Page 40 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

Come take off yer coat. Set yer boots by the door.

There's room at our table and a song or two more.

The night's in no hurry. The door’s still ajar.

And nobody's counting how long here yeh are.

There's wine in our mugs, and there's ale in our glass.

And no need to dwell on the sins of your past.

Our lives might be measured, but don't hold yer tongue.

For nobody's counting the verses we've sung.

A woman stands behind the bar, her pale cheeks flushed and eyes bright as she sings. A man leans over, beaming as she hands him the drink. He pays with a kiss, and my heart aches at the simplicity of it. The ease of their love. What would I give for even a crumb of something like that?

The melody shifts to the chorus, and they both join in, their eyes shining as they lift their glasses.

A song cannae tell you the time it will end.

As long as you sing, a new one can begin.

We hoped you were coming. We've waited all night.

Held off on the last verse until you arrived.

I pry my eyes away from the couple, eyes darting around the room. There has to be a reason I’m here. A reason I’m having these visions, but what is it? It’s hard to see through the dim lighting, but nothing stands out as unusual. I’m jostled forward, and I catch myself on the back of a chair.

“Sorry, miss,” a man says, and I freeze. Is this a clue? Is he the one who will die?

“Sir,” I say, my voice coming out hoarse.

“Yes, lass?” he says, and even though I suspected he'd be able to see me based on my last vision, I'm still surprised. My heart cracks at the kindness in his tone. If we'd met at the river, surely that kindness would be gone.

“Be careful tonight,” I say.

He lowers his brows, stepping forward as if to ask me more, but the scene fades, and once again the world tilts. My head swims, and then, I’m back at the river.

The pain returns, blinding, and I try to lie down, but my curse does not allow it. Agony sears through each of my injuries, so intense, it makes me nauseous. I dry heave, my stomach already empty, but the magic doesn’t give me even a moment to recover. It presses against my skin, heavy and persistent, guiding my hands to grab the garments floating downstream, and I stop resisting.

I’m not able to see the clothes through the thick tears in my eyes, not only from the pain of my injuries, but confusion and shame. These visions feel wrong. I can sense it in my bones, so why am I being brought into them, and why can’t I seem to stop whatever is happening?

Is it as I thought? That the Cutter is torturing me, showing me someone’s life and joy before forcing me to wash their clothes? Is it to show me what I am missing here, trapped and away from the rest of the world?

Or is it something else entirely? Am I supposed to do something to stop these deaths that feel so wrong? Is this a test? Could this be my penance for Am Breitheamh to judge me well and allow my afterlife to be peaceful? Maybe if I can stop these visions—save these people who aren’t meant to die—I’ll be forgiven.

I hold onto that hope as I check the pockets and finish washing the clothes, closing my eyes so I’m not forced to witness the proof that I failed to save the man.

When I let go, the magic lifts, and I collapse back onto the bank, my cry of pain echoing through the glen as I fall, but I can barely hear it past the melody of the song still ringing in my mind.

16

BEA

The stone is cool against my cheek as I watch the river calm. The scent of peat and bog myrtle eases, and the mud settles back to the riverbed.

Something dark twists in the shallow water, and I reach out to grab it. Even my pain can’t stop me from trying to find the pieces to the spell.