Death Cry

By Gemma Mawdsley

The sun had set on what was a very warm midsummer’s day in Ireland. It no sooner disappeared below the horizon, than it was replaced by the full moon. The glowing red clouds left behind with the promise of a warmer day to come, reached out caressed the moon and turned it to blood. An uneasy quiet shrouded the countryside. Night creatures rose from slumbering to begin their nocturnal foraging, tiny grey bats swooped through the still air and the call of the night owl was heard from deep within the forests. It was a night like any other, until the wailing started.
The animals heard it first, picking up their ears and sniffing the air. The sound caused both fur and feather to rise. None of them waited to hear it reach a crescendo preferring to take cover in their dens, warrens and tree trunks. It was a sound to chill the blood of any listener. Starting with a sigh and rising to a mournful keen that cut into the soul. It was the lament of someone who’d known great sorrow and loss.
The people who heard its warning crossed themselves in fear. Some muttered a silent prayer for its intended victim before locking any open window and pulling the curtains closed, despite the cloying heat. Children tossed fitfully in their sleep sensing the cry. Farmers, who were still at work in the fields, left what they were doing and hurried home.

Those who understood its meaning dared not speak of it. Fearful glances were exchanged, televisions were turned up as loud as possible, but nothing could mask the cry. It invaded the air, crept through cracks and keyholes, it would be heard. There was nothing to stop it. Man, despite all his modern technology, was not adept to deal with such a thing.
Its voice had haunted countless generations of the O Brien family, warning them of a coming death, but it hadn’t been heard for many years. Now, it was back and with a vengeance. It continued all through the night only quieting with the coming of dawn. The old, who understood too well its voice, lay awake until the last notes faded in the lightening air. Never before had they heard its cry last for so long or be more powerful. Instinct told them this was to be no ordinary passing for its prey. The voice they heard wanted more.
She was finally awake. The Dark One’s curse was almost at an end. Gathering her waist length hair about her, she raked her fingers through it picking out dead leaves and bits of twigs. She’d lain in limbo throughout the centuries and was only allowed on the earth for a short time, to herald each death of that accursed family. This was what she’d waited for. He was the last male in his line and soon he’d be no more. All the evil and wickedness would be brought to an end and she could rest in peace. Her crying would cease once he was dead. She’d wrap herself around him, her arms the embrace of a cold lover and they’d return to the dark earth together. He’d no other choice; he was powerless to resist her. There is no escaping the cry of the Banshee.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gemma Mawdsley
• Release date: May 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458118806

Gemma Mawdsley

Gemma Mawdsley lives in Limerick. In 2007 she was short-listed by Waterstones in their search for a new childrens' writer. She is now a full time writer.

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Death Cry

Gemma Mawdsley

Copyright©Gemma Mawdsley 2011

Published at Smashwords

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http://gemmamawdsley.com/

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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

******

PROLOGUE

The sun had set on what was a very warm midsummer’s day in Ireland. It no sooner disappeared below the horizon, than it was replaced by the full moon. The glowing red clouds left behind with the promise of a warmer day to come, reached out caressed the moon and turned it to blood. An uneasy quiet shrouded the countryside. Night creatures rose from slumbering to begin their nocturnal foraging, tiny grey bats swooped through the still air and the call of the night owl was heard from deep within the forests. It was a night like any other, until the wailing started.

The animals heard it first, picking up their ears and sniffing the air. The sound caused both fur and feather to rise. None of them waited to hear it reach a crescendo preferring to take cover in their dens, warrens and tree trunks. It was a sound to chill the blood of any listener. Starting with a sigh and rising to a mournful keen that cut into the soul. It was the lament of someone who’d known great sorrow and loss.

The people who heard its warning crossed themselves in fear. Some muttered a silent prayer for its intended victim before locking any open window and pulling the curtains closed, despite the cloying heat. Children tossed fitfully in their sleep sensing the cry. Farmers, who were still at work in the fields, left what they were doing and hurried home.

