the rest the story morg 9 parts
"Off, Arlen. Get off me," she said.
One moment there was just Arlen, then the grove was full of hounds as the rest caught up. They sniffed the ground, tracing the boar's movement. Then one of the dogs howled. He had caught the scent. He plunged back into the forest and on to the trail of the boar. The rest of the hounds followed. Arlen, with a backward look at Morg, went too.
The grove was empty. Morg could hear the hunting horn in the distance, and the yells of the huntsmen as the hounds picked up the scent. But they did not come into the grove. No-one saw her victory over the boar.
Morg sat flat down. She thought for a moment of finding the hunt, of telling her father what had happened. But she'd never catch them, and anyway they would not believe her. When the boar had turned and gone back into the forest she'd thought that the goddess had answered her prayer, that the boar was a test. The boar was, after all, a sacred animal. Maybe the goddess had taken on its form. She had hoped it was a sign that she would be allowed to go on the hunt. But now the hunt had moved on and she knew that no-one had heard. Her voice was too small, too unimportant. Probably the goddess was angry with her.
Morg was hungry. She had forgotten to bring any food with her. She did not even have the chunk of flat bread her mother would usually send with her into the fields. She cupped her hands and drank some of the water from the goddess' stream. Perhaps it would bring her fortune. She needed it, she thought.
Suddenly she shivered. It was getting colder. All the warmth had gone from the sun and it would not be long in the sky. The nights were squeezing the days hard at this time of year. Morg slung her cloak around her shoulders, and started to scramble back down the bank.
*
Morg was tired. Her legs were as heavy as the trunks of trees. Her stomach rumbled with hunger and misery. She dragged herself on, eyes to the ground. The path to the sacred grove was usually well-used by the tribe, but there had been no ceremony there for some time. In places the way was not always clear. So Morg did not notice that she had strayed off the path, and that now she was walking along a new track.
Morg was thinking about the cold in her toes and wiggling them as she walked when she heard a rustling in the undergrowth to her left. She hesitated. She should go on. It was getting late. She did not want to be in the forest in the dark.
Morg heard the rustling again. Curiosity overcame her. She had to know what was in the bushes. The noise was coming from a group of low thorns. Walking round she saw a space that she could slither through. As she slid along on her front, she heard thin squeals. Something knew she was coming.
The thorns opened out and she came upon a clearing in the centre of the bushes. A shallow bowl had been scraped away and lined with leaves. On the leaves were four little wild boar piglets. They were each the size of three of her hands, and they were squealing and tumbling over each other to get to her. They can only be days old, thought Morg. Pale brown and cream stripes ran from the tips of their snouts to their tails, which were twitching with excitement. They're just like bumble bees, she smiled. But it was late for a boar litter. She knew that they usually had babies in the sowing season, that was when boars were most dangerous. Perhaps this was a second litter.
Then she frowned. Where was the piglets' mother? Female boars stayed close to their babies, to protect them. Which meant it was not far away. Which meant that Morg needed to get out of the bush quickly. She hesitated. She'd had an idea. Everyone was going to be cross with her when she got back to the village. But if she came with some boar piglets....
She reached out for the nearest one. It slipped through her fingers. She crawled slowly towards another and tried to grab its tail, but it twisted away from her, then looked back over its shoulder. This is a good game, it seemed to say. She ground her teeth. She threw herself on to the third, but somehow it squeezed from under her. It was like trying to catch water. Then her cloak hooked on one of the thorns and she had a thought. Holding the cloak on both edges, she threw it over the nearest piglet, and then threw herself on top of it. The piglet wriggled and squiggled under the brown wool cloth. Standing on two of the corners with her feet, Morg scooped the other edges under the piglet and grabbed all four corners into her hands. She had a brown wool bundle with a piglet squirming in it. Triumph!
She looked around. The other three were nowhere to be seen, hiding in the undergrowth. She felt the weight of the piglet. It might be young, but it was heavy. One was quite enough. She'd better get moving before the boar came to find her offspring. She started to crawl along another tunnel out of the thorns when she bumped into something soft.
It was a dead boar. She must have been the piglets' mother. Morg realised that was why she'd been able to catch the piglet - it was exhausted and hungry. Morg crouched over the boar. She'd been killed a couple of days ago, Morg reckoned. She looked harder and a chill ran down her spine. She saw that the boar had been killed by a wolf.
Morg scuttled out of the bushes as fast as she could. It was only when she was back on the path and walking a walk that was nearly a run, that she realised she did not know where she was. The path started to drop down through a steep sided gorge she had not seen before. Her throat tightened. She was lost.
For a moment Morg panicked. It was almost dark and she was lost in a forest full of wolves and no-one knew she was there. Then she took a deep breath. Then another. She decided she had two choices. She could go back, and hope to join the old path. Or she could go on and hope to recognise something.
