The Banshee of Castle Muirn

by Sheila Currie

  Una smiled shyly and sat down on the blanket.

  Alasdair threw buckets of water on the horse. He’d love to drench Shona and see her shift clinging to her legs and slender waist. To wet the top of her shift. Ach no, he really shouldn’t do this. He hammered the water hard with a glancing blow, and the horse started.

  Give her up. She’s not yours. Never will be. Content yourself with that near kiss at the Red Stream.

  Alasdair took the bridle and led the horse round the bay, jumping and splashing as much as he could. The women laughed. So they should at the sight of a giant of a man ploughing through the water with a horse. “Right. Let’s take him to the stream and clear off the salt.”

  As twilight came on them, a mournful wail split the air like lightning. A woman’s voice lamenting, singing louder, then softer. The muscles of Alasdair’s neck and shoulders tightened, and he hunched as if to face an enemy. No enemy there—nothing real. The stallion neighed and danced, but he held Fear Mòr firmly. Shona stopped dead in front of him, and he walked into her. He gasped at her touch on his chest. Without thought, he put an arm round her. So soft and small.

  “A banshee is crying for one of us who will journey to the Otherworld.” Then Shona recited a prayer of protection.

  Una appeared frightened, but Shona stood for a time with the saddest expression on her face. She appeared to be appraising each person’s reaction to the banshee.

  “We’ll see you home,” said Alasdair.

  The other MacDonalds gathered their gear and horses and prepared to return to their camp.

  “What do you think of the banshee’s cry?” Alasdair’s hands felt twitchy—he gripped his sword pommel just to do something.

  “So who will die?” Cailean led his pony with the rest in the direction of the cattle fold as though nothing had happened. “Can’t be a warning for one of us.”

  “No,” said Alasdair. “The person to die must be someone who belongs to Gleann Muirn.” Not Shona—may the saints protect her.

  “The Campbells have given us hospitality.” Cailean’s voice was calm. “We belong here temporarily.”

  “The priests say it’s all nonsense,” said Gillesbic. “We are to pay no mind to such beliefs.”

  “She’s powerful.” Alasdair reassured the horse with a firm hand, for he seemed as worried as they were. Shona gazed in the direction of the cries as though she expected the banshee to appear.

  “She’s foolishness.” A trace of fear coloured Gillesbic’s voice.

  “I know a foolish man who found her comb and kept it,” said Alasdair. “A cousin of a cousin in Skye.”

  “He kept it?” said Cailean.

  “Wait till I tell you.” Alasdair shivered at the memory. “The banshee cried and wailed at his house for days. Finally the wise man of his village told him to give the comb back. The man gave it back to her—on an iron shovel through a crack in the door.”

  “He lived to tell about it,” said Cailean.

  “He limps to this very day,” said Alasdair. “So my cousin says.”

  “Why?” Anndru sounded unconvinced.

  “When the banshee touched the comb on the shovel, she hurled him across the room with her power.” Alasdair believed his cousin—why would he lie?

  “Superstition!” said Gillesbic. He wrapped coins in a twist of his fèileadh, but had difficulty tying a string around it. The banshee had made him nervous enough to forget his main interest in life.

  “What did she look like?” asked Shona. “The banshee your cousin saw.”

  “She was young and beautiful with golden hair. Like yourself.” He saw her flinch. Usually girls accepted compliments well. Not her. He had no idea what to say. “And she wore a green dress.”

  “When you see her young, she’s more powerful,” said Ruari. “He’s lucky to have survived .”

  “How do you know?” Shona spoke quietly.

  “Talking to people the length of my life. Taking precautions. Worked, didn’t it? You see me old and grey.”

  Shona must be worried for her people and unhappy, but she was not frightened. She wasn’t shaking and she appeared resigned—like people after a funeral when they begin to accept death.

  “There’s nothing in it. No one will die. I’m for getting some sleep.” Gillesbic didn’t sound convinced.

  “Insulting a banshee,” said Ruari. “Not wise, lad.”

  “She won’t be after us,” said Gillesbic. “We’re strangers. This banshee gave a warning of death for the people here.”