Those who understood its meaning dared not speak of it. Fearful glances were exchanged, televisions were turned up as loud as possible, but nothing could mask the cry. It invaded the air, crept through cracks and keyholes, it would be heard. There was nothing to stop it. Man, despite all his modern technology, was not adept to deal with such a thing.

Its voice had haunted countless generations of the O Brien family, warning them of a coming death, but it hadn’t been heard for many years. Now, it was back and with a vengeance. It continued all through the night only quieting with the coming of dawn. The old, who understood too well its voice, lay awake until the last notes faded in the lightening air. Never before had they heard its cry last for so long or be more powerful. Instinct told them this was to be no ordinary passing for its prey. The voice they heard wanted more.

She was finally awake. The Dark One’s curse was almost at an end. Gathering her waist length hair about her, she raked her fingers through it picking out dead leaves and bits of twigs. She’d lain in limbo throughout the centuries and was only allowed on the earth for a short time, to herald each death of that accursed family. This was what she’d waited for. He was the last male in his line and soon he’d be no more. All the evil and wickedness would be brought to an end and she could rest in peace. Her crying would cease once he was dead. She’d wrap herself around him, her arms the embrace of a cold lover and they’d return to the dark earth together. He’d no other choice; he was powerless to resist her. There is no escaping the cry of the Banshee.

CHAPTER ONE

Her mother named her after a saint, but in truth Annie was not a saint; neither was she a devil. She was just…different, in a time when it was dangerous to be so. The year was 1653, a time of great unrest, when the shadow of Cromwell’s forces moved over the land leaving death and destruction in their wake and bringing untold suffering to a once peaceful nation.

Annie Ryan knew all about suffering though hers was of a different kind. Her home was in the hill country and too wild and desolate to attract the invaders. Still, her pain was intense.

The wind whipped about her and she gathered her two sisters closer to shield them from its touch. A shuffling beside her made her reach into a pocket hidden in the folds of her skirts and she withdrew two coins. These were dropped into the dirty, outstretched hand of the gravedigger. Grunting his thanks, he pocketed the money and walked away. She never looked at him; as her eyes were fixed on the twin mounds in the earth, the place where they’d just buried her mother and father. Annie, despite her knowledge of herbs and healing wasn’t able to save them and they passed away within hours of one another, victims of a plague that was raging in the village. It had claimed many lives up to now. The elders spoke of witchcraft, of a curse being put on them, but Annie knew it was not so. It came from the earth and from the rats and other vermin that abounded on it. There was nothing sinister about what was happening. The summer was long and hot. The meat grew putrid in hours, the milk soured and the air was filled with flies that landed on the food leaving disease behind. She’d no idea how she knew of such things, but she did. She had the power to see things others could not. Her sense of hearing and smell was more heightened than others and she could hear the flapping of bee’s wings or smell the blood of a trapped rabbit as it struggled to get free from its snare. Of course, her mother warned her never to speak about it, but word got around, and it was whispered she was a witch and in league with the Devil. She’d been amused by the stupid talk and the women who made the sign against the evil eye when she passed, but it was no longer funny. She had to be both mother and father to her sisters. Dora, the baby of the family had turned six and Rose, just three-years-older at nine, were all she’d left in the world.

Annie was seventeen and used to her job as big sister, but it was under the guidance of her mother. Now she must stand alone, raise them as best she could and keep the promise she’d made to her mother on her deathbed.

Ushering the weeping girls away from the graves, she started towards home. Their cottage was on the outskirts of the village. It was hidden by the tall trees surrounding it and she liked it that way, it felt safe. A dark thatched roof covered walls made from stone and mud. From a distance it looked quite picturesque and enchanting, but the truth was something else. It was cold and damp inside, moss and weeds grew between the cracks and crevices and no amount of cleaning could keep it away. The few clothes they had felt wet against the skin, even though they hung from a rope stretched over the fire. The cold seeped into the bone and it was easier to work outside than in. Her father farmed the large plot of land beside the cottage and this kept them in vegetables throughout the year. He was also a woodcutter and as well as supplying half the village with firewood, his carvings were everywhere. From the ornate arms of chairs, that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a manor house, to the small wooden dolls he made for his girls. He was truly gifted, everyone said so, but not in the way Annie was.

