Page 24 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

I ignore her, refusing to acknowledge her show of distress. True or forced, I dinnae care. I didnae come here to have pity.

The wind picks up in a melodic gust, the trees surrounding the river bowing as if in deference to the magic it carries, and the Washwoman sucks in a sharp breath, her hand going to her sternum. She drops to her knees, the current pulling at her dress as she lowers her hands into the river.

It only takes a moment for something to float from upstream, and I squint, trying to make out what it is. It's some sort of fabric—a soft linen, stained a deep plum. My mouth goes dry as it floats directly into the Washwoman’s fingers, and she begins to scrub.

I shouldn’t look, but I cannae tear my eyes away.

It’s horrifying to watch. And yet, there’s something sacred about it. Beautiful and tragic in equal measure. I back away, the sudden need to give her space nearly overwhelming. Not because I feel sorry for her, but because standing this close to death feels wrong.

There’s a reason the River Bàsail is hidden from sight. Watching the Washwoman now, I dinnae think mortals are meant to witness this cleansing of souls. Not when it feels like an invitation for death to look my way.

The Washwoman begins to sing, a haunting, soft trill that turns my skin to gooseflesh.

Come follow the river. Do not be afraid.

Her mistress will find you by the end of the day.

You cannot escape her, be you goddess or maid.

So follow my river. Do not be afraid.

Come now my darling. Down the river you’ll go.

I’ll wash you. I’ll cleanse you. Then she’ll hold you close.

The river will carry your soul down below.

So come now, my darling. Down the river you’ll go.

She hums the tune as she continues to rub the dress along the stones, and as I watch her, I feel like I cannae breathe. The sorrow in the song is so potent it feels like a wound has opened in my own heart because of it.

My blood runs hot with anger, and I want to go to her. To rip the stone from her hands and force her to stop. Because this wicked woman has no right to touch these souls.

It is a punishment, yes, to be bound here forever.

But it’s also a gift to be the one to cleanse them, one that someone with a tainted heart doesnae deserve.

She finishes scrubbing, and a shiver runs down my spine as the garment trails from her fingers.

Sleep now, you’re ready. It’s your time to die.

The river will find you. Close your weary eyes.

Don’t worry. Don’t tarry. Don’t weep, and don’t cry.

So sleep now, you’re ready. It’s your time to die.

The last of the song fades into the valley, leaving behind a heavy silence. And then, she smiles. Only for a fraction of a second, but it is there, as unmistakable as the blood staining her hands.

Before I can blink, the smile is gone, the Washwoman’s mask of sorrow back firmly in place.

But if she thinks I dinnae notice, she’s mistaken.

8

BEA

Istare at the plum dress as it floats away. My ma had owned one so similar. The moment I'd touched it, the memory of her letting me try it on as a little girl had wrapped around my heart. If only those days could have lasted.