Brigida

Large and looming, the arch and thrust of the joists make for a perfect hanging place. The red wood-planked sides rise tall to meet the posts that knit the walls together, while the white trim that outlines the crisscrossed wooden doors glows brightly in the dusky light of Montague, Massachusetts.

It's here that it happened. The beginning of everything and the ending of one.

A witch, they called her. The devil’s plaything, they said, as they strung the rope over the hanging place. Two, three tugs of the rope by the town’s fittest men was the ending of that one. My mother.

I imagine with particular clarity that’s how it happened, how my father said it happened. I was four then, not old enough to understand her absence or that she was dead.

Years later my father told me her hanging story as a warning, worried that I was spending too much time with the preacher’s son. It was then that I understood my feelings of being an outsider, feeling frozen out of our small community. It explained why we kept to ourselves, my father and me. I stopped spending time with the preacher's son.

My father, a soft, kind man, ran the town mercantile. Having spent his life savings to start the store, and with a toddler to care for, he chose to stay after the hanging, to keep food on our table. Small isolated towns are like that, death and survival are tightly intertwined forcing one’s acceptance of the most heinous acts.

I used to think that he was weak and spineless for making that decision. But now I think it was a self-imposed penance for not protecting her, serving those people day after day unable to rage against them for justice or vengeance. It must have been torture. Or perhaps, he stayed out of guilt because he knew they were right. Maybe both are true; people are complicated.

Her death was a long time ago, three hundred years or more. I haven’t counted lately, nor do I care to. My focus is on my current task.

Dust flies up from the dirt floor of the old barn as my foot traces a large circle underneath the hanging place, its center below where her body hung all those years ago. Dusk is turning to dark, signaling the end of the Imbolc observance and my last chance to invoke the goddess Brigid until the equinox in spring. I want it to work this time.

With this wish and intention in my heart, I place the tinder in the center of the ring and light my match. The smell of sulfur catches my nose, sharp and acrid, making me sneeze. My cold fingers have trouble holding the thin stick. The match, still lit, drops into the center of the small pyre and ignites the fire.

With reverence, I start my chant, “Brigid, I light this fire and gift my life to you. Please purify the will of my life force.”

From the pocket of my coat, I pull a small cloth bag of salt to represent the earth and sprinkle it onto the skin of my hand.

“Brigid, I ask that you cleanse my body.”

From the same pocket, I pull out small cones of lavender incense to represent the air and throw them onto the fire.

“Brigid, I ask that you cleanse my mind.”

Reaching for my small metal dish I hurry outside to gather some snow, and quickly place it next to the fire to melt, then sprinkle its drops onto and around my body.

“Brigid, please cleanse and purify my emotions.”

Finally, with the ritual complete I invoke Brigid herself.

“Brigid, daughter of Dagda, goddess of the Tuatha De Danann hear my plea. I call upon you to right the wrongs of the past. To save the one awakened, your daughter of light.”

Waiting for a sign, I take three cleansing breaths.

“Brigid,” I call again. “Daughter of Dagda, goddess of the Tuatha De Danann hear my plea. I call upon you to right the wrongs of the past. To save the one awakened, your daughter of light.”

Again, I wait and take three cleansing breaths.

As I sit calm and patient an unexpected rage wells within me, crashing upon me with waves of disappointing memories. I think of all the failed years I’ve spent trying to get her attention. To get her to hear me. To notice me. Sixty years, at least. Anger so intense burns within me that I feel a searing heat explode from my core as if something is breaking free or breaking apart.

With all the frustration and force of my wounded spirit, I shout into the fire, “Damn you, Brigid! You planted the seeds and let us grow only to abandon us to the reapers of light. I’m done with you! I’m done trying to plead with you! Take back this youth you’ve given me, I don’t need it. I’ll happily turn to ash and stop my pain. Or, if you won’t, I’ll pray to a different god. Balor perhaps. I’m sure he’ll appreciate a new acolyte!”

