Page 102 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

“No,” I whisper, my blood running cold. I struggle to see in the abrupt shift to pitch-black night, and as my eyes adjust, a figure draped in shadow emerges from deep in the After. She’s on her hands and knees in the shallow water, crawling towards me, her elbows bent at unnatural angles. She looks more animal than woman, her hair stringy around her face, and her skin is grey and mottled. She collapses as if in pain, and I reach out to try to help her.

She meets my eyes, but her face is cloaked in darkness. “It hurts,” she says.

“What hurts? How can I help you?” I ask, my voice coming out as strained as the others.

“They won't let me in. They won't let any of us in,” the woman wails. “You have to help us.” Her hands claw at the riverbed as she fights her way toward me, and my heart pounds against my ribs as I scramble back. She stops abruptly, as if she, too, is chained. Something's holding her back. To her left, another hand appears, then a head. A second crawling figure, cloaked in darkness. I gasp, standing and turning away in horror.

“What’s happening? Who are you?” I ask, my voice shaking with panic.

“They won't let us in!” she screams again.

I cover my ears, unable to bear the agony in her voice. “Who? Who won’t let you in?”

“Help us!”

“I don’t know who you are! I don’t know how to help you!”

The woman shrieks as she’s yanked back with a sudden ferocity. There’s a crack, the darkness vibrating as she’s pulled with such violent force, water sprays several feet outward. I gasp as she disappears into the After in less than a breath.

The others try to flee. “Wait!” I cry. I need answers. I cannot help these souls if I don’t know who they are or why they’re here, but within seconds, they, too, are ripped down into the depths of darkness.

I close my eyes, listening for them. For their groans, but there’s nothing. The glen is completely silent other than the rushing of the river. I scramble back to the tent, my heart pounding against my ribs. What in the goddesses’ name had I just witnessed? Ghosts? Souls trapped by the After?

My heart stops, skipping a beat.

Are these the missing women?

They won’t let us in, she said. What if she’s talking about An Glèidheadair? Except, if that were the case, why did she say they? Am Breitheamh and An Treòraiche have no part in guarding the gates, too busy with their own duties along the path.

I take deep breaths, trying to calm the panic gripping my entire being.

What do these souls want from me?

And must I face them only now, when Brennen isn’t here?

44

BRENNEN

Garrick and I have hardly spoken the past day and a half as we rode. Not that we could, really. We’ve kept a breakneck speed. It had been clear Cailleach intended our arrival at Iomallrùin to be sooner rather than later, and by the time we hopped off our horses to sleep beneath the stars, we'd both been too exhausted to carry on much of a conversation. Though I can't help but wonder if Garrick’s lack of talking is because he's as exhausted as I am or because he doesn't want to know anything he might have to report back to the Cutter.

Dome-shaped cottages appear in the distance, their fat roofs so different from the angular ones generally found in the Cutter’s domain. The town is rather small, fourteen or so houses at most.

“A village of thirty people. How threatening.” He sighs. “At least it won't take us long to find if there are any ceatharnaich,” Garrick jokes, taking in the village.

“Do you think there are?” I ask, wondering if Garrick is thinking the same thing I am.

“I'd be surprised," he says, and I nod. Normally, we find rebel groups in larger towns where there are more voices to stoke the flames of anger against the Fates. The smaller villages are generally too busy trying to survive to focus on anything else.

I hope we're right. The last thing I want is to have to dispatch of ceatharnaich at the moment, especially when I'm fairly certain the Cutter is wondering if I'm one myself.

The horses’ hooves clop as they transition from walking on grass to stone. A woman pops her head out the window at the noise, the color leaching from her cheeks. My stomach drops. It’s not a good sign; though, it's not out of the ordinary for those who don't often see soldiers to be afraid of us. At least, I hope that's all it is.

“This looks like as good a place as any to start,” he says, and I nod.

“May as well.”

We hop off our horses, tying them to a post, and knock on the door. A young boy answers, no older than six. His eyes sparkle with excitement.