The January Featured Writer is Barry McCann
Please feel free to email Barry at: barry.mccann@blueyonder.co.uk
SONG OF THE BANSHEE
by Barry McCann
Bangor O’Hara had a plan. If truth be known, he spent most of his life concocting one scheme or another, but this was a real lip smacker. To actually catch and deliver one of those ungodly creatures? That was going to be the enterprise of them all.
The Irish Free State was just several years into its infancy, and a country still finding itself, which provided a land of opportunity for the likes of O’Hara. He traveled to Castlebar, an agrarian community surrounded by the Mayo hills, and took lodging in one of the boarding houses there.
He knew he’d find what he was looking for here.
The first evening was spent at the local pub. “Listen!” the pub’s landlord suddenly cried. O’Hara could see fear draped across the faces of the other drinkers, some removing their hats. They appeared to be listening, so he did too.
From the distance of the nearby hills came a shrill, drawn-out cry like that of a vixen, only louder and menacing.
“That’s the banshee!” he exclaimed, but the others signaled him to remain quiet. Indeed, all were silent until the crying ceased. Then there were sighs of relief as they continued drinking.
“Old Mother Behan is on her death bed and the banshee has come for her,” one of the drinkers said. The others nodded in quiet affirmation.
“I see,” O’Hara said, taking a cautious sip from his drink. For the rest of the evening, the banter and laughter that resonated when he first came was replaced by more muted tones.
*****
Next morning, O’Hara secured a day’s work at the local market, where he overheard whisperings of the banshee not just being heard but seen, up in the hills where its cry had come from. Word soon got around that Mother Behan had been taken in the night.
He knew the legends of the creatures well. His mother had spoken of them when he was a boy, particularly in the lullabies she sang him to sleep with. She also imparted a warning that the locals appeared unaware of. Though beings of spirit, banshees also took human form and lived among the communities they haunted, always as a woman and invariably a lone one, without husband or family, to keep themselves hidden. It was this very camouflage that put O’Hara on the scent.
He returned to the pub that evening, putting up a pretence of deciding to settle in Castlebar and seek a wife in the town.
“Well, I’m not getting any younger,” he told his new company of friends. “And let’s face it, no man should go through life happy.”
The others laughed at his joke, and then one piped up, “Well, you may be hard-pushed around here. Not many spinsters, none your age.”
“If it’s anyone younger, I’m sure I’ll learn to live with that,” he said, provoking more guffaws.
Then it was the landlord who made a suggestion. “There’s always the Widow McCready.”
The others looked at one another, as O’Hara queried “Who’s that?”
“Keeps a cottage outside town, on the road to Westport. You’ll see her at market from time to time, but she lives a hermit’s lot.”
“Well, I don’t want to land myself with some old crone.”
“Oh no, this one is yet past fifty. Lost her husband young and still quite the looker.”
“Did you know him?”
“No, never met. She only moved here several years back. Came up from Kilkenny and bought the cottage with her man’s legacy. He must have been well heeled as she put down cash by all accounts.”
“Really,” O’Hara mused as he drank up. Widow McCready sounded the perfect suspect.
*****
He found the cottage early the following morning, which stood at the foot of the hills with an air of wistful isolation. It was surrounded by a thick circle of hedge, the only way in or out being the front gate. He hid behind the hedgerow and waited with a sack, patience being a particular virtue of his.
It was not long before a door opened and a woman stepped carrying a bucket and making to the well that stood by the gate. She was dressed in a dark, hooded cloak which covered her head. As the woman drew water from the well, he managed to see her face which was handsome indeed.
Once her bucket was filled, however, her eyes seemed guarded as they looked around with suspicion.
Did she sense his presence? Or was she in the habit holding vigilance, maybe over something to hide? Either way, O’Hara sensed this was his quarry.
He breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped back into her cottage. He waited.
As darkness fell, O’Hara was still crouched within view of McCready’s cottage, brandishing his sack and watching carefully. Before long, the door opened a second time and the hooded woman emerged, carrying a burning torch. She carefully closed the door and made her way to the gate. He crouched down further as she came through then started taking the path that led up the hill.
Stealthily, he followed.
The path taken eventually led up to a precipice from which the lights of the town’s buildings glowed below. Once reaching there, the woman planted her torch into the ground as O’Hara dived behind a nearby rock. Lowering her hood, she raised her arms high and they began to glow green, followed by her face. Her features began to distort as her mouth opened and out from it came the chilling, shrill cry heard only a few nights before.
