Jacob's Mother—Chapter 32

Ferns

Photo by Linda Pomerantz Zhang on Unsplash

Jacob’s Mother is a serialized novel. Start with Chapter One.

Chapter 32: Ferns—Old Gaelic Ireland

Moya poured the ninth cup of stream water over the wee babe that had just been born to Mrs. Sheehan. It was her eighth daughter. Six were still living and two roamed the hills with the faery folk. The living daughters had assisted Moya with the birth, since Elizabeth was getting her house in order for when her own baby would come. The eldest daughter, Maggie, was tall and strong and a good helper. She didn’t squirm or faint at the sight of blood, and Moya considered asking if she would like to be her new apprentice. The rest of the daughters were sent to the stream to collect water for the Blessing of the Nine waves when it came time for them to exit the home, so that Mrs. Sheehan could birth in relative peace.

When the girls returned, the baby had been born, and Moya could hear them coming up the hill, shrieking and laughing in excitement. They could barely contain themselves from touching the wee babe during the blessing.

“The little wavelet for thine health,” Moya said as she gently poured the ninth cupful of water over the baby. The baby had stopped howling, and looked at her with round eyes.

“Nine little palmfuls for thy grace in the name of the Triskele, the Three of Power.”

With that Moya patted the baby dry. “Now Jane,” she said to a wee lass of about four years old. “Would you be so kind as to hand me the blanket that has been hanging next to the fire?”

Little Jane lit up, proud to be of use to the new baby. She ran over to the blanket, held it against her cheek, feeling its warmth, and held it up to Moya.

Moya held the new baby up. “Now Jane, sit down in the chair and open the blanket. I am going to set the baby on your lap, and you will wrap her up.”

Jane sat in the chair, her small hands clutching the corners of the blanket, arms opened wide in order to receive the baby. The other girls watched enviously in silence.

Moya gently placed the infant into Jane’s arms. “Careful, Jane. You must always support your sister’s head, until she is able to do so on her own.” Together, they wrapped the baby in the blanket, and Jane kissed her tiny head. Moya, continued, “You must always protect your sister, even when your mother cannot.”

Jane looked up into Moya’s eyes. “I will.”

“All right, Mrs. Sheehan,” Moya said. “What will your daughter’s name be?”

Mrs. Sheehan lay on the pallet, exhausted and sweaty from labor. She smiled a weak smile. “Jane, what do you think?”

All of the girls let out a collective gasp, surprised that their mother would give the youngest such an honor.

Little Jane looked down at the baby in her arms. One of the baby’s tiny hands had escaped the blanket. Her fingers were curled tightly into a little fist. Jane smiled and said, “Fern. Her name is Fern, because she is curled tight like the fiddlehead of a fern.”

One of the older sisters whispered, “Thank the gods she didn’t name her Fiddlehead!”

There was a bout of giggling from the sisters. Even Moya and Mrs. Sheehan had to smile.

“I think Fern is a lovely name,” Mrs. Sheehan stated. “Now bring me my little Fern, so I can get a better look at her.”

Moya gathered her belongings and exited the cottage, leaving quietly so as not to disturb this special time with the sisters. She closed the door and sat down on the stoop, brushing a strand of hair back towards the bit of hair she was able to tie back. She was surprised at how fast her hair had grown back, but she was more surprised by the amount of grey in it. It was to be expected, she thought. Especially, since I am to be a grandmother soon. The sun was setting, and she missed being able to see the shadowy folk float towards it. She remembered the first time she had seen the strange beings, how she was afraid of them, but now they brought her peace as they floated past. When she could see them, she always looked for her husband, John, wishing to get one last glimpse of his stooped shoulders and lazy smile. She wanted to give him his walking stick for the afterlife, and now that she couldn’t see the people of the in between, she worried that she would miss him.

