Joscelyn Green

The Death Wash Joscelyn. R Green Caitir hobbled along the emerald grass, through the village, grumbling as her old bones ached more and more with each step as she made her way back towards her home at the edge of the forest. She had just delivered some herbs to the clueless healer. The disrespectful man wouldn’t be able to heal a scratch from a cat if it weren’t for her pastes and tinctures. The only reason she didn’t do it herself was because most of the villagers shunned her, acting as though her old age was due to witchcraft. They would grow old too if they weren’t so suspicious of every plant in the forest and watched the animals. Besides, she harrumphed as she walked and thought, sixty-five summers wasn’t that old. She scowled at children as they ran from her, laughing and giggling, making comments about how hideous she was, how her face seemed cracked and creased. The untrained youth weren’t reprimanded by their parents for their utter disrespect. No. Instead they were told to be quiet for fear that she might put a curse on their snotty offspring. “Witch! The witch is coming! Run!” Yelled a particularly unruly boy as he yanked at his mother’s arm, stifling a giggle as the young woman tried to shush him. Caitir ground her teeth, keeping silent. She was already so disliked and shunned, as much as she wanted to give the boy a good talking to, she had no doubt the folk would band together and blame her for their poorly disciplined children. They would claim the old woman was trying to hex the child or to steal him away to eat. She snorted while thinking how utterly ridiculous it was, but such was her life. Being old while most didn’t live past forty summers begot suspicion. She breathed out slowly as she left the confines of the village, now closer to the comfort of her secluded hut. The sun burned brightly in the sky, raining down far too much warmth for Caitir’s liking, while the breeze was equally displeasing with how cold it felt against the exposed parts of her skin. The old woman sighed as she entered her home, annoyed with how the villagers had looked at her with judgement, perhaps even hatred, in their eyes. She had once tried to protest that she had been beautiful in her youth, that they would not say such things if they knew or remembered. Their parents had long since died and most of those that had been children when she was a young woman refused to believe the ‘witch’ could be that same woman. They claimed she had been replaced. Oh, but she had been beautiful. The most beautiful lass in the village in her day, she caught the eye of many a man. Her hair had once been luscious, a vibrant copper tangle of curls rather than her wiry grey. Her skin had once been fair and pristine, long before age spots and scars began to mar the once soft flesh. Her eyes had been greener and brighter than the grassy hills, sharper in their vision too. She sighed, many men sought after her, but only the worthiest of them could ever capture her heart. He was a hunter and a warrior; his body was strong and his eyes the bluest she had ever seen. She had been smitten the day he moved to their little village and, of course, she had caught his eye as well. How could she have not? As smitten as she had been though, she had not let him have her without first earning her favour. After all, he had to compete with men that had known her since they were children. Men that she knew could work hard and provide for her and a family they would one day have together. He had showered her with gifts, brought her meats, taught her about the plants of the forests and how to watch the animals, and lastly gave her the most beautiful fur coat. She knew then that he was a man she could happily call her husband. That no matter what, he would protect her, protect their children. But a family was not in her future. Every time she was with child, she would lose them. Her husband would bury them for her while she cried, covered in her own blood. For all her beauty, her body was a barren, unwelcoming environment. She had tried every method she could think of, every herd, every fruit, every type of food and drink. Nothing worked. She would never be able to bear children. Her husband, as dear as she was to him, couldn’t stand the idea of never carrying on his line, but he loved her; and so, she found out months after he started growing distant, started rejecting her advances, that he was going out and finding his pleasure with another woman. She remembered how furious she had been before he twisted her feelings and made her blame herself. How could she expect a man to find pleasure with a woman that could never bear his children? She had relented and played his wife while he toyed with other women. She always felt that she had died that day. Although her heart still beat, she stopped being the beauty of the village; she could no longer find the strength to be kind or to care about the lives of others. She had an unfaithful husband, a barren womb, and the strain of losing her children had caused her beauty to fade. She wandered over to where her husband’s old weapons hung on the wall. He had gotten his wish, one of his toys had given birth to a son. He had wanted Caitir to meet the woman, to help raise his son. Of course, she could not agree, and the other woman refused to let him be father to his son if he wouldn’t leave Caitir. For some reason, he had chosen to stay with his wife, content that his blood was in the boy’s veins. He died shortly after that, gravely injured while out hunting. It was all Caitir could do to keep his pain to a minimum and make sure he was comfortable. He died in her arms and after that she no longer cared to be around the villagers. She had considered taking her own life, but she wanted to spite her husband’s mistresses by continuing to survive. Even without her beauty, she still held her husband’s heart regardless of his actions. Caitir grew bitter as she aged, but her stubbornness kept her going. When the first villagers started