Reaching into his sack, O’Hara produced a rope already tied into a hangman’s knot. Quietly, he got up and crept over until close behind the creature.
Then he struck, lassoing the noose over her head and around her neck, pulling it tightly as the creature struggled and gasped. “Go on, show yourself!” he demanded. “And I’ll let you breathe!”
The banshee nodded as the green radiance faded, and its facial features softened into those of Widow McCready.
He loosened the snare just enough to allow the woman to breathe again while still holding her secure. “I thought so!” he declared triumphantly. “Wait till I turn you in. A genuine banshee! They’ll give me a hundred pounds!”
“Only a hundred?” she panted while still struggling. “Aren’t I worth more than that?”
“All right. Five hundred!”
“I could double that.”
“You? How?”
“Let me free and I’ll tell you.”
O’Hara grinned knowingly. “Ah, no. You don’t trick me like that. Make a break for it, so you will.”
“Don’t be a fool! You’re twice my size and just shown twice my strength.” Realizing the truth of her words, he released her.
Composing herself, the woman coughed as she got her breath back while he watched impatiently, and then asked, “Well?”
She waved her hand dismissively as she finished coughing, then spoke, “All right, O’Hara!”
“Wait? You know me?”
The woman straightened herself up and confirmed “Of course. Banshees always know who knows. You’ve been in my sight longer than you think. Especially when you hide near my home.”
The revelation shook him momentarily, but he quickly realized she may had just heard about his arrival in town and was trying a scare tactic. Besides, he still had the upper hand. “Took you by surprise, though. Now, what of your promise?”
She reached a hand into the front of her smock which emerged as a fist. Holding it out, her fingers opened to reveal three large gold coins that glowed in their own majesty. He gasped as the woman told him, “Each one a king’s ransom.”
“How the hell’s teeth did you come to have those?”
“Oddly enough the same way you were going to exploit me. Only courtesy of the biddy people.”
“Biddy people?”
“Leprechauns. They live deep under the ground. I caught one and he bargained me to let him go by promising a share of their gold.”
O’Hara turned skeptical, and said, “Keep it in a pot at the end of the rainbow, do they?”
“Don’t be a fool! That’s a bloody fairy story! He led me back to their catacombs and there lay the biggest hoard of gold coins I’ve ever drawn breath to see. And I’ve been around for more breaths than your mortal mind can imagine.”
“And they let you help yourself? And leave?”
“Of course. They be honorable folk, bound by their word. Besides, I took just the three coins, all I need. Be asking for trouble to take more.”
“Now who’s a fool? The more you took, the more to share!”
The woman’s fingers snapped closed like a trap, clasping the coins. “That is not the deal,” she said. “I’ll supply you with the knowledge to get your own, then you can take all your greedy guts can muster.”
She turned and pointed up in the direction of the hills. “Follow the trail to where the two rivers cross. There is a path that runs alongside which the biddies use when out foraging. They only venture out one at a time so as not to attract attention, so there should be no trouble in snaring one.”
“But...”
“Off with ye!” With that, Widow McCready walked away.
He followed the trail, glad he had his torch. When he reached the crossing at the rivers, he set to work, unraveling and knotting his rope into a new noose. Laying it on the ground, he covered the snare with leaves and topped off the lure with a gold ring he had swindled from a past victim. Throwing the slack over a branch, he hid behind a nearby tree and waited.
The moon had shined for over an hour when O’Hara became aware of someone approaching. It was a shadowy figure, about two foot tall. As it came further into view, O’Hara could see this was no animal. It was a very small but perfectly formed man with a long beard...the biddy he was waiting for.
As he got nearer the pile of leaves, the little man stopped in his tracks, his eyes spotting the glint of the gold ring. He looked around to ensure no one was about then crept over and bent down to pick it up. Before knowing it, the little man was dangling upside down by his ankle.
O’Hara broke cover and ran over to the protesting biddy, laughing. Bending his knees slightly, he was eye to eye with the upturned little man. “Hah! Got you! You little devil!”
“Let me down, Mister! Let me down, I say!” the biddy protested.
“All right, calm yourself. I’ll cut you down, but first we settle terms.”
“I’ve nothing to bargain with you,” he said, but O’Hara knew otherwise. “Your pockets may be empty, but your bank isn’t. Same deal as given the banshee woman. A share of gold!”
“Agreed.”
