The Banshee of Castle Muirn

by Sheila Currie

  “You! Avert your eyes and mind your tongue!” The woman who’d spoken before pushed the man.

  “Who is—?” Alasdair tried again.

  The woman pointed in the direction of the magical creature. “That’s Shona Iain Glas, of course. Our chief’s daughter.”

  The chief’s daughter. He’d spend little time in her company.

  At the sea’s edge, the women unpinned their brooches and removed their earasaid. As the dying sun touched the edge of the world, the old woman walked waist-deep into the blood-red sea, lifted the silver cup high above her head, and sang:

  A Shionaidh na mara,

  Nach toir thu dhuinn biadh?

  O Ancient One of the sea,

  Will you not bring us food?

  She poured the libation of ale into the sea. Then the fair-haired woman gave an offering of oats. The sea rippled as the women sang, hushing the beholders while the peat torches crackled.

  Ancient One, work the magic of transformation:

  water into seaweed, seaweed into corn,

  and corn into people and their beasts.

  Give us life, Shionaidh.

  Those behind took up the song.

  He barely heard the words as he filled his eyes with the sight of her. If he spent more time studying the Campbell woman from the top of her head to her heels, he’d be spell-bound and forget his purpose.

  No, he would not. Nothing he could do about his racing heart, though.

  Suddenly the ocean shivered in front of them, and the Ancient One formed a large wave, which grew higher until it split to form columns of water, silvered in the sun with crystal streamers spinning off the tops. The water rained on the women and onlookers. The golden-haired woman lifted her arms and the pillar grew higher. On every person near the shore, the hair hung long and lank, but a silver cage of water kept the golden woman dry. When Alasdair saw her, perfect and dry, he knew she had Sionaidh’s favour. But the sea spirit had captured her for a purpose known only to himself.

  He stared at the shifting sea. Ruari shook his shoulder and he came to himself. The old woman on the stone nodded as if she had expected the action of the waves. As the water quieted, the young women began to sing again, and those behind took up their song, until hundreds of voices filled the curve of hills round the bay. The water calmed, the only sound the waves drumming on the rocks. Still on the large stone at the water’s edge, the old woman lifted her arm, and signalled her permission to leave the shore. The fair-haired woman followed the grizzled one, and the crowd flowed into the falling darkness.

  Alasdair stood alone at the edge of the sand, sea salt stinging his lips and his damp féileadh chafing his neck. He thought about the woman whose hair had blazed with the setting sun behind her, her linen shift wrapped her round like waves in the wind.

  Then he remembered he was among Campbells. He looked round, but all eyes were on the women. No sign of any hostility.

  “An unusual thing has happened here tonight, sure enough.” Ruari watched the backs of the retreating Campbells.

  “Have you ever seen the sea waves twist and turn like that?” said Alasdair, not sure the spell had ended.

  “I’ve never seen such portents in the sea, and I saw the evil winds that blew across Kinsale, and destroyed the great men of Tyrconnel and Tyrone.”

  “The golden woman?”

  “Never seen her like.”

  Alasdair stared in the direction she had taken. “We’ll follow them and ask for hospitality.”

  Ruari opened his mouth to say something, but he held his tongue.

  The power in the sea would make any man hesitate to interfere, but Alasdair had come too far among his clan’s traditional enemy to walk away now. He would find out where they held their assemblies and make his offer. He and Ruari joined the last of the crowd walking from the shore.

  A half-grown woman had dazzled him. Campbell or not, chief’s daughter or not, he’d trade his cattle for another sight of her and his hope of heaven for words with her.

  He huffed at his wild thoughts. He’d do nothing of the kind. Foolishness. Many MacDonalds depended on him. He’d make his request and leave.

  Likely he’d never see her again after he left Gleann Muirn.

  Knowing that the crowd watched her, Shona, daughter of Iain Glas, chief of Clan Campbell, walked with as much decorum as she could muster. Below the peat torches, people talked and laughed, but kept a few paces away from her and Morag the Wise. Of course, they respected Shona as the chief’s daughter and Morag as the healer. But tonight there was something else in the way they kept their heads down and turned away if she looked at them.

