The girl clutched locks of long hair to the top seams of the moss green linen of her dress. Her free hair streamed sunset above a white fog cloak. She flew against blustering sighs of wind above the hills to her mortal clan.
I am Siren, she thought. The mortal folk will hear my song.
This time, she concentrated not on the music but her words. The mortals never understood her music.
They will hear my words. All my heart will go in them!
“There!” a voice called. A lad by a whitewashed cottage on the hill pointed up to her. “T’is a keening woman!”
“She mourns before the death. Pop’s end is near.”
Stinging tears slipped past Siren’s russet lashes. Hear my song of life, not death. Do you not hear my words?