  “So the whole thing’s not nonsense,” said Alasdair. “Denying her existence might make her angry.” He believed in the power of the banshee, and his experience of life was greater than Gillesbic’s.

  “You’ve been very quiet,” said Alasdair. A sheltered girl like herself would know nothing about the banshee. Then again, he still wasn’t sure about the first time he saw her at the shore—a trick or an accident of nature? Maybe something more.

  “We’ll be mourning tomorrow night.” Her hair glowing amber, Shona stared into the gloaming.

  Alasdair thought she sounded ancient—like a wise woman who had knowledge of the Otherworld. She was revealing a new side of herself—there was more to her than he thought.

  “Want to race the pack pony, Gillesbic?” asked Cailean.

  The animal was over twenty years old. No one laughed at his joke.

  “I’m doing nothing of the kind.” Gillesbic drew himself up straight and slung his fèileadh out of the way of his sword arm.

  When they returned to their camp, Alasdair and his men put the Campbell horse and the ponies in the fold, and organised the night watch of men and dogs. While he was walking Shona home, he shivered, although the night wasn’t cold. Fear for himself, for those of his blood, and for Shona prevented much sleep that night.

  Spectators rimmed the shore and a fortunate few viewed the race from the large rocks flanking the shore. As Alasdair urged his borrowed horse through the crowd, he heard comments about the “theft.” Ruari stayed close behind on his pony.

  “Hai! That horse belong to Iain Glas?” A shaggy-haired man, his eyebrows raised, stood in front of Alasdair.

  “You’ve stolen Fear Mòr for the race. No mistaking that big black.” A little man searched his clansmen for support.

  “And a MacDonald riding him. One of the few times a MacDonald got anything from us.” The shaggy one shook his fist at Alasdair.

  Before the Campbells built their anger to fighting pitch, Alasdair put his hand on the on his dirk and addressed the shaggy one. “What is your will—race or fight?”

  “I’ve no horse.” He didn’t mention the second option. “No good luck from us to you.” The anger had dissipated from the shaggy man’s voice.

  “The MacDonalds bring death on us,” said the little man. “That’s what the banshee’s cry means.”

  “There may be a death in the race.” The shaggy-haired one echoed his thought.

  “Never happened yet,” said the other. “Do you plan such a thing, MacDonald?”

  Alasdair stared at him for a long time, then moved the horse forward.

  As his bonnet flew off his head, the man skittered out of the way. “I’ll be glad to see the back of you.”

  “Good luck to the bravest man,” said the shaggy Campbell. “You’re a bold devil.”

  “That was well done, a bhalaich.” Ruari waved politely to the Campbells.

  The meaning of the banshee’s cry had occupied Alasdair. He had no choice—he had to race for his honour. Live or die. And no banshee here to warn him of death.

  Here and there, young men and women sang and laughed on the sun-dried sand. Did they not hear the banshee's cry? He scanned the land beyond the shore for Shona, but didn’t see her in the groups of women, among the booths and tents set up for the fair. While families shared drinks and oatcakes, and chapmen sold ribbons, ornate boxes, and jewellery, two men near him talked about getting justice at the court after the race. He skimmed over
the girls and young women, their hair in filets or ribbbons, their best smiles on their faces.

  At noon he joined a dozen racers assembled with their horses and ponies at the shore below the castle. At last he found Shona in the crowd, smiling at him. His breathing sped up. A tide of joy washed over him, a tide so strong it tumbled his thoughts. He forced his mind to turn to the race. He would have to win—for her.

  Myles rode his big grey horse on to the sand to join them. Alasdair thought him foolhardy to race at his age. He must be nearly fifty—he should stay on shore with the older men—but he had to demonstrate his courage and strength to his people. At least he had a good horse.

  Alasdair spotted the buff-coated Connington prancing his stallion through the crowd, the warhorse scattering people as he rode. Why would Connington risk his neck on this race? The prize was a purse of silver pennies, a fortune for local people, but surely a landowner such as himself wouldn’t need such a paltry sum of money. Maybe he did. Lots of unanswered questions concerning that Lowlander.

  “That Connington man craves danger,” said Ruari.

  “We’ll make a good show,” said Alasdair.

