As summer turns to autumn, the veil that separates the worlds thin. Our certainty in what is and what might be becomes less clear. As it is, so it was in the ages past, when storied creatures of might, mischief and malice lurked in the unknown. But stories don’t always show the whole picture…or the whole truth. With that in mind, I present The Washerwoman. Enjoy!
In the Elder Days when men were sparser and the world wilder, the forests on Skye were dense and wide and ranged over and through the craggy hills and valleys and the broad trunks of those trees extended upwards, extending out into boughs that made a nearly impenetrable canopy above the ground. Only the most determined shafts of light could travel down through the foliage and illuminate the moss-covered ground. From overhead the eagles and ospreys would call, their cries echoing among the greenery and the abundance of wildlife found amongst the bracken would draw the eye with their movements.
The Hunter knew these woods well, and he was adept at finding the creatures which dwelt within. His footfalls were slight, and the warm layers of gray and brown clothing he wore were altogether covered in a deep green tartan which helped to camouflage him and give him an extra moment to catch his prey, returning with it to his home just beyond the edge of the trees for supper. It was a comfortable and lovely little square with a solid thatch roof, a blazing hearth and thick, warm walls, and he hated to leave it, for no matter what he’d bring back, whether it was a thick-bodied doe or a string of thin squirrels his wife would come out and watch him cross the narrow divide between the forest and the house. It was her warmth and love which made the house a home, and the joy the Hunter felt when he scooped her into his arms ran through him like a torrent. Every moment, the memory of her body, her laugh and her scent lingered with him.
On this day he had to delve more deeply into the wood than ever before. It was unusually quiet, for the forest teemed with life, whether it was the tittering of songbirds, the grunting of a wild pig or the gentle footfalls of a doe. Rumors spoke of mystical creatures in the deepest parts of the forest, like the mischievous bòcan or the formidable pech. It had been the fortune of the Hunter never to have encountered any of the fairy folk, but he was well acquainted with the stories of the marvelous creatures of the world and the terrible trouble they often caused for men who chanced upon them. Even if some of the other men of the village laughed at the sprigs of white heather he wore tucked into his hat or the rowan wood cross hung around his neck, the Hunter felt more assured for having them, should he meet some capricious or fell creature.
For now, the only sound he heard in the depth of the wood was the faint call of a gurgling stream, and so he moved towards it. Where there was water there would be animals and hopefully something he could bring home. As he grew closer he paused, hearing the unmistakable sound of a lilting voice in song interspersed with the louder rush of the water. With gentle and deliberate steps the Hunter approached more carefully and unslung the bow from his back, nocking an arrow loosely against the bowstring. His eyes strained to spot the source of the singing.
The creature that he spotted as he crept forward was not what he expected. It was a child; a girl, crouched low by the stream. He had the urge to call out to her but something inside restrained him and he knew it was because what he was seeing could not be human, for no child would be this deep within the wood alone. At least he hoped not. He hid behind a tree as he watched her sit at the edge of the stream, her voice a lilting, sad song: a mournful dirge full of regret and longing, but sung sweet and high.
It was an exercise in patience, waiting nearly motionless for minutes on end while listening and watching the creature at the bank busy itself at the water’s edge, but his restraint was soon rewarded as the creature stood in an unnaturally slow and smooth motion. From his vantage point, he could see that it was pale and emaciated and pitiful, hunched over and small, with straggly dark hair limply hanging down to its shoulders. It was draped in a ragged but impossibly white shawl that hung to its knees. For all that, though, it still bore the face of a young woman which he momentarily saw as it turned and walked away from the bank of the stream. It was not human. At least, not anymore.
The Hunter knew the tales, spoken in hushed tones over shared glasses of strong drink. It was a bean-nighe, a doomed spirit who drew the clothes of those about to die from the water, though that wasn’t the only name for such a creature. The hunter had heard her called nigheag, or ban-sìth, but most tales simply called her the washerwoman. She was a grim messenger of death and omens. Most dangerously, it was said that if she saw the Hunter before he saw her, she could paralyze his body from toes to eyes. This deep in the forest that would mean death, if not from some creature than from the elements or starvation. For a moment the Hunter considered slinking back into the woods, but he also remembered from the stories that there was a great prize if he could come between her and the stream.
Seizing the opportunity, the Hunter dashed between the creature and the water while spreading his arms wide, and with as much bravery as he could muster said, “Greetings to ye, miss. And why does a young lass such as ye be this deep in the wood?”
