She walks with feline grace: bare-foot and silent. Come closer now and look. Look into the fire and see what I see. See how her measured steps leave no trace on the frost-bound earth. Or perhaps that’s simply a trick of the light? The same trick that makes her eyes flash silver as she passes the warm glow of the cooking fires into the woods beyond.
No-one seems to know her, but a stranger as pleasing on the eye as she, attracts nothing more than smiles and wistful glances. The sentries do not stop her. No watchmen asks “who goes there?” She walks unchallenged into dark, towards the hut where the dead man lies.
In time, the great goddess Morrigan will come to claim the corpse-warrior for her deathless army. She takes only the greatest heroes and, those chosen, spend eternity fighting and dying—and dying again—for her amusement. It’s a cold reward, but then, she is a cold goddess.
Tonight though is the gwylnos when we, his kith and kin, gather to celebrate the passing of a soul from this world to the next.
Look, now, and you will see how well he has been prepared for his journey. How his hair has been limed and spiked, as for battle. How scented oils make the spells, pricked into his skin with flint and soot, appear to glow. How he wears his battle honors on his neck and arms, as twisted circles of gold.
Our brother is well-loved, and the revels last for many hours, but the stranger does not join them. Instead she waits, crouched in the bracken, with silent purpose. Maybe you passed her in the shadows as you went to pay your respects. Felt your scalp prickle and your thumbs itch as you stumbled against her in the gloom. Wondered what it was that felt so warm against the chill air. Doubtless you swore, and shrugged, blaming the darkness for your unease. One thing is certain: you would not have seen her unless she wanted it, for no human ever mastered such stillness.
Look, now. Stare into the flames and see the how things unfold. The night has almost turned to day. The last mourners have left and the men who watch the corpse are tired and replete. Warmed by food, spiced mead, and song, they nod at their posts. They do not see her emerge from the tree line. Worse: they have not taken the necessary precautions.
They should have dowsed the fire. Should have spread herbs and spices on the boardwalks. Should have hung bells and sparkling trinkets from the doorframe. It is well known that cats are soul-stealers—but they hate the cold and can be easily distracted.
For a moment the stranger pauses and, with a hiss of uncertainty, glances into the pall of mist and smoke that hugs the corpse house. Then, with a decisive shiver, she shrugs off her skin. Two legs become four. Hair becomes fur. Witch becomes cat.
Padding though the open door, past the sleeping guards, Cait Sith is pleased to find that she is not too late. Morrigan has not yet come to claim the soul of the one she loves. But soon, surely, soon?
Three times Cait Sith jumps the corpse. Three times Cait Sith speaks the words that break the bonds between flesh and spirit. The hut flares. Night becomes day. The corpse shimmers and a flame no bigger than Cait Sith’s paw, but of incandescent glory, materializes over the warrior’s heart.
Can cats smile? Not with their mouths, perhaps. But there are times when they strut, and crow, and cock-a-snook at the world. Look with me. Stare deeply into the embers and you will see that this is how Cait Sith looks as she leans towards her lover’s life-spark and purrs his name.
It is as she reaches out to take hold of the little flame that she notices something in the rafters. A grotesque, cinereous crow, its opalescent eyes glinting in the dawn-glow.
This is Morrigan herself. The goddess of war. The hawkish corvid, bellicose and rapacious, come to claim her right. Only Cait Sith has other plans.
It is said that Cait Sith may change form eight times only. The ninth she must decide how to live out her life. As woman or beast.
Tonight was the ninth time. Tonight Cait Sith—wise as the serpent, blazing as the Sun—surrendered eternity for a mere mortal. And she will not easily let him go.
Morrigan knows the sights and sounds of the battlefield but she is no solider. Her skills lie in drawing up the plans that send others to their doom. She pauses a moment too long. Long enough for the snicker-snack of cat's claws to clip her feathers and draw first blood.
Like all goddesses, ours is vain, and petulant, and doesn’t like to lose. Her eyes flash, she turns and caws, loud enough to shake the trees. Cait Sith mewls back and leaps the void between them. If you listen carefully, maybe you can hear the sounds of their battle. Maybe that is not thunder complaining in the distance. Maybe it is the sound of cat versus crow. Goddess versus witch.
Feathers whirr, and Morrigan is up, on the defensive. A pale shape, bouncing from wall to wall, using her wing tips like a club to beat her enemy. The crow swoops again and again, but Cait Sith has played this game before and knows the value of patience.
Seeing no opposition, the crow gets bolder. Watch. Look. See, how every pass brings her closer and closer to the dark form below. A fourth, a fifth, a sixth sweep, and Morrigan is jubilant. Careless. Claws extended, she makes one more pass, bearing down, ready to rake her enemies’ flank.
Cait Sith moves like molten iron. Leaping into the air, she twists her body mid-jump, catching Morrigan with a side-swipe that throws her to the ground. The bird is down and the cat is on her. Something snaps and the goddess cries out. This is not a cry of pain, for the crow is just a thing fashioned to hold the goddess’ will. No. She feels no trauma, just rage. It has been many centuries since someone dared to defy her.
For a while, her broken vessel continues to buck and bite in impotent fury. Then the goddess withdraws, the bird’s eyes film, and all is still. With a yowl of triumph, Cait Sith arches her back and stamps her paws, marking her victory with a dance on the body of her foe.
A cock call in the distance stops the witch’s celebration in its tracks. Day is already creeping into the corpse house. Cait Sith knows that if it is to be done, it must be done quickly. Before the light of reason chases the magic away.
With a leap, the witch lands on the chest of her dead lover and blows gently onto the glow of his life-force. With the touch of her breath, the flame shudders like a candle being extinguished. Then it begins to morph. For a second, a long-limbed figure stands beside the corpse, regarding his own body with a look of surprise. Cait Sith purrs. Delight replaces curiosity on the face of the warrior. Then his from ripples and dissolves into something new.
Cait Sith welcomes her mate with a chirrup and, with their tails entwined, the cats dance out into the dawn to find a welcoming fire. Look, now. If you look hard enough, you will see that they are headed this way.