Breathless from my yelling, I stomp out the fire with fury and rage I haven’t felt in at least ninety years. Like a large toddler in full tantrum, I pound my feet into the ashes long after the fire has gone out.

Spent, and heartbroken, I spread the ashes making sure no embers remain, and head back to my truck parked just outside the big crisscrossed barn doors.

Sitting in the driver’s seat, I grab the keys from the ashtray and try to punch the key into the ignition. Stabbing in the dark, I hit the guide close to the hole forcing the keys to fold and drop to the floorboard.

Deflated, demoralized, and questioning my life’s purpose, I start crying. I cry a messy ugly cry that only a woman can know, a deep sorrow for things not acknowledged and not heard.

“Why do you cry like that,” a small voice peeped out. “Why do you cry like you’re lost?”

“I am lost,” I say, forgetting that I’m alone. “I’m abandoned.”

“You’re not abandoned, silly. I’m here. I’ve always been here.”

A small hand touches my shoulder and I look over at what should be the empty seat. There sitting next to me is a young girl with fire-red hair falling loose about her shoulders. She’s wearing a cloak of white glowing light clasped at one shoulder by a gold penannular brooch. The cloak hangs on one side, revealing a black tunic, a red triangular knot design woven into it, and black pants underneath. Her face is soft and round, kissed with the freckles expected on a redhead. Cobalt blue eyes stare into mine with intensity and curiosity. She looks childlike but feels ancient.

Too astounded to speak, I stare dumbly at her for a moment taking in all of her wonder.

“Cat got your tongue?” She says, a giggle escaping as she talks. “You had plenty to say to me a few moments ago.” Her rich Irish accent surges through her words making her voice sound musical.

“You’ve come,“ I say in a whisper, still in awe at her presence. “I didn’t think that you would. I’d given up hope.”

“I know!” She says emphatically, pulling her hand away from my shoulder. I watch fascinated as her form begins to morph and change. Her body grows and becomes older until sitting next to me is a twenty-something woman with a swollen pregnant belly. “I felt your despair along with the fire of your anger,” she continues. Her voice now softer and deeper is filled with caring. “The energy of your rage transported me here. It takes that kind of energy to call me. Now that I’m here, what can I do for you Brigida my namesake, daughter of Maeve.”

She takes my hands in hers and holds them softly, patiently waiting for my response. I’m surprised by the warmth and softness of her skin. She feels human, but clearly, she isn’t. The contact jars me out of my stupor and back to my purpose.

“I want to go back. I want to save my mother.”

“Why?” She asks. Her form begins to morph again. She changes from a young pregnant mother to an old woman. Her hair is white now and her face is lined and shallow. Her hands still holding mine are gnarled and boney, but remain soft and warm.

“It was unjust what happened and I want to stop it. I want her to live. I want to know her. I want to right the wrong.” All of my desires tumble from my mouth as my voice climbs to a fervent pitch.

“I understand,” she says, in a crackling voice. “You do know that if she lives things will be different. The pain and the hardships shape us and make us strive for more, for better. If your life's a happy one, you’ll never have the need to develop your powers in the same way, your youth will pass with normal speed putting an end to the eternal youth you have now. All that you have worked so hard for these last few hundred years will go away. Is that what you want?”

Soft silent tears born of honesty and vulnerability slowly fall. “I’m all alone, Brigid. I’m eternally alone. I have long outlived my family and my friends. I’ve never known my mother. What good is this eternal life if I have no one to share it with, what good is my magic if I have no one to use it for?”

“Ah, I see now. You’re lonely and feel disconnected from your roots,” her head nodding with her words. “I understand.”

Releasing my hands from hers, she takes hold of my shoulders. Her body shifts again, changing back into the young girl I first met. It suddenly strikes me as odd, looking at her small round face, to have this conversation in this way with this young girl, even though I know she’s not young at all. She is primeval, one of the originals of the Tuatha Dé Danann.

