Meeting the Other Crowd Page 17

  But, ’twas grand fine weather in the summer, the month o’ June, and he had the hay cut. And he was tramming it himself, making it into winds himself, and he died suddenly in the meadow.

  There was a road going from where he lived down to where his sisters lived, and it ran along under the mountain. At about ten o’clock in the night the banshee started up at his farm, and the whole parish heard her. She roared like nobody’s business and went straight down along the road, down into where the sisters lived. The alarm was rose, that there was something wrong. ’Twas known the following day that he was dead. But for the warning given, they wouldn’t know he was dead. They went up and found him above in the meadow. And his horse was all tangled up in the chains. He was there all night.

  This little account of the sudden death of a farmer in his meadow while saving hay would be no more than that, sad but local, were it not for two remarkable things. The man cried for by this banshee is not named “O” or “Mac”—the truest (i.e., Gaelic) Irish names—or even one of those of Anglo-Norman or Norse extraction (i.e., in Ireland long enough to be regarded as “genuine” Irish). He is one of the Cromwellians, “the enemy,” “upstarts.” Yet here is the banshee crying for him. Cromwellian or not, he and his people seem to have made themselves every bit as much at home in Ireland as the Vikings and Normans before them.

  The second unusual fact is that the banshee in this case is heard by the whole parish. And she roars! Unfeminine, perhaps, but then she is no ordinary woman. Her business is to make certain that those who must hear her cry do so.

  The end of this short story proves that she has succeeded—as always. And shows, too, that she is no creature to be feared. Far from it. Were it not for her intervention in this case, the discovery of the man’s death might have been far more traumatic for his relatives.

  “I know of a man who had to leave the country.

  The banshee followed him night an’ day. He could hear her

  an’ see her all over the place. She was a constant companion o’ his.

  He left the country, had to go to Australia to get away from her.”

  DRUMLINE, SEPTEMBER 19, 2001

  Banshee Heard in Manhattan

  RELATIONS O’ MINE, they went to America—’twas the time the railways were being built in the States, and that’s a few days ago! They were working on the railroads, and they never got married. They were very sensible men, and they accumulated a lot o’ wealth. So, when my grandfather’s family grew up, they inherited all the wealth, and they went to the States to claim the money.

  At the end o’ the day, anyway, my uncle, he was up in Manhattan. He lived there for a number o’ years. He was at a funeral in Manhattan, an Irishman that was dead. And the day o’ the funeral they were going on to the cemetery, in broad daylight, he told me. The banshee cried down by the side o’ the Manhattan river,19 at the other side o’ the Manhattan river. I don’t know what width it is. But she cried. He heard her at the other side o’ the river. All the way down along with the funeral, he told me. And Lord save us, she terrorized the people at the funeral. ’Twas the most mournful wail that was ever heard. A lot o’ people didn’t know what it was. The Yanks didn’t know what it was. It frightened the living life in ’em!

  He told me that story a thousand times. And you know yourself that the banshee can’t cross a stream. So, I put that to him years later.

  “No,” he said. “She traveled with us, down at the other side.”

  I said to him, “Did you see anything?”

  “Not a thing,” he said, “that was ever seen or known.”

  And remember, now, in the States that time ’twas only horses and buggies. There was no traffic, no cars. So, clearly and distinctly, he said, they heard her, at the other side o’ the Manhattan river. Whatever width it was at that point I couldn’t tell you.

  Though her crying was mostly heard in Ireland, it was not unknown for the banshee to be heard abroad also, particularly in closeknit communities from the old country.

  In the case described here there are two things out of the ordinary. First, her lament is heard in broad daylight, whereas in the vast majority of cases her presence occurs in the dark or gray hours. Second, even those who had no knowledge of who or what she was (and there were many such present, it seems—“the Yanks”) heard her and were frightened by the mournfulness of her wail.

