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The Banshee
I sit at my usual table in the corner. There’s nothing particularly special about this bar – the service is decent enough,
the decor is boring – but it’s Friday and it’s the only bar in town so it’s packed full of locals and a few tourists travelling
through little off-the-beaten-trail towns. It’s the only place I feel surrounded by life.
I am one of the regulars here and also one of the crazies. I sit in the corner and every so often I moan uncontrollably.
I keep the sound low, but that doesn’t make it any less strange. My mix of quiet screaming and song disturbs those who
are close enough to hear it and the rest just see me rocking back and forth in the corner. I know what some of them are
thinking, but I only ever order water. I must be annoying, but the bar staff never says anything. I leave generous tips
for my free water.
Somewhere far away, a distant descendant of one of the five great clans hears my voice on the wind.
They shiver, but cannot remember what they fear.
I pull myself out of a trance and find two young travellers looking at me – a brother and sister by
the look of them. I figure I have frightened them with my strange behaviour, but they ask if they
can share my table. There is nowhere else to sit.
The young man starts to introduce himself, but I stop him. I have no use for names. Names
just make everything more painful. Names give labels to what gets taken away. Without
prompting or encouragement, the travellers tell me about their trip. Everything they say
is brimming with effortless enthusiasm. When I start shaking and moaning, they politely avert their eyes.
I don’t know what to make of them. They are clearly amused by my presence – taking in a bit of local colour,
as it were. The girl smiles warmly, but there is something else on the boy’s face.
When the girl goes to the bar for refills, I lean towards the boy and ask him what he sees. He pretends
not to understand the question, but I stare him down and he can’t keep it up.
“I see a woman in a white dress,” his cheeks redden and he lowers his eyes, “and your eyes change
from light grey to charcoal...”
“Like a coming storm,” I finish. The boy’s eyes widen and he burns a deeper red.
Though he started nicely enough, he wasn’t going to finish so poetically. Still,
I’ve hit the mark and we both know it. I have heard such things before, but not for a very long time.
I do not deny that I am very beautiful. I had a lover once. He held me when I sang and brought a
flicker of life into my world. Until the day I sang to his young sister and returned home to an
empty house where only the dead speak to me, though even they have forgotten who I am. I come to
this bar to hide, but these travellers can see through it all. Through the gauze and mystery I paint over myself.
They belong to one of the five.
“Leave now,” I say when the girl returns, “you have had enough of my craziness.”
“We don’t mind your singing,” the girl says politely. Or maybe she isn’t being polite. Maybe she’s telling the truth.
“One day I will sing for you and you will feel differently,” I say.
The travellers shiver though they don’t know why they are afraid. The boy wants to say something,
but his sister pulls him away. They disappear into the crowd.
I come to this bar to surround myself with life, to escape the shivers of dread that float back
to me on the wind. Yet maybe I am alone here too. I hide from the living while hiding from the dead.
These people don’t know me and the dead have forgotten me. Maybe I should just leave...
A sob ricochets through my body. I can’t stop the tears and I don’t care. Or maybe I do care because
I notice more people glancing my way and I can’t shift my body away from all their eyes. How long must
I do this? When do I get to move on? I sing now so that someone may return the favour and send me their
song on the wind. When I hear the song, I will remember what it means and I will not be afraid.
Brianne O'Grady's poetry has been accepted for publication by Four and Twenty and Canadian Stories magazines.
She is the co-author of a children's book written for Ontario's Best Start Program and in August 2008, she received
an honourable mention in the We Are Many Festival's Short Fiction Contest. Brianne is originally (and at heart) a girl from rural Ontario.
Email: Brianne O'Grady
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