The Raiselig Dossier: At the River Wide

The boy’s name was Edvin Coineagan, and little else is known about him.

That is, little else is known by the mortal men and women who tell the tale. More is known by the wise and learned Scriveners, for it is their tale as well, and their methods of telling tales are mysterious and inscrutable.

There are countless things we do not know of the boy; such as what brought him to the misty moor that dark morning, what caused his breath to come in ragged sobs, and perhaps why he chose to run towards the woman when she looked at him, and not flee.

For many is the man who would have run upon seeing the glowing eyes of the Bean-Nighe. She looked up from the river stream where her hands gripped her bloody cloth, glowing yellow through the fog. Beneath those bulbous orbs, a wide fish-like mouth full of ivory teeth and ichorous salivary secretions. Her leathery arms reached out for him, a howl on the foul woman’s lips as she leapt, sopping cloth like a whip in her clawing hands.

Many a man who would call Edvin a fool for what he did, but all the same did he run pell-mell at the beastly hag, howling himself as he dove away from her lashing wash. Her torn claws did not cut his skin, nor did the wound fabric carve to his bone; perhaps, they say, the boy was a pig-farmer and knew how to dive and roll fit enough to catch a well greased hog while avoiding their goring tusks.

Perhaps, others say, the boy remembered the tales told over his cot by his mother or his nanny, of the only way to escape the Bean-Nighe, once her yellowed globes with silky rheums lighted on his lanky form.

He roared as she hissed, dove as she whipped, and charged as she reared back to strike. On and on they fought, contending for the boy’s flesh and soul, until at last Edvin saw a single chance, and lunged for the water’s edge.

Into the mud he fell, his fingers brushing the grass as the Howling beast caught his shirt in her gnarled nails.

“Foolish boy,” she hissed with glee, dragging the squirming lad back across the dirt. “Did you think you could get past me, when it was your very shirt I was washing in the stream? Now, I think, I shall have that shirt off your back, and then the skin off your bones. Quickly, now, for I will have to wash your shirt for a second time, come the end of my meal.”

Oh, how the boy did howl, then; not for mercy nor for justice, for there was none to be found in the foul woman’s laugh, but because he was caught, and it is the nature of animals to cry out when they become prey. A warning to others to stay away, some say. Others, an attack on the predator’s ears, an intention to spoil the meal so to drive the carnivorous victor to end their meal’s suffering, if only to silence their painful caterwauling.

But his cry was cut short, as was the Bean-Nighe’s meal, when a voice spoke up from across the stream: “I’m afraid not, good washer-woman.”

At the smooth voice, the Bean-Nighe hissed afresh, her eyes narrowing through the fog. “What say you?” She spat fresh venom. “Show your flesh, my little child, that I might claim two meals this morn, and feast well to the jealousy of my sisters.”

The mists did part, then, though by no being’s hand, to reveal a slim figure sitting on a rock. At their side lay a yellowwood cabinet of ornate design, and on their lap lay a plank of wood with a piece of paper upon which a thin pencil danced back and forth. The being wore a black suit and bowler hat, though blacker still was the being’s skin. It paid the two no mind as it wrote, pausing only once to press the pencil against its lips in a calm and thoughtful manner, as if a thought was playing about its mind, searching for a proper word to encapsulate it.

The Bean-Nighe did not speak at first, for it recognized the being and its purpose. Edvin, however, was a simple lad, and thus did not know who sat and watched from their lofty perch. “Good madam!” The boy cried, for the voice had been soft and lilting, like no man’s voice he had ever heard, “I beg for your assistance! This beastly woman seeks to claim me for her meal, and I have no wish to be et.”

The being looked up with flashing blue eyes, as bright and fiery as the sun, and addressed the lad with consummate professionalism. “I am no madam, Edvin Coineagan. And while I have no doubt of your captor’s intentions, it is of little matter, as the conditions of your immediate freedom have already been met.”

“Scrivener,” burbled the Bean-Nighe, for it was indeed a Scrivener who addressed them both, “I protest your claim. My claws were swift, and I caught the lad fair and square. It was his bloody shirt I washed, so I had claim. He did not touch the water of the stream, and so his body is mine to feast upon. You cannot dispute these facts.”

