Irish tales of the supernatural
Natural and supernatural with the self-same ring are wed. –William Butler Yeats, Supernatural Songs
Another world
Guess what? I also have Irish heritage as well as Jewish on my father’s side and honestly, our reckoning with it is just as complicated. Again, like the Jewish diaspora, there’s a reason why there are so many people of Irish heritage in other countries.
In Irish storytelling traditions, the supernatural is entwined with the natural world (including the various traumas inflicted on the land, from invasion to famine). To me, this explains why my highly rational, utilitarian father unquestionably believed in ghosts (both benevolent and malevolent) and took every opportunity on dark summer’s nights to sit out in the garden with me and tell me real-life ghost stories.
There are faeries and gods, but for today, I’m going to share my three favourite supernatural tales or legends associated with the island of Ireland.
The banshee
TLDR: if you hear a banshee, you’re stuffed.
In English, we have the expression ‘to scream like a banshee’ and, of course, it comes from the Irish myth. Legend goes that the banshee is a wailing woman who heralds the imminent death of a loved one. The stories vary: for example, sometimes there’s a deadline, sometimes a banshee belongs to a particular family. Either way, if you hear her, nothing good will come of it. One variation dictates that only people from Old Irish families (i.e. those whose names are O’ or Mac something) can encounter a banshee. We were O’Keefes. Wish me luck.
The fear gorta
The fear gorta, or man of hunger, is sadly much more recent and directly connected to one of the darkest times in Ireland’s history: the Great Famine (1845-1852) that killed a million people and forced millions more to emigrate. To put it in perspective, the pre-famine population of Ireland was 8.5 million; by 1901, it was half that. Even now, the whole island’s population is only 7 million.
As the story goes, the fear gorta walks the land during famines as a starving wraith and if you offer it food or charity, it could bring you good fortune. So, like the banshee, not necessarily good or evil, just a harbinger of terrible times.
Giant’s Causeway
Okay, so in reality, we now know that the striking landmark is a result of volcanic activity, but before there were geologists, there was, of course, a legend attached to the UNESCO site.
A giant, Finn McCool, built the causeway in order to fight a Scottish giant called Benandonner. There are a few different endings: sometimes McCool wins, sometimes he sees how big his foe is and does a runner. Either way, it’s definitely one of the more interesting geomyths I’ve heard and it’s worthy of such a beautiful place.
The Irish influence on Coldharbour
They do say ‘write what you know’, so yes, the Wildes are half-Irish. In fact, they’re a mix of Jewish, Irish, and Caribbean, i.e. their broad ethnic heritage is the same as mine but the details are different.
And to honour that side of them, there was originally a banshee in Coldharbour I. While writing this post, I’ve started wondering if I can maybe incorporate it in a later book, possibly the final. But for now, this was my banshee moment a few drafts ago:
Its veil was sheer, revealing too much and not enough, warping what was underneath. Its endless cavern of a mouth was twisted open in a wail Alex could only feel, not hear. The eyes were just as black as the mouth and as unseeing as they were unmoving. Ink against chalk, too much skin stretched and contorted and rolled, lank grey hair drip-dripping water onto its bare toes.
Why wasn’t the thing doing anything?
It stank of the sea, of the weeds, of rotting fish and decaying wood.
A cold hand clamped around Alex’s mouth.
She couldn’t have screamed even if she wanted to.
But she didn’t, because she knew the hand, well, hands. One on her mouth, the other on her arm. She waited, they waited, chests stuttering more than heaving, until the thing turned away, disappearing into the darkness of the hallway, taking the cold with it.
Elizabeth’s hand slipped from Alex’s mouth, leaving her jaw aching. The grip on her arm loosened just enough for Alex to feel the throb of blood and Power rushing to a bruise.
And all Alex could say was:
“That wasn’t a ghost, was it?”
“No. It was a banshee.”
Alex twisted in Elizabeth’s grip, taking care not to scare off the fingertips that were now twitching against her arm.
Elizabeth was grave-white, as pale as bleached bone, but there was blood blooming on her bottom lip.
“Dare I ask what a banshee does?”
“It warns of an impending death,” Elizabeth explained, “It can appear, if it wants to, to anyone with Celtic blood.”
“Whose impending death?” Alex asked, “We both saw her.”
“You’re not the only one here who’s half Irish. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