Birthed in Ireland during the same age that the Titans of Greece came into being, given the name Breo-saighead meaning fiery arrow, she is the embodiment of punishment and divine justice. She personifies many other things, like healing, poetry, and smithcraft—the deeper reasons that I worship this creative being. But today I want her divine justice.

Staring at me with renewed concentration, she smiles and starts to chant in her small child voice. The rhythm and tone of her utterances sound old and guttural, incongruent with her youthful mouth.

“What are you doing?” I ask as she continues to chant, her smile broadening with my question. Inside myself, I hear her thoughts speak to me, independent from her chanting that continues to grow louder in my ears. I’m sending you back like you want.

Now! But I’m not ready, I think back to her.

Now granddaughter.

Her chanting turns to a ringing in my ears. A wave of nausea and heat envelop me, as the world spins into a kaleidoscope of color. Reaching out to steady myself I grab hold of something unexpectedly wooden. As if it’s anchoring me in place, the world slows around me and my surroundings become clear.

I’m standing at the kitchen table holding onto the back of the chair in our old house from three hundred years ago. To my left, a little girl wearing a simple cotton shift sits on a blanket on the floor in front of the lit hearth playing with wooden toys, seemingly unaware of my presence. I know she is me.

I stare at her long dark red tresses, a shade darker than my own. I’m fascinated with my young self, and this effect of time travel, the strangeness of it. The feeling of separate, yet the same. I get chills watching her, knowing the experience of her future – this babe that is me and not yet me.

A noise catches my attention. I look up towards the stairs that rise just behind the hearth. There on the last step, on the landing staring at me, is my mother Maeve. She’s dressed in the puritan style of the day, her basket of laundry spilled on the floor. Covering her mouth with both hands, she utters a muffled cry.

I look down at myself, wondering if I’m appearing as a ghost to her, not truly knowing how this time travel works. I’m fully formed, but realize my clothes are modern, blue jeans, a pink cable-knit sweater, cowboy boots, and a blue puffy coat. Perhaps that’s what’s alarming. It doesn’t occur to me that just a stranger in her home might be the frightful part. I don’t think of that, because this is my home.

Dropping her arms to her side she reveals her face. It looks familiar to me. Not because I remember her, but because she looks like me. Copper-red hair peeks out from under her white coif, and eyebrows of matching color sit straight without curve above her piercing blue eyes. They are paler than mine and catch the light from the window behind her, making them glimmer in the dimness of the house. Her lips, straight but full, are set under a straight small nose, while tiny light-colored freckles cover her otherwise creamy skin. She looks about twenty-seven, the same time I quit aging. To look at us, anyone would think we’re sisters.

She smiles at me brightly with joy and marvel. Perplexed by her reaction, I’m unsure if I should run or stay in place as she rushes me with her arms wide open and grabs me in a fierce loving hug.

“Thee hast come!” She says breathlessly as if she’s run a football field to get to me. “Oh, my daughter, my beautiful daughter.”

Releasing me for a moment she touches my face with shaky hands, tears streaming down her cheeks. I don’t know if I should console her or hug her; I feel awkward. This woman, whom I don’t know seems to love me so desperately and earnestly. But more importantly, how does she know it’s me?

“Sitteth,” she says pushing me down into the kitchen chair. I look over to where my young self is playing, still blissfully unaware of what’s happening. “How old art thee? What time art thee from? Thee art here for the transmutation?” Her litany of questions fire at me in succession. The early modern style of her English snags my ear for a moment, making it hard to focus on what she’s asking. It takes a second for me to adjust to the old style. I watch her take a seat across from me at the small kitchen table.

Realizing that I’m more amazed by my being here than she is I ask, “How do you know who I am, and why aren’t you afraid?” She reaches across the table and lays her hands open for me to grab.

“I hast seen with mine own eyes, Brigida. Thou art special.”

“Brigida, mine own, thee shall bring forth a new age. Hast thou found oth’rs of our kind and united those folk? The purpose thou art h're be to transmute?”