The Scrivener pinched the bridge of its nose, gently, heaving a small sigh. “I dispute only your final claim, for the water of the stream does indeed coat his finger. A tiny splash from an errant eddy, but drop enough to seal his freedom from your claws.” The burning eyes flickered. “For now.”

Edvin did not understand these words, and so was surprised when the Bean-Nighe hissed once more before dropping his aching leg into the mud.

His freedom thus attained, the boy crawled upright and ran once more for the water. His aching limbs could scarcely feel the chill as he splashed across the stream and reached the other side. There he sank to the muddy bank once more, gasping for breath.

“I have reached the other side,” he said, to reassure himself it was true. “You cannot touch me, fiend.”

“Foolish boy,” the fish-lipped sneer of the hag chilled his bones afresh. “Think you I could not cross a stream to claim my meal? It is not the crossing that saves you, but the touching of the stream’s edge. Had you but crossed a bridge I could have followed, and even now I would be tasting your sweet blood.”

“This is true,” the Scrivener nodded. “And now I am here to observe the exchange.”

“What exchange?” Edvin asked. The poor lad was feeling quite out-to-sea, as he had thought the legend quite clear; no washing-hag could cross the running stream in which she cleaned her clothes, and this was how one could escape her teeth. But no! The Bean-Nighe was, even now, lifting her seaweed dress and slapping her broad feet into the stream, crossing to the other side as slow and steady as you like!

“Remain calm,” the Scrivener spoke as Edvin prepared to run again. “She cannot hurt you now.”

“Yet,” Edvin spoke, staring at the black-skinned being. “You said I was safe for now. What did you mean by that?”

The Scrivener opened their mouth, and then closed it again at the Bean-Nighe’s croak: “speak no more, Scrivener, lest I complain of your partiality. As for you, succulent morsel, let us begin. I have much washing to do and I grow ever hungrier.”

“Begin what?” Poor Edvin asked, looking between the two otherworldly beings. “What magic is this, Scrivener? I know I have the right to an explanation, and you may give it me as well as any other.”

“Know this, do you?” the hissing croak was almost a laugh. “What do you know, fool flesh? Think you so clever as to know the workings of the land’s magics? When you do not know a single magic word or ritual, think yourself clever? Think yourself wise?”

“I think myself fair,” Edvin said. “I think myself not afraid to take any challenge or test put to me, but it is no fair test if one side does not know the rules. Once already I have been spared by my fortune, rather than my wisdom, and I would not risk my neck in such manner again.”

The Bean-Nighe grumbled and groaned until Edvin spoke once more; “And the sooner I know what I am to do, the sooner you can get about trying to take my life and flesh from me.”

At this, the Bean Nighe clapped her broad lips shut and crossed her gnarled legs in disgust. Her yellowed eyes glaring at him from atop the shapeless head. She hissed and tossed her head, her wet hair slapping against her fetid skin.

“Very well,” the Scrivener spoke once more: “You reached the water’s edge before the washer-woman caught you. Thus, her claim to your flesh is broken, and you both are bound, forced to commence a ritual to decide who receives their reward.”

“What ritual is this,” Edvin asked, “and will I be eaten once it is finished? Can I escape this creature, or am I doomed to be her meal?”

“Fagh,” the Bean-Nighe sneered. “If you break the contract, then yes, your flesh, blood, and bones will be mine. If not, you will be allowed to return to your village, as free as you ever were.”

“What contract is this?”

“A claim,” the Scrivener pulled a piece of paper to their eye. “Made some centuries hence. Not a kindly claim, either, but precedent is rarely kind. As you, the claimant party, have reached the edge of the defendant’s stream, you now have — pursuant to paragraph three, subparagraph two — a claim to three of your deepest desires.”

“I get three wishes?” Edvin spoke, his mouth agape at the fortune that had fallen into his damp lap.

“No,” the Scrivener held up their pencil like a sword. “Deepest desires. These are not wishes, nor boons. While you may not see the difference, I assure you the law surrounding these terms has been established over centuries.”

“And not,” the Bean-Nighe burbled mirthfully, “if you do not give me my due.”

“Yes,” the Scrivener cleared their throat. “These desires shall be given only if you answer — truthfully, mind — the Bean-Nighe’s three questions. If you are sound in your answers, the bond will be kept, and your three deepest desires shall be given to you.”

