‘I think so. There’s a lot we don’t know about them.’
‘Yes, but assuming that they don’t do that, then why is a goddess of death with a baby? She must have been significant.’
Her face is different from the twisted fury and rage in the other pictures. She’s weeping, almost like…
‘She knows that baby.’
‘What?’ says Meg.
‘Look at her. She’s surrounded by death in the Blitz photo, but is raging at the skies. She’s not looking at any of the dead people around her. But here she’s mourning that child. She knows her.’ A wave of emotion hits my stomach as I see it. ‘She’s grieving. Is that even possible?’
Meg is lost in thought as she touches the edge of the grainy photos. Then her eyes light up. ‘Macha.’
I recall the unfamiliar Irish word. One of the aspects of the Morrigan. ‘What about her?’
‘She was mortal… No, that’s not right… The Morrigan lived as a mortal called Macha. Like, among us. She was married, she lost her children and then died when forced to race against the king’s horses. Though not before cursing all the men of Ulster to experience the pain of childbirth when they needed to fight, for, like, nine generations.’
‘Wow.’
‘Yeah, she’s pretty amazing.’ Meg grins. ‘Imagine if it was her.’
‘So, was she human?’
‘No, definitely a goddess, but she lived as one. She was a mother.’
I lift the photo. ‘Could the baby be the Morrigan’s daughter?’
‘Possibly, but wouldn’t she be holding her or trying to help her?’
‘She’s important, though, that baby,’ I say.
Meg nods and picks up the photo of the young girl on the street. ‘So is this one. Like you said, we need to work out who she is and what the Morrigan is doing here.’
The goddess in this photo is angry, raging as she gazes into the lens. Her mouth is open, like she’s speaking.
‘Why is she looking at me? Am I taking photos of her in the past or…’
‘Or was she there in the present moment, but you can only see her in the photos?’
My neck prickles and I check over my shoulder. I remember her in my dream. Arms reaching out, speaking to me. ‘She’s here. She wants me to know something.’
‘We’ll work it out.’ Meg picks up the photo of Granda Frank’s funeral. ‘It definitely looks like she’s reaching out to your dad here.’
‘He was just a child though. What could she want with him?’
‘Same thing she wants with you,’ says Meg. ‘And also…’ She turns away.
‘What?’
‘Why me? Have I got something to do with this too? How did you connect with me like that at the docks?’
I rest a hand on hers. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No, I love it. It’s amazing. I just wish I could see what you see.’
‘No, you don’t. Trust me.’
She frowns for a second then picks up the last photo. Nan’s house. ‘Why this one? It doesn’t look any different to what was happening at the actual time, right?’
