3. Bea #2
Once again, I fight to swallow down my disappointment.
There’s a reason finding the items for the spell isn’t easy.
I must suffer to find them if I am to be forgiven for my sins.
Carrying my locket with me, I return to the mound of moss, bog cotton, bracken, and heather I use as my bed.
It may not serve me in my spell, but it’s beautiful, nonetheless, made of gold, and could be a potential bargaining chip to be used in the future.
Maybe a kind soul will stumble upon my river, and I can trade it in exchange for a loaf of bread. Some shoes, maybe, or a cloak. It’s unlikely, but I’m close enough to Dalbàsail and a few other small villages that it’s possible.
I lift the stone I use as my pillow, digging a few finger-widths or so into the damp dirt beneath to where the rest of my belongings hide. My possessions are few: a sewing needle made of bone and half a bar of soap, a few brass coins, a fragment of a beeswax candle—though I have no way to light it.
And then, hidden deeper beneath my collection, I find them.
Two old, rolled-up pieces of parchment. An old wood pipe, a vessel that carries breath. An adder stone, a piece of home and hearth. A rusted mourning brooch, an ending mourned.
The reason I search the pockets of the dead.
The words of the spell have long faded from the papers, but it doesn't matter. They are engraved in the depths of my soul.
Since the dawn of the kingdom of Na Trì, the magic of the Bàsail washed the sins of the dying of its own accord.
For your crimes against the Fates, it is now your bones that will carry the task you stole.
You will cleanse the death-clothes of the departed for eternity, the blood of each and every soul passing through your fingers, staining your hands forever.
Hands that will never again know rest.
You will wish for death.
May it never find you.
I can remember the moment I read it with perfect clarity.
What a fool I’d been. I’d been certain I would never wish for death, and yet, now that I cannot have it, it is all I want.
I close my eyes, picturing the second note I’d found tucked between two rocks a dragon’s length away, as if the Fates hadn’t wanted me to find it at all.
With every curse, there must be a counter.
Gather the pieces of a life completed—a vessel that carries breath, a name given in love, a piece of home and hearth, a promise broken, and an ending mourned. Bind them in tartan. Seal them in true faith and a changed heart, and send them into the After.
Only then, if the river accepts your plea, may you choose to follow.
A promise broken.
A name given in love.
That’s all that’s left for me to find.
With another surge of disappointment, I place the locket among my other treasures and wonder if the last pieces of the spell will ever find me, or if another century will pass without the things I need to send my own clothes down the river and set myself free.
Will the Fates simply kill me once I do, taking another choice away from me?
I hope not. I’d like to go to my rest on my own terms, and only once I am certain I have done everything I can to atone for my crimes. I’d like to go to peace when I die. Not continue to suffer below just as I have above.
The wind gusts again, and I put my belongings back into the soft earth and turn to the river.
My song floats through the valley, a whisper on the water, and I stiffen.
Because I am not the one singing it.
There’s no stab of pain. No name on the wind or death in my mind.
Just a melody, growing louder as it creeps along the rocks and wraps around my ankles. It slips up my spine, gooseflesh blooming across my skin.
I lift my head, turning toward the river’s end. The melody soars, and then, I see her.
A woman, half submerged in the water, her black dress floating around her in a way that reminds me of the curling black fingers of the After. Her hair is so long, the ends meet the water, bright white strands that contrast her berry lips and light brown eyes.
“Who are you?” I ask, and her lips curve into a smile. She begins the song again, a melody that is mine.
Come follow the river. Do not be afraid.
Her mistress will find you by the end of the day.
You cannot escape her, be you goddess or maid.
So follow my river. Do not be afraid.
Come now, my darling. Down the river you’ll go.
I’ll wash you. I’ll cleanse you. Then she’ll hold you close.
The river will carry your soul down below.
So come now, my darling. Down the river you’ll go.
“Stop—” I say, frightened, but she raises her hands above her head, swaying to the haunting melody. The words of my song change, and I freeze.
He follows the river. He’s coming for you.
He’s angry, he’s eager, for what he has to do.
Be wary his sword, and be wary the truth.
He follows the river. He’s coming for you.
The final words of the melody trail away, echoing through the now silent glen.
I look back to my dragon on the ridge, but she seems no more aware of the woman’s presence than my own.
“Who are you?” I ask again, my voice shaking. “And who is he?”
She trails her fingers through the water, almost as if tickling it.
She laughs, turning her head, and it’s only then that I notice her staggering beauty.
She’s ethereal in a way that is not of this earth, with skin that glows with a soft luminescence, and eyes that aren’t brown like I’d thought, but pure gold.
Her lips are full and her cheekbones high, with an angle to her jaw that somehow softens the sharp planes of her face.
“You’re a goddess,” I whisper, scrambling to my feet as the realization crashes over me.
She tilts her head. “I am many things. If you wish, you may think of me as the Muse of Love and Madness.” She spins in a circle and tips her head up toward the moon before stopping suddenly, her smile fading away.
She narrows her eyes, an abrupt shift in demeanor.
“That is not the question you should be asking. Do you know who you are?”
“I am the Washwoman,” I say, fighting to keep my voice even.
“Ahhh, but is that all you are?” She taps her chin, her eyes glinting with something I can’t quite place. Malice?
No. It’s just as she said—madness.
She tsks. “Why do you look so afraid? You and I are not so different, you know. Do you not remember what it feels like to be driven mad?”
Nausea churns in my stomach at her taunting. “What do you want?” I ask, wrapping my arms around myself. I do not want her puzzles. Her riddles.
She takes a single step forward. “I come with a warning. Be ready—for he’s coming.”
“Who?” I ask, my heart racing. “Who’s coming? Who sent you?”
The goddess's smile widens, showing too many impossibly white teeth. “Why, the one who will remember, of course.” Her voice drops to a cold whisper. “The one who will end the tale of your murderous reign.”
“I’ve murdered no one. Not since...” I can’t bring myself to say the word aloud. Vengach. The village where I committed my crimes the day my mind broke.
She throws her head back with laughter, and in an instant, the color of her dress shifts from black to…
Green.
The same dress as the woman from my vision.
My legs nearly give out. “No. I didn’t murder her.”
The goddess’s brows furrow with confusion. “And yet, is she not dead?” she asks, confirming my fears. “It is, after all, what has set everything in motion. He’s coming.”
“Who is he?” I shout, blood roaring in my ears.
“The one who will remember.” She tilts her head. “The one you destroyed.”
My blood runs cold. The one I destroyed? I’ve destroyed no one, other than those I killed. Their deaths may stain my soul, but they are gone. They cannot come for me.
Can they?
“You and I are not so different,” she says again, tilting her head, and my stomach lurches.
The vision. The dragon.
“Is it madness, then? Is my mind betraying me once again?”
“We’re all a bit mad, my dear," she says, her eyes twinkling. She giggles, the sound growing almost manic as she lowers herself into the water.
“He’s coming! He’s com—” her words choke out as she fully submerges. I stumble forward to grab her, but… She isn’t drowning at all. She’s fading. The white of her hair turns translucent, her body disappearing into curls of bubbles that drift into the After.
The current pulls at my legs, and I dive into the water to search for her, desperate to find the woman and demand she tell me more, but my hands touch only the stony riverbed.
I freeze, the goddess’s words circling in my mind.
The one who will remember.
The one you destroyed.
The wind goes unnaturally still, and in the eerie silence, I am left knowing only two things.
The goddess is gone.
And he is coming.