Morrigan (2 page)

Nevertheless, her stupid temper always got
the better of her, as evidenced by the jock who was still
struggling to get his rather large derriere out of the trashcan.
Sure, it was funny. But was it worth the possibility of having her
brain dissected? She knew she needed to be more careful with her
powers, before someone caught on. At least she hadn’t accidentally
set his clothes on fire or cinged his eyebrows. He should really
consider himself quite fortunate.

The school bell rang suddenly, jarring
Morrigan from her thoughts. She started at the sudden, sharp sound.
It took her a moment to get her bearings. She always had a way of
losing track of what was happening around her. She was too much of
a daydreamer.

Morrigan watched with little interest as the
last few students straggled into the classroom, followed by the
English teacher, Mr. Waters. He plopped his briefcase down on his
desk and grabbed a piece of chalk from the ledge. Morrigan shook
her head as she studied him and had to fight the urge to giggle.
The man looked like he had gotten stuck in the disco era. He was in
full seventies ensemble, complete with puffy black Afro and velour
bell-bottom pants.

“Pride and Prejudice.” He wrote the words and
spoke them simultaneously. He had to shout to be heard over the
crowd of rambunctious seniors who were nowhere near ready for their
summer break to be over. “You were all supposed to read this
classic novel over your vacation. Today we’ll discuss the
characters and analyze the basic plot, paying special attention to
the social ramifications of each character’s actions or lack
thereof. Tomorrow, you can expect to have a detailed quiz, so I
would suggest you all pay close attention.”

A multitude of groans erupted around the
classroom. Morrigan only rolled her eyes. She had already read and
been tested on Pride and Prejudice twice in the past three years.
Things like that tended to happen to someone who had attended
almost every school in the state.

It was hard enough for her to concentrate on
schoolwork when it was something new. When it was something old and
boring, it was literally impossible. Morrigan found herself
mindlessly doodling in her notebook. Pencil sketches weren’t as fun
as charcoal when it had to be black-and-white, but it was better
than nothing. At least it was a way to occupy her time.

It started out as random lines and a few
circles. She had no particular design or pattern in mind. Soon
enough, another one of her strange talents took control. She felt
her eyes glaze over, and her hand ceased to be under her own
control. It took on a life of its own, moving so lightning-quick
she was surprised smoke didn’t rise up from the paper. So quickly
that in the constant haze of movement, it would have been
impossible for her to decipher just what she was drawing, even if
she wasn’t in a sort of trance.

She wasn’t sure how long she sat there with
her pencil flying across the page. It was her teacher’s stern voice
calling her name, with more than a hint of annoyance, which finally
brought her back to reality. She glanced up at him, confused and
embarrassed. She hated having undue attention drawn to herself.

“Morrigan, do you have an answer for me?”

“I’m . . . I’m sorry, Mr. Waters,” she
stuttered. “Would you mind repeating the question?”

“Perhaps, Morrigan, you should be paying
attention in class instead of scribbling.” He stalked to her desk
and snatched away her notebook before she even had a chance to look
at her drawing. “Maybe then you would know what we were
discussing.”

Morrigan sunk deeper into her seat when she
found herself surrounded by soft snorts and giggles. She had to
remind herself Mr. Waters was just doing his job. It wouldn’t be
right to cause him to spontaneously combust on the spot. It was
incredibly tempting, though.

With one last shake of his head, Mr. Waters
moved on to another victim—a nerdy brunette who was more than able
to give him an eloquently worded answer to the symbolism behind the
behavior of the gallant Mr. Darcy. Morrigan rolled her eyes for the
second time. She crossed her arms and waited impatiently for the
bell to ring, ending the first of what she expected to be a string
of long, miserable days. When it was finally time to leave, she
gathered up her books and prepared for the short walk home. Before
she could scoot out the door, Mr. Waters called her back.

“Morrigan, can you wait a minute,
please?”