  “You’d better—as carefully as you can.”

  As the sun rose high over the peak of Beinn Mhór, each MacDonald removed his fèileadh and shirt. They’d ride in trews. Fit and strong from manhandling cattle in all weathers, Alasdair wasn’t embarrassed to take off his own shirt. Cailean, Anndru and Donall were shorter than he, but built like bulls. Connington did not remove his coat or shirt. He flashed a wide smile to the crowd.

  “The sun on those teeth could blind you.” Ruari carried away the Spanish saddle.

  Connington’s lieutenant also prepared himself for the race. Rutherford didn’t remove his coat or saddle either.

  The oldest man in Gleann Muirn explained the rules: head into the loch, go around the birlinn anchored a hundred yards out, return to shore and race along the water's edge to the church at the far end. Nothing simpler. Alasdair glanced at Connington, who glowered at the water. A squall heaped the waves higher, making the galley bob at anchor.

  The old man threw a stone into the water and a dozen racers made a line on the shore. Most had no saddles. They’d hang on to a leather strap tied round the horse’s chest, just behind the forelegs, and control their horses with bridle and reins. All but Connington and Rutherford. The water would ruin their saddles. Peculiar men. They had something in mind and he needed to watch them.

  The old man threw a second stone into the water.

  Men and horses soared into the air and plunged into the water like dolphins, terror-struck in seconds by splashing and the shouts of onlookers. Alasdair saw Cailean’s horse turn around and head for the shore. He heard his rider shouting and calling on the saints for help. The horse ignored him as though he were a bundle of old clothes tied to his back.

  Alasdair heard the shouts and cheers. The racers rode into deeper water until it covered the horses’ legs and chests in a high wave and exposed them in a trough. The horses exploded through the crests of the waves, kicking up screens of seawater, hiding the riders from the crowd.

  With the reins in his right hand, Alasdair gripped the bellyband with his left. The stallion’s head jerked up as the he swallowed water, but his powerful legs propelled them forward. “Keep going, Fear Mór, you wonderful beast!” He counted three men in front of him: Myles, Rutherford and Connington nearing the stern of the birlinn. In the galley, men yelled and struck the gunwales to create noise to distract those in front. All part of the game.

  The winner would likely be the man who rounded the birlinn's prow first. Connington whipped his horse savagely until he was beside Myles. The rest of the racers hadn't reached the prow of the birlinn. Salt water stung Alasdair’s eyes and the bellyband ripped into his hand. He focussed his mind and heart on winning. Over the gunwale above him, three rowers screeched like mad kites. But the rough sea made them lose their balance and they disappeared into the birlinn.

  Fear Mòr surged forward, and Alasdair caught up to Myles, who was closest to the birlinn with Connington on his right side. He saw the Lowlander rein his horse into Myles. The grey smashed into the galley with such force that it pitched and rolled away from him and his rider. Above the churning water, Alasdair saw a flash of silver as Connington drove his arm toward Myles’s back. Alasdair wasted precious moments recognising what he saw. A knife.

  Connington had a knife!

  Fear snaked round his belly and seized his heart. Finally he shouted, “Thugad!” Myles, look out!” Rutherford tried to pull Alasdair off Fear Mòr, but he held on.

  Connington stabbed Myles once more. He sliced sideways with the knife again, and his target was Myles’ horse. Blood streamed down the grey’s head into the water. Silver flashed again in Connington’s hand.

  Rutherford hauled on Alasdair's shoulder. “Ye cannae stop him,” he shouted. “Get back!”

  “What?” Rutherford wasn't as murderous as Connington. No time to think further.

  Connington pulled Myles off his horse and pushed him down into the sea. And held him there. Alasdair forced Fear Mòr between Myles and his attacker.

  “Out of my way, ye Hieland meddler!”

  Connington let go of Myles, and the waves pushed him against the galley. With a fierce amount of splashing and shouting the rest of the racers rounded the prow of the ship. In the seething water, they couldn’t have seen or heard anything.

  While Alasdair turned toward them, he felt a burning across his ribs. He faced forward as Connington rammed Fear Mór and drove him hard against the birlinn’s planking. Again the galley rocked with the force.

