The Sword of the Banshee

by Amanda Hughes

  The Sword of the Banshee

  Amanda Hughes

  Copyright © 2013 Amanda Hughes

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1482040449

  ISBN-10: 1482040441

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to my father, who taught me how to love.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Special thanks to Bailey Hughes for her editing skills,

  Michael Hermann for his expertise on military history

  and Madeline Hughes for lending an ear.

  I will be forever grateful to them.

  Kaasmore, Ireland 1764

  Chapter 1

  The Irish say that spirits walk on All Hallows Eve. India Allen knows this to be true because she saw fifty phantoms that stormy night at Cragmere ruins. She saw them pay homage to a demon and make a pledge of savagery which would shake Ireland and overwhelm the New World. That oath will haunt India Allen until the day she dies.

  India was not a reckless child. She was not the kind of thirteen year old who would steal away from home in the dark of night to witness a demonic ritual. She was quiet and reserved, obedient and cautious, but she was also young and impressionable. India idolized her older cousin Lorna, so that night in 1764 when India followed her into the woods; she experienced a phenomenon that changed her life forever.

  * * *

  "Well if you won't go, I will ask my good friend, Ailis,” Lorna said, tossing her head and turning to leave the bed chamber. She stole a look out of the corner of her eye at India then said, “You can stay here with the old ladies.”

  “Wait,” India said reluctantly, as she slid off the bed. “I’m not afraid.”

  “Well then put this on,” said Lorna, tossing her a bundle of rags. “Stupid, old Eimhear was asleep and never heard me. We will blend well in these clothes, and they are good for the long walk.”

  India examined the threadbare shift and shawl which belonged to their servant.

  “Hurry up. They gather at midnight, and then vanish,” barked Lorna.

  India unlaced her stays, stepped out of her clothing and picked up the shift.

  Lorna began to laugh. “You are as skinny as the tenants. Will you ever get a bosom?”

  India blushed and finished dressing. Lorna often joked about India's skinny body, her straw-colored hair and her unusual eyes. When she was around Lorna, India felt gauche and inexperienced, yet she would do anything for her cousin's approval.

  Lorna swung a cape over her shoulders and pulled a hood up over her volumes of chestnut hair. The girl came into the bloom of womanhood early and her figure was full at fourteen. She darted to the window and looked out at the moon. Shadows danced over the lawn of the manor house. Lorna looked across to the east wing and said, “Mother’s candle is out. Let’s go.”

  She picked up a candelabrum and thrust it into India’s face, laughing. “I can tell when you’re scared. Your eyes turn a dark purple.”

  “I told you I am not afraid. I don't believe in ghosts,” said India.

  Lorna smirked, and then grabbed her wrist pulling her down the stairs. India wished she had something to carry to keep her safe from the spirits. She wanted some icon the Catholics carried, such as a rosary or a sacred cloth necklace.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Lorna snuffed out the candelabrum and set it on the hall table. They stepped out the front door. The moon would be their light from now on It was cold and India draped the servant’s shawl over her head and shoulders. They paused for a moment to scan the expansive garden for signs of life. The girls knew it was unlikely they would see anyone on All Hallows Eve. The tenants firmly believed that departed souls walked this night, and it was unlikely any person would venture forth after dark.

  Lorna picked up something from the door step. “Look at this.” She showed India an oatmeal cake. “I’ll bet Eimhear left this to appease the fairies tonight. You know she won’t eat any unpicked vegetables after All Hallows Eve. She believes the Pooka pisses on them tonight.” She pitched the cake into the bushes. “My mother detests this kind of superstition.”

  They started for the woods. Although the estate was not far from Dublin, the countryside became rural quickly. They took the shortcut toward Kaasmore church where India assumed they would watch for phantoms. The air was crisp and smelled of dry leaves. The wind tossed the branches overhead, flinging moonbeams across their path.

  India followed Lorna closely, jumping over logs and pushing away brush that grabbed at her clothing like claws. She was terrified but would not admit it. More than anything she wanted her cousin’s respect.

  They walked a long time and at a swift pace. India wanted to turn around and run for home, but she said nothing forging ahead. She hated herself for being afraid. She would rather be safe and warm in her down bed, but instead she was headed for a country churchyard to search for spirits.

  As they emerged from the woods into a glade, India thought she saw movement in the brush. She kept her eyes on the spot as she walked, with a prickly fear spreading across her body. Suddenly, a shadow darted out from the trees. India jumped and broke into a run. “Look out!” she screamed. All the talk had been true! The goblins were out tonight!

  The shadow charged her cousin and enveloped Lorna. India heard a strangled cry from her then a laugh. “You scared the blazes out of me, Ronan! That’s not funny!” Lorna squealed, as the boy held her fast and kissed her.

  India stopped and stared, trying to catch her breath. Anger and hurt replaced fear. Now it was clear why Lorna had wanted her to come tonight. She needed her as an escort through the woods, so she could meet her forbidden beau, Ronan McCormick, the son of a tenant farmer.

  Ronan looked over his shoulder at India and said, “Who’s that?”

  “Oh, just my cousin, come on. Let’s go.”

