My Mother's Savage Daughter
by Jessica Settergren
I remember what she looked like that day, hair spreading like a nest of angry snakes thrashing in the water, fingers clawing at your hand holding her face in the river. I remember the warm wetness creeping down my legs when I peed my pants, and the taste of coppery fear in my throat. I remember trying so hard to hold my breath, shoving my little fist into my mouth to stop a scream. I bit my own hand to hold that scream inside so you wouldn’t see me lying in the bushes by the water. She’d heard you coming, you see and hissed at me to hide and be silent no matter what, and I was still a good daughter then. I obeyed.
I’m not a good daughter anymore. You killed that obedient, sweet little girl when you drowned her mother in the rushing current. The brownish, iron-rich water smelled like blood, even though mother’s face was bloodless, pale but for the previous night’s black eye, when you took your hand from the back of her head and let her float away. She didn’t flinch when the current slammed her into rocks or flipped her over and over. Her skin took no more bruises from the rocks. I had to wait, still as a hare, hoping you couldn’t smell my fear and piss while I watched her float away.
You stomped through the mud and dumped the laundry basket, but you didn’t find me. You swore and flailed in residual fury, but you didn’t find me. I remember the vicious curse you laid upon me as you finally walked away, that you hoped the wolves that come out at nightfall would feast on my bones. I remember, father, how you washed your hands of me and my beautiful, strong, loving mother that awful day. The day I died, too.
Do you even remember her name?
SAY HER NAME, FATHER.
Stop choking, I didn’t hold you under that long. Answer me. Did you ever wonder what happened to your little girl, or did you just consider her an obligation you’d shed? Hmm. I see your anger still begins with cold silence. I remember that, too. I learned to be silent, Father, from you. Nights when you came home silent were the worst for us. I saw her hands quicken in her chores, as though she wanted to be sure they were done before you sat down. I saw her grip change on the knife she used to chop carrots for stew when you brought a brewing storm home with you. I wonder what she could’ve been, had you not ruined her life. I wonder what she could’ve been had you let her live. I wonder what we would have been, had she stabbed you that night instead of taking the beating meant for me.
Do you think yelling at me will stop this? Ha, how wonderful! No one can hear you screaming when I push your head under but do go ahead and try. The draught I added to your ale works fast, so your voice will quiet soon. Shall we find out if you can still swallow?
That little girl you left terrified and traumatized in the woods that day? She lay under that bush for two days, too scared to leave even to piss. Her stomach didn’t growl until the third day, and she hoped the river’s gurgling absorbed it. When she finally left, covered in mud and brambles and her own shit and piss, the first place she crawled to was the water.
I was too little to bathe properly without help, but I knew I was disgusting, so I did my best without going too deep. I saw what happened to Mother, after all, and even though part of me desperately wanted to be carried along by the current and follow her, most of me was overwhelmed by pain, rage, fear, and hunger. I don’t think it’s instinct for children that small to want to kill, so I suppose that’s another strike against you.
Oh no, no one can hear you screaming when your head is above the water, either. The bathhouse is shielded, and I’m due on stage in a few minutes so everyone assumes I’m in my room preparing. Yes, that lute by the door is mine. Did you know you paid handsomely for time in the bath alone? People accommodate old men more than they do young ones, don’t they? Oh, is that not your experience? Well, I suppose you wouldn’t recognize it, since you ran off to this village after you killed her, letting everyone assume you were single. You even took a different name. You married and started again with a woman I can only presume was more sedate than my mother. Or did you spend a lifetime beating her, as well?
You never could tame Mother, could you, not even with all the beatings or insults? I never truly understood why she stayed with you, why she tolerated your moods and tantrums, why she never used the knife she kept close in her kitchen and cut you to ribbons. I know now that she could have.
I wandered the woods, too afraid to go back to my own home. I ate acorns and drank from streams and tried not to freeze. I was only six. I shouldn’t have been alone. I don’t remember how long I wandered in the dark undergrowth, hiding from animals and people alike, before she found me.
Did you know my mother had a sister? Ah, you didn’t. Interesting. So many secrets she kept from you, her husband. Never her partner. I didn’t know either, until Gretl found me. She’d gone to the house, you see, called by Mother’s last letter sent in secret with the autumn Travelers caravan. Gretl played the part of the fretful, anxious sister looking for Mother with news of the family, and no one in the village could help. With all three of us gone and the house standing mostly empty after you packed what you wanted and ran off, the villagers assumed you’d gotten a job somewhere else and moved us all away. No one looked too closely at the mess left behind, and no one bothered to wonder why remnants of his wife and daughter’s things were strewn amongst the fireplace ashes.
The old village keeps to itself, even now. No one recognized me when I started this trail. All they saw was a Bard passing through on her rounds. No one saw me break into our old house when everyone was waiting for a concert at the pub. But there was nothing left of us in those rooms. Gretl warned me not to be sentimental about the past. She was right.
Gretl had tracked us from the house to the river and saw the signs. She found my hiding spot and knew I was alive, and her sister was not. I didn’t understand how she knew that at the time: when she found me days later, I was delirious with hunger and exhaustion, so I didn’t think to ask until much later. Long after she’d taken me back to the Order’s compound and I’d started training.