  We note, not for the first time, that she does not seem able to cross running water. And, of course, this begs a question: How could she be unable to cross the Manhattan river, and yet there she is in the New World, having presumably crossed a three-thousand-mile stretch of “running water”—the Atlantic Ocean—to be there? Once again, to put oneself in the cynic’s chair, is she just a figment (though a necessary one) of Irish people’s imagination regarding death, or a creature of fact? This account leads us to what could appear contradictory interpretations. Yet things spiritual have a habit of being like that: by no means as black and white, cut and dried, as we might like them to be.

  “The first thing I’d ask a fellow if he saw anything or heard anything like that, I’d ask him how much had he drank.”

  DRUMLINE, OCTOBER 19, 2000

  A Prankster

  LONG AGO, what they used to do—and ’twas the foundation of a lot o’ the ghost stories and fairy stories—if there was a fellow that was kind o’ frightened, lads used to take advantage and put on a bit of a show in the dark.

  I had a cousin, and if he imitated the banshee at a distance there isn’t a human being in the world ’d think but it was the banshee. He had the voice for it and he was expert at it, and he frightened many a one, I can tell you—including a crowd o’ the archaeological society at a castle one night.

  ’Twas the fall o’ the year, and ’twould be dark at six or seven o’clock. And there was a big lecture on, and a lot o’ bullshit, and accents, and what haven’t you—you wouldn’t know what they’d be saying.

  And I had this fellow primed, and he came down through the mountain, and he started off, “Ooouuu!”

  I’m telling you that there was disappearance! There did ladies go in all directions, and they having accents. I tell you they had no accents . . . I’d say they wanted a new . . . few clothes.20 And he went off laughing.

  Nightly pranks were by no means uncommon in the dark countryside and there are many accounts in which the joker turns victim of the very forces being mocked. Here, however, a similar prank succeeds and the grand ladies with their upper-class accents attending their fine archaeological lecture are scattered, their pompous accents reduced to screams.

  In this story we see resentment (albeit good-natured) of castle, class, accent by the “ordinary” countryman—and a determination by the latter (the “owner” of the banshee tradition) to teach a lesson to those who merely talk about it. From his point of view the night is a great success. His opponents (the traditional enemy, anyway) are scattered in ignominy. Yet note that it is women he has defeated. Sadly, the only members of the perceived “upper class” who are interested enough to attend such a lecture are its women. The men, no doubt, would have been more interested in “ huntin’, shootin’, ridin’,” as was the hall-mark of their class.

  So, this joke, though successful in its immediate aim, fails at a deeper level, and gives, in the process, a glimpse into the chasm that divided the “real Irish” from the “upstarts,” a divide that persists in many minds to this very day.

  “This fellow was coming home at night, an’ she was at the side o’ the road an’ she combing her hair. An’ didn’t he whip the comb from her. An’ went off, an’ into bed. An’ she came to the room window, an’ she told him to give out the comb. An’ he gave it out on a fork. If he gave out his hand, she had the hand an’ all gone.”

  TUBBER, NOVEMBER 30, 1984

  The Barefield Banshee

  YOU’D BE TALKING about strange things happening!

  There was these three brothers in this parish one time, and better men to dance a s
tep, or play cards you wouldn’t get from here to Gort. Signs on, they were welcome anywhere they went. But the mother, like every Irish mother, I s’pose, she was always giving out to ’em: “Be home early, d’you hear me. Or you’ll meet the Bad Thing.”

  D’you think they took a blind bit o’ notice of her? Indeed, they didn’t! Did you ever see a son to take any notice of his mother in Ireland?

  Anyway, they were out this night playing cards in a neighbor’s house. Spoiled combs21 they were playing. Three threes. That was the usual game in that house, so what they’d always do, if they could, was play in three different teams. That way, there was a good chance o’ one of ’em, at least, winning a final. If the three of ’em played together on the one team, fine, they might win it out, but if they lost they’d all be put out together. So they’d usually play it safe and scatter out. The couple o’ bob that one of ’em’d win was better than nothing at all. ’Twould keep ’em smoking for the week.

