The Wash

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. At least, they had assumed it had been empty, but the soft glow suggested otherwise. When Sorsha and Olivia had received the letter, crested with the emblem of the notary in Glasgow, the images of the plot of land showed an aerial view of the shabby roof surrounded with an unkempt garden. Their inheritance, they assumed, was unoccupied. Pulling into the crescent shaped parking lot, Shorsha hit the breaks on the rental car as Olivia stopped the Fugazi tape just before it flipped to the B -side.

The sisters had never been to Scotland before, and probably never would have, lest they received a letter from a law office in London informing them that their grandmother had died a few winters prior. Her estate had finally been sorted; the two had inherited a cabin in the Northeastern region of the country.

They had been in their dormitory when the letter arrived.

“Pit-low-chry,” Shorsha read out the name of the town from the letter. Olivia snatched the letter from her hand.

“Not like that. Do it like Mom used to talk. You remember: Pit-loch-ree.” she hacked at the “ch” sound as if she were choking up a hairball. “What are we gonna do with a cabin in the woods in the middle of fucking nowhere?”

Sorsha was doodling in her sketchbook, “Truly? No clue. It does say that we need to go before August 1, otherwise it’ll be sold off in an estate sale.”

“She hated her Mom,” Olivia said, as much into the open refrigerator where she was looking for the rest of the dinner ingredients. “Or at least she must have. I don’t even remember one story about her.” Olivia sliced the carrots lengthwise like she’d seen on Good Morning America. Even though they were in Toronto, they still got the Buffalo channels if the weather was good.

“Me neither, just that she had to leave them when she was pretty young,” Sorsha twirled the pad around to show to Olivia the sketch; a pencil drawn cabin covered in ivy and moss.

**********************************

By the time they pulled up to the cabin’s front door it was mid-July. They’d hummed and hawed over accepting the deed, but after speaking with their father, who knew exceptionally very little about his late wife’s family, they decided to go ahead with it. He’d told them to at least go look at it. Then they could decide if they wanted to sign the papers. Once it was in their name, he’d said, they could hold onto it in case they ever wanted to go back, or sell it someday. Plus, he’d insisted, it would be a great opportunity to connect with ‘that side of the family’- the side they’d never even heard of before. So, after two flights, a night in a dirty hostel in Aberdeen and now the car ride through the country roads built for cattle, they stared at on another, fully confused. The house did not look abandoned in the slightest.

Rain came down in a drizzle against the windshield; The air was as soggy as a damp woolen shall. One could only imagine the propensity for mould that would spawn and grow if given the chance. And, given the chance was exactly what the two were expecting- a decrepit old house filled with cobwebs and old cauldrons. But the windows burned with a soft glow. The chimney expelled a warm scent of burning fur.

“1190,” Olivia read from the letter. She unfolded the map again. “This has to be it.” Her voice intoned upwards.

“Very weird. Okay, well let’s at least go knock. If nothing else I really really have to pee, so I might just ask to use the bathroom,” Sorsha said, opening the door of the Tercel.

Lush sword ferns exploded out from the moss bed beneath their feet in a riot of deep green. Beads of water hung suspended on the tendrils of the cabin’s ivy, causing the whole house to sparkle. The ground underneath their feet felt spongy, as if with each step they might lose a limb to whatever illustrious underworld was thriving beneath the forest floor. Sorsha raised a hand to knock on the aged wood of the door, and almost instantaneously, the door swung open.

“Yes?” A woman with a face like shriveled apple stood before them. She had an orange shall hanging limply from shoulder to shoulder, and a flower patterned dress that recalled the pale blue of a bouquet of baby’s breath, “May I help you?”

The two girls shifted awkwardly. Their jean cut-offs and flannel shirts felt from a different century. Olivia spoke first.

“We’re actually looking for a cabin in this area, it belonged to our family, our grandmother, specifically. Layla Dalton? It’s supposed to be...” The woman cut her off with a guttural laugh.