Edvin grinned, for he had never expected such good luck. Answer three questions and earn three desires? Truly, his life was finally turning around! “Ask your questions then, hag,” Edvin swung his arms wide. “Though I warn you to keep a swift tongue in your head. I am a poet by inclination, and truths of a deep and abiding nature are my stock. Come, give me your first question.”

“I haven’t decided, yet,” the Bean-Nighe muttered. The gnarled clawed hands danced over each other like writhing eels. Her yellow eyes darted left and right across the stream, like she was looking for her question in the flow of water. Her lips flopped about as she tasted words on her tongue before speaking them.

Then the hag looked up. “My first question, boy-chick, is this. Do you love her?”

Now Edvin’s mouth popped open, as fish-like as the hag’s gaping maw. He babbled and stammered for but a moment before the Bean-Nighe waved her claws at him with impatient grace. “Cease your amazement, morsel. Do you think it strange I know many things, when I washed the very shirt on your back free of blood before our eyes even met? I asked my question, now give me my answer!”

Edvin looked to the Scrivener, hoping for some look or comment that might guide his response to the monster’s strange query, but the piercing blue flames did not look up from the parchment lying on their lap-desk.

He looked back at the hag, her yellow eyes glowing through the fog. What mattered his shame now? Would such a beast ever come to the village, order a drink at the pub, and share the truths he would now tell her? What power did his shame have over him now, when compared with the promise of his three deepest desires?

“Once I did,” he said. “But when I think of her face I feel only sadness, not love. No, I do not love her now.”

At hearing this answer, the Bean-Nighe shrieked with burbling laughter, beating her clawed fists on the ground and kicking her flabby feet into the air. She rolled in the mud, her hair flying about like soggy seaweed. Her flapping lips clapped in joy as her yellowed orbs glinted afresh in the misty air.

The Scrivener’s pencil scratched on the parchment.

“Eh?” The Bean-Nighe stopped her mirth, crouching on all fours like a frog. “What’s this?”

“Carry on,” the Scrivener gestured with a lazy hand.

“I protest,” the hag croaked. “I protest!”

With a small sigh, the Scrivener folded their hands and addressed the pair. “Love is a many faceted thing. Seen from one direction, it means one thing; from another, another.”

“Phagh,” the Bean-Nighe spat green on the grass. “You can see into his heart the same as I. You know how it beats and aches. You see the stabbing pains and gnawing fears. Speak of a million facets, and still you know the truth!”

“In fact,” the Scrivener smiled gently, “I cannot see into his heart as you can. My purview is the law, and it is the ritual that I perceive. The bond has not yet been broken.”

“I said the truth,” Edvin nodded. “I don’t love her.”

“Now,” the Scrivener raised a finger. “An important word, especially when speaking of emotions. They shift and ebb and flow,” they glanced at the hag, “like a river. This was a sincere answer, no matter what lies at the core of the heart.” They now turned to the Bean-Nighe, whose teeth gnashed and brow furrowed. “Perhaps, if you do not wish to object further, you might use more precise language in your questioning?”

Edvin grinned as the hag snarled and spat. She beat the ground and stamped her feet, but there was no bending the Scrivener’s will. In the end, she could do nothing but sit in the mud with a squelch and glare at Edvin with renewed hunger.

“Think you’re mighty clever, do you boy? Well don’t you worry. Clever boys taste just as juicy as the foolish ones.”

“Yes,” Edvin grinned.

The golden glow flickered as the Bean-Nighe blinked. “Eh?”

“Yes,” Edvin said again, spreading his arms. “I do think I’m mighty clever, in fact. Cleverer than most of the people in town, at least. That’s the second question down.”

Now it was Edvin’s turn to clap his hands in glee, joyful laughter echoing through the muted mists. His mirth was ended, however, when he looked into the Scrivener’s glowing blue eyes. “This is not a game, Edvin,” the Scrivener’s voice was as cold as a disappointed parent. “The very fabric of this world is built on laws of nature and magic. Contracts provide for the transfer of momentum and the curvature of light. The planet revolves around the sun because of precedent. As clever as you may think you are, do not think that you have discovered some trick or loophole that has not long since been litigated and resolved. Your opposing party has not yet asked your her second question.”

