Free Magdalen Rising by Elizabeth Cunningham

Fand, I opened my eyes, feeling a little bewildered. Though I had never been more present, I also felt as though I had been very, very far away, past familiar boundaries, beyond the confines of myself. Yet here I was again, just me, nothing more. My mothers eyed me intently as they might a wild horse whose measure they were taking. Would they try to put a bridle on me? Or would they give it up and let me go. They seemed to be waiting for some sign from me: flared nostrils and a rearing on hind legs? Or a quieting that indicated they might approach. I did not know what to do or say.
    â€œThe pain’s gone.” Fand spoke at last.

    I nodded. Then the edges of my vision got blurry. Everything looked as though it were underwater. I stood up and moved through the thick air, heavy-limbed. At last, I dropped onto my heather bed and plummeted into sleep.
    When I woke again it was deep night, but my mothers were still awake. They sat in a circle around the fire, some leaning against each other, their cloaks pooling, the boundaries between them indistinct.
    â€œWho opened her to the fire of the stars?” one of them asked.
    â€œThe Cailleach, maybe,” said another.
    â€œThat day in Bride’s Valley, they were alone together for some time before we arrived,” said a third.
    I could tell you who each speaker was. Of course I knew each mother’s voice as well as I knew her face. But understand: these mothers at their midnight council were more like one great mind probing itself, divided at times as great minds may be, but one entity. Their forms around the fire looked like the roots of a glowing tree that rose from their darkness. The silences between words had the quality of rich, black loam.
    â€œMaybe it was Bride herself who gave her the fire. Didn’t we name her Bride’s flame?”
    Their recollection of the day at the pool, their invocation of my old name brought back the moment when I saw my reflection in the water, the rich, honey light caught in my hair, igniting it. I remembered the fire in my head, how it felt like bees swarming in my skull. My mothers’ minds seemed to catch the image.
    â€œNow her name is Maeve. Her veins run with mead, and honey-fire pours from her hands.”
    â€œCan it be right for such hands to hold a weapon? Maybe we’re teaching her all wrong. Maybe she’s not meant for a warrior.”
    â€œWhy can’t a warrior be a healer, too? Aren’t we? Don’t we all know how to summon the heat into our hands? Anyone can be taught to do that.”
    â€œThat may be, but what came through her hands was not just heat. It was the fire itself. She didn’t summon it. It summoned her, and there’s the difference. I tell you she’s one of those who has the fire in her head.”
    â€œFire or no fire, how does that change anything? She’s our daughter. She was born a warrior-witch. And what’s more she’s taken the name of the greatest warrior queen of all. Doesn’t that confirm her vocation?”

    I had not told them what Queen Maeve had said about how I must make the name my own.
    â€œBut Queen Maeve was not just a famous warrior, she was a famous lover.”
    â€œWhich only goes to show that our Maeve can be both warrior and healer.”
    â€œDoes it follow that because Queen Maeve both fought and fucked that our Maeve can use her hands to harm and heal?”
    â€œListen, as long as she’s here on Tir na mBan, these questions are immaterial.”
    A silence followed. I could almost hear the muscles tensing.
    â€œWhat do you mean.” Someone spoke slowly without inflection.
    â€œOnly this: who is there here for her to fight or heal or love—besides us?”
    Good point. I listened intently for an answer.
    â€œWe need a new hero to train.”
    That old saw.
    â€œThis time he won’t escape so easily.”
    My ears pricked up. Here was a story I hadn’t heard. Who had