whispering that she was a witch, she had taken some small pleasure in wandering through the village and causing them discomfort. It was all they deserved for making up lies about her. Some even claimed that she had killed her husband herself: turned into a beast and mauled him. Complete nonsense! A sound startled the old woman out of her memories. She frowned, wandering over to the window and peering out of it. She spotted her wash basket tipped on its side and scowled. It was likely the bitter wind. Although, it had reminded her that she should probably wash some of her clothing. They were beginning to smell quite musty. She set about gathering her clothes, pausing as she considered her late husband’s weapons, wondering if she should take one with her. She shook her head, none of the villagers had ever been violent with her because they believed she was a witch. Some had muttered how it was unfair that Caitir had such fine things and so many possessions, but if one lived longer than most, they are bound to accumulate various trinkets and such. Walking back outside, Caitir deposited the clothes into the basket before hoisting it up and hobbling towards the river. She chose to stick to the edge of the forest as she travelled, her old age meant she wasn’t much of a match for the more dangerous animals even if going through the forest was quicker. She sighed, thinking that once she was done with this final errand, she would brew herself a nice broth with some left-over rabbit meat and a handful of herbs and rest her aching bones. Although she managed to do everything she needed to, her age was catching up to her. She gritted her teeth thinking about how her possessions would be split amongst the villagers if she died since she had no descendants. Those disrespectful fools didn’t deserve what she owned. She would burn her hut to the ground before she died. They certainly couldn’t have it. They could scratch through the ashes if they so desperately wanted something from a woman who they called a witch and treated with such poor manners. Caitir breathed out slowly through her nose. She was getting herself worked up just by thinking about it. Besides, she would outlive most of the adult villagers if she had any say in the matter. Although she was old, Caitir could still look after herself and rarely ever fell ill. The right herbal teas and broths did wonders for one’s longevity. A crunching sound, like footfalls, gave the old woman pause. She scanned around her, peering into the forest as well, trying to see if anyone was following her. She doubted that anyone would try anything, considering that they were all convinced that she was a witch, but she was still cautious. Strangers to the village might not think her a witch. Perhaps she should have brought a weapon. After a moment of seeing nothing around, Caitir shook her head and carried on her way. It had likely been an animal, she thought, it had probably been scared off by her passing. She sighed as she adjusted her grip on the basket. Her arms were growing a bit tired, but luckily, she was nearing the river. As the old woman approached the river, she spotted another younger woman on the bank, wading into the river with clothing in her hands. She was a slight thing, with lovely fair curls and milky skin. She was almost as beautiful as Caitir had been in her youth, the old woman mused. Caitir watched the young washerwoman as she walked, frowning, as she swore the clothes the woman washed looked startlingly similar to hers. She also thought she saw red stains on them and a reddish tinge to the water pouring from them. She shook her head and paused. It was likely a trick of the eye; her old eyes didn’t see as well as they used to. A snapping of a twig drew the old woman’s attention away from the riverbank. She turned towards the forest with narrowed eyes, scanning for any sign of movement or danger. After a moment of nothing, Caitir decided that it was likely another startled animal and turned back only to notice that the young washerwoman had vanished. Caitir scanned the riverbank for any sign of the woman, before shaking her head and choosing to wander further down the bank to do her own washing. The old woman didn’t like how that washerwoman had seemed to disappear into thin air. She hadn’t gotten to see sixty-five summers by accepting strange, vanishing women as simple tricks of the mind. The old woman eventually stopped, far enough away from where the washerwoman had vanished for her to feel comfortable. She plopped the basket down on the edge of the river, stretching the stiffness from her aching arms before she stepped into the river and crouched down to begin washing her clothes. She submerged one of her dresses in the river water, pulling it up before rubbing it between her hands to dislodge any dirt. She worked silently. At one time in her youth, she used to hum while she washed clothes, but that was long before she lost her first child and discovered her husband’s infidelity. A crunching footfall sounded behind her, and she was about to dismiss it, when several more crunches followed. Caitir paused in her washing, slowly straightening; partly due to her age and partly so as not to trigger any aggressive response from whatever had just sneaked up behind her. With slow movements, Caitir turned around only to see that several men from the village stood there watching her. She scowled at them, some even shifted uncomfortably, almost frightened, but one didn’t. A man with startling blue eyes stood fast, glaring at her with such hatred in his expression. Her late husband’s illegitimate son. “We’re here to stop your evil once and for all, witch!” spat the blue-eyed man. The old woman huffed out a breath. “How many times do I have to tell you imbeciles? I am not a witch! Now run off, I have done nothing to you.” “Nothing?!” A staunch redhead man piped up angrily. “My brother went missing in this forest. It was you who killed him! A hunter saw you in the woods before he disappeared!” “Aye!” Agreed