Saga Mac Brón: Chapter 1

5 minutes

General Audience

The Son of Sorrow

His castle lying in smoky ruins behind the mountains, his patrimony but a black mist which the wind now carried off, Mac Brón took to the forest. For days he wandered, seeking respite. And yet he found himself, somehow, in the Foraoise Cailleach, the very realm of the witch, for desire of whom, many years ago, his father had put aside Mac Brón’s mother. He was only a baby when it happened. Mac Brón did not know the true queen.

‘Twas this same witch who’d brought his father’s kingdom to ruin. Skella, the king’s mistress, and the downfall of his kingdom. Black despair gripped Mac Brón, when he saw where he was, for he knew he’d set out by a contrary road.

He could almost hear Skella whining in the trees, see her self-satisfied brow in the thin and gangly branches of the sickened ash trees. It was not enough that she ruin his father. She meant to destroy him too. But Mac Brón’s blade was black and sharp. So, in a rage, he sought her out.

He found her lair in Boladh Béal, the stinking mire in the forest’s heart, where moss-haired fissures rent the sides of foothills long grown-over with twisting ashes. He selected at random one of the dank openings, drew his sword, and plunged down it. The witch was at home today, lounging on a red couch inside her hall of mirrors. She watched him enter, sword drawn in wrath, and spoke as if she knew all things.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said.

He had meant to run her through immediately, but her banshee mouth held him captive. She sighed on her couch, and twisted toward one of her mirrors. The mirror made her look young and wise, though her heart was old as death.

“You cannot leave my forest,” she said. “For you, it will always be the cold before winter.”

Mac Brón shook himself, shrugging off her lies, and darted towards her. She glanced into another mirror, then turned back to him. Now she was wounded, and pitiable, and he shrank from striking her.

“There, you see?” she said. “I am not your enemy. You are your enemy. As I’ve always said.”

He lowered his sword, unsure of himself. She smiled. Out of the shadows, her shades came, and hovered by him, their black fingers reaching.

“You will stay here with me,” she said.

Mac Brón stared into the boggy ground. His boots sank into it.

“And do you want to know why?” she continued, leaning in. “Because I am your true mother, Mac Brón. The queen was barren; that is why he put her aside. That…and other reasons. You are no prince. You are but a son of sorrow. That is your name.”

He caught his image in one of her mirrors. Hunched, and defeated, he stood; fated to eat his feet like the serpent on her sigil. And the witch, though she didn’t rise from her silky couch, seemed to look down on him. Her fat mouth went thin with satisfaction.

“Now be a good son,” she cooed, “and fetch me drink.”

He raised his sword instead, and ran her through.

The witch’s mouth twisted in surprise, and she vomited fire. A terrible stench filled the room, and stung his eyes. He yanked his blade from her plump body, and covered his face. When his eyes cleared of tears, he saw his father’s sword, twisted and warped so that it could never be re-sheathed.

“Faithless wretch!” she screamed, tearing her nails across her own face.

He stumbled back, and sought the path by which he’d come.

“Look at me!” she screeched.

He did not want to look, and retreated with eyes pressed shut. Yet even now, her hated voice had not lost its command, and he looked. Her eyes snared him. She was a monster now, her magic mirrors having all gone black. He saw her true form. Despite himself, he pitied her. It was wrong to have struck her down. He ought, at least, to lay her body to rest. She was, after all, his mother.

And had he stayed there, wavering, Mac Brón would have been slain. For as she whimpered, with the last of her power she brought the hills down around them. He tore himself from her pity spell, and plunged into the damp corridor.

Mac Brón ran from the witch’s lair, into the woods whose trees and moss still twisted from her touch. The fetid air pushed against him. The bog sucked at his boots. The encircling trees were but extensions of her undead life. Their branches grew inward, boughs piercing boles. She’d tainted them all.

Her hovering shades pursued him, those broken souls; forever-emissaries of her corruption. Perhaps his father was among them. Mac Brón hurried forward, understanding, only now, that it did not matter where the fault lay. He was but a half-prince, sired through sin. He knew it was true; had always known it. His title, his station, offered him no solace. There was nothing to which he could return. He must keep moving. Mac Brón was tainted, tainted like the forest, and could never more stand still.

TO BE CONTINUED

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