Mother had many sworn sisters, Father. All with different talents and callings, all deadly in some way or another. Some hired themselves out, you see, to remove lives for a price. Some had powers they could use for good or ill but always hidden because witchcraft is still illegal in many parts of the world. Not in their compound, though.
Now don’t slip too far, it wouldn’t do to have you drown. The paralytic will wear off soon, and while I’d enjoy carving you into small bits to become person-soup in this tub, I happen to like the innkeeper here. That would be rude. So even though this blade thirsts for your blood, as it has for hundreds of men before you during my travels, it will not get what it craves from you. Blink once if you understand me.
Excellent. I found purpose in the sisterhood, and learned everything they could teach me, so I could honor Mother’s sacrifice. It took years after I left the Order as a journeyman Bard to find you. I took contracts and enjoyed honing my skills in magic, music, and murder. The last twenty-five years have been quite busy, and becoming a Master has only increased demand for my music, and for my other skills, sometimes with the same folk. After you I will give my farewell concert to this village and go to bed. I’ll stay a few days, because who wouldn’t be interested in finding out what happened when a body is found in the inn’s bathhouse? But you’re an old man now, and frailer than you were when you held her head under the surface of the river. No one will question your shriveled, grey body’s demise, and there are no bruises or needle marks to give me away. You’re just a grandfather who slipped in the tub on his journey home from his annual visit to his daughter’s house. Of course, I knew of her: once I found you it was easy to track your family’s history. Oh, did you think I perform at this inn by accident, a random twist of fate bringing a murdering father and his long lost first daughter together by happenstance? I spent years honing my route until I finally found you, and other year planning. Not everyone kills in a hot rage of temper like you did, Father.
Ah, now I see the fear. No, I have no reason to go get your replacement daughter, or your son. Your granddaughter, Elise, though, she has spirit. She reminds me of Mother. She reminds me of what I could have been. She would do well in the Order, so I will make sure my route takes me through her village every year or two. If she chooses to leave with me, my niece would be welcomed amongst the sisters. She could be just like me, Father. Just like Mother.
It's time. I have an audience waiting for song and a death to deliver. May your afterlife bring you everything you deserve. There’s no point trying to speak: your lips can move again, but your vocal cords won’t work yet. See how it only takes me one hand, too? Just like you, Father, only you don’t struggle or fight, you just sink quietly beneath the surface, where she’s waiting for you. Not even a gurgle.
You never were as strong as her.
Goodbye Father. I will never forget the day I finally became an orphan.
Mother, I’ve fulfilled my promise. I am your savage daughter.
I’m not a good daughter anymore. You killed that obedient, sweet little girl when you drowned her mother in the rushing current. The brownish, iron-rich water smelled like blood, even though mother’s face was bloodless, pale but for the previous night’s black eye, when you took your hand from the back of her head and let her float away. She didn’t flinch when the current slammed her into rocks or flipped her over and over. Her skin took no more bruises from the rocks. I had to wait, still as a hare, hoping you couldn’t smell my fear and piss while I watched her float away.
You stomped through the mud and dumped the laundry basket, but you didn’t find me. You swore and flailed in residual fury, but you didn’t find me. I remember the vicious curse you laid upon me as you finally walked away, that you hoped the wolves that come out at nightfall would feast on my bones. I remember, father, how you washed your hands of me and my beautiful, strong, loving mother that awful day. The day I died, too.
Do you even remember her name?
SAY HER NAME, FATHER.
Stop choking, I didn’t hold you under that long. Answer me. Did you ever wonder what happened to your little girl, or did you just consider her an obligation you’d shed? Hmm. I see your anger still begins with cold silence. I remember that, too. I learned to be silent, Father, from you. Nights when you came home silent were the worst for us. I saw her hands quicken in her chores, as though she wanted to be sure they were done before you sat down. I saw her grip change on the knife she used to chop carrots for stew when you brought a brewing storm home with you. I wonder what she could’ve been, had you not ruined her life. I wonder what she could’ve been had you let her live. I wonder what we would have been, had she stabbed you that night instead of taking the beating meant for me.
Do you think yelling at me will stop this? Ha, how wonderful! No one can hear you screaming when I push your head under but do go ahead and try. The draught I added to your ale works fast, so your voice will quiet soon. Shall we find out if you can still swallow?
That little girl you left terrified and traumatized in the woods that day? She lay under that bush for two days, too scared to leave even to piss. Her stomach didn’t growl until the third day, and she hoped the river’s gurgling absorbed it. When she finally left, covered in mud and brambles and her own shit and piss, the first place she crawled to was the water.
I was too little to bathe properly without help, but I knew I was disgusting, so I did my best without going too deep. I saw what happened to Mother, after all, and even though part of me desperately wanted to be carried along by the current and follow her, most of me was overwhelmed by pain, rage, fear, and hunger. I don’t think it’s instinct for children that small to want to kill, so I suppose that’s another strike against you.