The Bean-Nighe burbled in glee. “Clever boy with clever brains taste just as juicy.”

Edvin took a step back, not entirely by choice. The yellow glow was bright through the fog, like two lighthouses warning all who approached of the sharp and jagged doom that loomed beneath them.

“Come then,” Edvin spoke, his fear getting the better of his tongue. “Ask your second question, water-hag. I will answer it as sincerely as I can.”

“Brave boy, clever boy,” the Bean-Nighe’s hands writhed. “Can smell your blood and your flesh, so hungry am I, thought of your second question already, I have. Running you were from your village. Towards the stream. And washing your shirt I was, so I know why. Know I many things about what happened, who said what to whom, how they would not stop with their talk, their natter, their talk. Heughbert, aye? His tongue did wag, did it not? Such things he said.”

“Stop it,” Edvin said. “You know your question, then ask it.”

“Ask it I shall, clever morsel. You run because you are searching. What will make you satisfied?”

Again Edvin’s mouth did open, but no voice came from it. He closed his mouth again. Once more he opened then closed it.

“Well, speak!” the hag croaked. “My stomach cries out to be filled!”

“I will not answer hastily,” Edvin snapped back. “You are trying to anger me, beast, and I will not speak carelessly.”

The snarl from the Bean-Nighe’s lips was all the response Edvin needed. He folded his arms, and began to think.

There were so many answers, but which was the truth? He had not considered which, and so now found himself wholly unprepared to answer. “How long do I have to answer?” he asked.

“Not long,” the Bean-Nighe whispered. “Not long. No time at all, in fact. Answer quick, my meal, quickly now.”

“You have as much time as required,” the Scrivener interjected, “so long as the time is spent in a good faith attempt to formulate an answer. If you procrastinate, delay, or otherwise stall in an effort to draw out your life, you will be considered as operating in bad faith, and the bond will be broken.”

“And my teeth will find their home in your fat and bone,” the Bean-Nighe gurgled. “Answer boy, give me my answer!”

But Edvin would not be hurried. He thought long and hard about what he had felt when he ran from the pub to where he now stood. He thought about his brother, his close friends, the words that had been thrown at him as he ran.

“Satisfaction,” he said at last, “Is an ever distant goal, always just out of reach from even the most driven man or woman. Indeed, it could be said the ambitious among us are least likely to ever be satisfied, but is not the reaching for satisfaction that spurs the ambitious satisfying in itself? Consider too your question uses the past tense: ‘satisfied.’ I have had many a hearty meal that made me ‘satisfied,’ but you use the word make. A mixing of past and future in a heady display of foresight: what will make me feel satisfied. You speak of a thing that will change how I feel about some history. What will change how I see my past, turning it from uncertain anticipation to a relaxed contentment. There is no easy answer.”

“Stalling!” Bubbles formed at the corner of the hag’s mouth. “Stalling! Stalling!”

“Easy or not,” the Scrivener held out a calming hand, “it is an answer you must give.”

Edvin nodded with a smile. “Then I can think of only one answer that covers these many aspects of your question. When I think back over my life I can think of one thing that gnaws at my heart and stomach both, a thing that plagues me, from which I desire respite. And there is one thing only that will grant me the relief I seek, and thus is my answer plain. What will make me satisfied? Justice.”

There was no sound from the Bean-Nighe, save a strange click from her throat as she turned to the Scrivener. The dark figure waved their hand in a circle. “Expand, please.”

Edvin blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Justice,” the Scrivener continued, “is a difficult term to pin down in case law. So many say justice when they mean vengeance. Others believe justice only exists if it does not inconvenience themselves. Still others believe in some amorphous form of justice that exists beyond the laws of their own country. Perhaps most galling are those who use justice to mean, simply, being satisfied; so you must understand in this case why ‘Justice’ is,” the blue lights flared, “in fact, not an answer.”

Edvin nodded as the Bean-Nighe licked her lips. “Then say understanding. Acceptance. If they knew, if they just knew what it was like for me…” his voice trailed off.

“Yes?” The Scrivener leaned forward.