The familiar hum of voices started, the sound of shadows. The humming got louder, then she started to pick out individual conversations as the faery folk walked past her. She could no longer see them, but she could hear them floating by. All of these voices were people with families at one time. Their souls continued on, together, always marching towards the sun, never cold, never alone. Older now, Moya welcomed these shadowy guests. She looked forward to hearing their voices during sunrises and sunsets. Their conversations were memories. A father told his son how proud he was of him. A farmer complained about the rain washing out his crops. Some begged for food. Some cried out for loved ones. Some sang, and some laughed. A few panicked voices demanded to know where they were and where their families had disappeared to. Some were lost, asking for the way back home. Moya believed that they weren’t really lost, but confused. They were going home, they just didn’t know it yet. Some rustled as they went by, their voices silent, knowing their way. Moya longed for that peace. She wanted to belong to it.

She sat there, still and listening to the voices. She closed her eyes and smiled. Suddenly, a voice right next to her ear whispered, “Moya, my love.” It was the voice she had longed for, and those three words breathed into her ear, drifted down into her heart, and spread out through her arms and legs, caressing her from the inside out. It was a voice of long, lazy embraces in front of the fire. It was the voice of safety and stability, of sunshine and green grass, of rough hands and a good day’s work. It was her husband’s voice.

“John,” she whispered, holding onto the voice as long as she could.

Then it was gone.

She could hear the hum move on, ahead of her on a hill. It floated to the top and disappeared on the other side. Suddenly Moya stood up and ran after them. “Wait!” she cried. “John, wait for me!” She was already exhausted from a hard day’s work, but she felt a pull towards them, as if she belonged more to the fairy folk than she did in the real world. She ran after them, feet pounding into the ground, heart pounding in her chest. She realized she couldn’t catch up to them, realized what a fool she must look like. She quickly went back to the Sheehan’s porch, gathered her belongings, and began the long walk home in the last moments of twilight.

Darkness seeped in around her like ink. She pulled her shawl close to keep out the cold. She could just make out the stacked stone wall that ran across the village and farms, a few village lights twinkling in the distance. She fancied a draught of beer and decided to drop by and say hello to Aideen and Mr. MacLiam in the pub.

As she approached, she heard laughter pouring out of the doorway and the windows. She smiled, thinking of Aideen saying a bawdy joke and getting everyone inside the pub smiling. She opened the door and warmth washed over her. Several friendly faces greeted her as she made her way to the bar. Aideen waved at her and began to pour her a beer.

“So?” Aideen asked.

“Another girl,” Moya answered, dropping her pack on the floor and removing her shawl to drape over a chair.

“Well, no surprise there! Girls are all that poor woman can make!” Aideen slid a plate of mussels across the bar to Moya. “On the house, friend. I know you must be hungry.”

“Aye.”

Moya cracked the mussel shells apart and sucked out the salty meat. It felt good to be in the pub with all these friends and various people. She took a sip of frothy beer and set down her mug.

Aideen came out from behind the bar, and the two women chatted about Moya’s grandchild that was soon to arrive.

“I can’t imagine being a grandmother.”

“Oh, feeling a little like a crone, are we? Mourning your youth?” Aideen laughed, patting Moya on the back.

“No, it’s not that,” Moya looked at her friend. Aideen was so full of life, she could almost see the blood pumping through her rosy cheeks. Moya looked down at her own pale hand. “I’m fine with being a crone.” She looked out the window. “It’s the strangest thing, I just can’t imagine it. I can’t imagine what the baby will look like. I can’t picture Elizabeth and James as parents, even though I know they will be loving and good. I can’t imagine holding it.”

Aideen stared intently at Moya.

Moya continued, “If I try to imagine my grandchild, I just see blackness.”

Aideen rubbed at a stain on her apron. Then she placed her hand on Moya’s shoulder. “Friend, it sounds as if you are in need of a good sleep. I have never seen a pregnant woman as healthy and glowing as Elizabeth, and I know you haven’t either.”

Moya nodded, but felt dread deep within.