  When the old woman had asked her to assist, she’d felt like prancing round the hearth fire like a young child. But she replied gravely that she’d be honoured. Every part of the ritual had gone well. If the feast to honour Sionaidh were as perfect as the ritual, then Gleann Muirn would have good crops and prosperity for the whole of the year to come. But the banshee had cried the night before, and that meant someone would die. She had done what she could to prevent further bad luck. She would stay with the celebrants for the feast and then go back to the castle.

  And face her stepmother.

  Shona hadn’t thought of her new stepmother for hours. A little dart of guilt shot through her, prodding her to return to keep the newcomer company. The Campbell gentry always attended the festivals, but her stepmother had told her to stay away from the “low folk of the farm toun” who attended the ceremony. Shona knew Priscilla was lonely in her new home, and thought the festival would brighten her mood. Yet she had no interest in joining Shona. She, however, would stay and enjoy the company of her people regardless of her stepmother’s disapproval. Her stepmother didn’t understand that many of them were distant relatives. They weren’t low people at all. Their blood was as good as Shona’s.

  In a field above the shore, spits turned with venison and beef while broth simmered in cauldrons. Tables overflowed with dishes of hare, fresh salmon, and partridge while flagons of ale and whisky cooled in the stream nearby, ready for the festival crowd. The smells of the outdoor kitchen made her mouth water.

  The figure of a man, standing as strong and tall as the stone called Fionn the Giant, caught Shona’s eye, and she pulled the top of her earasaid over her head so that she could study him without his seeing her. Like most men present, he wore the féileadh of two loom-widths, belted at his waist; the lower half hung to his knees and displayed legs as strong as pillars. An ample brooch on his left shoulder held the top folds of cloth away from his right arm. Although he carried no claymore or targe, she knew he was a warrior.

  He turned toward her, his black hair framing a golden face she remembered from the crowd at the shore. She followed him with her eyes until he disappeared past the churchyard.

  “Fine figure of a man,” said Morag.

  “What man?” Now, that was a silly thing to say. Morag saw so much—no one got away with anything around her.

  “Ha! You know.”

  “His clothing becomes him.” Harmless words. She had said the same about many good-looking lads.

  “Shapely calves and thick thighs.” The old woman held her arm. “You be careful with that one. Aren’t you meant for a fine Campbell gentleman?”

  “I know. I’m to choose between Cailean or Ailean. Or perhaps Niall of Fearann Mòr. This man is a stranger of no interest to me.” Because he was a stranger, she couldn’t think seriously of his courting her. In these dangerous times, women had to be careful of the men with whom they were friendly. But she could dream … a bit.

  Morag seemed to weigh her words. “You have so much to learn. And you may have another destiny.”

  Another destiny? Shona saw fear in the old woman’s eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  Morag took her by her two hands. “I see trouble coming to this glen. Terrible tragedy.”

  Shona looked down. Her fingers were hidden by Morag’s. “Is it the death to come? The banshee has cried, but
perhaps for one person only. A person who is ready to leave the earth.”

  Morag’s face told her that the old woman meant more than that. Those dark eyes flicked up and pleaded with her. “Many deaths.”

  Shona’s heart had not space enough to beat. She loved her home, its lochs and high mountains, and wanted unhappiness banished from her glen.

  “You may turn the tide as surely as the moon.” Morag guided her away from the crowd nearby. “We’ll speak later. We should join the others and help serve food. People fear me enough as it is. Will you go with me?”

  “Of course.”

  As they walked toward the feast in the church grounds, the crowd allowed them to pass. The wise woman helped the sick, the lovelorn and the cursed, and they feared her—or at least her knowledge. The healing arts were dangerous, so they thought. They avoided contact with her and tonight with Shona as well, for the first time since childhood. Because she was with Morag? The old woman’s words were so strange.

  “What happened at the shore?”