“It’s supposed to be right here! I’m Layla. Come in girls, come in.” She opened the door to the warmth of the cabin, a small dog asleep on an oval mat in front of the fireplace. Copper pots and pans hung from a blackened wood stove. Herbs dried on nails hung in every crevice, making it difficult to see the ceiling.

“Layla Dalton,” she repeated, “That’s me. Would you like some pound cake? Just out of the oven.” She picked up a cast iron pan and began to cut the white cake into triangular slices. “And you, lassies, you two are Helen’s girls.”

The two girls stiffened- they weren't used to hearing her mother’s name aloud.

“Oh yes, I’m glad you came. Wasn’t sure if the date was going to work, writing that you had to be here by the grain moon. Your mother, how is she? You know she would never come see me herself, you know. Would you like a fork for that?”

She was looking at Olivia, who had nearly inhaled the cake. It was so moist, so buttery, she could hardly stop.

“Wait, you? What do you mean she’d..” Sorsha hadn’t even tried the cake, she was so overwhelmed. “You sent for us?”

“And why not? Why act so surprised? Bless ya luv, but I needed to see yas before I go,” she replied. “And plus, I wanted to say goodbye to Helen, one last time, before I go.”

Olivia swallowed back the last, final piece of cake. “Our mom is dead.” She hadn’t meant for it to come out so abruptly, but when she did, she saw the old woman deflate slightly.

“She died twelve years ago,” Sorsha interrupted, trying to soften the news.

The old woman started to remove the shall from around her shoulders, exposing damp, red circles around her breasts. She began unbuttoning the dress, exposing her flesh where the mounds of her chest should be. Instead, the skin was inflamed with puffy sores and yellow, necrotic puss.

“Wow,” Olivia exclaimed, holding her hand to her mouth and turning around. Sorsha stared at the woman intently, not moving her eyes.

“Layla,” she asked, “What is on your chest? How long have you had this infection for?”

Layla didn’t respond, she just stared into the fire.

“Layla?” Sorsha said again.

“Loves, I think it’s time you head upstairs for a little sleep,” Layla looked over at them. “I need to rest myself.” She picked up a jar with something green inside and began to lather it over her chest. “Top of the stairs, to the right. There’s a bedroom with two single beds. I’ll be asleep down here.”

The two stared at one another in confusion.

“No problem,” Sorsha said, making for the staircase. Olivia grabbed her arm.

“No fucking way man,” Olivia proclaimed in a hushed tone.

“Liv, I’m exhausted. Can we just sleep? We’ll figure this out in the morning.”

Olivia rolled her eyes and the two climbed the creaky stares to the wooden room. They kicked off their shoes and each took a bed, falling asleep to the sound of the woman’s sighs.

The morning sparkled with a sunshine that differed completely from the soggy dusk. The window between the two beds was shaded out by the bright red berries of a mountain ash. A small warbler was picking at the seeds. Sorsha was stretching her hands over her head when a pillow from Olivia’s side of the window hit her in the face.

“I cannot believe you made me sleep here,” Olivia said when Sorsha pulled the pillow from her face in annoyance.

“I’m sorry, next time I’ll make sure to reserve at the Hilton,” Sorsha responded.

“What’s our game plan though?” Olivia asked while staring out the window, her body tensed awkwardly on one shoulder and against the wooden wall.

“Let’s spend the day and see how it goes. I mean, I guess now we don’t have to make it to that lawyer’s meeting in Glasgow on Thursday,” Shorsha said. They had made a plan to sign the deed over into their names.

“Okay, but can we like, walk around or something? I need to think about this outside of the creepy cabin.”

The two tiptoed down the narrow stairs and saw that the woman was still asleep in the green chair, her back towards them as she faced the fire place. They worked around the small space, Olivia grabbing a dry peace of dense bread from a hanging basket and cutting it up by the fireplace. She felt a small draft coming from a door just beyond, a door she hadn’t noticed the night previous. She nudged Sorsha, and motioned to open it. She noticed it had been imperceivable- it’s hinges and edges seemed almost deliberately covered with dried leaves arranged methodically in a crisscross pattern, tiny red berries dried on the stem.

