Start Time: 01:42
End Time: 05:28
A tale about young women drowning by a riverbank: one such maid tells her story. Lovers whose fate-driven hands killed these women.
Publish Date: Apr 29, 2021
A tale about young women drowning by a riverbank: one such maid tells her story. Lovers whose fate-driven hands killed these women. Step down into the river, and she will tell you her tale.
step down, step down by Alexandra Duncan. You've heard the ballads of young women murdered drowned down by the river banks. I am one such made, he asked me. He wants to be his love? He asked. Two and three. I never knew. My answer would be the death of me. Sometimes we are killed by brigands, other times by a cruel sister, but most often by our lovers. We are always rosy cheeked and demure. We die beautiful and tragic, and our murderer sings as lament from the gallows. He regrets it, but he had no choice. Fate drove his hand. Perhaps he even placed a posey in our cold grip as we lay among the long grass. As for me, step down, and I will tell you, was I murdered by a draft of poisoned wine? A rapier through my breast. A blow to the head! As I stood gazing at the way the light of the late afternoon turned the river to molten gold. What did I think of in those final moments? The sweet drop of honeysuckle as he pinched the bloom and touched the stamen to my tongue. The way the leaves show their pale under Belize in a storm. My little sister, slipping her small feet into my shoes, step down among the reeds. And I will tell you, I always heard tell of angel bands and welcoming arms on the other side. But instead I find myself here in the winter. Ice clings to the rocks along the bank, and the water is frigid. Its surface is gray as my skin gray is the sky, and below my hair streams slick as the currents, not even the fish and frogs keep me company. They are rooted down in the mud, waiting for a friendlier season. But then summer comes, and the poly wogs and minnows and young men, such as yourself. The water never grows much warmer. Put your feet in see. But I remember what it was to be warm and I remember I used to sing, listen to the cicadas. Do you hear them? They were thrumming at my back the day I died. There sound thickening the air. If you listen hard enough, you will hear me humming behind their voices. Won't you step in with me further up to your knees? The chill isn't so bad. Once you grow accustomed to it and the water is clear. See the little fish nibbling at your feet. They must like the taste of you. It's been so long since someone lent me a listening ear. Time It will come and it will go for all men, it trust near. But there's no time for a board around meat she ever lingers here.