Some years ago on a late autumn
day, my troubled mother asked me to accompany her to Ireland to
visit her elderly parents. She said no more, other than that we
must waste no time. As I am a dutiful son well versed in the ins
and outs of travel, I gently guided the dear lady from Boston to
Shannon on the next available flight.
Throughout the journey my mother sat
in silence, her usual good humor locked in distress. Black clouds
greeted us on the other side of the Atlantic, though the wind-driven
rain in which we landed subsided as I drove our rental car south.
The sun's reappearance cheered me. My mother, however, seemed on
edge during the entire drive and answered my delicate questions
with sparse sentences. After several unsuccessful attempts to learn
the cause of her anguish, I resigned myself to a quiet ride.
We reached Killarney an hour later.
The town's quaintness had always enchanted me, from the vibrant,
multicolored shop fronts to the horse drawn carriages employed by
townspeople and tourists alike. I slowed the car to savor the charming
sights and negotiate the narrow streets, then drove on to the house
my mother had left when she married my father thirty years earlier.
The Keenan family homestead sat in
solitary splendor on ten of County Kerry's most glorious acres.
A long, circular driveway took us past well-landscaped grounds to
the front door. Despite the lovely setting, my mother stared at
the isolated dwelling with unmistakable dread.
My nimble grandmother greeted us with
her customary warmth, though none of her familiar cheer graced her
lilting accent. The pleasant aroma of pipe tobacco announced my
grandfather's presence. Sure enough, the old fellow emerged from
his study and bestowed his famous bear hugs upon us, adding an arm-wrenching
handshake for me. His sparkling welcome underscored my grandmother's
solemn demeanor, which he didn't seem to notice.
"Come in, Nora!" he bellowed.
"Come in, Brody! Get those coats off and we'll have tea!"
My mother's eyes glistened then; her
lip trembled. I had no more patience for her reticence, and meant
to know what was afoot if I had to resort to bullying her.
"Let's get settled first, Pa,"
I said. "Come along, Mum." Hefting our luggage, I led
the way upstairs. As always, my mother claimed her childhood bedroom.
I set her bag on a chair and said, "What's happening here,
Mum?"
She closed the door. "I didn't
want to tell you before, Brody. You wouldn't have believed me, and
I couldn't bear your teasing."
I folded my arms and affected my most
serious manner. "I won't tease you, Mum. I'm listening."
She held her breath for the briefest
moment. "Your grandmother has heard the banshee."
I didn't tease, yet I couldn't keep
my eyebrows down. "Has she? What about Pa?"
"She said he hasn't heard it.
The one the banshee cries for never hears it. I know you don't believe
it, Brody, but I'm afraid for my father."
I thought of the burly man downstairs
and smiled. Even at his advanced age he was stronger than I was.
I kissed my mother's forehead. "You're worrying for nothing,
Mum. Let me put my bag away and we'll go down for tea."
I chose my favorite guest room, a
small but well-appointed suite that overlooked the front entrance
and afforded spectacular views of the gardens. Pulling the red velvet
curtain aside, I took a moment to enjoy the picturesque scenery
until, with an abruptness that startled me, the rain returned in
raging torrents. The wind howled, as it would in such an open area.
The noise took on an eerie quality and I understood why my grandmother
believed she had heard a banshee.
According to Irish legend, the wailing
of these spectral females foretells death in the family of those
who hear it. My mother often said she had heard one the night my
father died.
The old family superstitions—peculiar
weather omens, outlandish remedies, and charms that guaranteed spouses
and wealth—had always amused me. My mother believed as readily
in such things as she did in her unimpeachable religion. On her
kitchen wall, between the depictions of two haloed saints, a horseshoe
still hangs "points up" to keep the luck from running
out, for all the good it has ever done her.
My own beliefs were centered in science.
After earning a business degree, I settled into a high tech firm
and journeyed often to its worldwide branches. My level-headed logic
would be useful in calming the ladies' fears during this gloomy
visit, I thought. I let the velvet curtain go and rejoined my family
downstairs.
In Ireland they call supper "tea."
The housekeeper had set out the simple meal in the dining room,
where a gas fire danced in an ornate hearth. We chatted our way
through scones, salad, ham, and boiled potatoes. My grandmother
had just called for dessert and another pot of her favorite Darjeeling
when a loud knocking sounded at the front door.
My mother and grandmother froze. My
grandfather, however, seemed oblivious to the rapping and continued
to tell a favorite story of his boyhood. As I had heard the tale
often, I permitted my attention to drift. I wondered why someone
would use the knocker rather than the doorbell. When the housekeeper
failed to answer the knock—no doubt she couldn't hear it from
the kitchen—I set my linen napkin on the table, strolled down
the hall and opened the door.
No one was there. I fixed a smile on my face and returned to the
dining room to deliver my report, stating my opinion that the wind
had caused the rapping.
