The following text is the Prologue to Fatal Sisters - you can then click on the "Arrival" tab on the left to read the first chapter!

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“Hey, queanie,” the young lad called, dropping himself down onto the grassy bank as though the very effort of keeping his stringy body upright was simply too much to bear. “Why ye’ been cryin’ then?”

“A’m no,” the girl responded defiantly, lifting her chin a touch higher before taking a flattened palm to wipe clean the mass of freckles on her little round face.

“Yeah, ye are!” the boy laughed, an eyebrow raised at the sight of her smeared and dirty cheeks.  “No tha’ it maiters t’us,” he shrugged, his words spoken in a thick, meaty brogue, so characteristic of those who battled the elements to eek out a life on the craggy, windswept isle. “Ye can go on cryin’ all ye want s’far as I care.”

“I’m nay crying,” the girl snapped again, her dark red curls bristling with indignation as she attended to her dress, old and tatty from having had just one too many owners. Judging by the intensity with which she continuously flattened the linen down over her knees, the task seemed to be of some high importance; at the very least, it certainly warranted her full and undivided attention.

“Fine,” the boy shrugged, shielding his eyes from the sun as he laid his naked back against the cool grass. It was rare indeed to see folk exposing bare flesh to the elements this far North, but for those brought up in these islands a summer day like this was a rare and glorious privilege, not to be ignored. Above them, the white clouds slowly rolled by against the brilliant blue of the sky, the young boy’s eyes flicking from shape to shape as a big grin slowly formed on his face.

“Why are ye laughing?” the girl suddenly asked, her enquiry little more than a stray breath on her lips.

“And why should I be tellin’ ye,” the boy scoffed, “when ye won’t even admit ye’r cryin’, let alone say what’s gotten ye all in such a bather?”

There was a silence between them.

“It’s just…” the girl finally whispered, her frail voice cracking as her busy hands settled into stillness, her eyes closed tight to the brightness of the day. Intentional or not, the way her chin dropped down onto her chest made it seem as though she was trying her best to hide behind that wild, bushy mane.

“Go on,” the lad encouraged, rising up onto his elbows and setting himself with eager interest in the depths of his piercing, grey-blue eyes, “ye know ye want t’spill it out. Ye’ll feel all the better for it… ye know ye will.” 

Despite the earlier hint of an explanation and the boy’s steadfast encouragement, the next few seconds merely passed in silence.  Letting out a long, disappointed sigh, he released the girl from his stare and turned his attentions to the oversized and shabby trousers he was wearing, brushing an accumulation of gorse seed and loose summer dust from his backside.

“Well… I’m nay certain…” she suddenly winced, biting her lip as a necessary precaution to ward off any more tears.

“Certain o’ what?”

“What it is I’m ta do, see?”

“Ah – so ye’r in a wee fix, then?”

His question was restrained, nothing more than a casual accompaniment to the way in which he randomly grabbed a few handfuls of grass and tore them from the earth.

“Well… A’m nay shuir,” the girl winced again.  “I micht, mebbe. Can…” she swallowed hard, finally raising her head and tilting it to one side, “can ye hear the lilt o’ that song?” 

The boy nodded in response, extending his hand in the process and watching as most of the grass dropped to the ground, leaving one or two stray blades still clinging to his sweaty palm.

“That’s me mam,” the girl continued, referring to the song echoing around them.  “She… she does nay see where I’m at. And… and she’s singing tha’ song ta call me back home.  Only…”

“What?” the boy snapped, his interest now sufficiently roused for him to forget the grass and fix his full attention back onto his companion.  “Is she mean?”

“Och no – nay mean,” the girl baulked, genuinely shocked by the suggestion, “nay mean at all. But… but if I go back she’ll ken what I’ve done. And then she’ll be mad at me, and she’ll shout and shout… and she’ll make me cry.”

“But ye’re crying anyway!”

“I’M NAY CRYIN’!” she shouted defiantly, her bottom lip trembling as she tried to ignore the fresh flood of tears streaming down her face.

“Right ye are, queanie – what e’er y’say!” the boy laughed again. “We’ll just pretend it’s raining, shall we? A wee gift from the caries up there!”

“Yes, now ye speak of it – I’m shuir it is raining,” the girl nodded, inspecting the sky quite intently as if she’d already convinced herself it was true. “Tell us,” she added, after a few moments of consideration, “why did you gaggle so at the cairies?”

“When?” the boy frowned.

“You know… afore,” she answered, looking up and brushing her red hair aside to look at him properly for the first time.

“The cairies?” he chuckled, drawing her eyes as he shielded his own to inspect the ever-changing procession of clouds drifting above them once again. “Well, on a lousome day like this, those cairies can give ye a taste o’ the future!”

“The future?” she gasped, looking back up again with undisguised awe in her features. “Is that true?”

“Shuir it’s true – everyone knows that! Cept scallies and little bairns,” he grinned, mischievously.

“I… I did nay know o’ that.”

“For shuir,” he laughed, rolling onto his back and gleefully bringing his knees up to his chest so he could rock back and forth, just for the sheer enjoyment of it, “how auld be ye, queanie?”

“Five. And a half,” she added, as if that six months made all the difference in the world.  “Well, as near as. What about youse?”

“A guid wheen year or more on yese, for sure!” the boy laughed. “So anyways – why will she be mad at ye?” he asked, releasing his knees to probe absently at the earth with a long finger.  “Yer minnie?”

“I… I’ve done a thing,” the girl stammered, drawing in a deep breath as if it might stop her emotions racing out of control. “A thing tha’s mair naughty.”

“Oh aye – what’s that then, eh?” the boy grinned excitedly, his eyes sparkling at the prospect of hearing some scandal or adventure.

“Does nay matter what it be.”

“Oh come on,” he squealed, “ye can tell me.  Promise I won’t tell! And it’s nay like…”

“All tha’ matters,” she continued, cutting short his protest without even raising her voice, “is tha’ once I’d done what it was, yon thingmie appeared.”

Turning his head, the boy followed the direction in which she was pointing.

“Oh,” he nodded, all trace of humour immediately evaporating to join the clouds rolling above them. “Aye, well,” he sighed, wincing slightly as he spoke, “I see now why the rain’d be fallin’ on yer cheeks, tha’s for shuir. Don’t need to be tastin’ no cairy to know ye’r waitin’ on a brittle future – tha’s hail weird and awful ill.”

And in truth, anyone who cared to look could have seen that what lay before the pair was a very bad omen.

A very, very bad omen, indeed…

© Justin Peter Beaney 2008 - No part of the above text may be reproduced in any format without the permission of the Author.