  “There was great power in the sea,” said Morag.

  “Sionaidh was pleased?” Perhaps, like storms, the Ancient One made a better display some years. A good omen.

  “He recognised power—in one on the shore.” Morag uttered her words slowly and carefully. “Yourself.”

  “Me?” She studied Morag, who didn’t smile. Her face looked like it did when she had to tell someone about a death, her head tilted as if she were waiting for the right moment. For acceptance. “How do you know? Perhaps Sionaidh honoured the village itself. Perhaps he was reassuring all of us in the baile that one death was all that was necessary for him.”

  So it was the ritual caused the distance the between herself and the people of the baile. People thought she was favoured by Sionaidh.

  She didn’t want her people to be afraid of her. Uncomfortable with her new stepmother in the castle, she was now uneasy among her own people. “Not me. I know so little about healing. I could never learn—”

  “Power. You have the power to make things move.” Morag took her two hands once more. “I’m old. I’ll have no more ability than I have now. Less.”

  “What on earth do you mean?” Surely Morag was wrong. She looked strong and fit. Tomorrow she’d collect plants and visit the sick as always. Tomorrow Shona would do her duties and forget this. Tomorrow everything would be as it was. A week or a month later, she’d barely remember the events of this night.

  “You have a decision to make.”

  “Please, answer my question. What power?”

  Morag looked all ways and smiled and waved to those passing by. Some returned the greeting. “Too many ears. Later.”

  “You know I have little say in what I do. Not even my father determines what I do at present. My stepmother rules our house.” Shona had some freedom to make a decision about her future, but eventually she must do as her family expected—to keep Clan Campbell strong.

  “Not what I meant.”

  “The course of my life has been plotted by my father. I’m not unhappy about that. I will marry a Campbell gentleman and have children and a hospitable house.” She forced herself to smile as if she were carefree. “I don’t want to leave Gleann Muirn, but hopefully I won’t be far away.”

  “No.” Morag leaned closer. “You have little time to learn so much. I’ll teach you everything I can.”

  “You’ve taught me much about herbs and healing and housewifery. I’ll learn what I can. I’ll help when I can.” She had a quick mind and more strength than most girls her age, and she would put those abilities to work for her clan. People treated her differently, but only because she was a chief’s daughter.

  But then there had been the ritual at the sea ...

  “Whatever you think I can do matters little. I must obey my family in the end.”

  Morag placed her hands on each side of Shona’s head.

  Images flashed through Shona’s mind: the fountains in the water, her stepmother, and a dark-haired stranger. Loch Muirn shimmered and turned red. The castle, the sky all black. Evil portents. “What does it all mean?”

  “Your father in Edinburgh won’t protect people here from those who have come from the Lowlands.” Morag lowered her arms and her breathing made Shona raise her head. “Listen, young one, you may be strong enough to fight and defeat it.”

  She had more confidence in Shona than she had in herself. “What will happen to Gleann Muirn? Tell me.”

  “As you did, I saw red blood and black death. I saw evil men. And this I know.” The old woman looked at her gnarled hands. “I can’t fight it—I’m too old.”

  “How can I deal with it? It’s men’s work. My father’s warriors will fight and protect us.” Shona drew in a deep breath.

  “Warriors are needed, but also people like us. You and me.”

  “What could we possibly do? We are only women.”

  The fire flashed in Morag’s eyes. “Women we are … and much more!”

  They spoke quietly, but intently. Morag looked about her. People averted their gazes and steered clear of them.

  “You must learn the ways of the sisterhood.”

  “The sisterhood?”

  Morag slowly turned her head each way. “Later.” And that was all Morag would say about her future that night.

  Shona heard a man shout, “Fight!”

  Chapter 2

  In the torchlight Shona saw the violent movement of grey and black shapes among the tartan féilidhean, and heard harsh breathing. Her heart clenched as an image of hot blood burst into her mind. A violent death on Sionaidh's Day.

  No, surely not. Everyone must know about it, and everyone would prevent its happening.

