Summer's End

by Lisa Morton

  The chant was simple[14]; it only took me a few seconds to memorize it. I stood, walked to a clear space in my living room, raised one leg, and tried to concentrate.

  The first few seconds were disastrous. I wobbled; I lost the pose; I laughed; I almost returned to my desk, thankful that no one had been around to witness my attempt.

  But instead I opted to remain as serious as possible; I was, as I mentioned, curious about the state it would theoretically produce in the practitioner.

  I held the pose, one leg bent, the foot resting against the other knee, thinking about engravings I’d seen of Celtic warriors in this pose, and Australian aborigines…and after a time of struggling to stay upright, my difficulties seemed to fall away and were replaced with calm steadiness. My eyes closed, the chant continued to flow past my lips, becoming more effortless with each recitation. With every passing second, it became easier to concentrate solely on the words…the invitation…

  Awareness seemed to simultaneously fall away and expand. I was calm, focused…open.

  Something was in the room with me. I felt it like a blanket, or like a luxurious wrap made of the most exquisite fabric. It was warmth, and strength, and comfort. I didn’t open my eyes, because there was no need; there was nothing in this sensation to alarm me, to cause anxiety or dread.

  The chant continued, and so did the presence. It enveloped me; it spoke without words, telling me it—or, rather, she, because there was something quintessentially feminine about this presence—had come at my bidding. The no-words conveyed admiration and love, and surprise, because it had been millennia since she had been thus called.

  The Morrigan.

  At this point, my skepticism was laid to rest by desire—I wanted nothing more than to join with this power, to feel it within me, infusing me. I wanted nothing so badly as to feel what Mongfind had felt, as she’d strode onto a battlefield without fear, striking down her foes with grace and divine skill.

  The warmth was inside me, then, and…

  October 27

  Time Unknown

  …First are the smells, my head is flooded not just with the scent of cooking meat from the apartment below but the half-wrapped chocolate bar I left on my desk, the jasmine soap from the bathroom and the odd chemical tang of dishwashing liquid and detergent from the kitchen (and how is it possible I’ve never noticed before how intense that is and how it grates), I can feel every fiber of the carpet beneath my bare feet and the air on the skin of my arms and face and the sounds—so many, so loud—the sounds of music thumping from somewhere nearby, a helicopter whup-whup-whupping overhead and a bass rumble which it takes me several seconds to identify as my own heartbeat and I still taste the wine I drank an hour ago and the brightness of my computer screen nearly forces me to turn my head away but it’s glorious, a fire that glows unlike any we’ve seen before-and it is “we” now, because I share these wonders with another who has fit into me like a sleek hand into a glove, I can feel the energy she brings with her throbbing and pushing fire through my limbs and she tests them, moves my arms and then my legs and we’re outside, running through the October night, no shoes but it doesn’t matter because nothing can hurt us, not the speeding cars that we leap away from, clearing the hood of a parked truck as easily as stepping over a bump in the ground, we run, reveling in the rush of our own blood as it flows through muscles that she has made flexible and fit, it’s not just the particle-thickened Los Angeles air we can feel on our flesh and within our lungs, but we can feel the veil, too, the membrane that separates our worlds, we can almost glimpse what lies beyond it, the grimacing sidh and the shadowy dead ones, the things with shifting form like smoke and with black hearts that seek to suck and devour, and we see how thin that veil is, because it’s almost the end of the month (of summer, and of the year), it’s only a few nights from Samhain, when that skin will be thinnest, and one with craft—one like a Druid—could reach past, yet that world doesn’t interest us right now because we’ve heard something coming from one of the intersecting streets ahead of us, a voice raised in anger, and that tone reacts within her like a flammable chemical set on fire so we follow, moving so quickly that the houses and apartment complexes and parked cars are a blur, we run three blocks to where the buildings are a little older, a little more in need of repair, and coming from a bottom-floor apartment is the voice of a man shouting obscenities at a woman, who offers nothing but weak, sobbing responses, and we draw closer, standing outside the door of the apartment, listening, and something within crashes and shatters, and the woman cries out, and then the door is flying open (it was so easy to break its flimsy lock), and there’s a man, young, heavyset, wearing a stained T-shirt, drawing back a fist, but the woman is already bleeding from the nose, her eyes wide as she sees us, and he turns and swings at us instead; we catch the blow and laugh at the expression on his face as we squeeze his hand, grinding the fingers against each other until he screams; we force him down while the woman stands back, silent now, staring in disbelief; with our other hand we strike him again, in the temple, and he wobbles but doesn’t fall, and I know one more blow will kill him and we’re pulling back our arm a second time, and I know I can stop this now, I can take control and we can leave, return home before we take this man’s life, leave him to prey upon her until she dies at 28 or 32 or (unlikely) 40, beaten down and used up, but I don’t stop it, I want to feel this happening, to rid the world of this abuser and to know what death feels like; so I let her draw back our fist and bring it down again and this time his eyes roll up and he falls like a butchered steer, and we can no longer hear his breath or his heart so we know he’s dead, and we turn to the woman, and I understand that by tomorrow she will describe us as a male, six feet tall and tattooed, and we turn to leave, half-drunk on violence, and her influence is ebbing as she takes us home again on middle-aged legs that pump now with a failing rhythm, as we reach home I notice the blood on my fingers and the panic I feel is mine alone and she leaves then, and in that instant, when all that she brought with her is suddenly taken from me, my legs give way and my eyes lose focus and…

