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[Merci d'Rue]

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The road twisted and wound past a small brook. Water bubbled and churned there and crashed loudly over the rocks. A female kneeled in peasant rags her lips blue from the coldness, her hands blistered from work. There she toiled alone over a black pile of robes. She sang softly to herself a tune distinct and pleasant. It carried over the landscape and thru the trees. The birds held themselves quiet the insects made no sound. All of nature seemed wrapped up in her song. Silence fell heavy upon the woods except for the babbling brook, it defied her and ran noisily on its way, its insolence bearing away her gentle tune.

With my hands I clean thee,
With my soul I cling to thee,
Forewarned are ye of things to come
To dread the silent gentle song..

White was her hair, it was long and fell to her waist, it hung loosely about her shoulders and the sun glistened softly off of it. Many passed her on their travels but they paid her no heed, they had not time to dally for they were set for various more important destinations.

Night turns busily into day
Centuries pass and write the way
Old into New and New into Old
Each step in time a child is born.,,,

The Washerwoman’s song had grown weary and tired, at last it had caught the heart of one of the many travelers and she stopped and listened to the washer’s beautiful song. Upon hearing the growing weary in the womans voice, she approached the washerwoman quietly and gently laid her hand upon the toiling woman’s shoulder.

My sister, I shall help thee wash, I shall try to lighten your load. Her intent kind and her heart pure, the female stood in expectant answer. With a heavy moan the washer said: Go now fair female and return to your journey tis a burden only I can bear. The traveler blinked and shook her head, no I insist, my hands are not so soft they do not know toil. She knelt beside the washerwoman and bade her continue her song. The washer kept her face turned from the gentle traveler her spirit seeming torn.

Go now I beg thee do not stay with me…

Nonsense continue your song. With that the traveler held up a robe it was black as night and plunged it into the icy cold brook…

Nobility of heart and purity of deed
A small reprieve I grant thee
Even in the greatest garden grows the wildest weed
That master gardeners fail to see…

The washer reached across her thin white hand almost skeletal in form, staying the traveler’s helpful hands. That is not your robe to wear that is not your burden to carry; I must prepare it for its master.

The traveler looked up bewildered and stared into the washers glowing eyes.

Go now traveler hurry home to your father, his time is short I warn thee now. That robe is meant for him to bare and carry to the netherworld.

Slowly she pulled the death shroud from the traveler’s hands and opened her mouth in a wide fashion. A piercing note broke thru the woods and the fury of the banshee was unleashed as she swept away thru trees leaving the traveler shaking and kneeling in her wake.

Wisteria closed the book entitled The Banshees Return and rubbed her eyes it was late yet she feared to sleep. Reading such items did little to improve her want to sleep but she was tired of waking in strange places and not remembering things and people she had met. She was looking for something she had missed in all this. She stared at her bed as it beckoned to her and once again her eyes grew heavy. Sighing in resign she climbed into to her bed and nodded off to sleep.

Moments later she found herself kneeling by the side of a bubbling brook, washing a shroud plunging it into the icy water and scrubbing it against the smooth rocks. Slowly, the water began to change and it turned from clear clean water to an endless river of blood. It washed over her hands and began to spread ominously up her white sleeves as if to engulf her. Screaming she dropped the black shroud and began backing away from the river of blood. Soon her scream was covered by a mans scream louder and resonating intensely in her head.

Her eyes flew open as the echoes of his scream died away in her head and she realized once more she had just been lost in a dream. She clutched the covers close and saw once more lodged in her hand a soft curly lock of hair and her scream began once more....

[Merci d'Rue]

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It is often said that the banshee is the spirit of a young woman who died in childbirth taken before her time… Wisteria blinked and continued reading.

There is only one recorded account that leads us to believe that this summation could be true, taken from a young survivor after the unexplained destruction of her village. Controversial at best, as many people believe the girls mind was addled from seeing the carnage of her village and witnessing the death of her sister, and two parents. The following is her continued account of the incident:

Merci’s breath came in short quick gasps as she sat by the edge of the stream water churning violently before her. She could still hear the banshee’s cry thru the trees but it was slowly growing distant. She shook her head, had this been a dream? Her father, she must hurry home, just to check, just to see that all was well. Leaping up she ran down the path the trees blurring a bit to the side of her. She felt the dirt pounding steadily beneath her feet. She could see smoke rising in plumes above the trees yet, it was not the normal smoke of the hearth. Like a shroud it blocked out the sun covering her village in darkness.

Wisp’s fluttered about wildly amongst the houses they seemed drawn to Merci following her as she ran. She let out a strangled cry as she tripped over the body of a child lying in the path. Pulling herself up she began to weep and pray silently. The child had been maybe nine or ten the same age as her younger sister and she ran fast down the middle road towards her home. Her eyes were swelling with tears as she saw the carnage before her. It was as if some unknown force had flown thru her village killing all in its path.

Then she saw her once more. The banshee stood directly in front of Merci blocking her path, her red hair floated out from under her hood contrasting sharply with her pale skin giving off the effect of clinging strands of blood. In her arms she held a dead infant. Merci couldn’t understand it, this was the same banshee she had met, yet her hair was red and she somehow appeared younger. Merci could only stand and stare the breath rushing out of her. The banshee sobbed violently over the infant and wailed loudly. Merci could just barely make out her wails and in them she could swear she heard the name Willow? Is that what she was saying? Why would she cry over a tree? The banshee floated slowly out of her path pointing towards Merci’s home up on the hill which glowed with a strange light and Merci once more feeling the urgency of the situation began to run…

Wisteria threw the book violently to the floor. Backing away from it slowly as if it was a disease coming towards her she convulsed a bit. Tears streamed down her face and she could not believe what she had read. This book she had found in the Lycaeum. She had simply found the topic intriguing and been drawn to it, she had thought perhaps a bit of reading would get her mind off her troubles.

Her gown billowing behind her she lept from her bed summoning her horse as she ran out the front doors to her home.

It cannot be, it simply cannot be… She had heard the name Merci before, she must know more….