“I am going to have Mr. MacLiam walk you home with a basket of fresh biscuits,” Aideen continued. “Nothing some nice biscuits and a good sleep can’t cure.”

“I can walk myself.”

“Nonsense. Mr. MacLiam needs the exercise.”

Moya knew her friend was worried about her, and this was one way Aideen could feel like helping without intruding too much on her thoughts. Besides, it would be nice to have the company on the walk home.

Later that night, Moya couldn’t sleep, so she stoked the coals in the fireplace and decided to work on the blanket she was creating on her loom. It was cold outside, so she let Rounder into the cottage, and he moved away when she stirred the coals and added a fresh log to the fire. Moya called him over and pat him a few times before he curled into a ball again, in front of the glow, and fell asleep. Moya dragged her loom across the floor, so she could see it in the firelight, and began to slip the threads between the warf, over and under, over and under, pull it tight and tie it off. The pattern repeated itself over and over and created a comforting tune in her head. Over and under, over and under, pull it tight and tie it off.

Suddenly, she thought she heard a faint knock at the door. She looked at Rounder, he hadn’t moved. Convinced it was the wind, she went back to her weaving, over and under, over and under, pull it tight and tie it off. The fire crackled and cast crazy shadows across the room. One shadow caught her eye, it seemed to be a little girl waving, then it was gone. Then she heard a rap at the door once more. Rounder still didn’t move, but Moya was sure someone was there. She sat still, wondering who would knock on her door at this hour. Perhaps it was James, and Elizabeth was in labor. She wasn’t due for a few weeks, but Moya jumped up and ran to the door. When she opened it, no one was there, but she recognized the strange smoke of the Gancanagh. He was nearby. She knew it.

A cry escaped her, and Rounder shot up and barked once, unsure of what his Mistress was afraid of. She quickly closed the door and bolted it. She drew all of the curtains shut and pulled her chair into a dark corner and waited. Her thighs and face burned where the Gancanagh had touched her many years ago. She quickly got up, grabbed an iron skillet, and sat back down in the dark, waiting. More than anything, she wanted to be done forever with the Gancanagh, but she also wanted to be with the Gancanagh more than anything.

Moya tried to push the desire for him away. She knew that it was all trickery, that her feelings for him were part of a spell. She had too much common sense to be fooled by him again, and she held the skillet tight. No matter how much she dreamed and desired for his cool fingers to rake her body, she would resist. She would bash his head with the skillet if necessary, and she knew that he would return. He could not be killed. As long as there were maidens, the Gancanagh would exist. No matter what she did, he would come back. If not for her, then for Elizabeth, and if not for Elizabeth, then for her grandchild.

For the first time, Moya could picture her, her granddaughter. There was no doubt. She would be raven haired like Elizabeth, but fiesty and full of life like James. Moya sighed with relief, still gripping the skillet. In that moment, she knew she would have a granddaughter and that she would live a happy life, but try as she might, she could not imagine Elizabeth giving birth. She could not imagine giving her own granddaughter the blessing of the nine waves or holding her. All she could see was a young, happy girl of about twelve, playing hide and seek in the forest, laughing loudly and running, raven hair flowing behind her. She smiled at the apparition of her granddaughter, playing and laughing and alive. Then she saw the Gancanagh in the forest, leaning passively against a tree, and her beautiful granddaughter walking up to him, her breasts just beginning to bud under her shift, and…

Moya came out of her trance and dropped the skillet. Rounder barked. She couldn’t see anymore. A rage built up inside her. How dare this man continue to attack her family. She had to do something about it. Anything. This couldn’t continue. The triskele was not enough to protect the family, for how could one choose who was to wear it? What if Elizabeth had two daughters? They couldn’t both wear it at the same time. Or if Elizabeth gave it to her daughter, would she be at risk, herself? Moya knew it was time to come up with a new solution.

