the door.

  “Wait!” Diorbhail cried, as Eleanor turned sideways to get them through the narrow doorway, careful to avoid protruding nails. “Wait. I’ve seen you.”

  “Aye?” Eleanor said, shrugging. “I have lived here many years. So what?”

  “No, no, I saw you… in a vision.”

  Eleanor’s frown was ominous. “What do you mean?”

  “Your colors…. Light and dark green, a healer’s colors. You’re part of us. You… and me… and her. We’re supposed to be together. You and I. We’re to help her. D’you no’ sense it?”

  Morrigan half expected Eleanor to explode or send ridicule slicing like knife blades, but she did neither. Glancing at Morrigan, she said, “I saw color around you in the kirk, the day you fell off your horse. I felt I knew you. It was… an unco thing.” As Diorbhail took a timid step closer, she added, “I have to admit you seem familiar as well.”

  “I have seen myself holding you,” Diorbhail said. “Trying to give you comfort at a bad time.”

  Eleanor nodded. “I see you with hair the color of seashells, and you smell of juniper. There’s color around you right now. It’s white. Like a cloud.”

  Morrigan gowked, shocked into speechlessness at this turn.

  “Wait one more day,” Diorbhail pleaded. “Stay with us. Share your knowledge.”

  Eleanor’s mouth tensed. “I would not feel right about it. Sitting here while everyone searches for her.”

  “Just one day?” Morrigan asked. “I… I’m not ready to go back.”

  No one said anything for a minute or two. At last Eleanor shrugged. “Let us in, then,” she said, and helped Morrigan return to the rocking chair.

  “Eleanor,” Morrigan said. “This is Diorbhail Sinclair. She’s no stranger. I knew her in Stranraer. She walked most of the way here to find me.”

  “She walked from the Low Country?”

  “Aye.”

  Eleanor regarded Diorbhail, her brows lifted. “Well, well,” she said and nodded, as if reluctantly impressed.

  * * * *

  They passed around warm barley tea in the single wooden mug Diorbhail had found in the rubbish heap outside the bothy.

  “I couldn’t sleep for thinking about you,” Eleanor told them. “You were who knows where, and quickened with child. Then I remembered this old bothy, how it was so remote not even Randall Benedict’s mercenaries found it when they cleared Glenelg. A woman named Clara lived here. Mad Clara, she was called. She could hardly speak the Gaelic, much less English. I started to wonder if you could’ve found this place, and if you were hurt, you might have used it for shelter. I decided to come and have a look.”

  “The Lady was guiding you to us,” Diorbhail said. “You’re part of us. She wants us to be together. She kept you from saying anything or bringing anyone with you.”

  Eleanor shrugged, but she didn’t deny it so that was something.

  “Tell me your story,” Morrigan asked Diorbhail. “I’ve often wondered about you and wanted to know.”

  Diorbhail chewed her lip for a few seconds. “I was born near a village called Durness, on the northern coast,” she said. “My mam was the healer. I don’t remember my da at all— he was a fisherman, and died in a storm when I was a babe. In those days, my mam had to be aye careful, for the Christians watched her, hoping she would make a mistake they could hang or burn her for. They didn’t seem to care they’d be left without anyone who knew how to keep their cuts from festering, or what to do for flux.”

  Eleanor snorted her understanding.

  “She died,” Diorbhail said, “and I was on my own. My tale is an old one. I fell in love. He was handsome, and being with him made me happy. He talked me into lying with him, and when I realized I was going to have a child, I told him.” She laughed without humor. “You’ve never seen a lad change so fast. Now I was a slut, and who knew how many I’d spread my legs for. I thought he loved me, and I was a fool. When I could no longer hide it, the Kirk cast me out. He was right there among the rest, throwing rocks. I made my way south, and eventually landed in Stranraer. My child was born by then. I gave birth to her in the ruins of a byre near Kilmarnock. I tried to say I was a widow but I suppose I’ve ne’re been so good at lying. It worked for a while, until a man who knew my history came through. I wouldn’t leave again, though, and… there was you. I could no’ leave you, Morrigan Lawton.”

  “So you stayed, though I never spoke to you.”

  “I knew that would change one day.”

  “I hate him for hurting you,” Morrigan said.

  Diorbhail shook her head. “He does no’ matter. I knew what I did with him was wrong, and no’ because it went against what the Kirk demanded. I felt it in here.” She struck her chest. “I knew it because my heart told me he wasn’t for me. He wasn’t the one I was meant to be with. I think we all have this understanding inside us. We get impatient with the waiting, the no’ knowing when or if the right one will come, so we ignore it, to our sorrow.”

  “That’s how I felt with Kit.” Morrigan sat up straight in the old rocker. “At first I wanted to be with him, but then… I cannot describe it. It was like I would suffocate if he didn’t stop, if I didn’t get away from him.”

  “I wish I’d listened to the warnings in my own heart,” Diorbhail said. “But then I would no’ have had my child. And I might never have come to Stranraer. I might never have found you.”

  “And if I hadn’t listened, I might have been forced to go to America with Kit, instead of here, with Curran.
”

  Morrigan saw how events had shaped the future. If she’d gone to America with Kit, she never would have met Eleanor, or Seaghan… or Mackinnon. Diorbhail would not have been able to follow. Morrigan glanced at Eleanor half-fearfully, realizing she’d all but confessed to lying with another man besides Curran, but the midwife was merely listening, no judgment or shock on her face.

  Eleanor spoke musingly as she stared at the fire. “Women are punished for knowing how to heal. For being creative, for having opinions. For wanting to be educated. They’re punished for defending their own. They’re punished for how they look, or how they don’t look. But most of all, women are punished for giving love. The men who talk them into the giving aren’t punished, nor are most of the men who take what they want by force. I pray that one day all women see and understand what’s been done. Only then will anything change.”

  Morrigan chalked up this blasphemy to the strange freedom the bothy inspired.

  Leaning forward, she clasped Diorbhail’s hand. “Will you tell us,” she asked, “why your daughter is not with you?”

  Diorbhail shrank into herself. “She was trampled by a horse,” she said at last, very quietly.

  “Diorbhail.” Morrigan could have cut out her tongue for not leaving it alone.

  “It was done deliberately,” Diorbhail said. “Louts who had long taunted me. They used a horse to crush her like a china cup, and laughed. Nobody cared. None but me.”

  Morrigan knelt in front of her. Eleanor stood, and in her logical, dispassionate way, proceeded to make more barley tea. She gave the mug to Diorbhail, briefly clasping her shoulder.

  “What was her name?” Morrigan asked.

  “Alecto. It came to me in a dream two days before she was born. I had never heard of it. I don’t know where it came from or what it means.”

  “I do,” Morrigan said, tightening her grip on Diorbhail’s hand. “It’s Greek. It belongs to one of the Erinyes. There are three of them. They’re sisters. Tisiphone, Megaera, and Alecto.”

  “I thought it sounded grand, but I shouldn’t’ve named her that, because it brought her nothing but torment.” Diorbhail rubbed her eyes wearily. “I wanted to die,” she said. “I walked into the ocean. The eagle stopped me. I kept seeing you, hearing your voice. You’re the reason I still live. Because I couldn’t save my child, but I will try to help save yours.”