I hear her before I see her.
I’m making my way along the trickiest section of the path – a faint steep zigzag through the ferns and bracken – when the sound of a woman singing catches my attention.
The song is slow, sad, beautiful yet somehow broken – like the words are drowning in sorrow, too heavy for the singer to bear.
She can’t be far – just a few yards from the path – so I walk as quietly as I can in the direction the song is coming from.
As I draw nearer, I can hear the words more clearly.
Once again the threads pull tight
A promise made, an oath to keep
Rivers of song creep through the night
Flow like the bloodlines she must reap.
Hurry dear one, time is late
Slay him lest he steal your heart
Lay his wretched soul to rest
End the cycle at the start.
We’ll feast upon a
