A Necklace for the Morrigan
by April Von Lon
I light a candle. Orange for courage, for action, for power. I lower my eyes, I breathe in hope. I'm in my circle, my sacred space; soft light flickers, casting shadows around my altar, catching the faint gleam of stones: rose quartz. Moss agate. Carnelian. Lapis lazuli. Green opal. Serpentine. There's a pewter wolf figurine, a tiny statue of Bastet, a framed picture of a Faerie queen, an athame I made myself-- just an old, old knife that's been sitting in a drawer since I was a child. I wrapped the hilt in black clay, sculpted that useless knife into something new. Green vines twist around the handle; one side features an elaborate brass keyhole. If you look very, very closely, you can just see a feminine eye peeking back at you. Who is she? Why does she watch? What does she think of what she sees?
I let my mind roam, seeking through field and forest, still clumsy in the verdant undergrowth of my own thoughts. It's been so long since I did ritual work. It's been so long since I prayed.
I breathe in hope. I call out to whichever gods will listen: Can you hear me? Is anyone there? I breathe out my doubts, my fears. Is anybody there? Can anyone guide me?
There is the sensation, then, of eyes turning towards me. Cool eyes, ancient eyes, measuring eyes. I recite a litany of every god and goddess I can think of. Bastet? Kwan Yin? Cernnunos? Artemis? Who looks upon me? Whose eyes have fallen on me, dark and fathomless, strange and new?
I hear a rustle, like birds' wings. In my mind I see a flash of dark feathers.
...The Morrigan?
I do not know her. I've always shied away from "darker" gods, perhaps fearing the tangled path lit only by moonlight. Again I feel eyes, curious round black eyes, shining like onyx, like wet river-stones. Those eyes have seen death. Those eyes have seen wisdom. Those eyes have seen battle. Those eyes have seen the bones of heroes and cowards alike, bleached and bare, picked clean by the crows.
The Morrigan.
I called, and she answered. Black wings rustle. I try to breathe out my fears.
The candle goes out, burned down to nothing, its last hiss and sizzle making me jump, jarring me from my reverie. I watch the faint wisps of smoke rise and think, So mote it be.
For the next few days, I stumble across her name. It's everywhere I go, even though I'm not searching for it. It pops up when I least expect it, as if to say Listen, listen.
My hands are best when they're at work, creating. I string beads-- carnelian, black labradorite, silver stamped with twisting knot-work. The pendant is a crow's skull, deep dark silver that looks old, almost worn, as if tarnished by the touch of time. I put it around my neck and feel strange when I catch my reflection in the mirror. This is not a necklace for bright, fake lights in safe, cozy houses. This is a necklace for the moon and the stars and the dark of the night.
The Morrigan. The rustle of black wings.
Perhaps it's time I followed the path I've feared to tread. Perhaps she has something to teach me.
I breathe out my fears. I breathe in hope.
Photography and artwork by April Von Lon.