Winter Moon: A Banshee's Tale

Chapter 3

I know of a great deal of things that can end life, yet none seem to be as fatal as hope. It is much like fire that way—it possesses the ability to render every other detail inconsequential. Perhaps it is for the best that I don't often have a chance to wield it. My companion looked to the rising of the sun with surprising vigour. The forthcoming venture into town had brought with it hope enough to burn through the flood of guilt that came with every bloodied garment. The wrens had long since switched roles from palm-sized annoyance to bearers of good news. Their obnoxiously loud calls beckoned her to step into the light once more. I knew not if she would take to Aoife the way I expected she would, but for now, the girl would suffice—she could be the shiny new trinket that would keep my charge going for a few years more, at the very least. With the clothes soon washed and done, the red-haired one rose, brushing the twigs and dirt off her gown as she did so. It was well past noon, but it didn't seem to matter. As one with purpose, she walked the trail of emptiness. She did not run as a child would, nor was there a spring in her step, but her eyes roamed the nearing roads, unabashedly searching for a certain fair-haired girl.

My companion hadn't the faintest clue where to look for the girl. That she wouldn't be home was near certainty; surely, Aoife wouldn't stay cooped in the little house when there was sunlight the children undoubtedly desired? We had only made it back to the thick of town when we spotted her amidst a throng of other children who looked severely chastised and as though they'd rather be facing anyone else. Their eyes flitted this way and that, now meeting those of a playmate and then looking into the distance.

"It's alright," Aoife was saying, opting to look at her toes and restless fingers. Judging by the flush on her cheeks, she had not expected them to stop her. While she mumbled her acceptance of their apologies, I didn't doubt she meant it; her eyes held neither hate nor anger for them. It has always been in a child's nature to forgive quickly, but at the verge of adolescence, Aoife must've been kind by anyone's standards to have forgiven them without a single word of scorn. Perhaps they really had done little harm. Why, they looked far from guilty, but it was exactly for that reason that I held them accountable. They all eyed her with various degrees of distaste as they gauged their surroundings in apprehension, as though someone would reprimand their behaviour.

With the 'apology' out of the way, the children resumed their play and talk, quickly making themselves scarce. Aoife, for her part, bid the others a good day and headed into the baker's shop that was further down the street. The aroma of scones and soda bread briefly floated downwind as the door opened, a welcome change from the dust. With most other treats sent off to the British armies and markets, the breads were the only commodity to be found in comparative abundance. His face lined by the many years, the baker handed her a flapjack, his eyes crinkling with a smile as he gazed fondly upon her. Buyers were few and far between, leaving the middle-aged man content to keep the company of a little girl.

"Children these days are up to no good, I swear! Nothing for them, should they come by!"

Aoife merely laughed at his mock rage, her hands sticky from the snack she'd been handed. Even she knew he did not mean the threat; he gave treats out to any child who visited his shop—especially if they belonged to the families that traditionally grew potatoes. He would much rather give away his goods for less than they were worth if it kept another child from going hungry.

"Uncail?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Will you tell da?"

The man pretended to think deeply, though one would think the gleam in his eye would give the farce away.

"I won't tell no lies if he asks... but I shan't tell him myself."