  Men scuffled with each other. A crowd had gathered and obscured her view.

  Another woman struggled to see above the crowd. “Pushing and shoving, looks like.” People turned in the direction of the disturbance. Shona saw her friend. “Una, over here.”

  Una hesitated and looked about. “A fight! On Sionaidh's Day! I can’t believe it!”

  “A bad omen for next year. We have to sort it.” Shona needed someone with her. “Please, come with me.”

  Una pulled away and wrapped her arms around her chest. “We are women. How do we fight men? We can do nothing.” She looked wildly about her.

  “We can talk to them!” Shona took her friend by the hand.

  “They’re men! They’re too big.”

  “Come on! We’ll be safe enough.” Maybe. Shona was breathing hard, and beginning to shake. But she had to do something, say something.

  Una’s eyes widened, her mouth gasped for air. She shook her head no. She wouldn’t stop any wickedness on that day. Shona was on her own. Her heart flipped about in her breast like a fish in a basket.

  Without looking back, Shona threaded through gaps in the crowd. The coarse wool of a man’s féileadh scratched the skin of her face. She started and quickly lifted her hands to pluck at his sleeve, but he jumped back before she touched him. Yet she was slow getting through the crowd.

  “Let me by! In the name of Iain Glas.” When she invoked her father’s name, the crowd shifted to let her pass, their faces looking fearful. No time to think of that.

  “Please, go ahead, daughter of Iain Glas,” said a man who backed himself into others to make room for her.

  “Thank you, Niall Calum.”

  He was a filidh, a professional poet who made poems to praise the great men who led Clan Campbell. If he liked them. He would always do the right thing and expect the same.

  Shona spilled out of the mass of people and faced a group of Campbell men who wrestled with strangers dressed in grey coats and baggy trousers. Foreigners—the likes of which she’d rarely seen before. Everything the strangers wore was tattered, the black rusty and the grey faded with sun. She had no idea how to stop them.

  Farther away by the tables, the foreigners stuffed oatcakes and cheeses into their pouches, and others filled skin bags with ale fr
om wooden casks. Shona avoided a Campbell who held one ragged man around the chest, and a second who threw his opponent over a stone dyke. Wheezing for air, men rolled on the ground and struggled to grip each other’s throats. The crowd receded as the fighters rolled toward them.

  “Stop it!” she yelled. “No bloodshed on Sionaidh's Day!” None of the fighters paid any heed.

  The Campbell men tried to wrench staves from the hands of the intruders. One of her people held the wrist of an opponent armed with a club, when a second enemy hit his legs. He collapsed on the sand and they kicked him. Suddenly knives flashed in the hands of two strangers—but iron was forbidden at the festival and the Campbells weren’t armed. Shionaidh, the Ancient One, hated iron, which is why he pitted blades with the salt from his sea.

  “Anndru, Seoras! Go to the castle and bring men and weapons!” she shouted. The two men pushed through the crowd. “Donal, I can’t be heard. Will you shout to them?”

  One Lowlander sliced the air with his long knife, and a Campbell fell back over a fire and screamed at the flame’s bite. Her belly tumbled with fear. Sacrilege. The Lowlanders didn’t understand. She had to tell them.

  Shona strode forward. Two older Campbell men caught her. “Be wise, Shona Iain Glas. They’re wild with fighting. They won’t listen to you.” They blocked her passage. She was about to struggle out of their grip, but didn’t. They were only trying to help.

  “We must do something,” she said.

  One of the strangers was dressed in a rough leather coat over baggy breeches. He shouted orders at his fellows, and they did as he ordered. Must be their leader. His sword banged his side as he ploughed through a stack of freshly baked bannocks. One after the other he buttered them with his fingers, and stuffed them into his maw. The crumbs frosted his dirty linen shirt.

  Shona shouted at the big man. “You!” Startled, he almost dropped his knife. He whirled about. “You dishonour the Ancient One! Tell your men to stop.”

  He stared at her. She repeated her words in Inglishe.