  The blow to his back winded Alasdair. He gulped air and forced himself to breathe. He was losing his grip, but his hand was caught in the bellyband.

  The ship almost keeled over, but it righted itself with a deafening slap. Three rowers flew out overhead. Alasdair’s stallion bolted seaward to avoid one of the sailors landing on him. The man splashed into the water.

  Alasdair didn’t trust the sight of his salt-crusted eyes. Myles had disappeared and Connington had rounded the prow. Only three people bobbed in the sea—the rowers. Alasdair gripped the belly strap while his horse tried to escape the pitching birlinn by wading a distance out to sea. Gasping for breath, he tried to master Fear Mór.

  Alasdair shook his head to clear it. He was hurt and not sure where.

  He wound the reins around his right hand and gripped Fear Mór with his knees. He saw Connington heading for shore. Myles was no where in sight. He urged Fear Mòr beyond the galley's prow. He saw the backs of the other racers and their horses near shore, leaping out of the waves like wolf-crazed sheep. A grey horse followed the other horses ashore. Myles had disappeared.

  Alasdair needed more eyes to see what had happened to him. Shouting for help from the rowers, Alasdair forced his horse back round the prow of the birlinn to look for the missing man. The crowd hailed someone as the winner.

  Alasdair slipped off Fear Mòr and let him go to shore. Then he ducked underwater and searched. Tumbled sand and water prevented him seeing anything. He surfaced, breathed, and submerged again. Nothing and no one could he find.

  Chapter 12

  The tide must have sucked Myles to the bottom of the sea.

  Alasdair shouted at the rowers who had fallen into the water to search for Myles. A man still on the birlinn shouted for others to come, then he jumped into the water to join the search.

  Using the ship’s keel as a guide Alasdair ducked underwater and searched the bottom of the hull, slick with seaweed and rough with barnacles. After three futile attempts, Alasdair grasped woollen cloth and leather—a belt. Myles was caught between the keel and rocks. He tugged at the belt, but couldn’t shift the body. He couldn’t breathe, and rose to the surface.

  “He’s here!” Alasdair hardly stopped to breathe when a dozen men converged on him. “He’s caught under the keel.” He gasped. “Need ropes!”

  “We�
��ll get him. You’ve done enough.” If they didn’t hurry, the sea would carry him off when the tide came in. The water spirits would claim the man and exile his spirit forever. They had to bring Myles to land, and bury him with his own people. From the shore, men waded out to the galley.

  His ribs made Alasdair’s breathing painful. He hadn’t noticed that moments ago. Water battered his body, and he could hardly stand. Pain drummed a beat behind his eyes. He slipped underwater, forced himself to surface and spat out seawater. He tried to wade to shore, but made little headway. He might be the next to die without anyone noticing.

  With much difficulty the Campbells freed Myles from under the keel, and lifted him hand to hand into the birlinn.

  “When the ship heeled over, it might have knocked Myles off his horse.”

  “Strange his horse didn’t head out to sea to get away from it.”

  “Maybe the horse kicked Myles or something.”

  “All the racers say they saw nothing.”

  “But this MacDonald was in the middle of it all.”

  “Listen,” Alasdair croaked. Their faces were blurred. “I saw silver—a knife.” He couldn’t gauge their answer. Not sure they heard him. His head was spinning.

  “Be still.” One of them held him up in the water. “Your own people are coming for you.”

  Alasdair felt hands under his arms. His ribs hurt as Cailean and Ruari hauled him into a small curach.

  “Listen to me,” croaked Alasdair.

  “Bi sàmhach, a bhalaich. Be quiet and rest, lad.” Ruari’s voice. “A terrible accident—foretold by the banshee.”

  When they reached the beach, Alasdair, barely conscious with pain, rolled over the gunwale of the curach onto the sand. Ruari helped him to his feet.

  Her eyes full of tears, Shona drew near him. Her face indicated he wasn’t a pretty sight at that moment. He had to tell her before other Campbells were too close.

  “A bit of warm whisky and I’ll be fine.” Alasdair wouldn’t let this tiny woman see his weakness. “I’m sorry for the loss of your uncle.”