She laced up her walking boots, tied up a little packet of biscuits in a handkerchief that she tied to her belt, and pulled her heaviest shawl. She poured water on the fire, until the lively red glow of the coals was replaced with the eerie blue light of the moon shining through the window. She grabbed her husband’s walking stick, pausing and running her fingers over the smoothed out parts of the wood that his fingers had run over when he was alive.

“Come, Rounder!” she called from the threshold of the cottage that had been her home for the last thirty years. Rounder snapped to attention, the way dogs do, and was instantly by his mistress’s side, wiggling with anticipation of an adventure.

Luckily, the moon was bright and full, and the trees had lost some of their leaves with winter approaching, so Moya could see to step over the overgrowth in the forest. She carefully stepped between roots, ferns, and shrubs until she made it to the stream. From there, she followed it south, the moonlight shimmering off of the moving water. The forest was alive, and she could hear frogs croaking and owls hooting. Occasionally, a shining set of eyes peered out from the brush. Suddenly, the forest got quiet and she could only hear the water rushing down the stream. She stopped, sensing the Gancanagh was near. Her breath seemed larger than her lungs, and she waited unprotected, unsure what he would do.

Crone, he whispered. It felt as if he spoke from inside her head, her brain felt cold.

Rounder whimpered and slunk away.

Do you really think I want anything to do with your dried up cunny? I wouldn’t touch you with someone else’s cock!

Moya shivered. She looked all around, but could not tell where his voice was coming from.

I want younger, fresher things, the Gancanagh continued. Your granddaughter will be beautiful, and twelve years to wait is but a second for me.

Moya dug her nails into John’s walking stick. She had to find the Bean Nighe. She stood there for a few more minutes, hearing nothing else from the Gancanagh. Suddenly, a buzzing like hummingbird’s wings tickled her ear. She knew it wasn’t the Gancanagh, since the seeping coldness left her head. The buzzing seemed to come from in front of her. She took a step towards it. Then it buzzed again, further in front of her. She stopped and two buzzing things came very close to either side of her head. She felt the lightest tickle on each earlobe as tiny sprites she could not see tried to communicate with her in a strange tinkling language.

“Can you help me, friends?” Moya called out to the tinkling creatures. “I’m looking for the washer woman.”

Their tiny faery wings buzzed past her cheeks, zipped out of range, then returned just as quickly, and buzzed and vibrated the air in front of her. She took a step towards them, and they sprang ahead, jingling in front of her. She listened to where they were and took another step towards them.

“Thank you, kindly” Moya said, continuing going in the direction of tiny chimes and tinkles.

The two faeries continued spinning and circling, sometimes buzzing around her head and sometimes flying out ahead. Once, one pinched her ear, and the other landed on her nose, tiny butterfly legs that tickled until she sneezed. She wished she could see them, all long legs and wings.

They stayed far away from Rounder, who barked and growled at them when they got too close, and ran after them when they shot out into the distance. Moya and Rounder followed the sprites for quite a ways, until the buzzing stopped at the opening of a cave.

The cave, a black gaping mouth, opened before her. A drizzle of water poured out of it and joined the stream. The moonlight was not bright enough to see what was inside, and Rounder stopped, lay down, and whined. The buzzing sprites that Moya had followed must have settled on two large ferns that flanked the entrance of the cave, because she could no longer hear them. Moya could see the fiddleheads wrapped tightly just like a newborn’s fist, a promise of life to come. She thought of Baby Fern and of all the sisters who would protect her, and she thought about her granddaughter, warm within Elizabeth’s belly. She didn’t hesitate to enter the dark mouth. She tied up her skirts at her hips so they wouldn’t get wet but kept her boots on, in case of sharp rocks. Then she walked farther into the cave, leaving Rounder at the opening, barking and running back and forth, instinct keeping him from entering.

“Hush now!”

He stopped whining with the hair bristling on his back. Moya turned, and Rounder began pacing again. Moya would be happy for the company in the dark cave.

“Come, Rounder.”

