Page 113 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

The Washwoman kneels with her palms stained with red,

She sings to each soul, knows each name of the dead.

When her mind breaks again, and the river runs dry.

She'll think of the poor souls who taught her to die.

The last note trails off, and the woman turns towards the others.

“She rises,” the woman says, but it comes out as almost a moan. Like a match ignited, the dark figures surge toward me all at once.

“Help us,” they beg.

“It hurts,” they cry.

I scream in terror, stumbling back. “I don't know how!”

“It's because of you we are here,” the tailor's daughter spits, throwing a finger toward me.

I shake my head, my heart racing. “No. I warned you to run. I said you were in danger!!”

“Only you can stop this,” she says. “Only you can get them to let us in.”

The figures get closer, and the darkness melts away from them. I can see them now clearly. Betty. The woman on the hill. All of the women I've seen in my visions. Their faces are pale, twisted in agony.

“Help us,” they beg, feral. Unlike the tailor’s daughter, they almost don't appear human at all.

“What's wrong with them?” I ask. “Why can you talk to me, but they can only cry out in pain?”

“Being trapped in between rots your mind. I havenae been here as long, but I will soon be like them, too, should you not help us.”

My ears ring as pressure builds in my chest. “Me? But I’m trapped here, too. What am I supposed to do?” I ask.

She shakes her head, her sad eyes pleading. “I cannae tell you more, but it’s there in your mind. Everything you need, you already know.”

“But I don’t know anything,” I say, raising my hands in front of me. Her eyes lock onto the bloodstains.

The woman lunges toward me, and I scream. “You do! You know the truth! Help us!” The sadness in her features shifts to anger, and I stumble back. The movement must catch the other souls’ eyes, because they surge forward, descending on me as one.

I back up, fear burning in my blood hotter than a brand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m sorry!” I say, but they do not stop.

“Help us!”

Something pulls at my skirt, and I scream when I see the woman from the pub clinging to the skirt of my dress. She cries out, pain etched into her saggy, grey skin. I rip my dress away, turning to run.

“I’m sorry!” I say, tears streaming down my face as I sprint as fast as I can onto the shore and dive into the tent. I stare through the flaps, waiting for them to follow, but they do not come after me. They remain just inside the river, arms reaching out as if straining to reach me, and I shiver.

It doesn’t look as if they can leave the water.

For now, at least.

I close the flaps and hide beneath the covers, covering my ears. It’s not that I don’t want to help them. I do, desperately. Nothing would be worse than being a lost soul, but what can I do? If the Three of the path are not allowing them to enter, there must be a reason.

I search my mind for answers, but they do not come. I cannot focus with the cries of the dead seeping through the cracks of my fingers, begging me to set them free.

It’s not until the sun peaks above the horizon that they stop, and when the moon once again returns, so do they.

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