  India knew that now Lorna would ignore her entirely. Ronan took Lorna’s hand then pushed some brush back revealing a footpath onto which they stepped. It was overgrown and apparently not used for some time. It was so thick and low they had to duck to follow it.

  “This is not the way to the church,” India called.

  “Shut your mouth, India. We are getting close,” hissed Lorna as she huddled closer to Ronan.

  The wind wailed sending the trees into a macabre dance. India's long hair loosened, flying wildly in front of her face, so she pushed it back impatiently. Hot tears filled her eyes. She quickened her pace afraid her cousin would try to desert her to be alone with her beau. They began to walk uphill, crossing a brook and climbing a steep slope. India was exhausted, and her feet began to blister. Up and up they went until Lorna and Ronan reached the pinnacle and stopped, staring straight ahead as if bewitched. India pulled herself up beside them panting. She was about to ask what was wrong when she looked across the treetops aghast. It was Cragmere Ruins in a blaze of fire.

  India was stunned. Inside the jagged walls of the ancient fortress, a bonfire raged. Its flames licked high into the night sky. A searing orange glow pulsated across the hillside. The three stared at the sight unable to move. Suddenly, the fire swelled. It illuminated an unearthly gathering around the inferno. Phantoms of white, forty maybe fifty in number, gazed up at a demon with the head of a goat standing on a crumbled wall. The specters seemed to be spellbound by this unholy leader as he paced back and forth speaking to the mass and shaking his fists. The distance was too great to hear what he preached, but it was apparent the specters were under his spell. He gestured, and several of the phantoms stepped forward to be anointed by the unholy principal.

  India grabbed Lorna's arm and pulled her back, "We must go!"

  Lorna did not answer, she did not move as if she was in a trance. Ronan seemed mesmeri
zed as well, seduced by the ghastly spectacle. India looked back at Cragmere. The phantoms were forming a line taking turns lighting hollowed out turnips impaled on pikes. They began to disperse carrying these jack-o-lanterns. When several turned in their direction, Ronan and Lorna were jolted suddenly from their reverie. The night of frolic and adventure had now turned deadly. The couple grabbed hands and bolted back down the path with India right behind them. The three flung themselves down the hill panic stricken, sliding down the scree-covered terrain, grabbing at branches, stumbling and tripping.

  At the base of the hill, they broke into a full run. Down the path, they scrambled and just before the glade a huge wolf-like creature jumped into their path, standing stiff-legged, snapping his jaws and snarling. The children froze, fearing the animal would lunge. They heard someone rush forward through the brush to join the creature.

  The youngsters almost swooned when four of the white phantoms swooped out from the underbrush. In an instant they had restrained India, Lorna, and Ronan. One of the specters ran back into the woods as another stepped up to question the youngsters.

  The phantom grabbed Ronan roughly, thrusting his face close to the boy and barked, “What are you doing here!”

  The terrified children realized then it was a large man dressed as an apparition. His face was blackened with soot, and he wore a long white shirt with a hood. All of the men were dressed the same way making it impossible to identify one from the other. The turnip lanterns shed a dim light on the creature that cornered them earlier. It was a gaunt, surly wolfhound which continued to snarl.

  “Who are you? Who sent you here?” continued the man shaking Ronan by the shoulders.

  “Ronan--Ronan McCormick, son of Pol McCormick,” the boy stuttered.

  The man swung around and faced the girls. “And you?”

  Lorna tried to speak, but no words came.

  India stammered, “In--India Allen and my cousin Lorna Allen.”

  The man’s eyes grew large, and he straightened up looking at his comrades. He turned back to the girls, his nostrils flared. “So, the landlord has sent spies!”

  “No, no sir! We are not spies,” pleaded India.

  Suddenly there was the thundering of hooves on the path as two more phantoms appeared. India’s jaw dropped when she realized one of the riders was the leader from the inferno. He too wore a long white shirt, but instead of a blackened face, he wore a mask made from the head of a goat.

  The man who had been interrogating them said, “The girls are children of the landlord.”

  The masked leader threw his leg over the steed and jumped to the ground approaching India. Sweat drenched her body. He leered down at her, and when he grabbed her arms, she began to feel dizzy. He bent over, and his mask came so close to her face she thought it was going to hit her in the forehead.

  He jerked her arm and growled, “Know this you little wench, I have memorized your face, and I know where you live. If you tell anyone, mark my words, I will come when you sleep and gut you like a fish.”

  The man in the goat mask leered down at her. He smelled of sandalwood, and the thick heavy scent choked India. It was the last thing she remembered before falling into a swoon.

  When India awoke, he was gone. Remembering his odor, she rolled over and began to retch. Afterward, one of the men yanked her to her feet. He pushed the three of them into the glade telling them to run home and not look back. Ronan ran to his family cottage, and the girls flew back to the manor unnoticed.

  Lorna's mother and the servants remained ignorant of the girl’s midnight excursion, but they did note a marked change in them. Lorna awakened every night for a month after the ordeal, terrified and convinced someone was lurking in her room. India simply stopped eating, wanting nothing more than to return home to the Ballydunne Valley. County Cork was the distance she needed to find peace of mind.