She thought hard. Perhaps the sun could help her. She couldn't see it, but she could tell the sky was lighter ahead of her than behind. If it was lighter, that must be where the sun would set. She'd walked towards the sun when she left the village, in the morning. The sun had crossed the sky since then and was now going down. Head towards the setting sun, she thought. She hoped that she was right. As she was deciding she heard a noise, not very loud, far, far away. She was not sure, but it sounded a little like the howl of a wolf.
Morg set off at a brisk trot. She started to chant a prayer to Cerunnos, the god of wild beasts, but then changed her mind. She should stay loyal to Alos, who had helped her so far. The boar had been a test, and the piglets, somehow, an answer to her prayer. Alos had chosen her own way. Would the goddess now help her safely home?
She did not hear the wolves again. She decided that she had imagined the sound. Or that they were hunting in another part of the forest. But she kept her ears pricked, and the hairs on the back of her neck refused to lie flat.
The path became muddy. Morg squelched on, trying to keep to the firm grass hillocks, jumping from tussock to tussock. Her shoes were made of thin leather, and they were soon soaked. The path had disappeared into a bog. Morg hesitated and looked around. The trees were thinning. She could see the beginnings of a stream, and maybe a clearing. She took a step, and went in up to her knee. She nearly lost hold of the piglet. She pulled out her leg. It was coated in thick, stinking mud.
I mustn't lose courage now, thought Morg. If I do, I'll never get home. Clutching the piglet with renewed determination, she took a leap onto a patch of grass. Soon, she was through the trees and she was right. There was a clearing. Best of all, from the clearing she could see her hill, rising tall and black above the forest. Morg nearly sobbed with relief.
As she did so she heard a howl, the long wailing howl of a hungry wolf. Goose pimples rose on Morg's arms. The howl came again, rising high over the dusk of the forest. It's nearer, she thought, I'm sure it's nearer. Morg started to run. She could see the hill, but she was still a long way away from safety. She reached the edge of the fields where she had put the sheep just that morning. They were empty now, the sheep all safe in the fort. The howl came again, and then a second and a third. Of course there are more than one, she thought, as she stumbled on. A whole pack. They are following me, they are definitely following me.
Then she realised. Of course they were following her. She smelt like a boar, carrying the piglet in her cloak. What an idiot I am, she thought. She was about to drop the cloak and let the piglet free, when she paused. No, I've got this far, she thought. I can't just leave it now. Not after all this. She started to scramble up the rocky path to the gate. I'm nearly there, I'm nearly there, she thought. The howls were so close Morg thought she could hear the snapping of the wolves' jaws and feel the warmth of their breath on her heels.
The gates of the fort were closed. Morg summoned all her energy.
"Open! Quickly!" she screamed.
A pale round head appeared over the ramparts and looked down.
"Who goes there?" called the watchman.
"It is me. Morg. The wolves -"
The watchman disappeared and Morg heard him shout out a warning inside. She heard footsteps running down the passage to the gate. He opened it.
"Let me in!" gasped Morg. She turned to look behind her. She was sure she could see yellow eyes glowing in the darkness. The guard slammed the gate tight shut behind her.
*
The guard tried to take her bundle but Morg's fingers were frozen to it, so he led her along the twisting passage through the walls. By the time she came out her father was there swooping her into his arms.
"Morg, Morg," he whispered into her hair. "My dearest girl. My brave girl." Something squirmed against his arm.
"What is that?" he said, nearly dropping Morg.
"It's a piglet. A boar," she told him. "I thought it would please you. And mother."
Then her father threw back his great head and roared with laughter, his whole body shaking.
"Morg, have you been out this late hunting piglets? This prize indeed." And he laughed again.
"Father," murmured Morg. "I'm cold." She started to sway. He stopped laughing abruptly. He took off his thick red cloak and wrapped her and the piglet together in it, scooped the bundle into his arms and strode across the enclosure to the hut. He kicked open the door.
"Brigd. Morg is back," he said and to Morg's astonishment her mother dropped the pot of water that she had been holding and ran towards her.
"Morg! My beautiful Morg," and her mother hugged her tightly, kissing her face. "I thought I had lost you."
"She is cold. She used her cloak for the piglet," said her father, and as he did so Morg's fingers, warmed by his cloak, unclasped. The piglet wriggled from its bundle and ran squealing into the hut. Morg's father beat it to the door, which he kicked closed, and then he tried to catch it. But the piglet was fast, and furious at its captivity. Round and round the fire they raced. Col joined in, trying to head the piglet into a corner. Two bowls of water were smashed. The loom was knocked over. The piglet squealed. Morg's mother grabbed the baby. Morg's father flung himself at the piglet, but only managed to land face forward on the blankets. Col grabbed at the straw to make a wall, and Morg's father pushed some wood and the edge of the loom to form a pen, and the piglet was trapped. Morg's father and Col were exhausted and Morg and her mother were weak from laughter.
