Bean-Nighe

(The Old Washerwoman)

Apr 04, 2022

I saw you down by the river

with the old washerwoman, the old banshee (Bean-Nighe) who wails and cries in despair as she washes the stains from the clothes of those about to die. I hid at the edge of the woods, and I saw you. The Bean-Nighe dips the rags in the water, beating them against the rocks beneath, hoping to wash away the blood. They say when you hear her scream, you know Death is near.

(Artist Brian Froud, found on pinterest.com.)

And why were you down by the river

with the old Bean-Nighe? Did you come to herald your own doom? To take a brush with Death? Unlikely. I know who you are. You are one of the “safe” people who do as you are ordered, never seeing the marionette strings, avoiding them because the knowledge of their existence is too painful. You are one of the unconscious enforcers of the World Wreckers.

I see the stains from your behavior, the filth you wish to wash away. Like the old washerwoman, you dip your clothes into the river and hope no one will see and maybe your conscience will be clear and clean again. Ah, but it’s everywhere . . . the stains are everywhere. How will you hide your involvement?

Late at night Lady Macbeth,

tormented by her guilt, sleepwalked and rubbed her hands together as she aimlessly wandered, a wraith sliding about the cold halls of the prison of her mind. She tried to wash clean the blood of Duncan, as her conscience was soaked in it. And she screamed nightly at the horror of what she had done, of what she had become, “What, will these hands ne’er be clean? Out, damned spot!” Because deep inside, eventually, we all have to face our own behavior, and for some, there aren’t enough rivers in the world to wash away the stains.

I saw her down at the river with the old washerwoman, walking in procession, a pilgrimage of futility. But still, they dip the rags in the water, hoping to wash away the stains, the blood. Trying to escape their karma, change the course of their self-inflicted fatal wounds. And I saw you with them, carrying your own rags, crying and wailing and beating your chest. Will your hands ne’er be clean?

By day, you walk in the chains you have chosen.

Oh, the smiles, the “soft deceitful wiles.” Oh, how you sacrifice yourself for the causes of the World Wreckers and think to yourself, See what I do for you! See how selfless I am! I am out here suffering for your benefit! Careful, little moth. You are too close to the flame. Fly on to the next twisted cause and find the next vessel filled with the nectar of fear.

And then by night, you trudge with the Bean-Nighe,

walking in tandem with Lady Macbeth. “Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!” they yelled during the plague. That they might wash their hands from their involvement. That they might lift the stain from their countenance. That they might empty the pools of blood from their conscience.

He with ears, let him hear.

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