  Time passed and she did find some peace. As the years passed, India dismissed the terror of that night as schoolgirl dramatics, but whenever she smelled sandalwood, a queer feeling crept up her spine. It was at those times a small part of her wondered if the hideous monster would ever find her again.

  A short time later, he did.

  Ballydunne 1767

  Chapter 2

  India was told that her eyes changed color as often as the Ballyhoura Mountains changed moods. She thought about these words as she gazed across the heath at the green hills blurring in the evening mist. The Ballyhouras unfolded outside her window like a rumpled blanket of green velvet. They did change moods, and today in the gathering gloom, they looked forlorn and melancholy.

  India rose from the window seat and walked across her bed chamber. The ache had returned to her stomach. It had plagued her off and on since her father had died six months ago.

  She looked at her reflection in the washstand mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot from crying. Pouring some water into a bowl, she splashed her face and looked at her image again.

  She felt so uncertain about everything. Only a few months ago she had been eager for her future. She had looked forward to her sixteenth year. There had been talk of a grand soiree to present her in Dublin on her birthday and then possible suitors, but her father had grown ill. His malady started out as a mere headache, and next his vision blurred. Then in a matter of weeks, he was thin and gaunt as if something was eating him from the inside out. He went to bed one night and never rose again. It had been a whirlwind of desperation and grief.

  India reached for the silver-backed hair brush on the dressing table and began to arrange her hair. Her new wig sat on a stand next to the vanity set. She would not wear it tonight. There was little occasion for gentle folk in the country to wear such ostentation. She instead tied a gold ribbon around her head which set off her honey-colored hair. Next she reached for her azure gown.

  On most occasions India dressed herself. She resented the prying eyes of the servants. Her figure was filling out at last, and she wanted her privacy. She would never forget Lorna’s derogatory comments about her appearance.

  The girl paused for a moment. She hadn’t thought about her cousin in a long time. She wondered how she fared in Belfast with her new husband. Shaking her head, India stood up and started downstairs. She doubted if she would ever see Lorna again.

  When India reached the dining room, her mother announced, "Supper has been changed. It will be an hour later. The guests have been delayed."

  Harriet Allen ran her eyes over India's face. She could see she had been crying, and the woman wanted no signs of grief displayed tonight. These guests were special and demanded preferential treatment. Several days after her husband's funeral, Lady Allen had folded up her grief like a handkerchief and tucked it away neatly to be forgotten. She would not tolerate self-indulgent behavior.

  "You look pale. Go out for a walk until they arrive."

  "Yes, Mother.”

  Harriet Allen was a tall straight-backed woman with brown hair and sparrow-like features. She was India's stepparent and the only mother the girl had ever known. Although she was not a warm and loving mother, she was not unkind either. She simply could not accept a product of her husband’s infidelity. Fortunately, the child was oblivious to her reluctant parenting. All she had ever known was Lady Allen’s cool demeanor, so India believed this was how a mother loved.

  The air was crisp and fresh on Loughlorcan today. India walked along the shore on a flagstone path with her cloak gathered closely around her. She looked across the lake as a light rain fell on her face. She spied the gamekeeper and his son fishing in the distance. The mist gave them an ethereal, unworldly appearance. She quickened her pace to keep warm. Her scarlet cloak stood out against the gray of the manor house behind her.

  The Allen country home had been in the valley for over one hundred years. The family was granted the lands in 1580 by Queen Elizabeth, and for several generations they had acted as absentee landlords. When trouble began during the first plantation period, the patriarch Charles Allen believed
a presence was needed in the valley, so the manor house was erected. It was a modest e-shaped country home with a cold gray stone facade covered in vines. The Allens had erected larger, smarter residences in Dublin and Glastonbury, but since it was located in Ireland, a modest country home was enough.

  Glastonbury was India’s first home. This is where Lord Allen brought the child when she was first born. His only explanation to Harriet was that India was the product of a brief liaison with an Irish tenant woman and that the mother had died in child bed. He stated that they would raise the girl as their own offspring and that Harriet would move to Ireland with the child away from the gossip of Glastonbury. Since Lady Allen had been unsuccessful for years in producing an heir, she offered little resistance to this arrangement, but secretly she resented the girl's presence.

  The flagstone path ended, but India continued walking around Loughlorcan on a deer trail. This was the part of the valley she loved where streams trickled down from the mountains, and the woodlands were lush and plentiful filled with bluebells, mushrooms, and anemones. India had been wandering here alone as long as she could remember. Most girls her age needed constant companionship and endless chatter, but India was not like most of her peers. She was aloof and detached, preferring long walks, the company of books, and her pianoforte. In Dublin, she had several friends with whom she shared confidences, but when she was in the country, she was completely content entertaining herself.

  India stopped and lifted her skirts stepping daintily over a greasy part of the trail. It was essential she remain crisp and clean tonight. She wondered who the supper guests were and why her mother was so nervous. Anxious about her future, India's stomach began to churn again. She wondered if she would be presented in Dublin or merely married off in a hasty fashion to the first suitor who came along. She also wondered if her mother would be pressed to remarry since widows inherited only a third of their husband's property.