"What a demon you have brought us, daughter," gasped Morg's father. Morg smiled.
"But now it is caught it is good. It can breed with our pigs to strengthen them. The boar will bring us luck. You have done well." He turned and left the hut.
"Come near to the fire, child," said her mother. "Drink some of this," and she offered Morg a cup of something hot and delicious.
"It is mead," said her mother. "It will warm you." Morg sipped the honey drink and felt the ice melt inside her.
"Mother," she hesitated. "How is my brother?"
"The Druid treated the burn with herbs, and bound it. He has coughed less today. See, here he is sleeping."
Morg looked at her mother. Did she look different?
"Mother? Are you better?" she said.
"Perhaps. The Druid gave me an infusion. He burnt some mistletoe to drive out the foul spirit inside me. I feel more myself now."
Morg smiled to herself. She knew that it was Alos that had cured her mother. She was glad.
The door burst open.
"Are you warm now, child?" said her father. "Because it is time for the feasting."
Morg's mother took the lid off the wooden chest that stood at the head of her straw pallet. Inside were the best cloaks, that the family wore for feast days. She carefully took them out, one by one. Col's cloak was the yellow of buttercups. Her own was the green of new oak leaves and Morg's was the colour of the sky at twilight, a misty grey-blue. Morg stroked it and remembered choosing the colour and dying the wool. They had found the weld in the forest, and soaked the plant in hot water. Then they had taken the wool that they had spun and laid it in the dye. She giggled to herself when she thought of her mother telling her to squat and wee into it.
"It will fix the colour," her mother had said.
They had left the wool in the dye for days, just stirring it occasionally, until the colour had taken. Then she had helped her mother set up the loom and watched as the threads went back and forth and built up the cloth that would form her cloak. She loved this cloak. It was soft and delicate and the blue matched her eyes.
She put it over her shoulders.
"Pin it child," said her father and Morg hung her head.
"I gave the brooch to the goddess," she mumbled. Her father crouched down and looked into her eyes. Was he angry? she wondered.
"What did you ask for?" he said quietly.
"For mother to be well. And to love me again."
"Your mother loves you very much," he said. "And I think she will be well now. Here." He unpinned the brooch that held his cloak in place. "Just for tonight," and he used it to pin her cloak closed.
Then Morg dared.
"I also asked if I could go on a hunt," she said and she looked at him, her eyes full of mischief. There was a moment, before her father laughed.
"The goddess cannot do everything," he said.
When they went outside the fire was already burning huge and bright in the centre of the ring of huts. Turning on a spit was one of the boars that the hunters had caught earlier in the day. It crackled and splattered as the fat fell into the flames. The smell of roasting meat filled Morg's nostrils and her mouth watered. She realised she had not eaten since the morning. The villagers were gathered around the fire and Olwig's father was slicing great hunks of meat off the beast. Morg elbowed her way to the front.
"Little Morg, some for you," said Olwig's father and she grabbed it and tore at the flesh with her teeth, burning her tongue and her lips with the scalding fat. It was delicious. Morg's stomach was still hollow with hunger. It took barely a minute before she had swallowed the last morsel, and was back for more. She grabbed at another slab. She saw Olwig and Pridoc on the other side of the spit, surrounded by neighbours tearing at the meat, fingers and mouths glistening with fat, laughing in the firelight. Although the villagers occasionally slaughtered their pigs and sheep, it was moons since they had had meat in such abundance. There was more than enough for everyone, with some left over. The bones would be picked clean, then boiled for their goodness before they were carved into spoons and combs. Not one piece of this prize would be wasted.
Gradually, stomachs were filled. Blankets and straw bundles surrounded the fire and the tribe lay back on them, happy. Now was the time for fun. The mead was flowing. The drums were brought out, and the drummers started their rhythmic beat. Dancers began to sway. Then Morg's father called for silence.
"I want to tell you a story of the goddess Alos, our goddess of the forest." People hushed. He was a good storyteller. He told a new story, of Alos and Morg, of a small girl who had dared to ask the goddess and whose wishes were granted. The crowd cheered and Morg smiled. She didn't mind, she thought, that not all the wishes had come true. Not really. But she had to squeeze her lips together very tightly to stop herself crying.
When the drums had started up again, her father sat down next to her on the straw. He didn't look at her.
"I'll need to take Arlen into the forest soon," he said. "He needs practice with some of his hunting skills." Morg was very still.
"But I can't manage on my own." He looked at Morg. Her eyes were full of hope.
"Me?" she said.
"You," he said, and he smiled. Morg flung her arms around his neck.
"Are you sure?" she asked.
"I'm sure, my little huntress."
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