Chapter 5: The Gods of the Cave
What did he mean, the great Morrigan did not want blood sacrifices? She, the goddess of war, coming with thoughts of peace and asking for shelter and food in their home?
The crowd rose hesitantly to their feet, yet none dared lift their heads. A silence heavy with fear and mistrust fell over every living soul.
Among the visitors, closest to the grass blades, Mistral and Aeolus were communicating in whispers:
"She’s clever, *ma belle*, she really told them!"
"Quiet, Mistral! Who knows, maybe the Celts can understand the speech of animals... Who knows?"
"Do you think?" Mistral asked, suddenly feeling how tightly his black fur fit him—now dusty and damp from that cursed cave they had just crawled out of.
Perched on the black cat's back, Aeolus leaned closer to his ear and continued:
"Miss Remi understood the goddess role they gave her and answered flawlessly, asking for shelter for us. We must act with dignity and not tremble! Perhaps we are deities ourselves... Show them your most imposing posture, Mistral! Remember all the legends we read about Oweynagat!"
Mistral arched his back and shook his dusty fur with such force he nearly threw the tiny rodent right off. Then, he ostentatiously licked his right paw and took two steps forward, stopping exactly beside the "goddess" in her flowing green dress.
His eyes, just as green, measured the crowd, but only the High Druid of the place could see their emerald flash; the others kept their gazes pinned deep into the dirt.
The Druid, despite all his authority and self-control, felt an icy shiver run down his spine, gripping his entire body. Mistral, an imposing black figure with fur shimmering under the spring sun, mirrored himself defiantly in the old man's eyes.
*"Beg for mercy!"* the cat's gaze seemed to command. It was a duel of stares between two forces.
Lifting his hazel staff, the Druid took another step forward, and with a voice that shook—perhaps intentionally—he spoke:
"People of Cruachan, behold!
From the depths of the cave, from the Spiral so vast,
The wise Morrigan with her chosen court at last,
Demands no sacrifice, people of Cruachan.
The harvest of lives, sacrificed to the frost,
Has left us fewer,
Weaker,
And at a greater cost.
Open wide the gates of your heart,
To welcome them into our fold!
Welcome, Morrigan!
Welcome, Irusan!
Welcome, god of the winds
From the mountains in the clouds,
And to you, changeling child
From a realm of frost
And to you, bard of words of today
And tomorrow,
Tamer of currents,
Winds,
Children,
And fairies."
***
The Druid lowered his gaze, fixing it on Mistral’s green eyes. In his mind, refusing hospitality (*biatach*) to a deity who asked for peaceful shelter was the fastest way to bring total destruction upon the clan. Morrígan and her retinue had to be treated properly, like dear, long-awaited guests.
Sirocco, who had been sitting quietly through the entire welcoming ceremony in Anemo’s arms, wrapped his small child-hands around Anemo's neck and whispered into his ear:
"Anemo, you know almost as much as Aeolus. Why does this white-bearded mister only speak in poems? And why did he call Miss Remi a... *Great got us*?"
At the little one's words, a foolish, ear-to-ear grin flashed across Anemo's face. Barely holding back his laughter, he whispered back:
"He said *Great goddess*, kiddo, not *got us*! Never mind, I'll explain it to you later."
At a sign from the old Druid, the newlywed couple stepped toward the guests. Stopping exactly five paces away, they bowed deeply. Then, contrary to all expectations, it was the bride who spoke first.
"Eithne is my name, honoured guests," she said. "And my man is called Conall. You are welcome among us! Please, do us the honour of following us."
The crowd parted almost ritually, letting the newlyweds pass, followed by their distinguished guests.
***
Now, the visitors walked solemnly behind the young couple, their eyes constantly fixed on the bride's red hair, which tumbled in waves over her shoulders and down her back.
The bride proved to be a flawless hostess. With a straight back and an innate dignity, she embraced her role immediately, guiding them with regal confidence through the earthen ramparts of the settlement. Conall walked a step behind her, a massive, protective shadow, his eyes fixed on the path and his hand almost glued to the hilt of his iron sword.
Leaving the sacred meadow of the ceremony behind, the group moved deeper into the fortification, and the time travellers' senses were assaulted by the raw, fascinating reality of that era.
Visually, the space inside the massive palisade of oak logs was a chaotic hustle and bustle of tribal life. On either side of the narrow, hard-packed dirt road rose circular houses, their walls plastered with yellowish clay and topped by huge, conical roofs made of heavy thatch. In pens made of woven hazel, a few "Shorthorn" cattle—small, black, and with their ribs showing after the long winter—mooed dully. Barefoot children, wearing nothing but short tunics of coarse wool, watched while pressed against the house walls, their eyes wide and frightened, amazed by the appearance of the procession.
Above them, large, heavy, and hurried clouds periodically covered and uncovered the sun. The light on the plateau changed in a split second from a warm, early-spring yellow to a cold, sharp, and grey shadow. The air was saturated with moisture, but it did not rain.
The sweet, intense scent of fresh earth, awakened to life by the sun's warmth, tangled strangely with the smell of raw grass, spring flowers, and the heavy reek of manure, smoke, and burning peat... and yew wood.
The breeze, carrying rustles and bird trills, urged them to look to the horizon, where a breathtaking panorama unfolded.
A true ocean of green. As far as the eye could see, the region of Connacht stretched out like an infinite mantle, interrupted only by the silver glints of marshes in the valleys and the thin, winding ribbon of the River Suck. There were no paved roads, no poles, no technology... nothing artificial. It was an untamed land that seemed to breathe magic.
Eithne finally stopped in front of an isolated hut—the *Flesch*, strategically located at the edge of the southern palisade, a border zone between the tribe and the mystery of the cave. With a timid but respectful smile, she pushed aside the heavy oak door, inviting the visitors inside.
"Please, step in!" she said. "I shall return shortly with clothes, footwear, and some food."
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