  October 28

  Day

  …The first thing I noticed when I woke up in the morning was how much my hands hurt.

  Then I realized I’d fallen asleep fully dressed on the couch in the living room. I sat up, aching from the cushions, bleary-eyed, blinking against morning sun. I raised a hand to rub away the sleep—and saw the blood crusted across my fingers.

  I…we…killed a man last night.

  The memories washed through me, a toxic rain poisoning whatever it touched. I remembered all of it.

  Or did I?

  I ran to my computer and googled “North Hollywood Crime News.” The search took me to a local news station’s updates…and there it was, under the headline “NORTH HOLLYWOOD MAN FOUND DEAD BY ABUSED WIFE, SUSPECT SOUGHT.” They were looking for a male, approximately six feet tall, medium build, brown hair.

  It had happened. Exactly as I remembered it, down to the Morrigan using her influence to guarantee the wife’s unwitting complicity.

  There was something else there: Last night, I’d apparently typed the account of the possession, while it was still fresh.[15] I had only a vague memory of doing it, in some sort of dreamlike state.

  I ran to the bathroom, turned on the shower, and stepped in, still clothed. There wasn’t much blood on me—mainly on my hand, and some of that was mine—but I still planned on washing these clothes after, then driving to some distant dumpster and disposing of them.

  As the hot water flooded over me, turning pink when it swirled around the drain, I began to remember more. The Morrigan had left me with thoughts tucked away, thoughts I pulled forth as I relaxed beneath the steady warmth:

  I saw, clearly, an archaic, idyllic settlement, perched on a green hill. Spacious houses built of wood and stone clustered about a palace ornamented in gold; I recognized the geometric spiral ornamentation as Celtic in origin. Smoke curled from a hundred chim
neys, the people wore heavy torques over fine robes, and they glowed with health and happiness. I understood that an old man, still hardy, his white beard and a few wrinkles the only clues to his longevity, was more than 150 years old. I saw a school where young men and women studied history and lore, and I felt a strange kinship with them.

  This was Mongfind’s world, before the invaders came.

