Tears Unnumbered [EDITING]

Memory

As the moon at midnight moves through the starry sky

Out there in the bog land the Banshee's shrill cry

The one seldom heard and that human eyes cannot see

Some say the ghost of one who died in agony.

- The Cry of the Banshee
Francis Duggan

It is just another town in Ireland, yet it feels so different. It has been over a hundred years since she has last felt it. Over a hundred years it has been since she has felt a call so strong, seen so many faces flash before her eyes. The last time this land had called to her, it had been The Great Irish Famine. This time too, it is not very different, for it is Mother Nature who has betrayed her people yet again. It is unnaturally cold. The winds howl, and the biting chill seems to hasten the wings of death itself. There is no hint of colour anywhere, neither in the sky, nor in the town itself. It is all as bleak and cloudy as the future of its people.

The flowers and leaves have long fallen and died. There is little to no sign of life left. The fires that burn at the hearth are all that stand between the people and the boatman. Little creatures have frozen over in death. The water flows no longer. Frozen though it be, it protects the creatures that live within. All that is to be seen by the eye is a vast stretch of land covered in snow. White is the only colour that can be seen, and somehow, it did not seem wrong to her, for though white symbolises innocence and purity, it is also a colour of death and mourning.

The children know not the disaster that awaits them. The worry is borne by their parents alone. To them, it is a wonder. A thing of their dreams. It is all wrapped up in wonder, for they have never seen the land they have been born into change so drastically. A pity they would not live to see it change so once more. The ice gleams like a thousand diamonds in the moonlight. A thousand cursed diamonds.

A lone figure walks down the empty path. She does not shield herself from the rain. She does not find the need to. She finds no need to hide beneath a shelter, for it makes no difference to her. She is no beauty. It is plain for all to see it even if her face is hidden behind her unkempt hair. Her long fair hair tumbles down her back, dull and withered, the light making it look like dead branches that have been kissed by the frost. She has a haunting form. Old and grey, she seems pitiful to the world around her, ignorant of her presence.

Her head bowed low, her face hidden away from plain sight, she walks alone. The shadows are her faithful companions. Her tattered grey gown, hidden behind a green cloak, trails behind her. A pair of withered feet peek out from behind their veil as she steps lightly down the pathways, making no sound save the light splash of the water. She floats about like a phantom, a picture of tremendous sorrow in the stunning moonlight, yet she goes unnoticed.

She has no name. She needs no name. She looks as though she is merely another woman, but she knows that she is different. She possesses a skill which scared her once, but now, it only causes sorrow. She knows that it is no blessing. It is a curse that weighs upon her. Once, there were some who would have called her angel. Now, she only looks the part of a monster but she is both of them and neither. She is just another ancient being that walks amongst them. Unseen. Unheard.

The darkness clings to her like a second skin, a stark contrast to the pale mist that seems to swirl about her face and beneath her feet. She does not know where she goes. She goes where her feet lead her. Aimlessly, she wanders down the path with neither fear nor hope- simply a blank face of acceptance.

House after house she passes by, yet not a single one is hers. Not a single one that catches her attention. The light flicker of the lamps mean nothing to her. They are futile, as is all else. Finally, she comes to her destination. This house is no different from the others, but soon, it will be. The laughter within has long died away. It is not easy to laugh when they are all either starving or ill. A lone lamp stands there, and she knows that it will die out soon.

Even as she stands there, she is filled with the memories that run as deep as the red in her bloodshot eyes. She had truly been nameless once. Only two had ever dared to name her, but they are long gone. Many names he had called her, but never again would she hear them spill forth through his lips. Aislinn- his dream, his vision. The day they had met had not been forgotten and will never be. She wondered if he would still call her by that name if he saw her now. She was no longer a dream but a nightmare. Bronagh, her niece had called her when she knew who she was. She was the sorrowful one who shed tears unnumbered, for that was her curse, but it was one name that she had loved to hear above all. Cara. His friend.

Those names have long been lost to the wind. Bláthnaid, she had been named, but her brother is not around to call her so anymore. She is nameless once more, as she had been before them. She has changed since then. She does not look now as she once did. She has chosen to appear this way. Not to haunt others but because those memories haunt her. Memories of when a young girl dressed in white with hair as red as blood found a single soul to trust, only to have it snatched away from her pleading grasp.

Her heart fills with pity for what is to come, for both her fate and theirs, but it has been long since she has learnt that there is nothing that she can do. Trying only brings about more pain to all those involved. She has tried and failed before. She will not do it again, for the pain it brings is enough to last an eternity. She simply stands next to the doorstep and wails.