Page 19 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

The man is gone.

And so is Kenna.

A smile of triumph twists my lips as I stand and hobble to the shallow part of the river, though it doesn’t last long. A jolt of agony shoots through my head, and I wince. As slowly as I can, I lower myself down, letting the cool water wrap around my body to take the edge off my pain.

My tongue is as dry as tree bark, and a dull ache throbs at the base of my skull and in my temple. I twist, taking stock of my injuries. My ribs are tender from where the man must have kicked me after I fell unconscious, but it’s mild compared to what I’ve experienced before, and a small price for the woman's safety.

I lie back on the rocks, letting the sun warm my face, my torso and legs still submerged, and revel in my victory. Hours pass, my dragon dancing overhead, and I’m grateful that there are few deaths. More grateful that none are unexplained.

My eyelids grow heavy and are beginning to close when my dragon’s head swings to the left, a blast of fire shooting from her mouth as if in warning. Before I have time to even sit up, to look in the direction of whatever she's alerting me to, she disappears beyond the ridge. A sense of rage fills the valley, hot and pointed as a newly forged blade. The birds caw as they leap into the air and dart away, and the fish duck into their holes.

The glen goes completely, eerily silent.

Even the air feels wrong, the sun’s rays somehow unable to combat the icy chill creeping up my arms.

My skin turns to gooseflesh as I slowly stand, unease settling on my shoulders. What could possibly cause my dragon to react so strongly?

Is the husband returning to try to finish what he started?

Fear slides through my blood, but it isn’t for myself. It’s for Kenna. He hadn’t caught me, but if he does? I’ll be forced to tell him exactly where she went, no matter how much I don't want to.

But would he return so soon? Maybe it’s not him at all. Maybe this is someone or something else entirely. I hope it is. I will gladly take another beating over giving Kenna’s location away.

Unless… What if the husband wasn’t the he the muse was speaking of at all? What if he is still out there?

I hold my hands out in front of me, hoping the blood stains might scare away whoever it is that’s coming.

Because they are coming.

I feel it with every step closer they take. It’s in the thickness of the air. The way it presses against my skin, so hard, it’s difficult to breathe. A buzzing pulls at my skin, demanding I pay attention.

Hatred seeps into my bones. A pounding wrath that makes my heart race and my lungs constrict.

“Who's out there?" I call, but there's no answer, only the most intense silence I've ever experienced. There's a weight to it—a promise of something to come, and whatever it is, I don’t think it will be pleasant. I infuse as much confidence into my voice as I can. If someone has come for their pound of flesh, I refuse to make it easy on them.

“If it's the answer to a question you seek, you need only ask it,” I say, purposefully leaving out the part about catching me. My voice shakes, betraying me, and frustration swirls in my chest. I learned near the beginning of my sentence that showing my fear makes things worse. That it is only kindling for a man’s fury, and yet, the rage in the air is so potent, I’m unable to stop it. Whoever is coming wants to hurt me.

I’m more certain of it than the fact that I’m cursed.

But why?

I wait, but whoever’s watching doesn’t speak, and the tight, dense silence causes the overwhelming urge to flee to skitter through my entire being. It’s a feeling I’m not used to. I’m no stranger to people hating me, but I’ve accepted it. Have even accepted the attacks that come along with it. People do wild things in their grief, but this feels like more.

“Anything at all,” I say again, fighting to keep my voice steady. I peer through the birch and rowan trees that surround the river, searching for anything that might indicate what, or who, is watching me. Is it even human? Or could it be an animal?

My first instinct was that it was rage I was feeling, but could it be hunger?

For a moment, I almost hope that’s it. That an animal will leap from the forest and end this curse. I know I cannot die, but if I'm devoured by a wolf or a bear? How would I live then, dismembered and digested? Would only my consciousness remain here, tethered to this shore? It would be better, I think. My consciousness could not be attacked. Maybe if it were just my soul, I could fly above the valley with my dragon.

Maybe…I’d be free.

I picture my bones picked clean and scattered among the heather. And yet, as the feeling intensifies, I know it isn’t an animal.

Men are the only creatures capable of a hatred so bone-chilling.

I shiver as I squint into the shadows.

“Tell me who’s there. What do you want?” I ask, raising my chin. I refuse to look weak.