  But this night, anyway, they were playing on, and the youngest of ’em, his team was the first to be put out. That was all right. Someone had to lose. They sat in by the fire and had a drop o’ tea. Talked awhile. Then they watched the next round played.

  The second brother was put out that round, played well but didn’t get the cards. He joined the younger lad and they had nothing to do now, only hope that Seán, the oldest of ’em, might make the price o’ smokes for the next couple o’ days. That’s how short o’ money they were!

  The game went on, and begod, Seán’s team got into the semifinal. But ’twas a long one. Every trick was fought for and argued over—and you know the way some o’ the old-timers could argue! And all about nothing. The less the better!

  By the time the semifinal was over ’twas well after eleven o’ clock, and the two lads were at Seán to hurry on or the mother’d be giving out to ’em.

  “God blast it,” says he, “what can I do! Walk out on my partners? If you want to go home, go. And tell her I’ll be home when I’m able.”

  Well, they waited a while longer, but if the semifinal was slow, the final was worse again. No mercy. Every card argued over. Jeez, they nearly rose the row a couple o’ times. Only for the man o’ the house knew their form, there’d be someone hit. That same crowd, they’d be sitting down together an hour after like nothing happened! All forgotten.

  The two lads, anyway, they’d wait no more. They hit off home, and when the game finished, maybe twenty minutes after, Seán’s team won. Only just. Enough to keep the postmortems going another half hour.

  ’Twas the man o’ the house put ’em out in the finish. They’d be there till morning if he didn’t. They stopped outside the door arguing, playing this and that trick over and over again—“what you should have played here when he played the king o’ clubs there,” and all o’ that.

  I don’t know how long they were there when the man inside came out.

  “Ah, come on, boys! I don’t know about you, but I have to be up in the morning. If you want to argue can’t you do it down the road a bit.”

  They moved then, to the gate, and scattered, one man this way, another man that way, every man his own direction, until Seán was left there with the last couple of ’em.

  He could go around by the road, o’ course, but that’d be the best part o’ two miles. He didn’t. And didn’t any night he was ever at that house before. He took the shortcut across the land. That’d be only half the journey, or less. Everyone was going the shortcuts in them times.

  So he started, said good luck to the lads that were left, and off with him across the fields. It wasn’t a dark night or anything, but even if ’twas, he knew his way well from all the times he went that way before, day and night. And he was in good form after winning the couple o’ bob. Smokes for the week. What more could a man ask for?

  But, he was gone more than halfway when he came to this small little hill—a rocky little place. ’Tis only down the road there, at this side o’ the main road; you passed it on your left on your way up. All he had to do was cross over that, and he could see his own house from the top of it.

  So, he came on, anyway. But he was only just at the bottom o’ the hill—’tis only a small hill, now—and this crying started, lonesome, lonesome, uuu-huu-huuu-huu!

  He stopped, and the minute he did, so did the crying. He looked around him. Not a stir. No one there. Or he could see no one, anyway. ’Twas a bright night. And the first thought that came to him was that some o’ the prime boys were trying to frighten him, maybe. That was common in them times after a night out. Faith, he wouldn’t give in to that. He kept going, on up the hill. And he was about halfway up when it started again, the same crying—uuu-huu-huu-huw!

  He stopped, and the very minute he did, so did the crying. I tell you, he started to get a small bit afraid then, but he didn’t show it.

  “Come out,” he said, “and face me.”

  No move.

  He kept going, careful now, watching and listening, and just when he was nearly at the top o’ the hill—he could see his own house!—it started again, the same noise. But this time, begod, he was ready. He had it! Where ’twas coming from! Even when it stopped like the other times. ’Twas coming from the top o’ the hill.

  “By the Lord,” says he, “I’ll find out once and for all who’s blackguarding here.”

