The Prophecy of the Morrígan

On the bend of a cold river the Morrígan came like weather. The reeds leaned when she stepped; a heron lifted and forgot to cry. Cú Chulainn—young yet, with the hunger of deeds on him—washed his spearhead and pretended not to watch.

“You’ll be hurt,” said the woman whose eyes were storm-bell dark.

“Not today,” he said, for youth mistakes warnings for challenges.

She smiled, which is not the same as kindness. “You will refuse my help,” she said, “and when I come again, you will not know me. I will be river, cow, and eel. You will wound me three times and call it winning. Later you will call it learning.”

“Speak plain,” said the boy who would be a tale, “or let the water speak for you.”

The river spoke—in bubbles against the reeds, in the cold on his fingers, in the weight of the sky. The Morrígan reached and touched the spear as lightly as a crow touches a branch and leaves it swaying.

“Beware the victory that eats its own heart,” she said. “Beware the praise that salts the tongue. Leave pride on the bank when you cross.”

He did not. None of us do the first time we are told. The day went as days go—brave, loud, and too quick. The eel twined his knee; he kicked it and scarred its back. The cow charged; he turned it and bruised its flank. The river rose; he struck its current and felt his shoulder bite like winter. Each time a woman’s cry went up in the corner of his hearing, small as a reed’s song.

At dusk he returned to the bank, tired in the way only youth is—wounded and delighted, ashamed and shining. The Morrígan waited, a crow on a thorn, one foot tucked, patient as a stone.

“I will mend you,” she said, “but not today.” She dipped her hand and the river cooled his shoulder. “Remember this: the land and its people are one thing; your name is another. When you must choose, choose the first.”

He did not always remember. None of us do. But when he did, the world tilted toward mercy, and the songs were better for it. That is the prophecy worth keeping: not doom, but a door.