The creature had stopped with its back turned to the Hunter and upon hearing his greeting seemed to collapse even further upon itself. It responded in a raspy, meek voice which barely carried over the rush of the water, “Play no games with me, sir, fer ye surely ken my true nature, else ye would nae have run between me and yonder riverbank.” It slowly turned towards the Hunter and its visage made him step back in shock, for its face was lovely and sad and its eyes sat deeply in the sockets and were dark, flat and shadowed.
The Hunter shook his head, “I thought ‘twere so, but the tales of the bean-nighe speak of hags with ragged and worn faces, but ye seem a bonny lass. Poor thing, are ye such a creature then?”
The creature: no, the woman’s eyes cast downward and she nodded slowly, “Aye, ‘tis true. And if ye are learned enough to ken what I am, then surely ye will be seeking a wish from me?”
The legends that the Hunter had heard told that nearly any desire could be fulfilled, provided the Hunter answered three questions truthfully. The creature’s cold visage and pitiful appearance was chilling, but the prospect of a wish was too great a prize to let go, so he nodded as confidently as he could.
“Aye, that is my desire, if ‘tis in your power to do so,” he said, “I am prepared to answer whatever questions ye may have with truth.”
The woman nodded and met the Hunter’s eyes as if searching for something, “Afore I ask ye,” she said, her eyes darting away for a moment, “Ye may ask me any question that ye have, and I am compelled to answer ye.”
The Hunter had never heard about the bean-nighe answering questions, and was afraid. The spirit and faerie folk had a way of twisting words and using them against you, so he started to shake his head but then stopped as something occurred to him. He realized that perhaps he could find out some advantage that might help him when it was time to make his wish, so long as he was careful with his words.
Finally, he asked, “What’s your name and how’d ye come to be here?”
The creature opened her mouth, apparently shocked at the Hunter’s question, but then looked past him, and spoke quietly, “My name…it is lost to time, and does nae matter anyways. As fer my story, tis’ a sad tale, and long. I would nae discomfort ye with it.”
“No!” the Hunter exclaimed, and then put a hand up to assure the woman, “No, please. How is it that you’re here? Please tell me.”
The creature regarded him in silence then said, “Aye. Very well then. I was a lass in my seventeenth year, the well-off daughter of a merchant, and was wont to wander the hills and valleys around my village and so I came upon this stream and a bean-nighe, not unlike how ye came upon me here, and knowing the tales about their kind I did as ye have and placed myself between her and the water, demanding she grant me a wish. As my family had money and comfort, I asked fer long life. A thousand years, I said, and sure enough she said I would be around fer that great span of time.”
The woman pulled her pale shawl closer around her, and the Hunter could swear he saw the beginnings of tears in her dark, sunken eyes. She stepped closer and he instinctively took a step back, but steadied himself as she continued, “And so it was, fer a hundred years I never aged and enjoyed the riches of my family’s wealth even as they passed away. I moved around to avoid suspicion of me. But then, fool that I was, I fell in love.”
The words continued spill from the woman as if she had recited the story to herself innumerable times, “He was Fergus, just twenty years old; bonny, with dark curls around his head and in spite of myself I grew to love him though I ken I would have to watch as he would one day grow old and perish even as I persisted. So we wed, and not long after that I found that I was with child. Fergus was kind and helpful as my day approached, saint of a man that he was. Something went awry as I began to deliver the babe. There was blood and pain, and then darkness,” the woman choked, then continued, “I awoke near this stream after some time I realized the fate that had befallen my child, and myself. She had died, and I was bound here, cursed to linger at this stream. My world, my child and my Fergus were lost to me.”
Her eyes refocused on the Hunter and she looked grimly at him and said, “Ye may nae ken the fate of the mnathan-nighe, but it is said that we are doomed to exist this way, washing the clothes of those soon to die, until the day we ourselves would have died. My child had died at birth, but fer me…”
“A thousand years,” the Hunter said, his mind reeling. Whatever revulsion he had felt towards the woman at first had dissipated with the telling of her story and he felt only compassion for her plight.
“Aye,” said the woman, looking at the ground, “Fer three hundred years I’ve been here, and fer seven hundred more I shall be if the tales are true, because only after I took this awful form that I realized that the bean-nighe had promised that I’d exist, but not that I would live.”
