It was midnight. Outside, the moon was at its zenith and the night creatures were calling to each other. Inside, a half-asleep woman sat by the hearth fire, watching the smoke curl from the glowing coals to the straw roof of her dwelling. Her hand rested on the head of a crib, gently rocking it to soothe the infant sleeping within. The woman's eyes began to droop and her breathing began to slow. Slowly her chin dropped onto her breast.

A breath of wind stirred the hearth. The increased heat caressed the woman's cheek, waking her.

"Good morning Aoife," three voices said as one.

The woman started, sitting upright. In the glow of the fire she could see three figures, all female: one in the garb of spring, one in the armour of a warrior, one shrivelled and bent. Maiden. Warrior. Crone. Aoife crossed herself, as the shaven-headed monks had taught her, then made the sign of three, as the druids had taught her. "Mórrigan!"

"Blessed be upon this house," said the maiden softly, her words like the song of birds.

"Blessed be upon this house," declared the warrior, her words like the clash of battle.

"Blessed be upon this house," croaked the crone, her words like tombstones.

"Blessed be," the woman echoed.

"Is this the babe?" the maiden asked as she bent over the crib. She picked the infant from its blankets and held it up. Then she passed him to the next in line.

"A fine specimen," said the warrior. She held the child by the scruff of his neck, then passed it on.

"Lots of meat on this one," said the crone, eyeing the child before passing him back to his mother.

Aoife took her son back and held him close. "Have you come for my boy? He is not yet weaned."

The crone chuckled. Her laugh was like leaves rustling. "Do not worry, girl. We have not yet come to claim him. Instead, we have come to give him our blessings."

The youngest of the three stepped forward and placed her hand upon the child's brow. "Blessings upon him. May he be fair of face and quick of mind. May he find a lover to bear him a child." She made way for her elder sister.

"Blessings upon him," declared the warrior. "May he be brave of heart and strong of arm. He will need them." Then she stepped back.

"Blessings upon him," said the crone. "May his death wound never whiten. May the bards sing of his deeds for a thousand years." She looked into Aoife's eyes. "But I cannot promise a long life."

Aoife nodded. "I understand."

"Feed him well," the warrior said. "He will know hunger."

"Love him," said the maiden. "For he will be betrayed."

Again, Aoife nodded. "I understand."

Then the wind blew, the fire burned bright and subsided. The Mórrigan were gone.

Aoife placed the child back in the crib and tried to settle him down to sleep.