9. Brennen
brENNEN
Iwatch from the trees after I leave the Washwoman. I’d expected her to scream. To throw rocks at my tent, or to curse the goddess.
But she’s just sitting there, soothing her foot in the water and using a stick to draw slow, deliberate lines in the mud.
Blood still swirls from her ankle downstream, and I rub my forehead. She doesn’t even seem bothered by the pain she surely must be feeling. Pain I inflicted, but refuse to regret.
I am nothing if not a man of my word. I’ve prided myself on it my entire life, and I’d promised not to hurt her.
But it hadn’t been without reason that I’d made her walk her chain length.
I’d needed to know her exact boundaries.
How could I sleep without knowing precisely how far she could go?
It was necessity that had caused me to plot the border out, not cruelty.
Another point of pride. I do not believe in brutality.
I turn from the Washwoman, heading deeper into the trees, scanning the bark for the dàn engravings that ward the valley from her escape, the memory of the time I spent in Lochdubh flooding my mind.
I’d been only a boy, but Da had allowed me to come along on his trade route.
I’d been so proud sitting next to my father on the wagon, ready to convince people to purchase his carvings and furniture.
I was of the opinion that he was the best carpenter in the kingdom, and my excitement had grown by the minute as we made our way into the Measurer’s domain.
Until we arrived at Lochdubh, where outside the village gates, a man was nailed to a wooden post, arms overhead, shoulders wrenched from their sockets, feet kicking, reaching for the ground several feet below him.
My da had shielded my eyes, but the damage had been done.
I’d already seen his pain. Heard his suffering.
He’d stolen half a bushel of apples, I later learned. Such a small crime to justify inflicting so much agony, and yet that is what the village elders had chosen.
When we left two days later, the man was still there. Still alive. He’d cried out for us to help him, the sound so weak, and I’d covered my ears, unable to bear it. But my father had stopped and pulled a dagger from his waist.
“Dinnae look,” he told me, climbing out of the wagon, but I hadn’t listened. I watched as he approached the man, looking him in the eye. Giving him dignity.
“Do you want me to end it for you?” he asked.
“Please,” the man begged.
Begged.
His pain and suffering had been so intense, he had begged my da to end his life.
So, with a nod and a prayer, my father swiftly pressed his dagger through the man’s heart, remaining by his side until the light left his eyes.
And as I watched, I swore to myself I would be more like Da. That I would never again stand for acts of cruelty like the one the poor man had suffered through. And for twenty-eight years, I have kept that promise.
I close my eyes, pushing the image from my mind.
At some point during my remembering, I’d stopped moving.
I’m not sure what exactly triggered the memory.
What I put the Washwoman through was nothing like what had happened to that man.
Her suffering was simply the unavoidable cost of protecting myself, along with anyone else who may stumble into her valley of death.
Straightening my spine, I turn back toward the water, climbing up until I can look down upon it with a bird’s-eye view.
The river appears around a crooked, sloped bend, dropping down a series of small waterfalls that empty into churning white foam.
The water clears as it flows over the stony bed, creating shallow stretches that vary from shin to waist deep.
The Washwoman still sits with her ankle dangled in one of the shallower areas, drawing in the mud, but on either side of her are sections of deeper water where it’s difficult to see the bottom.
It’s stunning, almost as if it was plucked from a storybook. Marsaili would have loved how peaceful it is. The harsh beauty of it.
The thought comes, sudden and unwelcome, and I shove it down. Thinking of her will only distract me, so I focus back on the environment around me, noting every detail.
The Washwoman twists, looking up at the sky. I follow her gaze, but am unable to see anything through the thick canopy of trees. When I turn back to her, I realize she’s talking to herself. Muttering like a madwoman. I activate my dàn of hearing only to pick up ramblings about making jam.
Frustration builds within me. How can she speak so casually of a luxury such as jam after what she did? I force my gaze away from the Washwoman, focusing again on her surroundings. I need to learn the land if I’m to make sure she truly cannae escape.
Small cairns dot the shore, what must be nearly a hundred of them, ranging from no higher than a hand width to stacks taller than my waist. The banks vary from wide, stony shorelines with clusters of marsh violets and patches of grass, heather, and moss to steeper, rockier areas, and the current seems to grow stronger as the river narrows closer to the After.
I lean forward, peering into the darkness.
It’s the same black mist that surrounds the boundaries of the kingdom, where land falls away into nothing, and far below lie shadows so black, they could only have been created by the goddess of death herself.
I close my eyes, straining to hear the water as it trickles down, but I cannot tell how far it goes before it stops.
The sight is comforting. There is an order to it. A firm boundary, and that is something I understand. Something I respect. I take another moment to enjoy it, noting the sun's position in the sky. It will dip below the horizon in a few short hours, and I still need to set up my tent.
I’d hoped to make it into town today to procure a writing desk, but I no longer have enough time before the sun will set, and I dinnae wish to return to the monster in the dark. With a sigh, I try to temper my frustration, shifting my focus back to the task at hand.
I refuse to let my mind stray as I pick my way down the rocky terrain back toward the base of the glen, crossing the river upstream to locate the warding dàn in the trees on the other side.
I complete the circle, all twelve symbols clearly visible in the trunks of the thickest, sturdiest trees.
The wards hold firm, and it bolsters my confidence, though only slightly.
Because I still do not know how she escaped six years ago.