The Names Carved on Stone

Written by Samuel Glyn

I was lingering around old graveyards one day,
watching the ground soak up errant spirits.
On that day, the sun shone gangrenous,
surrounded by decaying clouds
and a deoxidised sky. Sat on a bench,
I watched the Dullahan go about their grim work.
I was not the only spectator.
There were many malodours, grieving in tandem.
Some knelt in front of headstones;
some leaned against gaunt sycamores;
some wandered aimlessly around the yard;
all faceless, save for blank canvases
whose watercolour emotions came, then faded:
too brief to be understood.

One distinct figure was knelt close to me.
On a whim, I went to her. Wings jutted from her back
like broken branches on a lightning-struck tree.
A fine dress hung low from her shrunken frame,
rags, ribbons. Her hair was matted over her eyes,
her soles caked in filth. Dirt stained her knees.
She spoke constantly, low humming words that flitted
around my head, irretrievable, incomprehensible.
I do not believe she knew I was there until I cut her throat.
As colour leaked from her face and out of her neck,
she turned to me. She said nothing.
I knew what she meant, and agreed.
Her expression was cold blues and slate greys
in their fleeting, abstract potencies.

 She stood. I offered her my arm. She took it.
Together we walked from the graveyard,
a snail’s trail of gore following her every step.
None of the other vessels watched us leave,
preoccupied as they were with their rites of sadness.
The Dullahan turned to us as their carts went by,
smiles carved from ear to ear,
but they did not stop, for which I was thankful.
By the time we reached the crumbling gate
the woman was pale, like cold chicken.
Her dress was heavy and crimson, and the end
dragged against the ground, collecting dust and burrs.
I quietly prayed. My foot caught on a skull
that leered and laughed in shrewd glee.

Before we crossed the threshold, I stopped
and gave her the still-wet knife. She took it
and read the words engraved upon it,
I am come that you might have life, and have it to the full.
Then she looked at me, eyes filled with winter,
and murmured “Without her, there is no life.”
I replied, “Am I not the Leannán Sídhe? Do I not live?
Is love so weak to die with her? I think not.”
Her eyes remained unfocused. She did not thank me,
but handed me back the knife, and walked on alone
as rain formed a grey aura around her.
A Dullahan in its cart trundled after her,
tasting her name on its tongue. My heart sank.
I turned back to the graveyard. There were so many left.