“Then I would see it,” Edvin said at last. “When they looked at me, and whispered behind their hands, I would see it in their eyes. They wouldn’t scorn or pity me, they’d understand. Then…” he paused. “No, that’s it. That would be satisfying enough for me. Just to see it in their eyes.”

For a moment there was no movement between the three figures, save the soft whisper of breeze that stirred the mists about. Then, the Scrivener gave a nod and scribbled on their parchment.

There would never be a record of the Scrivener’s thoughts, as for there to be otherwise would threaten the impartiality that weighted their actions with significance. Had a record been kept, however, it might have noted that the Scrivener had found some sympathy with Edvin and his need to be understood.

But it was a passing fancy, and soon suppressed by the Bean-Nighe’s croaking cough. “I suppose you think that answer enough?”

“Satisfactory,” the Scrivener finished scribbling on the page. “You may continue.”

The Bean-Nighe stared at Edvin, and Edvin stared back. His heart beat fast as the third and final question danced between them, the only obstacle between him and his deepest desires. He licked his lips in anticipation.

At last, the wet-haired hag opened her lips, sharp teeth clicking as she spoke; “What are your three deepest desires?”

Proud Edvin, so elated was he to be given such an easy question! Though he thought long and hard to be sure, he had no difficulty in finding he three deepest desires and sharing them aloud.

He was poetic indeed, and so he extolled the virtues and delights of his choices at length, pinpointing each and every reason why his desires were deep and meaningful. He detailed how his each desire would provide for him and his as long as he wished, and how his desires were more than simply whims or wishes, but passions.

He spoke with such beauty, that even the Scrivener began to reconsider their own desires.

When the boy finished, the Scrivener wrote his answer down on the scroll, and finalized the last clause.

It was over, save for the tidying up. There were phrases that needed to close the contract, and signatures in triplicate. Copies needed to be made and distributed. But, and this was the important bit, the proper procedure had been followed.

The Scrivener finished the paper, and sealed the bottom with wax. Opening their cabinet, they slipped the paper into one of its many files, and replaced the wax and pencil into their proper places.

The Bean-Nighe had been hungry, and so no sooner had the Scrivener finished closing the cabinet, her meal was finished.

“Do you want a taste?”

The Scrivener turned at the hissing suggestion, eyes burning bright. “I beg your pardon?”

“Plenty of blood still left,” the Bean-Nighe slurped a snake-like tongue around her bulbous lips. “Not much longer, though. I know, silly Scrivener, I know who you were. Knew you before you were this, I did. We all did.”

The Scrivener turned back to their cabinet, locking the doors. “That was a cruel last question, I think,” they said to the hag, their impartiality now no longer needed.

“Think you so, Scrivener?” the Bean-Nighe picked at its teeth with a long claw. “But cruelty is not in conflict with the bond. I could perhaps have been crueler still and asked a question which had no true answer. Pgha! A poet? The boy spent so much time looking for truth outside in the world that he never once thought to look inside. To know himself! Cruel? Perhaps. I think it crueler to let a fool like that live, forever a stranger to himself.”

The Scrivener shrugged as they lifted their cabinet onto their back. “Some might say we can never truly know ourselves. Some might say there was no answer to your question.”

“You might say, Doodslig,” the Bean-Nighe spat.

The Scrivener turned, blue eyes as bright as novae. “That is not my name.”

“No,” the burbling laughter of the washer-woman churned through the air. “More fitting than Raiselig, I think. But do you even have a name, anymore? They took it from you, didn’t they, when you put on your bowler hat and strapped that cabinet to your back?”

“I changed my name,” Raiselig’s voice was cold iron. “The old one did not fit anymore.”

“Didn’t it? Or did the world they forced you into simply have no room for it? You changed your name? Then you changed yourself. You stopped being who you truly are…or were…to take what scraps they offered. When was the last time you glowed, little flame?”

Raiselig adjusted the straps and tipped their hat to the hag before walking off into the mists.

“You will again,” the hag called after them. “You must! It is still inside you, and we cannot stop who we are, no matter what we name ourselves! Know yourself, Scrivener! We can never change who we are on the inside!”

Her warbling calls continued as Raiselig walked, the two yellow lanterns of the Bean-Nighe’s eyes glowing long after her cries faded into the mists.