He would not. He paced back and forth, back and forth across the entrance of the cave, but he would not enter. Elizabeth sighed. She really couldn’t blame him. She faced the darkness and leaned on John’s walking stick. Freezing water seeped through her boots, and her toes instantly went numb. Well then, she thought. No time like the present to finish what needs to be done. She went deeper into the cave’s mouth, testing each footstep with the walking stick. It wouldn’t do for her to slip and fall before she had finished her task. Sucking wet sounds and drip drops surrounded her in the dark.

Feeling the ground with her stick, she blindly trudged on, farther and farther into the cave. Sliding her free hand against the mossy wall for support, she wished she had brought a candle or lantern with her. However, it was too late to go back. It was time to end the troubles her family had been plagued with.

Moya finally got to the point of the cave where no outside moonlight penetrated, and she could not see her own hand in front of her face. She couldn’t tell which way was in and which way was out. Swimming in blackness and relying solely on her other four senses, she continued on, using her husband’s walking stick to test the depth of the water. The walls of the cave seemed alive with dripping and sloshing and the occasional scurry above her head. The blackness made it impossible to see the height of the cave ceiling, but she could tell it was either very high, or she was down very deep, because of the echoes of the drips and other noises of the cave.

She kept moving forward, or at least what she thought was forward. She was cold and shivering and alone. In fact, she had never been this alone before in her life. Trickles, sloshes, and echoes of water sounded throughout the cave. It seemed she had reached an area where nothing was alive, and even the faerie folk stayed away. Unsure of how to proceed, Moya stopped and leaned on John’s walking stick. She was soaked through and completely numb up to her knees. She pulled her wet shawl tightly around her shoulders, trying to create some sort of heat, to no avail.

She listened to the water dripping through cave--drip, drip, drippity, drop. It had a rhythm similar to her weaving. She found it quite pleasant, actually. Maybe she would just rest and take a little nap in this water. Moya was a smart woman, and realized that the cold was probably getting to her head. She had to keep moving to generate heat. As she walked, she made a little rhythm in her head, the stick plopped in the mud--drip, drop, slosh, slosh. Plop,drip, drop, slosh, slosh. She listened to the music her journey created and continued forward. Suddenly, the tune was interrupted with sharp cackle.

Moya froze, listening intently through the echoes of the cave and trying to figure out where the sound came from.

“Have you seen my granddaughter?” an old woman’s voice echoed throughout the cave. Then more cackling and a great sloshing of water, as if someone had slipped. Moya was unable to run through the mud and water, but she quickened her pace and went towards the noise. She waded through blackness, ears alert and listening. She heard murmurs, two distinct women. As she got closer, the cackling subsided, and she only heard one woman muttering about washing to be done.

She had found her, the Bean Nighe.

Moya stopped and listened, because she was sure that she had heard two old women just moments before, but the Bean Nighe seemed to be quite alone, and she knew that the echoes of the cave could trick a person into hearing false sounds.

At this point, her legs were numb to her hips and she sloshed loudly through the water, not being able to feel them as she went. She felt relief at finding the Bean Nigh. The first part of her task was done.

Then it was silent.

Moya rubbed her ears and sank down a bit into the water. Had the Bean Nighe seen her?

Suddenly, there was a horrible screech just inches away from her face. The screeching echoed throughout the cave, one moment next to her face, and the next it seemed to come from ten yards away. Moya stuck out the walking stick, hoping to trip the Bean Nighe in the darkness, but she couldn’t tell where the creature was. Even though she couldn’t see the washer woman, she knew she had black eyes like a bird. She could hear the Bean Nighe’s single nostril whistle shrilly between screeches. She was just in front of her. Blindly, Moya poked the walking stick out in that direction. Her stick hit rock. Then silence.

She was gone.

