A Phiuthrag ’s a Phiuthar

Hello, everyone! With finals week right at my doorstep, I'm going to be extremely busy (😭). With my English portfolio completed, I've decided to post the pieces here! This flash fiction piece was one of the first I ever wrote for the class. It was inspired by one of my close friend's who traveled to Ireland and brought me back a beautiful amethyst necklace (if you're reading this, love you pookie!). Hope you enjoy!

A Phiuthrag 's a Phiuthar

The thick stench of wet smoke and rain burned my nostrils as I approached the banshee, her violet cloak obscuring her face. Deafening cries erupted from the figure, heralding the imminent demise of one unlucky soul. My thoughts wandered to my sister, bedridden and pale.

As I came to a standstill in front of the specter before me, a timid yet daring plea left my mouth.

“Can you help me?”

As suddenly as her wails began, the spirit stopped. Silence settled, thick and heavy, until all I could hear was the pounding of my heart. As if in slow motion, the phantom brought her pale hands to the hood of her cloak, inching it down. Fear tightened around my heart in a vice grip, but I tried to maintain a brave face. Her pale face was gaunt, stretched tight over bone. Each crevice and groove carved deep into her skin. Long silver locks fell down her back, curling slightly around her face. 

But what froze me in place was her eyes. 

Red as a raw wound from her endless weeping. Her pupils, black as coal, burned into my soul, as if she knew what I was here for.

Part of me screamed to turn back, to accept my sister’s fate and forget this ill-conceived mission. But images of Roísín flashed through my mind. “Not much time left,” the doctor had said.

Pushing past my terror, I braved, “My sister…she’s dying. Please—please make her better”.

The banshee appraised me, crimson eyes locking me in place with an impassive gaze.

With a croaking voice, she replied, “Nothing comes without its price”.

I dropped to my knees, desperation coloring my voice, “Please! I–I'll do anything. Just…just don’t let her die.” The Black Death had arrived at our shores in the past few months. Our neighbors, councilmen, and even livestock succumbed to the devastating malady. By the grace of God Himself, and maybe a stroke of luck, my family had been spared by the disease.

Except Roísín.

It started with a scratch from a stray cat. Roísín, ever the avid animal lover, spent more time with creatures than us. Mammy scolded her, badgered her to clean it, but she only laughed it off and carried on. As time went on, bumps appeared on her body, multiplying at an alarming pace. Repulsive clusters of red and purple overtook her ruddy skin, soon becoming too painful for her to walk. Before long, beak doctors became a common sight at our cottage. I felt helpless as my sister grew weaker.

This was my last resort.

“Do you know what you’re sacrificing?” the specter asked solemnly.

“Yes.”

I was never afraid of the great abyss that lay beyond. Instead of fear, our pastor’s descriptions of death inspired comfort. Like a great hug from the Angel himself. I was never particularly outstanding. Always average Saoirse. The younger, meeker version of my sister. Willing to acquiesce where she would persist. Roísín had so much life in her. She deserved to live it fully, in her own way.

The banshee wordlessly extended her hand towards me, quiet admiration dancing around her eyes.

As I took her hand, a numbing cold spread through me. 

Somewhere far away, Roísín’s lungs filled with breath—as I gave my final one.

Slán a dheirfiúr.

XOXO, Michaela