It was the Eve of All Hallows, Halloween to most people, but to the old woman it was Samhain, the Celtic Feast of the Dead and it marked the death of the old year and the birth of the new. She held the young girl child on her knee in front of the flickering flames of the Samhain fire, the only light in the dark of the moonless night. All around them spirits stirred, invited through the veil on that night.
The child looked up at the face lined with the wisdom of the ages. “Granny, tell me the story again.”
The old woman smiled and stroked the child’s hair as she planted a kiss on the top of her head.
“It is on this night that the veil between the worlds is thin and souls can cross from one realm to another. The souls of those we have loved and lost can return on this night to give us comfort and to share in our celebrations. Only on this night can we share our tables with those who have gone before us. And it was on this night that Morrigan and Dagda met and loved one another.
Morrigan was bathing in the river. She was so dark and beautiful that even her ravens were in awe of her. Her hair was shining with the colour of their wings and her eyes were dark as the night itself. She was singing softly to herself, a sad song about life and death and rebirth and Dagda stood quietly watching her, falling in love with her with every second. She was the Goddess of Death and he was the God of Life, and he took her in his arms and made her his own, so in love that he cared not that to love her was to signal his death because he knew that the true gift of Morrigan is rebirth. As the dawn came the old year died and he too went happily to his death, knowing that with the rising of the sun at Yule the God of Life would be reborn once more.”
“I love that story Granny. Morrigan is very beautiful, I think.”
“She is beautiful, my child. Beautiful and fearsome, young and old. She is the Goddess of Battle, the Washer at the Ford, the Raven Goddess, the Great Mother, the Phantom Queen. She will always come to your aid when you call her, often in the guise of a raven or crow. She will always hear the voices that cry out to her.”
“Why was she singing a sad song, Granny?”
“It was sad but at times it was joyful, just as life is sometimes sad and sometimes filled with joy.”
“It is Samhain tonight, Granny, and our ancestors can visit us. Perhaps Morrigan will come too.”
The old woman smiled and drew her cloak around the child. “Perhaps she will. We must wait and see.”
Clouds flitted across the night sky, hiding the sacred light of the moon. Suddenly, they cleared, revealing the moon in all her glory, illuminating the clearing where the old woman sat rocking the child, listening to the sounds of the night and the crackle of the fire. The child fell asleep against her sagging breasts and she sang softly to her, sometimes sad and sometimes joyful as the night revelled in her mysteries.
The dawn came quietly and the child awoke in her own bed, comforted by the knowledge that her Grandmother had crossed the veil to be with her on that Samhain night to tell her the story of Morrigan and Dagda once more, as she would on each Samhain night to come.
A raven tapped on her window pane, nodded her head briefly and flew away.