No, she was in front of Moya, about thirty feet away. Moya could hear breathing, the nostril’s whine giving away the hag’s location. Moya ran her stick over the rock next to her. It seemed to be a ledge of some sort. Moya’s legs were too cold to continue, so she leaned on her staff. She stood in the water and waited, catching her breath and trying to see through the pitch.

Moya feigned casualness, even though she was shivering through and through. She willed her shaking hands to be calm, holding the walking stick under her arm. She fumbled in the dark with the handkerchief that was tied to her belt and unwrapped the biscuits. They were cold and slightly wet, but that was no matter. She took a big bite and sighed with feigned delight.

“Oh, these biscuits are delicious!” Moya shouted towards the sound of the breathing. She took another big bite, and the sound of her chewing echoed throughout the cave. “Mmmm.”

The whistling breathing stopped, and Moya felt movement in the water in front of her.

Moya took another bite. “The best biscuits in all of Ireland,” she said while bits of biscuit plopped out of her mouth and plinked into the water.

Suddenly, a voice yelled, “Give me one of those biscuits!”

Moya held the handkerchief of biscuits in one hand, and wiped her mouth with the back of her other hand. “Certainly,” she said. “Come closer, so I can give them to you. My legs are frozen stiff.”

The Bean Nighe screeched from about five feet in front of her. “Give them to me!”

Moya held the handkerchief package close to her bosom and backed up against the rock ledge. She smiled in the direction of the voice. “You may have all the biscuits, old woman,” she said. “As soon as you grant me three wishes.”

There was a great amount of splashing and thrashing about. Sure enough Moya guessed right, and stood between Bean Nighe and the water. The washer woman howled with fury at being tricked. Water and mud splashed all over Moya and the biscuits. Moya didn’t move.

“Give me the biscuits!” screamed the Bean Nighe.

“Wishes first.”

A wave of foul breath washed over Moya’s face. The Bean Nighe pressed up against her and whispered into her ear, “Very well, very well. But wishes are exchanged for answers and answers for wishes.”

“This I know. Ask what you like.”

The Bean Nighe splashed around. Her voice was about two feet away. “You have lost your sight. How?”

“Aye, I have,” Moya answered, still clutching the handkerchief of biscuits. “You have met my daughter, Elizabeth.”

“Liiiiiil!!” screamed the Bean Nighe.

“You tricked her and left her hearing the faery world when she wished for us to be done with the sight. You traded her sight for sound.”

The Bean Nighe cackled with the fond memory of it. As she laughed her nostril whistled. “I remember her. Foolish child.”

“For my first wish, I wish that Elizabeth has no more connections body or soul to the faery world.”

“Ach! How boring! Fine then, she is mortal through and through.”

“What is your second question?”

Elizabeth heard the Bean Nighe smack her lips. “What makes your biscuits so good?” she asked. “I haven’t had biscuits in centuries. In fact, I believe I have forgotten about eating in general.” A great rumble came from the old woman’s stomach and echoed off the cave walls. “I am hungry! What makes the biscuits so good?”

“They are made with love,” Moya said, smiling, and thinking about Aideen pulling them out of the pan over the hearth. Aideen was a finest friend Moya had ever had. She hoped that Elizabeth would be able to find friendship like that.

“Love,” the Bean Nighe said. “That is the stuff of fantasy! We will see if I will be able to taste this love you speak of in those biscuits.” There was more splashing as the Bean Nighe waddled about. “Very well, let’s get on with it. What’s your second wish?”

Moya leaned on the walking stick again. She was shivering uncontrollably. “I wish for you to tell me how to keep my bloodline safe from the Gancanagh.”

The Bean Nighe clapped her hands. “A wish that is a question! I have never had that before!” She cackled, suddenly inches away from Moya’s face.

Moya clutched the biscuits, trying to steady herself. It wouldn’t do to fall at a time like this. “Answer my wish, crone,” she spit out through chattering teeth. It was disconcerting, not knowing where the Bean Nighe was in the darkness, but Moya held strong, staring straight ahead.