There were few enlightened souls in that dark time. Religious practices were frowned upon. It was a time of mistrust and grave superstition. When the dark deities who walked the land and circled the air found it easy to gain power

Annie sighed, as she sank into a chair, exhausted in both mind and body. Her sisters stood before her, frightened and unsure, so she held out her arms and they rushed into them. They felt warm, their touch familiar against her skin. They sniffled and burrowed even closer and she wanted to cry with them. The cottage was quiet. It was an after the funeral quiet, when one is alone with ones thoughts and the grief, the sense of overwhelming loss hits.

Come now, she roused them. We’ll have something to eat. It’ll make us feel better.

They nodded, and while Annie set about preparing the meal, they laid the table. She’d already made a stew of beef, carrots and potatoes and this only needed to be reheated. The comforting, mouth-watering smell soon invaded the small kitchen, but she’d no appetite. She stirred the food, glad of having something to do and not wanting to turn and see the look on her sisters’ faces. The clatter of spoons and plates being put on the table seemed hollow and unnatural. Even the soft birdsong drifting in angered her.

She wrapped a cloth around the handles of the stew pot and brought it to the table. Taking a wooden ladle off its peg, she dished the steaming food onto the three plates. Her father carved this for her mother. Its large, deep curve narrowed up into a handle with the most intricate and delicate shapes of the trees growing in abundance outside the cottage. She fingered the wood for a moment and realizing her sisters were watching her, hurried the pot back to its place by the fire. They had their hands joined and their heads bowed, when she sat down and were waiting for her to give thanks. Thanks for what; for being left frightened and alone with two small children? She couldn’t bear to offer up a prayer. She was angry with both God and man.

Will you say the blessing, pet? She asked Rose.

Please, God, Rose whispered. Please keep my Mam and Dad safe in Heaven. Bless me and Dora, but especially Annie. Don’t let her get the sickness and die as well. Amen.

The sobs Annie tried so hard to contain bubbled free as she listened to the child’s prayer. Pushing her plate away, she put her head down on the table and howled. The days and nights of careful nursing had left her exhausted. There were a few times, when one or the other of her parents showed signs of rallying and her heart soared. But her hopes were dashed again and again, until finally they succumbed. She cried until she felt sick; big tears ran into the grooves and notches in the table wood forming tiny pools. She didn’t hear the soft crying of her sisters as they stroked her back, or the opening of the cottage door.

Annie Ryan, you stop sniffling this minute.

She wiped her eyes and stared at the figure silhouetted in the doorway. Meg Matthews stood leaning on her walking stick, her face stern beneath the hood of her black cape. Meg had been in her life as far back as she could remember. She was honorary grandmother to the three girls and Annie’s teacher. Meg had the gift, but hers was not as strong as Annie’s. As soon as she was old enough to talk, Meg took her under her wing and taught her the names of plants and roots. The art of healing came easily to Annie and the art of combining herbs and roots and discovering which ones were poisonous and harmful and could bring about death if not properly handled, was learned with amazing speed. Annie watched, still sniffling, as the old woman hobbled her way towards the fire, her stick tapping on the stone floor.

Come here, child, she ordered when she’d made herself comfortable in a chair.

Annie didn’t move at first. She was numb with grief and her eyes felt sore from crying. With her free hand, Meg withdrew something from beneath her cape and the two younger girls ran to her with exclamations of delight. Annie stood to see what all the fuss was about. A small black kitten stood on the old woman’s lap. It purred and arched its back towards the gentle stroking of the children’s hands.

Is he ours, Meg? Dora asked. Can we keep him?