“You promise?” O’Hara recalled Widow McCready’s inference that securing an oath would bond the deal.
“You have my word, now let me down!”
Producing a knife, O’Hara cut through the slack and the biddy came down on his back. He quickly loosened the rope around his ankle and stood up, looking straight at his captor.
“Right, Mister, ye be following me.”
The pair set off along the path that led up towards the hills. They remained silent during the journey, the biddy occasionally glancing back to ensure O’Hara was still following. After what seemed ages, O’Hara protested “How much further? You’re not walking me in circles, are ye?”
“Be patient! You want your gold? Soon be there.”
They came to a rock lodged in a steep gradient of the hillside. The Biddy raised his hand indicating they should stop, before reaching into his shirt and producing a silver amulet that hung around his neck. He used it to strike the rock three times, producing a distinctively shrill. Replacing the amulet, the little man bent down before what appeared to be a rabbit hole at the rock’s base, turning an ear towards it and listening intently.
“Hello? Who’s there?” The voice coming from the hole had evidently originated from deep down in the ground.
“Tis I,” the biddy shouted back. “And I have a Mister with me.”
The voice at the other end went silent but, several seconds later, the rock moved to one side and seemingly of its own accord, revealing an entrance.
The biddy turned to O’Hara, advising, “There’ll be a committee waiting at the end of the tunnel. Just let me do the talking.” He then waved a bid to follow.
The tunnel sloped downwards, illuminated by shining phosphorus on the walls. It seemed to go on for a hundred yards or so before emerging into a large cavern lit by burning torches where a dozen biddy men awaited.
Their leader stepped forward, his voice booming, “Explain!”
“I have a contract with this Mister.”
“Then it must be honored,” the leader said.
The little men behind him parted as he turned and gestured towards another opening at the back of the cavern. O’Hara’s biddy indicated to follow and led him to the entrance from which a golden glow emanated. He halted and signaled to O’Hara that he should enter. Cautiously he went inside and, despite his built up hopes, was not prepared for the sight that met his eyes.
It was a sea of gold coins, piled high. Masses and masses of them, all glowing with the magnificence of a cathedral. Laughing triumphantly, O’Hara propelled himself into the abundance, practically swimming in it. He then knelt while scooping up handfuls, his greedy heart beating joyously as the coins ran through his fingers like water from a fall.
“Hah! None of this three coin ration. I’ll be filling my boots till they bulge!” he said.
“Aye,” the biddy replied. “That’s what the other Misters said.”
“Others?” O’Hara’s head swung around. “Apart from that woman?”
“Didn’t you see them? Look again.” He pointed just beyond O’Hara who glanced back at the horde. He then realized that, having been so distracted by the gold, that there was something protruding.
Crawling over the piles of coins, he reached and pulled out a bone. He then found another, and another. They were bare, broken and too big for an animal, as confirmed when uncovering the skull that had once been human.
A voice spoke from behind him, “Didn’t it occur how easily you caught the biddy?”
O’Hara turned to see it belonged to Widow McCready. She stood with the biddy men, her lowered hood baring raven red hair and sharp, emerald eyes. “You should have listened. I told you banshees know who knows. I saw you coming, and let you take me.”
He struggled to make sense of what the woman was saying. She continued, “Truth is, I’ve been expecting you ever since your mother first spoke of our secret.”
O’Hara’s pulse raced. He realized he had been set up. And the bones? “Who did these bones belong to?”
Widow McCready said, “Afraid I rather fibbed about them being leprechauns.”
As the woman spoke, the bearded faces of the biddy men seemed to fade and dissolve, then reform into green skinned, twisted features with mouths of grinning, razor sharp teeth.
And the woman’s face also grinned. “These be goblins,” she explained. “Very hungry goblins. But don’t worry.” Her voice sank into a whisper: “I’ll sing you a lullaby.”
Widow McCready let out her scream of lament to impending death.
Barry McCann is a UK writer, editor and broadcaster, specializing in features and short stories of various genres. His horror stories have been published through various outlets on both sides of the Atlantic, including the anthology His Red Eyes Again published by the Dracula Society and available. In 2012, he was awarded a Queen of Horror writing award, presented by the novelist James Herbert, and has hosted two Ingrid Pitt: Queen of Horror Festivals in Hastings, England. He is also editor of Parnassus, the art and literature journal for MENSA International, and regularly appears as on BBC Radio, usually as their “Folklore Correspondent.”