A Modern Folktale of Motherhood
"The War Goddess and the Tale of 10 Winters Past"
In the suburbs of a beachside town in Southern Australia and no longer in the shadows of old battlefields before, lived a woman they called Moira. Her village now within the streets of houses and homes - under the streetlights of bureaucracy. That name however barely held the echo of what and who she truly was. Long ago, she had walked the misted hills of Éire as the Goddess of war, prophecy and motherhood. She was - The Morrigan. But in this time and age, she now walked where others would not tread. She stood in the battlefield for the women before her and the women who could not. She presented in courtrooms and suits were adorned, instead of the armour of days before. She held no sword - rather legal documents of truth. And deep within, an unshakable rage fuelled by the love of her sisters and daughters. A smile upon her lips with knowledge that she knew the prophecy would be fulfilled and the war would come to an end.
Her ex-husband, once a charming bard with soft lies and empty hands had vanished from responsibility. The bittersweet taste of methamphetamine and the lure of wins and bright lights of the slots were enough to forget the promise made the moment their child was born..
Ten winters had passed. The years of silence, unpaid debts and growing shadows where support should have been fuelling the fire. Moira kept the child clothed, fed and fierce. Most of all - she showed her love. Respect. Self-responsibility. She showed up.
Her love was a shield; her voice, a warning.
Her life, a lesson.
And then she rose. She heard The Summoning - a call she may not ignore. For each time she would bury her head - a caw so clear would sound from afar.
She walked into the Courtrooms as if they were temples of justice long desecrated. The staff looked up and felt the air tighten, though they couldn’t say why. Behind her eyes: storms. In her voice: prophecy. “I’ve come to collect,” she said. “Not only for my child, but for every mother and father forced to fight battles alone.”
She invoked ancient rites masked as modern documents: With each paper she filed, a crow again cawed in the distance.
The War Began.
The ex - smug and loud with contempt. He laughed at first. But the Morrígan’s spirit coursed through courts and corridors. Moira's voice spoke of the past, her evidence sharp like blades. They found his hidden income, his lies wrapped in numbers. And when he was summoned, it was not just by the law, but by the weight of every year he had fled.
They garnished his wages. Froze his accounts. Suspended his passport and still she did not gloat. She simply stood firm, eyes like ancient stone, and said: “You don’t owe me. You owe her”
Their daughter unaware, playing in the halls of her school surrounded by friends, didn’t know her mother was a goddess. But she knew she was undefeatable.
The Legacy
When the dust settled, Moira didn’t rest. She began to speak at town halls, on the steps of Parliament, on radio stations and in rooms she never dared dream she would hold presence. Her voice crackling like old prophecy. Not with fury, but with clarity. With love. With Support. With justice in hand.
And soon, others rose. For though the Morrígan had always been one, she was also many. In every parent who kept going, in every voice that said, “No more.”
And so they say...
If you listen outside the courtroom in the early morning, you may still hear the rustle of feathers and the sharp cry of a crow. Not of death but of justice long delayed and no longer denied. And if you ever cross a mother who walks alone with a quiet fire in her eyes, choose your next words carefully. She may be more goddess than you think.
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