Macha, The Morrigu, a witch, a warrior of legends long past. She is a prisoner in the valley beneath the shadow of the sacred mountain of Tara where High Kings flourished, fought and died.
Time means nothing to Macha. Years slip by her, as do the many who come out of curiosity to visit the ancient site at Tara. They wish to catch a glimpse of an ancient magical atmosphere to help them create a better vision of what had been.
Macha pays them no heed for mirroring their curious state will only wreck havoc with her energy levels. She knows what she is: an unseen shadow lurking behind the tiny hillock that Tara has become.
She delights in her dreams, filled of greatness, people and feats. She longs to hear the battle cries, the demented wailing of those mourning. To smell the air after battle, acrid and heavy with the stench of death. A time like no other, she chortles.
The present holds no meaning for her unless she is handed the key to her freedom. Thinking of this her much sought, promised freedom brings far too great a pain for her. She knows it will happen, but when? The words roll around her mind.
She drifts for a second or is it centuries? Here time has lost all meaning to her. Despite her intentions, entombed in this non-existent world of hers a tiny hope flares. If only he would come, she muses on that ecstatic moment when her freedom will erupt like a fountain eager to catch its first glimpse of all above the crust of the earth.
This freedom, which this ancient druidess craves holds so much promise and here she stops her dreaming, freedom is beyond her comprehension after so many years of captivity.
This state of captivity irritates her. These binding unseen chains of magic which keeps her trapped in the depths of the earth. Here there is darkness but not solitude for the earth spinning on its axis is like a tired old machine and deep within its mechanical depths it grinds and groans in an ever ending interlinked spiral made of hope and despair.
Since her birth Macha was enchanted by stories. Tales of human accomplishments and disasters are her favourite, languages are another and she longs to hear her native tongue spoken again. When I was young…. The words only remind her of her useless state and she resorts to humour. Oh’ how fickle we are when youth holds us in its enthusiastic grasp, she chortles. Tired now from all the, what iffing she succumbs to the mind numbing darkness muttering her mantra, “I will be ready for you when you set foot on Tara, I will know.”