My grandfather was lighting his after-dinner
pipe. Through his initial puffs, he said, "That's what I say,
Brody. We old folks don't hear so well anymore, and I think the
wind plays tricks on your poor old grandmother."
He resumed his tale. His old briar pipe was well-fired now. He held
it by the bowl, waving it to emphasize the key points of his story.
Outside, the wind still howled.
Without warning, the howling rose
to a ghastly shriek that burst into pitiful, piercing cries. Across
the table, the women grew pale. My grandfather's narrative continued
without interruption, however. He was deaf to the paranormal screams
that gripped his wife and daughter in breathless horror. I must
confess that some dark, primal terror had chilled me as well.
The hideous lamenting ceased just
as my congenial patriarch concluded his ever-entertaining yarn.
When he chuckled and chided the distraught women for their fear
of the wind and weather, they smiled, put on brave faces and began
a last round of pleasantry and gossip.
Soon we all rose and retired for the
night. Despite the mysterious keening—whatever it was, I doubted
any supernatural visitation had occurred—travel and the time
change had exhausted me. I fell straight to sleep.
Several hours later, the clip-clop
of horses and the rumbling of a rolling carriage woke me. The bedside
clock read three a.m. Who would be coming at this hour in a horse
drawn cart? I stole to the window and pulled back the velvet curtain.
Outside the front door, not one,
but two horses stomped the ground before an old-fashioned carriage
set on high wheels. A coachman in antique attire sat in the driver's
seat. The brim of his top hat hid his face. Thinking that the window
glass might be distorting whatever was really down there, I lifted
the sash. Cold air blew away the last remnants of sleep. When I
looked again, I decided I must be witnessing some costume drama.
I heard muted voices and watched spellbound
as two men attired as was the coachman carried a shapeless black
mass from the house. The carriage door opened. With calm efficiency,
they hauled their burden inside.
The door snapped shut. The coachman
cracked his whip and shook the reins. Before he drove off, he glanced
up. Our eyes met. His skeletal face contorted into a hideous, mocking
smile. He touched his whip to the brim of his hat and cried, "Come
aboard, sir! There's plenty of room!"
When I made no response—my shock
would not allow it—he let go a high-pitched tittering and drove
off into the starless mist.
I paced my shadowy room until the
blessed beams of the sunrise assured me that I had experienced a
nightmare. The lingering horror crumbled away. I found my bed and
fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Just past nine o'clock, I prepared
for the day and went downstairs. The sound of strange voices surprised
me. In the kitchen, my weeping mother and grandmother sat with uniformed
emergency personnel whose calm demeanor belied any emergency.
My mother looked up when I entered
the room. "Your grandfather is gone, Brody," she said.
"He died in his sleep and suffered no pain."
"Why didn't anyone call me?" I
shouted.
I didn't believe it. I raced up the
back stairs to my grandparents' room, where doctor and priest conversed
in low tones. My grandfather—or the shell of him, as I had
no doubt now that a death coach had stolen my precious Pa away during
the night—lay in his bed, hands folded on his chest, his forehead
glistening with the holy unction of last rites.
For months the events of that night
haunted me. I never mentioned the costumed coachmen to my mother,
and since she never mentioned them to me, my level-headed logic
convinced me that some trick of the imagination had deceived me,
that the death coach had been a dream after all. A year later, I
was in Boston when my grandmother followed my grandfather to eternal
rest. No wailing banshee accompanied her passing, at least not on
this side of the ocean. I was certain that this was not because
the Keenan family specters were unable to cross the sea. They had
only existed at all because legend and the mysterious Irish landscape
had joined forces to plant them in generations of imaginations.
Twenty years have passed. I am president
of my own company now. A year ago, I commissioned a study to determine
the best springboard into Europe's electronics market. I found Ireland's
tax benefits and friendly business environment an excellent incentive
and established a division in Dublin. After several transatlantic
trips to oversee the startup of my new branch, I decided to visit
Ireland's capital for pleasure and made plans to attend the September
theater festival.
A howling, wind-driven rain was blowing
when I arrived in Dublin on that autumn afternoon. I had a flat
in the city center by then and carried only my small overnight bag
to the stop for the Dublin shuttle. The minibus pulled up. The door
opened. I looked inside, surprised to see it so full at that time
of day. The passengers politely shifted to make space for me, however.
"Come aboard, sir!" called
the driver. "There's plenty of room!"
My half-raised foot froze in midair.
I looked up and saw those same eyes I had seen in Kerry twenty years
before.
The same skeletal face with its hideous,
mocking smile stared back at me as it had then. Somehow, I bucked
my panic and backed away.
"Thank you," I sputtered.
"I'll wait for the next one."
Was I the only one who heard the high-pitched
tittering? Transfixed, I watched the shuttle drive away. It stopped
before turning out of the airport and onto the main road. Just as
it pulled out, a speeding fuel truck slammed into it. Both vehicles
burst into flames.
I later learned that no one had survived.
