Gravitating in that direction, she saw that Gary the Ghost was giving a night tour.
That night, he was talking about St. Patrick. She heard his rich voice as he dramatically spoke to the crowd.
“Our patron saint was a slave. Aye, not born on Irish land a’tall, but a slave brought here. Irish pirates kidnapped the lad when he was about sixteen and brought him to these shores. That was, say, right around the year 432 A.D. He worked the land—on cliffs such as these. Close your eyes and imagine if you will.
Shaggy cows and bleating sheep munching upon rich grasses on the slopes of Slemish mountain. It was there they said that he came, the slave who would become known as Ireland’s greatest saint came—to find sustenance. Even as a lad and a young man, aye, he came to the cliffs and the rugged sea, finding peace and richness in the elements and the strength and will to survive. After six years, he escaped and returned to Great Britain. But voices urged him back to Ireland as a missionary; he brought the word of God and forever changed the face of this land, for few came to embrace the Mother Church as Eire. Patrick refused to take bribes from kings; he went on trial for refusing to bow before those on earth. But he prevailed. Some say he rid Ireland of snakes—some say, I will admit, that Ireland never had snakes!”
Those words drew laughter from the crowd.
“Ah, but we’re full of legend, right? St. Patrick did live and die, though we don’t know the exact dates. They don’t matter. He was a man who defied power and his own fear to create a better place, and we honor him every year with his feast day, March 17th. Here, we’ve but two days to go. At Karney, we’re a bit different; two days before his feast day, the day of—and two days after. We remember him as the Irish we have become, with love, with dance, with music. This year, the night of his feast day, even the heavens will honor him. They’re predicting a solar eclipse! If you’re staying, you’ll have a fantastic sight as the moon rises and the night comes.”
Applause welcomed his words.
Devin smiled and walked on, heading around the cliffs.
She could still hear Gary, telling more tales. She could turn back and see the fire blazing at the pit.
There were people there, everywhere, coming and going from the castle walls.
But as she headed up to the peak by the walls, where the cliffs held high over the sea and the wind blew beneath that light of the moon, she felt that she was alone.
And she felt that she needed to be alone.
She looked out to the water. The wind moved around her. It wasn’t a storm wind, she thought, but the wind that always blew here, stronger than most, flattening the long grasses that grew along the cliff top and creating mounds of whitecaps out on the Irish Sea. Far westward was Scotland, to the south, the civilization of Dublin and the charm of Temple Bar, the history of the great living city, and a day-to-day lifestyle as busy as that of any major metropolis.
But here, here at Castle Karney, it was different.
They were caught in a pure taste of the past, of a different, medieval time, when stone was the true king, defending the inhabitants from the rams and arrows of all who came to assault the fortress.
Castle Karney had never been taken.
Not by the enemies who had come to seize her.
She could only fall from within.
By belief in an ancient evil.
That belief played upon by evil indeed—the evil of a man or woman with an agenda of their own.
Devin stood very still. The sounds of Gary’s tales and the music from the castle walls seemed distant. She felt as if she were removed from the real world—as she needed to be.
She waited. And then she turned.
She knew that Deirdre would be there.
And she was. She stood a short distance away, her black hair flowing long and free with the sea-swept wind, her long gown cascading around her in that wind as well. She looked both sad and proud; she waited patiently, as if she’d known Devin was contemplating on the beauty, the sadness, and the history of Karney.
While knowing that she would come.
“I feel it,” Deirdre said. “And it’s wrong. You must stop it.”
“Can you help me?”
“The sound that comes at night; the wail. It is not me.” For a moment, Deirdre wore an expression that Devin might have seen on any perplexed young woman.
“How they believe that to be a banshee’s cry, I know not!” Deirdre said.
“We will find the cause of the cry,” Devin said.
“And hurry!” Deirdre urged her.
“Of course,” Devin said.
“No, you must really be quick. There’s but two days before St. Patrick’s feast. And that’s when the moon will be black by night.”
As Devin watched, Deirdre seemed to disappear, becoming one with the night and the wind.
And she realized what her words meant. They were part of the prophecy.
Devin whispered aloud.
“Castle Karney in Karney hands shall lie, ’til the moon goes dark by night and the banshee wails her last lament.”
Chapter 10