1. Bea #2
My vision tilts, my head swimming as the river fades away, morphing into a sunny hillside.
I scramble to stand, the feeling of soft grass beneath my feet so foreign, it itches.
There’s a young woman in green down the hill, and she twirls in the sunlight, smiling as she reaches for a pale pink wildflower.
Bagpipes soar into the valley surrounding her, a tune I’ve never heard before.
A mother pats her young son's blonde head, and he laughs, just for a moment before the joyful sound cracks, and the vision shatters.
Once again, I am at my river.
I scramble back, unease churning in my stomach. That wasn’t death I saw.
That was life.
“No.” The word slips out. My first refusal in over a century.
The water stills—too smooth. Unnatural, as if a sudden spell has been cast upon it, and I hold my breath, hope blossoming somewhere deep in my chest.
Is the river listening to my plea?
She churns in answer, an abrupt shift that smothers any shred of hope in an instant as the water swirls in unnatural eddies, mud kicking up and turning the river a ruddy brown.
The scent of bog-myrtle spreads until I’m choking on it, and a strange undertow pulls at my waterlogged hem.
Something appears upstream, and I recoil as the garment finds my hands—a dress the softest shade of green.
The exact one the young woman picking wildflowers wore.
I try to stand, to get as far away from the river as I can. Dread works its way through my blood, my body knowing before my mind that I cannot cleanse this dress.
This girl is not meant to die. I don’t know how I know it, but I’m as certain of it as my own name. She's meant to live. To twirl to music and laugh with her family.
And yet, here are her clothes.
Pain sears through my muscles as I fight against the magic holding me in place.
My body jerks forward, fingernails clawing against cold stone as I try to push myself back, but I’m yanked to my knees again as if pulled by a hook beneath my ribs.
An ugly noise bursts from my throat, startling me, a mix between a scream of frustration and a sob of agony.
I hadn’t wanted to wash the clothes of the ones currently being crushed to death in the temple. I don't want to wash any of them, but at least they, like all the others, were Fate-sealed. This death—it has to be a mistake. I should've heard her name. Seen the cause of her death.
Closing my eyes, I try to summon the fire that once lived deep in my belly. I need to stop whatever is happening, but that fire has all but died out, doused by the water I kneel in day after day, year after year.
My fingers protest, cramping as I tighten my grip on the fabric, my breaths coming in shallow bursts as I fight to pull the dress to shore.
Is it possible the Cutter didn’t sever this thread?
It didn’t follow the pattern. Maybe without her death-clothes cleansed, the woman will continue to live.
Her soul won’t be called to the After. An Glèidheadair will never know to wait for her.
An Treòraiche will not guide her, and Am Breitheamh will not have to judge her.
Maybe she will live out the rest of her life as it was originally measured, and in many years, after a long, happy life, I will be called by the wind to wash her clothes once it is truly her time.
Straightening, I steady my breath, my resolve turning from twill to iron.
I will not send this girl’s soul below.
Using every bit of my strength, I bunch the fabric into a ball and pull, but he river fights back, refusing to let me take what belongs to her.
“Please. Let me have it,” I beg. My muscles burn as I grit my teeth and wrench it upward. The dress lifts from the stream, and for a single moment, I think I’ve won. That maybe I am stronger than I’ve been made to believe.
But the river’s power is greater.
Always greater.
A crack of magic bows my back and guides my hands to plunge the garment deeper into the water.
I am nothing more than a puppet on strings as my song tears from my throat against my will, and my fingers work at the stains.
Singing is raw and painful, but I cannot resist. I fight against it with the meager energy I have left, my muscles burning, blood coating my tongue as I bite my lip, but I cannot stop myself from cleaning this dress any more than I can stop the river from flowing into the misty darkness.
“Mallachd ort!” Damn you! It isn’t right that I have no free will. That I’m helpless.
The air shudders. High above, my dragon keens, and the water surges, rough and demanding.
With an angry lurch, the river rips the dress from my trembling fingers like a starving wolf lunging for its prey.
Sorrow crashes through me, and I brace against the riverbed, chest heaving as I watch it swirl in the current until it’s swallowed by the darkness.
“Tha mi duilich,” I whisper, I’m sorry, but my voice is lost to the river’s rush.
I jump when a roar sounds overhead. Goosebumps rise along my arms as I look up.
Something is different. My dragon is lower than usual, close enough to see a scar I’ve never noticed before—tight and muted along the underside of her belly.
She swoops again, even lower, and this time she lets out a despondent wail.
I scramble to my feet, ignoring the throb in my ankle.
The air beneath her wings pushes down into the glen. The water goes choppy, and the trees surrounding the river bend beneath the weight of it. My long red hair whips around my face, and my heart pounds against my ribs. Terror rises within me. Or is it awe?
Whatever it is, it’s magnificent.
My dragon roars, circles and arcs, swoops and twirls, her movements frantic, almost as if she’s searching for something.
Could she be searching for me?
The thought thrills me.
With another roar, she sends a bolt of fire through the sky, lighting up the twilight in a brilliant explosion of orange and gold.
I should be afraid. Her power is so immense, it stings my cheeks with a heat I have missed for so long, but I don’t have the urge to cower.
Instead, I scramble up onto a small boulder to get closer.
It’s the most incredible thing I’ve seen in a century, and I want to savor every second. Enjoy every moment of this beauty.
But beneath that beauty, I feel it. Something foreboding and dangerous. Something shifting. Why is she acting like this only now? For years, she’s been nothing but calm. A steady, persistent presence lazily exploring the foggy, grey sky.
“Did you feel it, too, Lolly?” I call up to her, hair still flying around my face from the whooshing of air beneath her wings. “That death… It wasn’t right.”
My dragon's head whips in my direction, and for a moment, I think she’s going to answer me. That maybe, after so many years of one-sided conversations, she’ll finally acknowledge my existence. But her eyes slide right past me, unseeing, until they land on the After.
I follow her gaze, wondering if the girl’s soul is already below.
An eerie, expectant silence descends over the glen, and I pause. When moments ago Lolly cried and beat her wings, there is now complete and utter calm.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end as I tear my eyes from the After and look back up.
For the first time in a century, I get my wish.
My dragon has landed.