Suddenly, there was a rustling above her upon the ledge. Moya hated how the Bean Nighe moved about, suddenly one place and then another. A shower of pebbles rained down on Moya and plopped into the water. “A trade must be made,” the Bean Nighe said. “A life taken. The oldest surviving female of the bloodline must sacrifice herself for the sake of the others.” She giggled from above and continued, “That’s you. You are the eldest! If you die of disease, accident, or old age, Lil will be the eldest who must sacrifice and so on.”

Moya sucked in her breath and grabbed tightly onto John’s walking stick. She closed her eyes. It was as she feared. This was why she couldn’t picture her granddaughter’s birth, she wasn’t to be present at it. Her heart thundered in her chest and for a moment she no longer felt cold but more alive than she had ever felt.

Constantly moving, the Bean Nighe continued from several yards away. “Sacrificial love repels the Gancanagh. He doesn’t understand it, becomes confused, and moves on. That is the only way the curse may be broken. The Gancanagh cannot be killed, but the old ways dictate that he may not touch your family if the eldest female is sacrificed, and since I doubt very much you have an older sister or a living mother--”

Fleshy lips suddenly pressed into Moya’s ear, “How would you like to die?”

“Right here, right now in this cave,” Moya said bravely. “There is no need to put off what needs to be done.”

The Bean Nighe cackled with glee.

“That was your third question, so I will have my third wish now.”

“What?” The Bean Nighe was back on the ledge behind her. “Ach! I am tricked again! Very well, but first the biscuits.”

Moya tossed the biscuits up onto the ledge. Then she leaned on the walking stick. She closed her eyes and remembered John’s warm embrace and his scratchy whiskers upon her cheek when he whispered into her ear. John was a good husband. There was a hollow place in her chest from missing him. She remembered Elizabeth as wee lass, holding the wool for the loom. She remembered asking her what life was, and how she smiled with the realization that Elizabeth had found the answer. Elizabeth’s happiness was everything to Moya, and she felt at peace with her decision. She was ready to roam towards the sun. She was ready to find her husband.

“For my final wish, I wish that nothing can be done to stop this sacrifice that will save my bloodline.”

The Bean Nighe stared at her. “You wish for your own death, how touching. Very well.”

All of a sudden Moya felt fingers slide up and around her thighs, squeezing them tight, holding her fast. She tried to take a step and found that she was rooted into her spot. She almost dropped the walking stick and tottered. When she regained her balance, she felt what was grabbing at her legs. Some sort of rope, she thought feeling the cords with her free hand. No, she realized, they were vines or roots, wrapping tightly around her. They quickly grew up around her waist and around the walking stick. Her fingers felt the strange plants in the darkness. They had fuzzy little fiddleheads that kept opening and twisting in search of something to grab onto. They attached themselves to her fingers, gripping tightly. She could not move.

“It is done,” the Bean Nighe said. “When the rains come, this cave will fill with water, and you will go to a watery grave.” Moya could hear her unwrapping the biscuits in the darkness. There was a wet splash as she tossed the handkerchief aside. Ravenous chewing noises filled the cave as the Bean Nighe stuffed the biscuits into her mouth, crumbs plinking into the water softly. Then the washer woman screamed. It was a scream of utter disappointment, a scream of denied dreams, a miserable hollow scream of a person unfulfilled.

“Curse you!” the Bean Nighe hollered. “I can’t taste them! I can’t taste them!” Moya could hear her stamping her great webbed feet up on the ledge, more pebbles and dirt raining down on her from above. “I have forgotten how to taste! Curse you!” With that, the Bean Nighe was gone, leaving Moya in silence and darkness, tangled in vines, shivering and awaiting the rain.

Continue to Chapter 33.

If you care to tip or make a small donation to the author, Laura Ellis, AKA WiseWomanWickedTongue, it is always appreciated but never necessary. Donate here.

Jacob’s Mother is an original publication by Laura Ellis. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law and fair use.