Page 35 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

“It’d be a blessing from the Fates if that witch disappeared,” he says, spitting at his feet.

“Maybe. Except we dinnae ken where the missing women are. The Cutter didnae sever their strings. And the last time the Washwoman escaped…” I trail off, closing my eyes against the onslaught of memories.

“Aye.” He presses his lips into a grim line. “I’m not a betting man, but I’d bet everything I’ve earned that she’s behind those disappearances. That Washwoman is evil. I’d kill her myself if I could.”

“I’m going to try.”

Theo stiffens, only for a moment, his hand pausing its wiping of a glass. He swallows, turning, then resumes his cleaning, but it feels forced.

“If she doesn’t kill you first,” Harold says.

“You fear her then?” I ask the question to Harold, but watch Theo from the corner of my eye. I can’t discern if his reaction was for the missing women or the Washwoman, but based on his tense posture, it’s clear he knows something.

“Fear her? Fear isn't the word.”

Theo walks away, his shoulders rigid.

“We lock the gates at night to keep her out. Pray to the goddess to keep her bound to that shore. We don't drink the water from her river. Not even upstream. You wouldn't either, if you were smart. Nothing good can come from finding her.”

“Why do you lock your gate against her? She’s chained to the river.”

“So she says. You say you’re here to make sure she doesn’t escape, but she already has. I’ve seen her. A woman in the dark, dripping with water. Did you notice the fence encompasses the entire village?”

“I did. I thought it was to keep out the wild boar.”

“Och. The boar we can handle. It’s her we’re keeping out. She cannae cross a locked gate. A closed door. She has to be invited in.”

Theo returns, popping a plate of creamy broth with leeks and potatoes, along with some crusty bread, down on the rough wood in front of me. “Alright, back to your drinks. Give them some privacy, eh?” Theo says, waving a hand at the eavesdropping patrons. A tense, dull chatter returns, and while I nod in thanks, I can’t help but wonder if it's because he doesn’t want more people focused on the Washwoman.

“It's all nonsense,” Theo says. “I’ve lived here my whole life and never seen a thing. It's just visions created by fearful minds.”

“You don't believe in her?”

“I believe she's real. I believe she's there. But I think she's just a woman paying for her crimes. There's nothing more supernatural about her than the rest of us.”

Harold shakes his head, making an X over his sternum, a protective symbol. “And that's how she'll get you," he spits.

“Have you ever gone to find her?” I ask Harold.

“I'm not fool enough to try. No one here is. We've seen enough—the men and women who did find her, running away with tears in their eyes and grief in their hearts. That's the real secret. There are no wishes to be granted. No questions to be answered. Try, and she sets a curse on you. Go to interfere with her washing, she’ll kill the one you love most. My advice? Eat your fill, and go home. There's no wish worth the pain she’ll cause should you be unlucky enough to find her.”

I busy my mouth with another sip of ale, savoring the way it makes my throat burn as I consider his warning.

“You don’t believe me? It’s the truth. I saw her the night before my Isla was taken from me.” He says, eyes glazing over. He looks down at his drink, twisting the cup in his hands.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say, pushing as much sincerity as I can into my voice. “Are you sure it was the Washwoman you saw? What did she look like?”

He rubs his temples, almost as if he wishes he could take the pain of the memory away. “She was a slight thing, frail. Not thin, really, but weak. Hunched over, with long black hair all the way to her waist. I saw her standing behind the garden gate. Only for a moment, and then I blinked,” he closes his eyes as if reliving the memory, “and she was gone. The next morning, so was my Isla.”

I tuck that piece of information away. Black hair—except Bea’s is red. So vibrant and wild, it’d be impossible for someone to mistake it for black. I consider telling him this, but stop myself. I’ll get more information if Harold feels the need to fill the silence.

Theo leans forward, and it seems as if the walls he was erecting have fallen as he pats Harold’s hand and refills his tumbler. “Now, you know Isla was sick for a verra long time, Harold. The healer had given her only days, and she lasted a full week before she passed. It was no more the Washwoman’s fault than it was yours or mine.”

I expect Harold to argue back, to resist, but he's too lost in his memories, continuing to spin the tumbler around and around, thinking of the woman at the river and the way she destroyed his life, just as she destroyed mine.

13

BRENNEN