She pressed against the dark wood. A draft of acrid air wafted out from the darkened room.

“Do NOT go in there,” a voice startled the two girls. They looked back to see Layla standing from her chair.

“Sorry,” Sorsha retorted quickly. “We were just looking for the bathroom.”

The woman walked swiftly over to the door, moving the plants back to the edges, as if sealing the room.

“Bathroom is outside if you need it,” she sat back down in the green chair.

“Okay, I think we’ll also head into town for a little walk. How do we get there?” Olivia asked.

“Along the deer path, follow the ferns, turn right at the bridge and you’ll be at the grocery in no time,” the woman answered. They were expecting road names and left and rights, but didn’t feel like asking a second time. Plus, neither was sure that the old woman even knew what cars looked like, let alone how to drive them.

The mossy forest was almost golden in the sunlight, and away from the cabin, they felt more free to talk.

“This is, this is just wacky though, Sorsh. Couldn’t she have just called us instead of manipulating us into flying across the ocean?” Olivia asked.

“Does it look like she had a landline in their?” Sorsha retorted, “I mean, I get you, I understand, but also she doesn’t seem well, does she? I don’t think she’s really all there.”

Suddenly in the distance, a voice rang out, deep and rumbling. Neither of them said anything, just walked forward along the path to the point where they could see an old stone bridge, so old it looked that it too was growing from the peaty ground, like the ivory and moss covering its facade.

As they approached, they noticed a small figure hunching at the bank of the small river, their small feet lightly submersed within the shallow water. A cloud of dark brown was billowing out from the cream cloth that the figure dragged meticulously through the water- back and forth, the low voice repeating the same phrase.

“Layla Dalton. Layyyyylaaaaa Dawwwwlton.” The figure dragged the name out like the cloth through the water. As they approached, the figure looked up at them. A woman, her grey long hair braided and hanging on either side, dripping into the water. Her breasts hung just as low, they could tell, through the browning cloth covering her body. She raised her head, looking directly towards but completely past the two girls, repeating the name of their recently recovered grandmother.

“Layyylllaaa, Layyla Dawlton,” she repeated.

Olivia ran across the bridge to approach the woman, Sorsha following behind her.

“Excuse me? Um, excuse me?” Olivia said, wanting to ask what she knew of her grandmother. The woman didn’t budge. Sorsha tried another approach.

‘Ma’am?” She inquired, “Are you alright.”

She pushed the cloth back and forth through the light current, a cloud of deep red emanating from the fabric. Blood.

“Sorsh, can we..?” Olivia started.

“Yep,” she replied, and they began to run.

****************************

The clearing into the town was only a few hundred meters from the woods and when they saw the sign that read GROCERY they slowed to a slight jog. Catching their breath, they perused through the aisles of the building, the only modern thing they’d seen since getting out of the car. Sorsha picked out an assortment of chocolates while Olivia fiddled with some cake packaging, trying to discern if they were adequately sweetened, not like the dry oatcakes she’d mistakenly purchased at the airport. The teenager at the counter was glaring at them sidelong.

“Jesus, this kid think we’re trying to pocket this stuff?” Sorsha asked.

“Nah, just never seen any city kids before,” Olivia said. As she finished her sentence, a flash of lightening shot through the store before a rumble reverberated everywhere. Outside, the sky had darkened and rain hitting the window in sheets.

“Aghk. Could this place just chill the fuck out?” she mumbled, before walking up to the teenager, his head turned awkwardly as if he hadn’t been staring.

“Hey!” she interrupted, “Do you know how far it is by rode to get to 1190 Pitlochry? We walked here through the forest but with all the lightening, we’re a bit spooked.”

