“Well, now, that is part of legend, too,” Bridey said. “The banshee is sad, for she died too young, and yet she is also kind and generous, for she took the place of another, who needed to rest. She must always stay as she is—remain a banshee—because it would be a terrible sin to force another into her position if that person were evil and cruel. The banshee’s role is to ease the journey, so she must be patient and kind. Evil people in life are just as evil when they die.”
Caer cleared her throat. “That’s one of the legends, aye. The banshee has a serious role in the balance of life—and death. Death is a new beginning, as frightening as being born into this world. A babe comes into this world with a mother to hold it. Into the next world, we go alone. Or so they say.” She shook her head as if to clear away dark thoughts and turned to Zach. “The old Irish tales are really beautiful, you know. They explain life, but they also give it a magical twist. And don’t we all need a little magic?” She rose suddenly. “Kat, I’m going to go downstairs and see about your father.”
Kat nodded. “Good idea.” She yawned. “Aunt Bridey, I think I’m off to bed. I’m tir—”
She broke off suddenly, shivering. Zach, still sitting at her side, actually felt the tremor that rippled through her.
“What?” he asked her anxiously.
“I was just thinking…”
“What?” he repeated.
Caer had paused to listen.
“The day Eddie went missing…” Kat began.
“It was a perfect day, according to the papers. No storms on the horizon, light winds,” Zach said.
“The papers are right. We haven’t had a real storm yet this season, knock on wood, but the night before…well, it was strange,” Kat said.
“What was so strange?” Bridey asked, her face knitting intently.
“I dreamt about the wind howling and the sea churning,” Kat said.
“Well,” Caer said lightly, “we all have dreams.” She looked thoughtful for a moment, then asked, “Was—is Eddie Irish?”
“Irish by association, at least,” Bridey said.
“Imagine that,” Kat said to Zach. “I dream in Irish.”
“Well, you are Irish,” he pointed out.
“I think my mom was what you call an all-American mutt,” Kat said, smiling.
“Ireland is in your veins,” Bridey told her firmly. “And proud you should be of it.”
“I am. Of course I am.” Kat stood and hugged Bridey. “If you and my dad are Irish, then I’m very proud. Even if it means I have to worry about meeting a banshee someday.”
Caer had started out of the room, but she hesitated and turned back. “The thing is, people fear banshees, just as they fear death. But everyone dies. Death isn’t evil. It’s a part of life, a natural progression. We never really like to go anywhere uncertain, unknown, alone. So a banshee is there to help a person make the transition from life to death, to hold their hand.”
“Hey, a death ghost is a death ghost,” Kat said, laughing.
Caer shrugged and smiled. “Well, I’m off to see to your dad.”
Zach rose, as well. “I’ll just say good-night to Sean myself.” He walked over to Bridey and bent down to give her a kiss. She caught his hand and smiled up at him lovingly. “Zach, it’s good that you’re here. So good.”
He squeezed her hand in return, a little troubled, because she felt warm.
“Are you all right?” he asked her.
“A wee bit tired,” she told him. “But I’m old. I’m allowed to be tired.”
“Maybe the doctor should check on you, too, next time he’s here,” Zach said.
“As you wish,” she agreed.
“Definitely, Aunt Bridey,” Kat said. “Now I’m worried about you, too.”
“I’m all right, but since you’re worried, you can help me to bed. And I will see the doctor. Maybe I’m coming down with a winter bug,” Bridey said. “Zach, you go on now. Good night and God bless.”
“God bless, Bridey,” he said. Kat nodded, and he left them alone so that Bridey could get ready for bed.
He caught up with Caer outside Sean’s door.
“Death isn’t always such a natural part of life, you know.”
She spun around to stare at him.
“There’s not a thing in the world that’s natural about murder,” he said.
“No,” she agreed, her eyes on his unwaveringly. “There’s nothing in the world that’s natural about murder.”
9
The house seemed to moan and whine and whisper by night.
Caer lay on her bed in the near darkness, her fingers laced behind her head as she stared at shadows on the ceiling caused by the night-light. She listened, and tried to define each noise that she heard. The wind played against the wooden shutters on the window, a sound she had come to know. There was a tree whose branches danced against the upstairs wall. Sometimes the place settled, with a kind of ticking sound. But she knew that, too, and it seemed natural now.
Tonight the wind was rising, and it sounded like a mournful cry. It was low, at first. A lament, a soft keening that was barely audible. But as the wind picked up, sweeping across storm windows and shutters and eaves with a greater fury, the pitch of its cry picked up, as well, like someone screaming far away, perhaps in a distant dimension.
All those sounds…
Caer listened to them and identified them, certain that the others in the house were resting well.
Then she heard a new sound.