She stopped and mumbled a curse under her
breath, but obeyed. Mr. Waters waited for the classroom to empty
completely before he spoke again. When he did, his voice was gentle
and a little sympathetic. It made Morrigan even angrier than she
already was. She hated to be pitied.

“Morrigan,” he began, “I’ve read your
transcripts, and I know a little about your history. I know things
haven’t been easy for you. But you’re an intelligent girl. You
could certainly get a scholarship to a great college. And even if
you’re an exceptionally talented artist, you need to concentrate on
your schoolwork . . . not on drawing self-portraits.”

Morgan jerked her head up in surprise. She
had gone off on a drawing frenzy on more than one occasion. And
more than once found she had come up with some very strange and
even disturbing images. Never once had she sketched a picture of
herself. As Mr. Waters lifted the notebook to hand it back to her,
she completely forgot her manners and snatched it greedily from his
hands. Luckily, he didn’t seem to notice her over-enthusiasm.

“I’m going to give this back to you. But only
if you promise you’ll spend your time in my class studying English
literature . . . not drawing. There’s plenty of time after school
to indulge your artistic whims.”

Morrigan nodded, but she wasn’t really
listening to the teacher. She was too captivated by the picture.
Too shocked by what she saw to even consider making any excuses or
arguments.

It wasn’t a self-portrait at all, though she
could understand why Mr. Waters might have thought it was. The
woman in the picture bore a striking resemblance to Morrigan. She
had the same long, flowing black hair—the same deep, dark eyes.
Those eyes were the most remarkable feature on the drawing. They
were so bright and clear, revealing all the sadness and regret the
woman must have felt as she laid her infant daughter in a basket on
the steps of an old church.

Morrigan knew the church, recognized the tall
steeple. She had been there just a few years ago, looking for
answers to her birth. She had found no answers then. But as she
looked down at the image she had pulled from her own
subconscious—an image of a woman who could only be her mother—she
knew those answers would be coming soon.

Morrigan was glad her foster parents and
their three other charity cases hadn’t arrived home yet. The house
was quiet and peaceful—an unusual occurrence when her home was
normally filled with hyperactive teenagers. It was rare that she
had the whole house to herself, and she was grateful for the
opportunity. She needed time to herself. Time to think. Time to
clear her head. Time to divine.

The picture she had drawn left her with many
unanswered questions. Most of her life, she had tried not to think
much about the biological mother who had deserted her. It was a
painful thought to know even the woman who had given birth to her
had cast her aside. Obviously her subconscious was trying to tell
her something, and the best way she knew to reach those answers was
with her cards.

Since the first time she picked them up at a
garage sale, her tarot cards had never led her in the wrong
direction. Maybe it was yet another one of her strange metaphysical
gifts. Or maybe it was more of a curse. Sometimes when her talent
forced her to see things in herself she’d rather not see, it didn’t
seem like much of a gift. But, for better or worse, whenever she
read the cards, she got at small glimpse of her future—small, but
accurate.

Morrigan took the sketch of her mother and
pinned it to the bulletin board above her headboard, right next to
her favorite—an unlikely knight with a worn sword and long
dreadlocks. He was a man who had haunted her dreams for as long as
she could remember. There were also pictures and paintings of old
castles, a circle of tree nymphs, unicorns and dragons, princesses
and queens. The whimsical woman in the old-fashioned gown seemed to
complete the collection.

“Meooowww?”

Danu’s greeting woke her from her reverie. It
was quickly echoed by Dagda and then followed by a string of
purring that could have easily been mistaken for the revving of a
car engine. It was nice to know someone was always happy to see
her, even if they did walk on four legs. Morrigan smiled as she
bent down to scratch them each behind the ears before reaching into
her book bag. She retrieved a smaller, tie-string bag, decorated
with stars and moons. Inside the bag were a little mug wart, a
little sage, and a stack of lovingly worn tarot cards.

