by Anitra Marie

Created on: September 14, 2009

She was singing again tonight.

He'd been listening to her song for at least a fortnight. Or so he thought it was a fortnight. When she sang, time didn't seem to move quite right. One moment is very much like another because nothing exists save the haunting sound of her voice. It dripped into the ears like warm candlewax, soft and soothing and full of tis own power. The song drifted across the moors, through forests and villages, until it found the one that was meant to hear it. Everyone else slept safe in their beds, unawares that Death had passed them by. For three days he'd not heard a single note and he'd begun to breathe again, thinking that maybe his time had not come. But tonight she sang stronger and clearer than ever before and Oilin Scathach knew he must prepare to leave this world.

Oilin's grandfather had sworn he'd heard the song of the beansidhe the night before he'd died. Grandma had said he'd been so far
into his cups that he couldn't have heard anything 'cept his tankard overflowin.' Then before Gran had drawn her last breath she'd said she could hear an angel singing. Oilin didn't know if the beansidhe had graced his father with a song before he'd died, as the old man had passed away in his sleep. He could only assume that the beansidhe had been bound to their family long ago and had finally come for him.

Oilin leaned upon his cane in an empty field and gazed up at the harvest moon. Taking a deep breath, he savored the crisp air of Ireland. His sons had already gathered up the corn and were getting it ready to be sold. They would look after their mother after he was gone, for they loved her just like he did, despite all her faults. Aislin had been a beautiful and feisty young woman when he'd married her and their union had been a happy one, except for one thing. He had never given her the daughter she'd wanted. Five good sons weren't enough. She had cried bitter tears when she could no longer concieve and had never let him forget how he'd failed her. Never mind that he had been a faithful husband and a good father all these years. He forced the angry thoughts away. None of that mattered anymore.

The moon's light shone down on him, bright and as orange as a ripe pumpkin. The night was clear and he could see the stars putting forth their own efforts. None of them shone as brightly as the moon but each was a small, clear speck of light in the dark. Contemplating the night sky helped him. He decided it was a good night to die. Leaning on his cane,

• 1
• 2
• Next Page >>