“No mother,” I say softly, as my hands reach out to grab hers across the table. Looking into powder blue eyes, different from my own cornflower-blue ones, I say the words. “I’m here to save you. To stop you from dying. I’m here to stop the hanging.”

A look of surprise, then puzzlement crosses her beautiful face. I worry that I’ve upset her with the news that she’ll be hanged in the future.

Squeezing my hands tightly she states slowly and deliberately, “Daughter, thee art the harbinger of mine own death.” Dumbfounded, I recoil, but she holds me steady in her firm grip. Repelled and confused I break our gaze.

“Daughter, hear me. There is naught be done about mine own death. Thee cannot rescue me. Thee hast already been h’re and I am already dead, as be the way of time.”

With pain and despair written on my face, my eyes well with tears waiting to fall. “Why didn’t she tell me! Why didn’t she say?” My voice sounds whispered and forced, as I speak through the growing lump in my throat. “Brigid let me believe I could change the past and have a new future with you. Why would she do that?”

I feel it again, that rage growing inside me.

“Daughter, be thee calm,” she says sternly, gripping my hands tighter and focusing her gaze on me. I notice my hands start to glow with a golden light, something I hadn’t noticed before. The light starts to brighten as my feelings of betrayal and fury grow. My mother starts chanting in the same guttural way that Brigid did to send me here. At the peak of her chanting, the room now lit with the radiance of my wrath, she lets loose one of my hands and with great will and intent of movement softly touches her index finger to my forehead.

All is released. My anger, my sadness, and my light are now all gone. Unclenching my other hand Maeve sits back in her chair looking like she’s run a marathon and smiles an admiring smile.

“Thee art powerful,” she says breathlessly.

Worried that my young self is scared by what just happened, I look over to the little girl on the floor, now asleep on the blanket. Surprised at the sight I look back at Maeve, questioning her with my eyes. Understanding my unspoken concern, still tired and smiling, she waives her limp hand dismissively toward the sleeping babe, “A deep sleep always falls upon thee when the sun draws low.”

Feeling relieved at the news, overheated, sweaty, and emotionally numb, I stand and remove my coat placing it on the back of the chair. Keeping my eyes there, I ask, “What did you do to me? What’s actually going on here? Why am I really here?” I realize, speaking these words that my naïve ideas of rescuing my mother and changing the future are horribly misplaced. I feel embarrassed on so many levels. I don’t even possess this basic knowledge of time travel. Worst of all I feel conned by a goddess and my dead mother.

As if reading my mind, Maeve sits up in her chair and points over to the sleeping babe on the blanket.

“I was taken from thee early in thy years. This be why thee art h’re; to learn Brigida. If thee knew I could not be saved would thou hast tried? A babe cannot be transmuted.”

“What do you mean transmute?” I ask, fighting through my disappointment to look at her again.

“I will convey knowledge to thee through magics and open thine own power, and in it, thee will be transmuted. We must needs do the deed soon for they come this night.”

“You mean, to hang you?”

“Yea verily. Make haste daughter, touch me.”

“Why doesn’t father protect you? Why don’t you use your magic to get away? I don’t understand why you let them do it?” My tone sounds exasperated, which is how I feel. I’ve asked myself these questions over and over, finding no answer for three hundred years. “I want to know what is going on mother!”

“All will be revealed. Now come. Touch me, daughter.”

Wanting answers, I walk around the table to her chair, stand behind her, and place my hands on her shoulders. Her chanting starts again, like before, but smoother and more song-like.

The melody that she chants is hypnotic and calming, my body naturally sways to its rhythm. Wrapped up in the beauty of the experience I begin humming, enhancing her music with my own harmonies. I notice that we’re both becoming translucent, fading out of this world, but I don’t care, I’m in the magic.

Strangely, my hands sink into her form and we start to meld. Becoming fully engulfed in her I enter her mind space. It’s a pink void and Maeve stands in the center.