The kid looked up, picking up the items that she had piled on the counter. “That’s pretty far. And random. But if you are going there, your best bet is to get in with the post driver. He does a route through there everyday,” he turned backwards towards the clock. “Leaves in three quarters of an hour. Twelve quid for the snacks.”

The two paid the tab and carried their goods across the road, past a small gas station and a few houses until they got to the small building reading “Post.” The pushed through the door, shaking themselves off, out of the rain. An older man looked up under his thick glasses and turtleneck.

“Good day lassies,” his accent thick, his skin as weathered as the posters covering the walls. “What can I do for yas this fine day?”

“We were actually trying to get to 1190 Pitlochry. In fact, we have no idea how to get there, we came here through the forest.”

The man dropped his glasses to look at them, a slight intonation of alarm in his thick eyebrows. ‘Whatdya want to go there fah?” he asked.

“That’s where we’re staying actually. Just for a few days,” Sorsha replied.

He inhaled deeply. “Take a seat,” he said with his out breath. “Train leaves in thirty.”

The two smiled thankfully, Olivia plopping down on a wooden bench beside a fake plant. Sorsha walked slowly around the office, decorated with old posters on the walls of infamous tourist attractions: the waters of Loch Lomond, the rolling hills of Ben Nevis, the Edinburgh castle. On a small counter where a pen was attached with a metal chain, a stand of flyers, slightly yellowing, gathered dust. Sorsha leafed through them, various tourist brochures for excursions, a ferry ride to Isle of Mann, another titled “Ferries & Goyles.” She picked the last one up, fascinated by the pen drawing of a waterfall surrounded by flitting creatures.

Guided Tour of the Ferries of Scotland, the tagline read. She skimmed over the claims of local folklore, the colored berries that promised to protect from illness, the enchanted forests. She stopped on the drawing of the old woman at the river’s edge. Her chest contracted.

“Olivia,” she almost screamed. She kept reading. The Bean Nighe, it read.

“An old washer woman who lives on the river’s edge, it is said that she lives in the liminal space between living and dead,” Sorsha was bent down beside Olivia, reading the words aloud. “Whenever someone comes across the Ben Neigh, is is said that they will hear her sing the names of those on the edge of death or stuck between worlds. Her clothes are often ragged and her work is never ending- she represents the maternal figure, eternally relegated to her domestic tasks. If you do cross her, it is best to either leave as quickly as you can, less you may hear the name of someone who you care deeply about.”

The piece of Cadbury chocolate in Olivia’s hand was slowly melting, she licked it up and threw the wrapper on the chair beside her.

“What the fuck?” was all she could muster.

“Ready Lassies?” the postman came from the backroom, carrying a postal box and a set of keys.

They were all three stuffed in the front of the lorry. Olivia had taken another copy of the pamphlet, each had it folded in their hands as they sat squished in beside the man. The BBC was playing at a nearly imperceptible level through the stereo. The roads were wet from the rain, potholes splashing as the truck hurdled over them.

“So you two must be Helen’s gals then, ain’t it?” the postman broke the silence. Sorsha and Olivia looked over at each other.

“We are, yes,” Olivia answered.

“How did you know our mum?” asked Sorsha.

“Ya mum? She never mentioned me, huh? Old chums. When your Nan moved from London, brought Helen with her, your mum and me took to playing outside all the time. We had great games. She was fun. How’s she doing these days? I wouldn’t expect her to come visit, considering how everything went and all, but least of all I expected to see the two of yas.”

“Our mom died,” Sorsha replied in a deadpan manner, void of any emotion except for utter confusion. “And we didn’t know she’d lived here. She just told us she came from Scotland when she was young.”

“Died?” he said, a wave of disbelief passing over him. “My dear, what a shame.”

“How did you know? That she had kids? If she left so young?” Olivia asked.

The postman looked over. ‘Whatcha mean, how I know?”

“Well, I mean, did she write you letters? You stayed in touch?” Olivia continued.

“She’d visit us lassies,” he replied. “Every year. Every year until her ma got sick. Then she’d found it too hard. Too hard to see your Gran like that, and too hard to revisit what had happened when she was just wee.”