What do you say, Annie? Meg smiled.

Annie ran the back of her hands across her cheeks, wiping away the last few tears. She looked down into the hopeful, upturned faces of her sisters, and realized for the first time that day, there was no sign of their loss.

I dare say he’ll not eat us out of house and home.

He’ll not be long in growing and filling out, Meg handed the kitten to the girls. Take him outside and play.

They went out, squabbling over who owned the kitten and what his name was. When they were out of earshot, Meg turned to Annie.

Sit by me child and listen well. It’ll do you no good to grieve so. Those little ones need you to be strong. Your parents, God rest their souls, she crossed herself. Are safe and in God’s hands. They’d not want you to go on like this, now would they?

No, Annie mumbled.

It’s not that my heart doesn’t bleed for you and your loss, child. But it’s your health I’m thinking of. Grief makes you weak and in times such as these any weakness can be fatal.

She knew Meg was right, but she’d a right to be sad. The old woman seemed to read her thoughts.

Of course you’ve a right to grieve and they’ll be many times in the days ahead when you’ll want to cry, but all I’m saying is don’t let it overwhelm you, understand?

Yes, Annie rose from her chair and knelt beside the old woman. The thin arms encircling her were strong and the heavy woollen cape smelt of the woods. Of evergreens and hollyhock, even the warmth of the sun seemed trapped within its fibres.

I’d have come with you today, child. But my old legs are playing me up again and I find the walking hard.

I know you would’ve.

Was there anyone else there?

No, no one, just me and the girls.

Not even old Mary O Brien and her scrawny son?

No one.

Well the curse of Christ on them and they related by blood to you. The least they could’ve done was show their faces.

They might be sick.

Sick indeed, the old woman snorted. Not even the sickness would touch those two. Why, they’d skin a flea for its hide. The grasping, miserly pair of them that’s in it."

Am I to take it you don’t like them, Meg?

The old woman laughed.

I suppose you could say that, then serious. Your father took care of everything?

Yes, everything, Annie knew what she meant.

Her father called one of the elders to him when he realized how sick he’d become. The cottage and the two acres with it, he willed to Annie, an unthinkable thing in a time when land was passed to the male heir. Women rarely owned anything, and if it hadn’t been for her father’s hindsight, they’d be homeless and the cottage and property in the hands of his distant cousin, Hugh O Brien.

That’s good, Meg was relieved. That keeps you safe for now.

Why for now?

Ach, don’t mind me child and my old ramblings. Here, help me stand.

Annie got up and held out her arm. Meg, leaning on it, groaned her way up.

I’ll need your help come morning. They’re coming to me in droves looking for medicines to ease their suffering, she stopped on the threshold. You’ll collect the herbs and roots I need?

Of course.

Good girl, Meg patted her hand. We have a hard few weeks before us. The sickness grows stronger and the need for help greater. You’ll have to take it to those too ill to leave their beds.

I’ll do whatever I can to help.

I know you will.

Annie watched her until she was lost from sight. She heard her sisters’ shouts of farewell echoing from within the forest and the old woman stopped long enough to wave to them. Annie had no way of knowing, as she went inside to reheat the food, how troubled Meg was.

Two acres of land and a cottage might not seem much, but people have killed for less. Acquiring such left Annie open to the fortune hunters, who’d do anything to get their hands on them. There was one in particular, Meg thought as she walked along; that no-good Hugh O Brien. He’d never worked an honest day in his life, despite the fact he lived in one of the best houses in the village. Well under the thumb of his scheming mother and apt to do anything on her say so, he posed a very real threat to Annie. She’d seen the way he looked at the girl. Meg beat at the ferns in her path with her stick and wished all the while each one was Hugh. Still, who could blame him? Annie was the most beautiful woman in these parts. There were few who’d failed to notice her, with her waist-length auburn hair hanging about her like a thick cloak, and the green, searching eyes that seemed to look into your very soul. But he was no good and his feelings for Annie were nothing but lust. He wasn’t capable of loving her or anyone else. He was best avoided and she’d see he was kept away from the child, one-way or the other. She shivered remembering the dreams. They came regularly now, disturbing her sleep and making her days as restless as her nights; always the same, never deviating in any way. That’s what frightened her the most, they were so real. Each one starting with a low chanting, rising to a scream, and the crackling of burning timber and red flames leaping high into the darkness surrounding them. She could smell the smoke even now in the clear air. It was a bad omen. There was something evil in the air. There was talk of a curse being placed on the village, but she’d dismissed this as superstitious nonsense. The ignorant folk were always looking for someone to blame for life’s tragedies. It was a puzzle, and as she walked homewards she prayed her sleep would be undisturbed that night.

