The Bean-nighe’s Cry
The sunlight plays mockingly under the door to our hut. I squeeze my seanair’s hand, but he does not return the gesture. I have failed him. I have lost count of the times I have tried to watch over him through the night to keep him safe from the evil that would take him from me, but every night I fail. I want to say the words that would bring forgiveness, but my mouth is dry and empty. I stand and rub the tear-salted crust from my eyes and brush the dirt from my kirtle. I am slow in my movements and linger at the fire.
The First Night…
I bury my seanair’s sword under the door. The iron blade heavy and cold when I put it into the ground and claw the dirt back over it. I pat the mound until it is flat. It leaves my nails black and I go to the river to clean myself before my seanair comes home for dinner.
But we had seen the bean-nighe that morning, washing my seanair’s blood soaked shirt in the same death-cold river that cleans the black from my white fingers. In the evening, as the darkness encloses our home, the wind carries her scream through the cracks in the stone.
“It’ll be witchcraft, Eithne,” he warns in hushed tones as we sit with our trenchers.