a large blonde man. “My wife died birthing our child. She must have been cursed by you because your hex work made you barren!” “I never got the chance to meet my father because of you.” The blue-eyed man added in a low voice, his tone filled with hatred. He then spoke louder, “No one has ever seen you get sick. When others fall ill, you are fine. If you weren’t a witch, you would help them, share what you have, but instead you hoard it all as though you have something to hide!” The other men murmured in agreement. “That speaks true. She never does fall ill. And look how long she’s lived. Only magic can explain that.” “This is ridiculous!” Caitir yelled. “Your evil ends now!” The blue-eyed man shouted, before rushing at her. Caitir saw him pull out a dagger, but it was too late for her to run. Then all she felt was pain as he plunged the dagger into her stomach repeatedly. When he finally stepped back, blood coated dagger in hand, Caitir stumbled backwards, falling into the river which gripped her with strong hands and pulled her towards her watery grave. This can’t be how she dies, Caitir cried out beneath the water. It can’t be! She spent so much time looking after her body, making sure she could outlive the wretched women who had spent nights with her husband, outlive the horrid villagers that mocked and shunned her for simply being old. This can’t be how she dies! Fear not Caitir gasped upon hearing the voice, breathing in water which caused a violent coughing fit as she was tossed around by the river, blood trailing behind her from her wounds. Her vision was beginning to grow cloudy, and the old woman decided that the voice had just been her mind playing tricks on her during her last moments. Oh, how she didn’t want to die! Your body aged, but you never truly lived. Fear not, we will make you whole again. We will give you a second chance. Your spirit died as a lass; your life was never truly your own. We will help you fix that. The voice was comforting, soft, like a mother singing to her babe. Caitir wrapped the feeling the voice brought her like a blanket against the cold. Then suddenly the old woman felt as though she were being pulled up, bright light blinding her before she was plunged into darkness. Was this what it felt like to die? Caitir coughed, water pushing painfully through her throat. She opened her eyes and blinked against the sunlight. She slowly sat up, her body ached, but she felt better than she had in years. Everything looked more vibrant too. She frowned while scanning the riverbank where she awoke. Seated on a rock was a naked woman with long black hair, she glanced over her shoulder at Caitir. “You should thank them. They don’t often bring the old back to life,” the strange woman said. “Back to life?” Caitir asked just as the memories flooded her, she gripped her head before asking, “Who are they?” The woman shrugged. “Nature, the spirits, magic, faeries, what you want to call them is your choice. They were the ones that breathed you into a new life.” “A new life?” Caitir frowned, confused by the woman’s wording. “Oh, sweet child, you should take a look at yourself.” The woman flashed an amused smile. Caitir frowned, shakily getting to her feet. As she walked over to the water, she saw that the strange woman’s legs ended in hooves, like that of a horse, rather than in feet. The woman glanced at her hooves, her smile breaking out into a full grin as she motioned for Caitir to look into the water. Caitir’s frown deepened, but she did as the woman suggested. As soon as she leaned over the water’s surface, Caitir almost doubled over in shock. She gasped at her appearance. It was her, and yet, not. She was young again, as young as when her husband had met her. And yet she was more beautiful than she had ever been. Her copper hair seemed thicker and more silken, her eyes seemed to sparkle like emeralds and, as she ran her hands over her face, her skin felt smoother than she remembered. She stepped back, looking at her body, which she only noticed now had been stripped of clothing. She looked exactly as she had around her eighteenth summer, although her bust looked much larger. Stunned, Caitir stared at the river and whispered, “Thank you.” The river seemed to ripple in response, almost as though it had heard her and was acknowledging her appreciation. Caitir shook her head, suddenly feeling the weight of everything that had happened. A moment ago, she was an old woman on the verge of death, now she was… she wasn’t certain what she was. “What do I do now?” Caitir asked, glancing at the hooved woman. The woman ran her gaze over her. “Well, judging from your appearance… Let me ask you something? Do you want vengeance against the men that took your old life?” Caitir was silent for a moment, working through her thoughts, before she answered, “Yes. They killed me. They wrongly accused and murdered me. How can I let that stand?” “Well then, I suggest you wash, Bean Nighe,” The woman said with a feline grin. Caitir glanced down, her body now covered in a maiden’s dress and next to her sat a basket filled with blood-stained clothes. Clothes that looked quite like what the men had been wearing when they attacked her. Caitir glanced at the woman, but instead found a grey mare in her place. The mare turned her head and blinked at Caitir, before striding into the river. Caitir smiled after the mare, picked up the basket and waded into the river. She washed the bloody clothes, humming as she did so. She didn’t know exactly what had happened to her, but she knew enough of the stories to know that this was an omen. A bad one for those men, but a good one for her. That night, the villagers said that they saw a hunched old crone scurry between the houses causing dogs to yap, cats to hiss and babes to cry. The next morning several men were found dead, mysteriously in their sleep, and the old woman was nowhere to be seen. Amongst the confused and fearful villagers, a beautiful stranger stood, her lips curling up in a satisfied grin.