exhaustedly I stand up, grab the wooden spoon and beat the little daemons back.
*
I am re-dressing Sorcha O'Floinn's toe when she wakes.
“Ah Morna! Thank the Lord ye're still here,” she rasps, clutching her breast.
“My name is Lisbeth,” I correct her immediately yet gently.
She eyes me suspiciously and licks her lips, “Mebbes, mebbes not.”
I tear the lace cuff off my left sleeve and wrap it around the stump of her toe. She cringes.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
“Ya have Morna's eyes ya know. No-one have I ever seen had the eyes of the crow. Black as can be, dark as the devil,” she rasps, staring.
“Perhaps. But do I have her hair? Her skin? Her shape? Her hands?”
I throw the dirty rag onto the fire then return to the bed and perch on the edge by her elbow.
“Look,” I say, “look closely at me. Look at my hands. Are they the same as Morna's?”
She grabs my hands and squeezes them so hard that I wince but allow her to pull them up to her face.
“Exactly the same, nails and all,” she says and slaps them away, “ah ha! Ya are Morna! I knew it!”
I shake my head, “No. I am not. I am Elisabeth Jane Cutteridge.”
She chuckles darkly, “Ah go on then Morna me dear! Tell me ye made up tales if it pleases ya. Try to convince me ye're not who ye're. It will do no good, but ya can try if it means that much to ya!”
I inhale deeply, “Okay. My name is Elisabeth. I am recently turned eighteen. I have a little brother called Edward and,” I hesitate, reluctant to mention Father, “and a little while hitherto my family moved to Blackened Cottage which is just beyond these woods.”
“Ah ha. And why did ya come all this way out here? How did ya know where I live?”
“I was running away and I just happened to come across this clearing.”
“And why was ya runnin'? Did ya do sumthin' bad?”
I shake my head, “Oh no. My Father wants to send me away and I do not wish to go. Also, I need to find my little brother.”
Sorcha O'Floinn lowers her head and nods. My heart lifts – she believes me! Perhaps I could find a confidant in her. Perhaps she could advise me how to journey to the nearest village.
But she jerks her head up, eyes ablaze, bloodshot. Saliva frothing at the corners of her shrivelled lips, “And leprechauns might fly! Ya nasty little liar! I know ye're Morna. I know ye're her and I knew it the minute I set eyes on ya!”
I feel as if I have been slapped. I step away from the bed, “Please, Sorcha, please try to see sense! How long ago did Morna leave? What happened to her?”
“Sorcha? How dare ya call me that! Ya little rascal! If ya call me that again, ya'll see the back of my hand ya will. Ya were always such a nasty little ting. 'Tis a wonder I want ya back at all, so it is! Now be gone with ya! Be gone!”
“I am not leaving,” I argue, “not until your wound has healed and you can walk again.”
Trembling with rage she points a withered, shaking finger at me, “Come near me and I shall kick and scream and bite and hit. I shall beat the devil out of ya again, just like before! I shall beat ya and beat ya and beat ya until...”
She freezes, clutches her hand to her heart.
I sense she has struck upon something, a memory, something she has buried deep until now.
I give her a nudge, “Until what?”
Her eyes glaze. Memories are floating in her inner eye. Heinous, hideous, dark memories. Suddenly she screams, “NOOOOOOO! MORNA, NOOOOOO!”
She buries her head in her hands and frantically tears at her wispy hair, “How could I? How could I? How could I? How could I? How could I? How could I?”
She repeats the phrase over and over, tearing at handfuls of white strands, rocking, trembling.
I try to calm her, “Sorcha. Listen to me. What is done is done and cannot be undone. You must stop,” I say, approaching the bed. But she lashes out at me, spitting and snarling like a wolf.
“GO! Leave me and never come back! Ye're here to haunt me
*
I am re-dressing Sorcha O'Floinn's toe when she wakes.
“Ah Morna! Thank the Lord ye're still here,” she rasps, clutching her breast.
“My name is Lisbeth,” I correct her immediately yet gently.
She eyes me suspiciously and licks her lips, “Mebbes, mebbes not.”
I tear the lace cuff off my left sleeve and wrap it around the stump of her toe. She cringes.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
“Ya have Morna's eyes ya know. No-one have I ever seen had the eyes of the crow. Black as can be, dark as the devil,” she rasps, staring.
“Perhaps. But do I have her hair? Her skin? Her shape? Her hands?”
I throw the dirty rag onto the fire then return to the bed and perch on the edge by her elbow.
“Look,” I say, “look closely at me. Look at my hands. Are they the same as Morna's?”
She grabs my hands and squeezes them so hard that I wince but allow her to pull them up to her face.
“Exactly the same, nails and all,” she says and slaps them away, “ah ha! Ya are Morna! I knew it!”
I shake my head, “No. I am not. I am Elisabeth Jane Cutteridge.”
She chuckles darkly, “Ah go on then Morna me dear! Tell me ye made up tales if it pleases ya. Try to convince me ye're not who ye're. It will do no good, but ya can try if it means that much to ya!”
I inhale deeply, “Okay. My name is Elisabeth. I am recently turned eighteen. I have a little brother called Edward and,” I hesitate, reluctant to mention Father, “and a little while hitherto my family moved to Blackened Cottage which is just beyond these woods.”
“Ah ha. And why did ya come all this way out here? How did ya know where I live?”
“I was running away and I just happened to come across this clearing.”
“And why was ya runnin'? Did ya do sumthin' bad?”
I shake my head, “Oh no. My Father wants to send me away and I do not wish to go. Also, I need to find my little brother.”
Sorcha O'Floinn lowers her head and nods. My heart lifts – she believes me! Perhaps I could find a confidant in her. Perhaps she could advise me how to journey to the nearest village.
But she jerks her head up, eyes ablaze, bloodshot. Saliva frothing at the corners of her shrivelled lips, “And leprechauns might fly! Ya nasty little liar! I know ye're Morna. I know ye're her and I knew it the minute I set eyes on ya!”
I feel as if I have been slapped. I step away from the bed, “Please, Sorcha, please try to see sense! How long ago did Morna leave? What happened to her?”
“Sorcha? How dare ya call me that! Ya little rascal! If ya call me that again, ya'll see the back of my hand ya will. Ya were always such a nasty little ting. 'Tis a wonder I want ya back at all, so it is! Now be gone with ya! Be gone!”
“I am not leaving,” I argue, “not until your wound has healed and you can walk again.”
Trembling with rage she points a withered, shaking finger at me, “Come near me and I shall kick and scream and bite and hit. I shall beat the devil out of ya again, just like before! I shall beat ya and beat ya and beat ya until...”
She freezes, clutches her hand to her heart.
I sense she has struck upon something, a memory, something she has buried deep until now.
I give her a nudge, “Until what?”
Her eyes glaze. Memories are floating in her inner eye. Heinous, hideous, dark memories. Suddenly she screams, “NOOOOOOO! MORNA, NOOOOOO!”
She buries her head in her hands and frantically tears at her wispy hair, “How could I? How could I? How could I? How could I? How could I? How could I?”
She repeats the phrase over and over, tearing at handfuls of white strands, rocking, trembling.
I try to calm her, “Sorcha. Listen to me. What is done is done and cannot be undone. You must stop,” I say, approaching the bed. But she lashes out at me, spitting and snarling like a wolf.
“GO! Leave me and never come back! Ye're here to haunt me
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