Her puritanical dress is gone and, in its place, she wears an ancient gown of medieval style. It’s a gold brocade with bright white, green, black, and red thread making up the floral pattern of the dress. She looks like a princess. Next to her stands Brigid in her black and red tunic with the white glowing cloak, and next to her is another woman with striking fire-red hair. She’s wearing a red toga with black trim, and a moss-green tunic underneath. Then lastly a woman slightly taller than the rest stands at the end. She has strawberry blond hair and is dressed in a delphos gown of moss green with a golden belt. The dress is pleated so finely it looks as if color is being poured down upon her.

Without moving her lips Maeve’s thoughts enter my mind, Brigida, these are your grandmothers. I notice that her accent is gone, which makes odd sense to me, given that these are her thoughts. You’ve met Brigid. She continues down the line, this is her mother, your great-grandmother Mór-Ríoghain, and next to her your great-great-grandmother Danu the origin of us.

I stand there astonished, as it dawns on me that I am one of them, as is my mother. I am a goddess from an ancient line of goddesses. I have so many questions. Bewilderment must be written on my face because Maeve continues with her thoughts.

We’re here to join with you, to assimilate into you, as is our way. You will have the knowledge and memories of all of us. This is why a child cannot be transmuted, the personality must be set before the memories of others are shared, or it will be too difficult for them to remain anchored in their time. Will you accept us?

Not completely sure of what I’m agreeing to, relying on my trust in these women I nod my head in agreement. I watch as Danu turns to her daughter Mór-Ríoghain and melts into her form without disappearing, she sits within her like an overlay. In turn, Mór-Ríoghain moves into her daughter Brigid and so on until my mother, Maeve with all the others contained within her body turns and melts into me.

The merging tingles and barrages my senses. I smell flowers and sweet earth after a summer rain, my tongue tastes vanilla and pumpkin, my favorite flavors, and my skin tickles all over as if thousands of feathers are caressing me all at once. In my mind’s eye, I see all of their memories, their present, and some of the future. My mind expands with knowledge of things I have no way of knowing, yet I do. I hold an instant understanding of time, the universe, and my place in it.

My resistance melts away as I embrace the knowledge and come to terms with my new identity. It’s done. Someone different thinks to me. I know It’s Danu. Her energy feels old and primordial.

About to begin a conversation with her, I abruptly find myself back in my own time. I’m sitting alone in my truck, with the keys still laying on the floor. Feeling stunned, I briefly wonder if it was all a hallucination brought on by extreme stress. But something is different inside me. I feel different. My reality has shifted. It feels bigger and encompasses so much more than my small world before. My mind clicks into place, as I realize I still know things I shouldn’t know, like their memories and the magic. It was real, all of it. Elation and wonderment permeate every cell of my body as I think about my very real experience.

My mind is a jumble as it tries to digest all of these revelations through my filter of reality. To keep myself grounded I focus on practical here-and-now things like picking the keys up from off the floorboard and starting my truck, hoping it doesn’t take too long for the heater to warm the cab.

As I drive away from the barn that I’ve hated all my life, the symbol of my vengeance and wrath, I feel nothing but peace. I understand now why my mother needed to participate in the hanging, for participation it was. The mystery of why she didn’t escape using her power is answered. It’s an agreement she’s made, we’ve all made. To help humanity grow and evolve.

We, the Tuatha De Danann are here to usher in the next phase of human evolution, the great awakening. They are the seedlings of ourselves that we cast a million years before and we are the gardeners tending the crop, ensuring its growth.

I also understand that others like the Fomhoraigh want to stop this evolution, who were against seeding in the first place. I will need to watch out for them as I find my kindred Tuatha De Danann.

It seems strange to me, I think as I head home driving down this dark lonely stretch of road, living in two worlds, a dual reality. I’m a magical being born of goddesses, yet my empty stomach growls for pizza. This thought makes me smile.

“Thank you,” I say out loud, knowing that all of them can hear me. “Thank you for your love and grace. I will find them, the others, and we will do what’s needed.”