Page 108 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

“When did you get so big?” I ask, wiggling back and forth, pretending to be uncomfortable.

“I'm six now, don't you remember?”

“Aye, you are. Not so wee anymore.”

Our siblings sit around the hearth, playing jacks on the floor or reading. It’s been nice being home the past three days, seeing them all healthy and happy.

“This is what I wished for on my birthday, you know. For you to come back,” Saoirse says.

“Is the lamb I sent you not enough?” I joke.

“No,” she says, tone turning serious. “Will you make me another? I think he needs a friend.”

I laugh at her blunt honesty. “Well, if he needs a friend, then, aye. Of course, I’ll make you another.”

Garrik comes from the kitchen, taking the armchair next to me. “Speaking of birthdays,” he says. Saoirse perks up at the package in his hand. “Didn’t you just have one?”

“I did!” Saoirse’s eyes light up.

“Well, I decided I couldn’t come for a visit without bringing you a gift of my own, could I?”

Saoirse squeals as he hands the parcel to her.

“Tell me, Saoirse. Do you still like scary stories?” Garrick leans in, his eyes bright with mischief.

“Of course I do.” She rips open the package, her eyes going wide as she looks at the leather-bound book in her hands.

“It’s a collection of stories,” he says. “Fairy tales. Some of my favorites.”

She turns to me. “Can I go read it?”

I’m about to tell her yes when Garrick stops her. “Why don’t we have your brother read the first story to us? My da used to read it to me, and it’s been a long time since I’ve heard it.” His eyes bore into mine, and I tense. I know this look. He’s up to something.

“Oh, please, Bren. Will you?” Saoirse asks, and her excitement curbs my suspicion enough to crack open the book.

“Of course,” I say, warmth filling my chest that she still wants me to.

In the beginning, the Three were One.

One heart. One mind. One pair of hands.

And yet, it was too much for One soul to carry alone.

With every thread she spun, she smiled. And every life she measured long. But along with endless lives came suffering. The One could not bear to cut the threads she had so tenderly woven. And yet, they begged her for death, their bodies withering away in agony, their minds slowly failing.

And because she loved her people so, she listened. With trembling, sorrowful fingers, she severed their threads, tears streaming from her eyes and flooding the realm.

And so, the river formed.

I pause, eyes flicking to Garrick, but he’s staring into the fire. Why give Saoirse a story about the river—the Fates—now? Clearing my throat, I continue.

It flowed to the end of the land, her tears carrying the souls of the departed into the After where the goddesses dwelled.

“Why do you cry?” the goddess of death asked the One. “I gave you power. I gave you magic, and yet, you still weep.”

“What good is power if I have no one to share it with? When I’m forced to kill what I created?” she asked.

And the goddess took pity on her, fracturing her into three. From that soul, The Weaver, The Measurer, and The Cutter were formed.