S
E
A
N

While I churn the earth for that cobbled road, an irritating amount of wet snow starts to clump onto my wispy heels. "Arghhh..." Unseen hind molars grind in frustration. A raspy snort of agitation sends frozen vapors to swirl from my snout, creating a cloud of steam to hang in the frigid night air. "Feck...It must be here,” that soft curse rises from my lips like a prayer. Desperation bubbles in the back of my throat. It has to be here. Skyward, the dribbling flurry increases from a drizzle to a tumble – those melting droplets commence with knotting my mane and tail. This summer jacket is bare threaded, a thin shield against the bitter air; though my subconscious is passionately unmindful of how cold and wet this body is rapidly becoming. Ever determined on the task at hand, I continue to feverously push that loose litter aside. Anticipating my prize to become tangible at any moment. A distant consequence, (such as hypothermia,) isn't nearly as important as recovering the sacramental lane.

Each wide rake is followed by another; my saucer size lilacs are stubborn in their resistance to the sickening panic that begins to build within me. "Where is it," I grunt, bitter in the face distress -- and my inability to procure a solution. Aside from the crunching discord my scuffling feet create, the dark forest remains eerily quiet. Even so, I couldn’t be bothered to hear someone approach -- nor could I sense the weight of those intruding eyes studying my frantic search. After living a desolate existence these past few weeks, my guard has become squashed to the point of carelessness. After all...I'd been on the beaten path this whole time without seeing anyone.

There are greater priorities.

At least there was… until a ghostly, purpose shattering voice rings on the stagnate air. Starting, with every nerve suddenly amplified -- I shuffle quickly. These limbs surrender ground; they are torn between flight and fight even as my crown defensively turns to confront her. My intruder, a lithe girl pushes from the ashy wood. She is beautiful...with long legs, a delicate muzzle and striking blue grey eyes. My dismayed attention travels the length of those dark, dangerous curves accenting the front of her body. I relax, subtly -- but that disarming effect is ushered into memory when my subconscious prods me irritably, making me realize that something isn't quite right. Wary violets skip easily to her shoulders and stomach. I’ve already set an expectation to find a pair of folded...wings. There is nothing. I trace that lean spine all the way to splattered ivory. The realization smacks me across the head, leaving me dumbstruck.

She didn't have wings, not a single feather.

Which only left one possibility…

My aversive heart leaps into overdrive and sends an unwelcome concrete knot to the front of my throat. A cold sheen of icy sweat beads under my fur. All island youth are well versed in the stories of creatures such as this...coal black, wingless. Da said that they sometimes appear in the form of a young, beautiful girl. There was no other answer, she has to be a banshee.

While my subconscious is stumbling, mouth agape; grappling with the 'how to' assess and handle the situation -- my snarky soul finds the whole process far too sluggish. Crisp words jolt out, sarcastic to the core, “An bhfuil tú saineolaí ar ifreann?” Chocolate plumes quiver beneath the strap, they strain to remind me of my precarious vulnerability. The damp line of my bearded jaw is set. No turning back now, “Have you come to announce my death, Bean Sidhe?” Audits slice flat against the roof of my head, "I'm not dying tonight," a bold proclamation that sounds much more confident than I currently felt.

Glossary

An bhfuil tú saineolaí ar ifreann – Are you an expert on hell?
Bean Sidhe – Banshee