“Could I…wish for ye to be free of this? Would ye want that?” The Hunter asked as the thought occurred to him. The woman looked at him with a mixture of shock and disbelief, followed by sorrow.
She was silent for a moment, and then said in a whisper, “There’s no freedom for me, only death, but even that would be a release from this torment,” the bean-nighe looked hopeful for a moment, then seemed to really look at the Hunter, and then turned away from him and said, “It’s a wish ye could make. But ye should nae make that decision in haste on my account. Do ye not have another desire that a wish could fulfill?”
A hundred ideas flashed in the Hunter’s head; riches, gold and health, but they each in turn disappeared and he could only see the woman in front of him, damned to her labors for a thousand years and his heart ached for her. He kneeled and removed his cap, bowing his head.
“No. I swear this oath upon my soul that I will wish for ye to be freed of this mournful existence.”
After a long moment and a deep sigh, the woman turned back and said, “Aye, then I will ask ye three questions as is my due, and ye must answer with truth.” She raised her arm and pointed a finger at the Hunter, “So. Are ye a wealthy man, that ye are able to cast aside the opportunity fer money to make your life better?”
The Hunter spread his arms, “No. I live simply with my wife, along the edge of the forest. We grow and hunt for our existence, with little extra to spare.”
The woman made no acknowledgement of his answer, then cocked her head to the side, “Have ye not babes or kin, who might be helped in their lives by whatever other wise wish ye may decide to make?”
The Hunter shook his head, and said sadly, “No. I’ve no children, but my love for my wife is true, so perhaps, God willing, one day we may have a child.”
The woman twisted her mouth and cast down her eyes, then walked past the Hunter into the stream, the water splashing around her ankles. “Ye say your wife is your life’s love?”
“Without her, my life would be meaningless,” the Hunter said emphatically.
The bean-nighe reached among the rocks and drew out a horribly burned dress and held it for the Hunter to see. She said quietly, “Then ye ken whose gown this is, and what me having it means.”
The Hunter stepped forward into the stream, reaching with a gasp towards the garment. “No,” he implored with a cry, “Not my wife. She is safe at home, awaiting my return.”
Standing stiffly straight, the bean-nighe gazed out into the impermeable forest, “A fire has escaped from the hearth, and is consuming the house even as she slumbers.”
“I’ll go back! I’ll save her!” the Hunter shouted, stepping back.
She shook her head, “Ye’ll nae make it in time. She will surely die.”
The Hunter ran his hand through his hair, knocking his cap into the water. “No…” he blubbered, and after a moment said, “My wish! I answered truly, did I not?”
“Aye,” the bean-nighe responded flatly, “Ye have rightly earned your wish. But remember ‘tis a wish that ye have sworn to me.”
“I did,” the Hunter said desperately, “but she’s my wife! She can still live if I use my wish to save her! Surely ye’ll not deny me that?”
In a voice so soft he barely heard it, the woman asked, “Do ye intend to keep your promise, Hunter? Your oath?”
The Hunter grasped at his chest and looked all around, and then his head slumped forward, “Forgive me, but I have no choice. I wish for my wife to be saved, creature. I’m sorry.”
For a moment, the wood was still and the Hunter and the bean-nighe faced each other in the shadows of the trees, the gurgling of the stream around their feet the only sound.
Finally, the creature said, “Ye’ll have your wish. She shall not die this day.”
Relief flooded into the Hunter.
“But ye…ye will never leave this forest alive,” the bean-nighe hissed, and as she did, the Hunter felt his legs waver, as if they were suddenly made of jelly. He toppled into the water which rushed into his nose and mouth, and splashed around his eyes. He frantically tried to raise his head, but it was like trying to push away a mountain of sand.
He coughed and shouted, “Ye cannae do this. I saw ye first. The stories! I…” but then his neck turned to jelly as well and his face splashed back into the water and he tried without success to move. The water was rushing in, filling his vision, his nose, mouth and lungs.
Pitilessly, with her face twisted in anger, the bean-nighe looked down at his form in the water which was as solid and immovable as a log and she said, “’Twould seem the stories ye have been told were nae true, hunter.”
Darkness started to close in on the Hunter, but as it did, he saw the bean-nighe draw out a sodden green tartan from among the rocks in the river. As all turned to black, just over the sound of the water rushing around him, he heard her voice rise with song in a soft, sad dirge.
Copyright 2023 © Michael Krogh