CHAPTER TWO

The first night after her parent’s burial was the longest in Annie’s life. Unable to sleep, she lay awake and listened to the steady, rhythmic breathing of her sisters. Twice during the night, she thought she heard sounds coming from her parents’ room, but she knew it wasn’t possible. They were lost to her forever. Crying silently, lest she awake those she loved more than her life, she watched the window and it was a relief when the first rays of sunlight crept into the room.

There was freshly baked bread ready when the children woke and she’d gathered eggs from the hen roost behind the cottage. Rose and Dora ate with gusto, scraping the shells in search of the last remaining bits of egg. It was amazing how well they’d adjusted to their loss. After washing up and straightening the rooms she got ready to leave. The children would have to come along with her, as she couldn’t risk leaving them alone. Throwing a shawl around her shoulders, she set off for the deepest part of the forest. Here the berries and herbs were plentiful and untouched by the scavenging birds. It took a few hours to find all the plants she needed and she arrived at Meg’s cottage with two hot and irritable children in tow.

After a cool drink, they settled down to play with the assortment of animals Meg had rescued over the years. There was a jackdaw, whose damaged wing made flight impossible and who’d become as tame as all the other animals. A dog and six cats made up the rest of the menagerie. The squirrels nesting in the trees beside the cottage came and accepted berries from the children’s outstretched hands and the odd deer with her fawn in tow stopped by on her meanderings through the forest. All of them, from the smallest creature knew they were safe with Meg and as she often said, an animal like a child, has to be taught to fear.

While the children played, Meg and Annie got down to the more serious job of mashing and grinding the plants and berries. When the right consistencies were achieved, they placed spoonfuls of the mixture in small pieces of cloth and tied the top of each piece. There were many callers to the cottage that morning and all were seen by Meg and given one of the little bundles.

The sickness seems to be getting worse, Meg shook her head. There have been four deaths in the village overnight and many more are at deaths door.

This information came from the last caller. Once all the bundles were ready, Annie loaded them into her basket and with a list of names; she set out for the village. Despite their protests, she ordered the children to stay behind with Meg. There was no sense in exposing them to the very real danger of the sickness.

The roads were deserted as she walked along. There was no trundling of farm carts as one might expect, and it was with heavy heart she approached the village. The lack of children playing in the street was a good indicator of how bad things were. She knocked at the first door on her list and was surprised by the hostile greeting she received. The bundle was snatched from her hand without thanks and the door slammed shut. She stood gazing at the wood for a moment before shrugging her shoulders. Maybe the sickness was making everyone cranky. The reception she got at each house was much the same and she was glad when there was only one more to go. This was the home of Jane O Regan. Jane was a widow with four children and had been a lifelong friend of Annie’s mother. The welcome she’d receive here would be quite unlike the others. Annie tapped on the house door. A feeble voice bade her enter and she lifted the latch and walked into the gloomy interior. A makeshift bed lay in front of a blazing fire. Jane was sitting in the centre of the bed surrounded by all four of her children and each one was in the grip of some terrible fever.

Annie, thank God you’ve come, Jane brushed a lock of sweat-drenched hair from off her forehead.

You should’ve sent word, Annie put down her basket and hurried to