Before Morrigan began, she peeked out the
window to make sure no one was coming. Then she locked the bedroom
door so she would have no interruptions. She hoped she would make
it through the simple reading before anyone else got home. She knew
not everyone was open to divination. Morrigan had the feeling her
highly religious foster parents might take her cards away from her
if they found out she had them. It wasn’t a risk she was willing to
take. She had grown attached to them during the past five years.
She almost felt like they were an extension of her own unconscious
mind.

Morrigan took out a white candle and a stick
of dragon blood incense and set them up in the corner of the room.
She sat cross-legged and leaned forward to light them. No matches
were necessary. No lighter either. She simply touched her finger to
the end of the wick, and with an iridescent spark, the candle
flickered to life. It shone at first with a bright blue flame that
gradually settled into a more normal orange. It was the same with
the incense—another reason why she preferred not to have an
audience.

She stared into the candle for a moment and
took a few deep breaths to clear her mind of all thoughts but those
of the magic she intended to perform. Danu and Dagda sat on either
side of her, instantly falling into silence, as though they knew
she needed her complete concentration. Their energy beside her only
seemed to add to the growing sense of power that charged the
room.

Morrigan closed her eyes and began to shuffle
the cards. As she did, she allowed her breathing to become more
even. A silence filled the room as the rest of the mortal world
fell away. Soon the only sound she heard was the light thump of her
own heartbeat, echoed by the quicker, fast-paced beat of the cats’
hearts. She wasn’t sure how much time passed as the cards slipped
through her fingers. It might have been minutes. It might have been
hours. When she allowed herself to fall into a trance, time became
insubstantial, irrelevant.

The tarot cards were so old the designs on
the back were almost completely worn away. She had to shuffle
gently to keep them from crumbling to pieces in her hands. Yet they
held a power she knew no newer cards could offer her. As she
shuffled them, she focused her energy into them, silently
requesting to be given the answers she was seeking. She allowed the
image of her mother to fill her mind. When she finally felt the
cards had fallen into the order they were meant to be in, she
placed the deck face-down on the floor and cut them with her right
hand. Then, taking one last calming breath, she lifted the top card
from the pile. With a trembling hand, she laid it down and read
it.

“Wheel of Fortune,” she said aloud.

In the center of the card was a wheel. As she
stared at the picture, that wheel seemed to turn clockwise. The
movements made her feel slightly dizzy. The bedroom around her
became more and more dreamlike. The scene on the card became her
reality. The figure of the sphinx that sat on top of the turning
wheel looked so alive. It might have turned its head to look at
her. Its lips may or may not have moved. Morrigan swore she heard a
deep, resonating voice whispering the meaning of the card into her
ear. Destiny approaching. An unexpected and sudden change was
coming—change that could lead to good fortune.

It was the card of fate and karma returned.
It meant she needed to be prepared—to expect the unexpected.
Morrigan knew the cards were telling her something was going to
happen—and soon. Her destiny, whatever it was, was about to be
realized. Even if it did bring fortune, it still scared her to
death. She considered packing up the cards right then and there.
Her rational mind had every intention of doing just that. Her hands
didn’t get the message her brain was sending. Before she knew what
she was doing, she had already flipped over the second card.

“The Empress,” she whispered. She exhaled
deeply. “My mother.”

It was the only interpretation imaginable.
Even as she said it, the pregnant woman, crowned with stars and
adorned in a gown decorated with pomegranates, turned to her and
smiled. She was no longer a vague, featureless stranger but the
same woman Morrigan had sketched earlier that day—a face that
mirrored her own. It was an older version of herself, which she saw
in the reflection in the nearby full-length mirror, had turned
chalk white.

The Empress was a symbol of maternal power—of
strong, feminine influence. But could it mean her mother was
returning? She had never allowed herself to consider such a
possibility. To dwell on something so unlikely would have been too
painful. But now, with just the flip of a card, she found herself
daring to dream. There was only one way to find out for sure. She
had to keep going with the reading.