Oh no, no one can hear you screaming when your head is above the water, either. The bathhouse is shielded, and I’m due on stage in a few minutes so everyone assumes I’m in my room preparing. Yes, that lute by the door is mine. Did you know you paid handsomely for time in the bath alone? People accommodate old men more than they do young ones, don’t they? Oh, is that not your experience? Well, I suppose you wouldn’t recognize it, since you ran off to this village after you killed her, letting everyone assume you were single. You even took a different name. You married and started again with a woman I can only presume was more sedate than my mother. Or did you spend a lifetime beating her, as well?
You never could tame Mother, could you, not even with all the beatings or insults? I never truly understood why she stayed with you, why she tolerated your moods and tantrums, why she never used the knife she kept close in her kitchen and cut you to ribbons. I know now that she could have.
I wandered the woods, too afraid to go back to my own home. I ate acorns and drank from streams and tried not to freeze. I was only six. I shouldn’t have been alone. I don’t remember how long I wandered in the dark undergrowth, hiding from animals and people alike, before she found me.
Did you know my mother had a sister? Ah, you didn’t. Interesting. So many secrets she kept from you, her husband. Never her partner. I didn’t know either, until Gretl found me. She’d gone to the house, you see, called by Mother’s last letter sent in secret with the autumn Travelers caravan. Gretl played the part of the fretful, anxious sister looking for Mother with news of the family, and no one in the village could help. With all three of us gone and the house standing mostly empty after you packed what you wanted and ran off, the villagers assumed you’d gotten a job somewhere else and moved us all away. No one looked too closely at the mess left behind, and no one bothered to wonder why remnants of his wife and daughter’s things were strewn amongst the fireplace ashes.
The old village keeps to itself, even now. No one recognized me when I started this trail. All they saw was a Bard passing through on her rounds. No one saw me break into our old house when everyone was waiting for a concert at the pub. But there was nothing left of us in those rooms. Gretl warned me not to be sentimental about the past. She was right.
Gretl had tracked us from the house to the river and saw the signs. She found my hiding spot and knew I was alive, and her sister was not. I didn’t understand how she knew that at the time: when she found me days later, I was delirious with hunger and exhaustion, so I didn’t think to ask until much later. Long after she’d taken me back to the Order’s compound and I’d started training.
Mother had many sworn sisters, Father. All with different talents and callings, all deadly in some way or another. Some hired themselves out, you see, to remove lives for a price. Some had powers they could use for good or ill but always hidden because witchcraft is still illegal in many parts of the world. Not in their compound, though.
Now don’t slip too far, it wouldn’t do to have you drown. The paralytic will wear off soon, and while I’d enjoy carving you into small bits to become person-soup in this tub, I happen to like the innkeeper here. That would be rude. So even though this blade thirsts for your blood, as it has for hundreds of men before you during my travels, it will not get what it craves from you. Blink once if you understand me.
Excellent. I found purpose in the sisterhood, and learned everything they could teach me, so I could honor Mother’s sacrifice. It took years after I left the Order as a journeyman Bard to find you. I took contracts and enjoyed honing my skills in magic, music, and murder. The last twenty-five years have been quite busy, and becoming a Master has only increased demand for my music, and for my other skills, sometimes with the same folk. After you I will give my farewell concert to this village and go to bed. I’ll stay a few days, because who wouldn’t be interested in finding out what happened when a body is found in the inn’s bathhouse? But you’re an old man now, and frailer than you were when you held her head under the surface of the river. No one will question your shriveled, grey body’s demise, and there are no bruises or needle marks to give me away. You’re just a grandfather who slipped in the tub on his journey home from his annual visit to his daughter’s house. Of course, I knew of her: once I found you it was easy to track your family’s history. Oh, did you think I perform at this inn by accident, a random twist of fate bringing a murdering father and his long lost first daughter together by happenstance? I spent years honing my route until I finally found you, and other year planning. Not everyone kills in a hot rage of temper like you did, Father.
Ah, now I see the fear. No, I have no reason to go get your replacement daughter, or your son. Your granddaughter, Elise, though, she has spirit. She reminds me of Mother. She reminds me of what I could have been. She would do well in the Order, so I will make sure my route takes me through her village every year or two. If she chooses to leave with me, my niece would be welcomed amongst the sisters. She could be just like me, Father. Just like Mother.
It's time. I have an audience waiting for song and a death to deliver. May your afterlife bring you everything you deserve. There’s no point trying to speak: your lips can move again, but your vocal cords won’t work yet. See how it only takes me one hand, too? Just like you, Father, only you don’t struggle or fight, you just sink quietly beneath the surface, where she’s waiting for you. Not even a gurgle.
You never were as strong as her.
Goodbye Father. I will never forget the day I finally became an orphan.
Mother, I’ve fulfilled my promise. I am your savage daughter.
Jessica Settergren's work appears in Midstory Magazine, Renaissance Magazine, and The World History Encyclopedia. Her book, Defying Shadows: For Witches and Pagans Battling Cancer and Chronic Illness, will be released by Crossed Crow Books in February 2025. She lives in the woods in Minnesota with her husband, a horde of teenagers, two dogs, and the slightly psychopathic cat who rules them all. You can find her at www.jessicasettergren.com.