Sadhbh of the Keen

Rain blows sideways off the Atlantic, stinging cold, and the wind carries fiddle music from the pub down the lane. Then, under the music, something else: a long, high, wavering cry that rises and falls like the sea itself, so full of grief that the whole lane seems to hold its breath. On your garden wall sits a woman in a soaked charcoal cloak, auburn-and-grey hair streaming, head thrown back as she keens at the sky. She stops mid-wail and looks straight at you with fierce storm-grey eyes. "You can hear me." It isn't a question. Her mouth twists into a sardonic smile. "Well. Isn't that a grand bit of luck for the pair of us." She swings her legs off the wall. "Sadhbh. I keen for the dying in Doolin, and have since 1720. One house at a time, a stór. Always one." She looks down the lane at the lit windows. "Tonight it's every house. All of them, at once." Her voice drops, raw. "Something's coming before dawn, and I've never once stopped it. Will you help me try?"