My grandmother often told me tales when I was a young
child, all those many, many moons ago. That was back in my native
land, Ireland, during the 1940's, just after the war. Yes, I shall
never forget how as she wooed me to sleep she eagerly spun tales
of many marvelous legends, lyrically lolling me into my slumber.
These tales of wonderment carried me into equally extraordinary
dreams and other enchanted places…
I had not been back to Ireland for nearly fifty years,
not since the 'incident,' yet here I am. All because of that phone
call I received two days ago. I find it remarkable not so much in
what has changed, but more so, in what has remained the same. Now
as I sit here, back in Castlegregory, off the wild and glorious
Dingle peninsula, I marvel at the splendor of the untamed thrashing
ocean. I am once more in my upstairs bedroom, and I am instantaneously
carried back to my childhood, to this very bed.
As a cold, westerly wind blew across the frigid ocean,
was that the eerie wail of the Banshee, dancing her slow waltz of
death upon the oceans tips? As I closed my eyes, I cried once more
at the memory of my grandmother's words…
She told of when she was a girl, when the world still
held on to its purity. A time when the legends of ancient times
were respected, treasured and even venerated, a time when goblins,
ghouls and gnomes coexisted, a world where magic could and did perform
wonders and a time when a banshee's cry sent even the bravest soul
whimpering and cowering, and hiding in the shadows. Whenever any
unfortunate heard the agonizing wail of a banshee, they understood
that death was imminent. You see, if they had the misfortunate chance
to catch even the most fleeting of glimpse of her long white hair
streamed behind her skull-like head, floating upon the winds of
fate, there was no place they could find sanctuary, as before the
morning sun broke they shall be dead.
She was a mere girl of eight years old, the day that
it she first heard the story. She had been awakened in the wee early
hours of daybreak, to her mother, awash with grief and tears. She
explained that there had been an accident that they needed to get
over to Doctor Riley's house quickly. My grandma added that she
had learned that there had been a fire in the night—in one
of the local thatched cottages, that they had called upon him to
help fight the blaze. But the blaze, despite the efforts of the
local men, grew and grew, as if possessed by the devil himself.
She told of how she had learned that her father, in an attempt to
stop the fiery rage spreading, had ventured to close to the violent
flames, and in an instant had been hit over the head by a falling
timbre alive with glowing embers. The men had rushed him to the
doctor's house, and they had to hurry to be by his side.
As the horse-pulled carriage raced, the morning sun
was starting to rear over the horizon. It was then she had first
heard it, the wailing. As the cries grew louder and louder, penetrating
their ears, she pushed the horses even faster, and faster still,
as if to escape the agonizing wailing. She told me how tears ran
down her mother's eyes… Her mother already knew that her husband,
my grandfather was dead… As she reached Doctor Riley's house,
the old frail doctor was outside, standing in the winter's sleet,
shaking his head in disbelief. Hysterically, her mother raced from
the carriage to the door; the doctor held her back…
"He's gone… But his last words were, 'Tell
my family I love them.'"
I remembered my grandmother telling me this tale.
I had listened on eagerly as my grandmother spoke;
I had no idea that one day soon I too was going to hear the terrifying
cries of the Castlegregory banshee.
* * *
It was a December night, very similar to tonight and
the frigid coldness of the dark, the silence of winter, all playing
a hand in the horrific circumstances. My father had been playing
cards that fateful evening, in Cavanaugh's tavern on the outskirts
of Castlegregory. Yes, my father was there, playing poker, with
his younger and only brother and as the whiskey was consumed, the
gambling increased. My father apparently had been winning; the anger
always present in his younger brother apparently only intensified.
I can recall with remarkable clarity as I and my grandmother
had sat at home, waiting and worrying. My father, grandmother, and
my uncle were all the family I knew. My mother had died in my traumatic
childbirth, dying just two hours after I entered this world, with
me crying in her arms. It was then we both heard it, as the candlelight
danced ominously about the kitchen. The unholy howling and wailing
of the hellish Banshee who drew ever nearer in the night to Castelgregory
on her appointed path of death. Who had she come for: a father,
a mother, or perhaps some helpless sick child? We did not know;
we simply huddled together waited and prayed. Afraid to steal a
look out of the window, for fear that we might stare straight into
the banshee's seething blood red eyes filled with tears, tears for
the dead.
The later and later it got, the more and more we feared
who the Banshee was calling for. Eventually, at a little after three
in the morning, the local constable gave a reluctant knock on our
front door and all at once my grandmother and I realized.
My uncle claimed that it had been an accident, that
they had been walking home and that my father had lost his footing
on the well worn path and fell and smashed his head in. Yet deep
in our souls and hearts, my grandmother and I had known what had
really happened, he had been murdered. He had inherited my father's
estate, and as a girl, I was not entitled to anything. He wasted
no time in moving out of his run down cottage into our fine house
overlooking the rocks to the ocean. My father had earned every penny
of the small fortune he had amassed, and now his brother, ten years
his junior, was about to gain it all.
Several days later, it was casually announced that
I was going to be shipped off to Chicago, in the United States,
to some distant cousin…
My heart broke on the morning of my departure. As
the horse and carriage arrived to take me away from the home I loved,
I held on to my grandmother, as tears raced down our cheeks. We
both knew that this was the last time we would ever see each other.
* * *
This had all happened a life time ago; my grandmother
apparently soon died after I had left. My uncle never married and
as a result lived alone. As there were many suspicions about his
character within the village, he became almost a hermit, shutting
himself away from humanity apart from his weekly journey into the
market. He became a miser, despite his inherited wealth, choosing
to wear tattered clothes and shoes with holes in them. Instead of
eating the finer, more exquisite cuts of meat, he chose to eat the
viscera and innards.
In due course I established a fine existence in Chicago;
my new family was warm and welcoming, and wanted to hear all the
tales from the homeland. I grew up quickly, attended a college and
married. Yes, Chicago had treated me rather well... I now had three
fine children and five even grander grandchildren.
It came as a surprise when I received that phone call
two days ago, from a solicitor in Castlegregory. Apparently my uncle,
who was now in his late eighties, had fallen desperately ill, and
only had a few days to live, and after much searching, they discovered
that I was his closest living relative.
Now, as I sit here in my father's house, the house
that I had been kicked out all those years ago, I listen. It is
then I hear it, more and more distinct. The Castlgregory banshee,
as her howls intensify, I am far from afraid this time. In fact,
I think I am actually smiling…