  Another memory appeared in my mind’s eye, and I saw a Samhain ritual. A great cake was prepared, cut into small portions, and one portion was rubbed with charcoal on the bottom. Warriors and young nobles lined up to choose pieces, and when a handsome young man turned his over to find the blackened underside, he smiled and received the congratulations of those around him. At night, the Druids led him to a pond; there, as he stood quietly, dressed in the finest jewels and raiments, they began the Samhain ritual. Mongfind and Mog Roith used chalk dust to draw a protective circle around those present, while they invoked sanctuary. First, the two Arch-Druids offered a black sheep; they moved in perfect, long-practiced unity, and the animal died almost instantly. Then, with great dignity, Mongfind knotted a rope about the neck of the handsome young man as she chanted a prayer to Bal-Sab, the Lord of Death. At a signal from her, the sacrifice knelt by the side of the bog, his expression serene. Mog Roith stepped up, and while she tightened the noose, her male counterpart thrust a ceremonial dagger into the young man’s chest; then, together, they pushed his head down beneath the waters of the bog. He was, in effect, simultaneously hanged, stabbed, and drowned, satisfying the classic Druidical obsession with the number three.

  With the sacrifices completed, a weight filled the air. The fires ringing the bog darkened; even Mongfind was plainly unnerved.

  Bal-sab had come.

  I felt Mongfind’s anxiety as she waited with the others. The air literally thickened, pressurized; one young man’s knees buckled and he sank to the soggy ground, gasping. A noxious odor arose, the scent of spilled blood and decayed corpses. Mongfind fought back an urge to gag, then withdrew her own knife, ready to offer herself should the protective circle prove insufficient.

  Seconds passed like small eternities. The future hung on this void; if it found the offerings unworthy, it could release horrors beyond death on the people. Mongfind offered up silent prayers to the other gods, but this was Bal-sab’s moment.

  The dark god’s overpowering presence vanished abruptly, and the gathered Druids all exhaled in relief. Bal-sab had accepted the sacrifices, and ensured another year of prosperity for his worshippers. A feast would commence now, and even if the sidh should cross over, Mongfind and Mog Roith would be ready. The Celts would enjoy another year of prosperity, until next Samhain.

  Samhain…Halloween…four days away.

  I finished the shower, dressed, walked to the living room on legs gone numb, didn’t even correct myself when I missed the couch and sagged to the floor.

  True. All of it, true.

  The Morrigan had possessed me last night, and together we’d committed murder. I’d just washed our victim’s blood from my hands, and yet that wasn’t what had taken the feeling from me and dropped me:

  I couldn’t deny what had happened last night—any of it. There was a world beyond ours—a world of violent gods and ancient magic and hunger for human life. History is a lie and reality a thin sheet, beyond which we sometimes glimpse shadows that strut and grasp at us. Nothing in Mongfind’s journal was fantasy or deception; it was the truth, not what I’d spent my life experiencing and believing.

  And ó Cuinn…he’d known exactly which spell to send me to, the one that would provide an encounter so intimate that even the most confirmed of skeptics wouldn’t deny it. This couldn’t be explained away as a cheap Halloween mask, or even the finest special effects trick created by a master wizard.

  Or could it?

  I still couldn’t accept it completely. A drug, perhaps; certain psychotropics were widely used to induce ecstatic states. Could ó Cuinn have somehow slipped me something? I thought back to everything I’d eaten and drunk yesterday—tea from my own supply, Thai food from the same restaurant I ate at twice a week, wine from a bottle I’d just opened. It didn’t seem likely, but…

  What if he hadn’t tampered with my food? That meant he was right—that we were both Druids, that he had called up the sidh…

  That they’d murdered Wilson Armitage.

  Had ó Cuinn meant that to happen? Or had he been unable to control his guests once they’d arrived here?

  After some time I found the strength to rise, and resolved to continue with my schedule as planned. I’d taken this week off from my day job as a bookseller to focus on my Halloween commitments, and I wouldn’t abandon those now. I had a phone interview set up with the BBC in thirty minutes—I’d be damned if I’d give that up now because I’d had a psychedelic trip into fairyland.

  Even as I thought that, I hoped I wouldn’t be damned for other reasons.

  October 28

  Evening

  I managed to get through the day somehow. In between interviews and answering e-mails, I packed last night’s clothes into a trash bag, drove to an alley thirty minutes away, found an open dumpster, tossed the bag in and came home again.

