Oxford-based copywriter and creative agency director, Sophie dreams of publishing a novel if only she can stop diving into her TBR instead.
About ‘War Cries’, Sophie says it is ‘a departure from the traditional story of the Irish Morrigan and famed warrior Cú Chulainn.’
The echo of battle cries had long faded into the morning mist. Now, a haunting calm blanketed the blood-soaked field, shrouding it in a stillness more profound than the frenzy that came before. Cú Chulainn, breath ragged and body a canvas of bruises, stood over the aftermath, surveying the scene exhausted and satisfied.
The once lush fields of Ulster now lay desecrated, drenched in the enemy’s entrails: broken bodies and twisted limbs sprawled across the landscape. The acrid scent of decay hung thick in the air as scavenging birds circled overhead, ready to feast on the carrion that lay in their thousands. Occasional survival-stricken groans pierced the silence.
Cú’s men had fought bravely, that much he knew. Hardened warriors who ferociously cut down their adversaries with unmatched bloodthirst. Cú wandered through the sea of flesh, kicking corpses aside to reveal the faces of those who dared challenge his reign, the bastard Connacht.
How wrong they were to think they could defeat his forces. In a moment of bitter irony, the triumphant warrior spat upon the face of an enemy soldier beneath his feet. No older than eighteen years of age, his body lying shattered upon the ground, broken like the aspirations in his life short-lived. The boy’s unmoving stare gazed into the eternal unknown, unperturbed by the disrespect towards his body.
This conquest would surely be etched in the annals of history, and it was Cú who led the men to triumph. His valour, already famed across the Emerald Isle, will endure eternally. A demi-god in his own right, Cú had no doubts about this, just as he had no doubts recognising the divinity that came sauntering towards him, barefoot among the corpses.
‘No mortal woman would make their way through the battlefield.’ Cú hailed the waif goddess who had brought a flock of crows with her.
The woman’s lips curved into a knowing smile, her eyes alight with ancient wisdom.
‘And yet, here I stand,’ she replied. ‘For where there is war, there is destiny, and where there is destiny, there I am also. ‘
‘You’re the Morrigan, then.’
‘It is true.’ The dark woman’s delicate gown and shawl billowed in the wind that carried with it the scent of sweat and rot. The quiet between the pair was palpable, causing the goddess to remark:
‘The silence of the warrior slain is much louder than his war cry, don’t you think, Cú Chulainn?’
‘Then you have not heard my men in the heat of battle, Lady Morrigan.’
‘Perhaps not.’ The Morrigan smirked, her ebony locks framing her piercing emerald eyes.
Cú knelt on the ground, wiping his blood-encrusted sword onto the tunic of a fallen soldier. He pondered. ‘You say you follow destiny. What destiny brings you here?’
‘Ah, I have a riddle for you, Cú, son of Lugh.’
Cú snorted. He was battle-worn and ready to depart the fields for a bath and the warmth of his wife.
‘Not now, dark Lady. This day has been long. The battle was tiresome. I am in no mood for games.’
‘But surely, brave warrior, you’re up for one more challenge? What is one more victory to you?’ the Morrigan taunted, her hair whipping around her face.
Reluctantly determined to prove his wits against those of anyone who dared challenge him, the warrior nodded his head curtly in agreement.
‘Fine. Tell me your riddle, woman.’
‘In the heart of war, it is I, the silent sufferer,
My tears spilt for a broken life.
My being, born from pain and mourning,
And forged in fires of conflict and strife.
Warriors boast of courage and might,
But their deeds oft leave a trail of despair.
For when their blood dries, and their souls bid farewell,
It is I who bears the burden of repair.
Who am I, O mighty champion of war?’
The Morrigan grinned as Cú, now in frustrated contemplation, kicked the lifeless hands and entrails at his feet.
‘The answer is Sons. The ones that bear the true burden of war are the sons of slain men.’
‘No,’ the Morrigan began to chuckle deep from her chest.
‘No? Of course, it is, witch. I am right.’
‘I tell you now, Cú Chulainn, you are wrong. Guess again.’
Cú growled under his breath, raking his brain for the answer.
‘Disgraced men. The captors of war. There is nothing worse than a man defeated in battle.’
The Morrigan shrieked with laughter. Cú scowled. He didn’t take kindly to being mocked.
‘Temper your anger, great warrior, for I will tell you the answer is women. It is the women who are the true sufferers of war.’
Now it was Cú’s turn to laugh from his belly. The Morrigan’s crows began to squawk loudly at his impudence.
‘You think not, warrior?’
‘Of course not, witch.’ Cú spat in her direction. ‘The women don’t fight. They don’t risk their lives. They don’t know the pain of battle, the sharpness of the blade. I sooner respect the enemy who faced me on the field than the weak woman that cowers waiting at home.’ He laughed once more.
The Morrigan contemplated in quiet shrewdness.
‘You are so heartless towards the women that you take for granted. Do you not think of the widows left poor and unprotected? The children they must rear alone and in fear? Or the women who have lost the sons they sacrificed their bodies to birth?’
Cú scoffed dismissing the goddess with a wave of his hand. Her once serene face grew dark and shadowed. The murder of crows squawked louder. The Morrigan’s eyes bore a hole into Cú’s soul as she declared:
‘I find your lack of empathy a disgrace to the Erin Isles, warrior. I curse you, Cú Chulainn, to be forever tormented by the real cries of war.’
And with that, the Morrigan disappeared in a tempest of silky black smoke. The flock of crows picking at the surrounding carcasses lifted into the dreary sky, following their mother home.
*
‘The women don’t fight. They don’t risk their lives. They don’t know the pain of battle, the sharpness of the blade. I sooner respect the enemy who faced me on the field than the weak woman that cowers waiting at home.’
*
That very night, when his stomach was full and his tankard brimmed, Cú realised the Morrigan’s curse was no mere empty threat. It began ever so quietly while he celebrated with his men. Soft cries in the far distance. He had servants scour the village and asked the men to do the same, but no distressed person could be found.
Then the cries grew to wails. The wails to screams of torment. Mourning. Shrieking. Howling in Cú’s ears, in his skull, driving him to run into the nearby woods, seeking refuge from the deafening anguish that plagued him.
The plague of cries lasted three days, a week, a month. He found no peace, no sleep. He could not eat. All the while, the Morrigan’s crows looked on, watching Cú’s suffering with silent intrigue. He called upon the goddess to grant him reprieve. When his calls went unanswered , he cursed her.
He shouted and screamed in failed attempts to drown out the women’s cries, but they only grew louder. Generations of mournful wives, daughters, sisters. Cries worse than those born from battle. The relentless pandemonium made Cú vomit, convulse, and seize in his own agony.
On the 33rd day, the Morrigan found Cú beating his skull against the cliffside, blood and brain matter spraying and watering the fields of his beloved county. The goddess smiled, content with what she saw.
‘Now you know, Cú Chulainn, the true price of your victories. The true sound of war.’