All three of them watched the bumpy potholes filling with rain as the postman drove forward. He continued.

“When she left, oh she was right done with her ma, after what she found, but she couldn’t leave her completely. It was too sad for her.”

“I’m sorry to say this, but she died when were eleven. We never really heard any of the stories of her family. I mean, she didn’t talk about it much, to be honest.”

“Your Pa never told yas nuthing about it, did he?”

“He doesn’t know anything either. It was just when we got the letter, about our grandmother dying," Sorsha answered.

“You just got that letter?” he asked, perplexed. “A little late ain’t it?”

“What do you mean?” Olivia asked.

He looked over at them, at the pamphlet in their hands. He sighed.

“Ya ma, she never told you about her sister, hey?”

“No,” Sorsha answered.

“Listen, when we were just wee bairns, your ma’s older sister, Rosa, fell ill. It was the winter after they’d moved from London. London, you remember, was still being rebuilt after the war. Poor Layla lost her husband then. He was posted in the city, hit with shrapnel while on an evening patrol. So a few years later, Layla moved the girls back here. I never did know why she picked this spot- if she had family here or what, but took to it quickly, always tending the gardens. That forest you walked through? She knew it better than she knew her own name. She was always walking through, trying to teach Helen and I the names of all the plants, the berries- even the peat bog, she knew well.

“But she wasn't well. She used to wrap all of the cutlery and dinnerware in newspaper, just like they’d done during the war, to keep it the glass from breaking when the bombs had hit. She never was quite right.

“Ay, it was a wee tragedy. Your gran had been keeping her in the little room in the back of the cabin, the old cold cellar. She'd told your ma she couldn't go int to see her, or else your ma would catch the sickness too. Your ma, bless her. When we were at the end of primary, she started to realize that the teachers at the school didn’t know where Rosa was. They’d ask her questions about America, as if Rosa had been sent away.

"Eventually, Helen started asking your Nan to get a doctor. She couldn't understand why Rosa was never outside. It wasn’t making sense.

“So, one day, Helen went to the local doctor and asked him to come for a home visit. When he arrived at the house, Layla wouldn’t let him in. She barred the door. Wouldn’t let anyone enter. That was when the authorities got involved. They hadn’t known, all the way out here, that a sick young gal was being kept in a dark room, away from a doctor who could make her better. So the bobbies came down from the big town, about a hundred kilometers away, and they broke in. After that, they took you ma with them. they put her up with another family over in Glasgow, saying it wasn’t safe for her to stay with her ma. Plus, everyone around here wasn’t going to be able to look at her the same, poor girl.”

“Wait, I don’t- what happened to Rosa?” Olivia grasped, trying to fill in the details.

“Rosa’s body was wrapped in blankets, fully embalmed. She’d been collecting the herbs and liquids from the peat bog, covering the girls body with it. The bobbies had the doctor with them and apparently he just nodded his head. The lass had long been dead.

“ I don’t know what kind of magic she’d made into that potion, but it was something. When they found her body- your Gran’s- her whole chest was full of tumors. Breast cancer, they think. Rats were eating at the flesh. They would have gotten it all sooner if it weren’t for that balm.”

‘When she..died?” Sorsha intoned.

“Oh it must have been twelve years ago, I think. In fact that was the last time I ever saw your ma- that year, at the funeral.”

“But we- we were just there, at Layla’s cabin. Last night,” Sorsha said.

“And here you are again,” the postman said, pulling up behind the rental car that Sorsha and Olivia had parked the day before.

‘Don’t know how you managed to stay in there,” he said, pointing to the cabin, the moss covered roof caving in on one side, “all those rats running through the floorboards an’ all.”

The windows, bright from last night’s candles, were boarded with plywood, the frames falling from the cabin’s stone edges.

‘Oh, and watch out for the bean-nighe,” the postman said. “Your Ma was supposedly the last one who saw her heard her singing your Gran's name."