  He started making his way to the top of it—’twas only twenty feet away from him. But you know yourself the kind o’ place ’tis, all cracks and rocks, just like the Burren.22 You could break an ankle in it in daylight, not to mind in the middle o’ the night. And worse again, ’tis all small blackthorn bushes. They’d tear you to pieces if you didn’t step careful.

  But, when he arrived above at the top, what did he see, only the woman, below inside in that bit of a . . . what would you call it? Would you call it a valley? Hardly. ’Tis too small. But ’tis over there, anyway. About twenty feet deep and the same wide. She was below in it, sitting down on a stone, long gray hair, and her back to him.

  I don’t know did he know ’twas a woman or not. I don’t know what he knew. Maybe he thought ’twas some kind of a joke the boys were having on him. Anyway, he crept down behind her, and when he was a couple o’ feet from her, he jumped, and caught her by the shoulder.

  But, by God, if he did ’twas all he did. She turned around and hit him a slap of her hand across the face and sent him flying. He was lucky he didn’t split his head!

  When he gathered himself up . . . oh, ’twasn’t half a minute, there was no sign of her. But he felt the pain in his cheek and put up his hand. ’Twas then he saw the blood!

  He let a screech out o’ him and ran for the house, burst in the door, and there was the old mother, still up by the fire waiting for him.

  As soon as she saw the state of his face, the misfortunate woman nearly died.

  “What in the name o’ God were you doing, Seán? Don’t tell me ’twas fighting you were!”

  Would you believe, but he wasn’t able to talk to her, or even tell her one word o’ what happened.

  She poured a drop o’ water out o’ the kettle and bathed his face, and put some kind of a dressing or a bandage on it. Put him to bed then.

  But the following morning he didn’t get up at all for work—and it must be the first time ever that happened, ’cause he was a great worker, the same man. O’ course, the father asked what was wrong before he went out. The mother gave some answer, I s’pose. And they all went off about their business.

  But when they came in that evening Seán was still in the bed. No get up! Some kind of a fever he had. And ’twas worse the following day. He was twisting and turning in the bed and talking to himself, and rubbing his face. And his mother was trying to keep him from tearing off the bandage.

  Three days he was like that, and no improvement. But the following day was a Sunday, and at Mass didn’t the priest notice that Seán wasn’t there at all. You know yourself how small Barefield church is. ’Twas easy for him see who was ther
e and who wasn’t. So, when the last blessing was given, and the prayers for the Poor Souls were said, he beckoned Seán’s mother before she went, and asked her was anything wrong. And in fairness to the man, ’twasn’t being nosey he was, at all, only anxious to know if there was anything wrong, or something he could do.

  “Oh, Father,” says she, “he’s inside in the bed the last three days, and worse he’s getting. Could you do anything for him, Father?”

  “I’ll try, anyway,” says he.

  And he did. Came to the house shortly after. But he only took one look at Seán in the bed and he said, “Get the doctor, and get him quick. Or that boy won’t live.”

  So, the doctor came, and the first thing he did was to take off the bandage to see what was causing the bother.

  When he did, “Lord God,” says he, “what’s this?”

  Because there on Seán’s cheek was the print o’ four fingers, all blood. The banshee’s fingers. He didn’t know that, o’ course. Only fixed him up with a proper dressing and said he’d be back again.

  That was all right, but after about ten days or so, when the dressing was took off, he had the four scabs across his cheek. And when they healed up the four scars were there, the mark o’ the four fingers. And they stayed with him for as long as he lived.

  That boy went strange after. Turned in on himself entirely. Stopped going out playing cards and dancing and all the things he was good at. In the end, he wouldn’t go out in the day at all, or talk to anyone, only walking the back roads, talking to himself in the evening and nighttime with his collar pulled up, for fear anyone’d see the marks on his face.

  And, sure, ’twas pity people had on him, more than blaming him. But he did a bad night’s work when he went next or near the banshee. He had right to leave her to go on with her own business and mind his own.