  Night fell, and I drove to Dark Delicacies, a nearby genre specialty bookstore, for a signing. I didn’t like the idea of being out at night, but this wouldn’t be like walking across a large, empty campus; even if I had to park a short distance from the store, I’d be walking past stores on a heavily-trafficked street.

  The signing was pleasant if under-attended (aren’t they all), and afterward I ended up walking with friends to a coffee shop two blocks away, where we gabbed over tea and dessert. For an hour or so, I was able to forget about goddesses and murder and pagan rituals, as we lost ourselves in the simple, mundane pleasures of gossip and jokes.

  At 11 p.m. (how had it gotten to be that late?), the shop closed up and kicked us out, we said our goodbyes on the sidewalk, and I turned to head for my car, now parked several blocks away. It was late enough that the stores had closed, and few cars drove by. In the distance I could hear the ever-present sound of sirens (in an area as big as L.A., there’s always a catastrophe happening somewhere) and the thrum of freeway congestion.

  I came to an intersection, and even though I couldn’t see any approaching cars, I waited for the crosswalk light to turn green—the last thing in the world I needed right now was for a hidden cop to nab me for jaywalking.

  “I’m really sorry, officer, and—what? No, that’s not blood under my fingernails, of course not…” My rational mind assured me that there was no visible blood beneath the nails of the hands I’d scrubbed until they were raw and red, but I still wasn’t taking any chances. I waited.

  The shop on the corner was one of those little cluttered gift shops, the kind that you glance in and you can’t imagine buying any of this kitschy nonsense and you wonder how they stay in business. Because it was Halloween, their front display windows were full of little papier mâché pumpkins (some were sprayed with glitter or even wore little aprons, which offended my highly-honed sense of Halloween decorum), cute witch and cat figurines, and gingerbread-scented candles. There were Halloween salt shakers and mugs and hand towels.

  Near the bottom was a jack-o’-lantern that made me stop and stare. It was white, almost the size of a real pumpkin, and lit with some sort of reddish glow from within. It also bore one of the most grotesquely carved faces I’d ever seen—eyes with knitted brows, a huge snaggletoothed grin, and two slits for a nose. It didn’t begin to match the other items in the window, all of which would have been more at home in an Anne Geddes photo book than a Stephen King novel, and it was the only piece that seemed to be lit.

  I was bending down to look more closely at it when it moved. It turned and looked directly up at me.

  Now I knew why it looked familiar. I’d seen it before, outside the window of ó Cuinn’s office.

  But this time it didn’t vanish abruptly—I thi
nk it wanted me to see it. Its rictus grin widened, spilling even more crimson light out around it, although I couldn’t make out the rest of its body. I took one, two steps back—

  HOONNNK! I’d backed right into the street, and hadn’t even noticed the car barreling through the intersection. Heart hammering, I leapt back up onto the curb and the car sped off into the night.

  When I looked back at the window, the face was gone.

  It was coming for me.

  Fuck it—I ran, then, ran against the red light and regardless of who might see me and wonder what I was running from. I didn’t look into any of the other windows I passed, or listen for the sound of tiny footsteps coming up behind me, closer and closer…I ran, digging into my purse as I neared my car, trying to find my keys which always fell to the bottom of the voluminous bag, requiring precious extra seconds to dig them out—

  I had them. I flipped up the car key, jammed it into the lock, threw the door open, and fell into the front seat. I slammed the door behind me, pressed the lock button—and flinched as something hit the door outside hard, making the whole car shake. I heard a high-pitched squeal.

  Somehow I managed to get the right key into the ignition, start the car, and take off, burning rubber. I’d driven two blocks before I realized the parking brake was still on. I ran one stoplight (got lucky), then risked a glance in the rearview mirror.

  Nothing but a quiet street of closed shops. A few headlights in the distance. Nothing chasing me, no sign of anything unusual.

  Five minutes later I was home. I waited a few moments before I opened the car door—what if it had somehow attached itself to the car, or followed where I couldn’t see it? Did it even need normal laws of physics? Could it simply wish itself here, to continue its mischief…or worse?