Hazards of Being a Banshee:
Losing Yourself and Lawn Care
I ’m convinced that one of the girls from Fleetwood Mac is part-banshee. The soulful, pulsing songs get in my head, and I scream them through my sunroof on the way back from my trek to Fenny Peak, the highest part of the mountain range that goes through Pine Ridge.
My screams turn to throbbing, pulsing waves of sound that I can see bouncing off the steering wheel and flexing the half-opened windows as I turn onto the road into town.
Time to roll the windows up. The sunroof must be shut.
Time to go home and haul in my latest find—a collection of gorgeous old picture frames left out for the trashman.
One positive side effect of being a night owl—I snag the stuff worth saving before the trash trucks come through in the morning.
As I turn onto Pine Crest Avenue, a little jolt runs through me. I’m on my own tonight.
Well, I’m on my own every night, but tonight, my shop and the surrounding buildings stand empty. I saw Jared leave for the airport hours ago. The businesses beside me are shuttered, and no one will be there until well after the morning—when I’m sleeping in.
For once... It’s nice to have no one but Marmalade to come home to.
As I lug the picture frames from my backseat, I feel a little twinge of guilt. I could be working tonight at the Night Market. I have more business there than in my store most days. I could see more of my friends, especially the ones who work all day or who prefer to come out at night.
My mind flickers to Jared, the neighbor I wish would move out.
That’s kind of dumb. He seems like such a gentle giant, a guy who defines “husky” and who has glasses that perch above his rounded cheeks. He always smiles at me.
Sometimes I forget to smile back.
I feel mean-spirited for wishing he would leave when he only got here a couple of months ago—especially because he has this quiet, cheerful determination in his aura that I haven’t been able to find in myself lately.
Silently sliding into my shop, I put the heavy frames down and pat Marmalade, who runs down from the attic, mew-purring on every step, a little hiccup of adorability as she winds through my legs and then jumps on the counter.
“At least you missed me, girl,” I whisper, bowing my head to hers, the inexplicable feeling of joy at being unfettered for the night—and for the next week or so—wars with a sudden loneliness. “You’re free, but you like having someone around, don’t you, love?”
I feel the pull in my throat and the way my hair starts to lift from my shoulders, long blonde-white tendrils rising without a breath of wind.
“Dá mbeadh mo chroí uaigneach riamh ... Dá mbeadh mo chroí saor riamh... Thiocfá agus aimsigh mé, chuirfeá i gcuimhne dom i gcónaí an áit a bhfuil mé i gceist a bheith...”
If ever my heart was lonely... If ever my heart was free... You'd come and find me, you’d always remind me of just where I'm meant to be...
The plants on my windowsill start to grow, spooling out shoots and popping out leaves. I sing the verse again, louder this time, feeling my aching heart bursting inside, happy to be able to belt it out and sinking under a sudden crushing desperation.
This is a betrothal song. A mating cry. Every banshee has one, a single song that doesn’t bring bad news but binds her to her lover.
Which I don’t have, and which I’m not going to find by singing in my shop as it rapidly begins to look like something from an “Is your lawn unsightly and overgrown?” lawn care commercial.
There are no fae who live in the town itself, although some might be in the woods or out on the outskirts.
They stay hidden, and they’re probably wise to do so.
Fae and humans have a checkered past, and there is blame on both sides.
Anyway, the song goes on, verse after verse spilling from my soul without any way to pump the brakes.
At least I know no one can hear me here .
.. And even if they could— no one would submit to my request, either.
A banshee’s call can always be rejected if you strike the right bargain, and I know the fae in Pine Ridge would know just what to do and say.
Stop torturing yourself, I manage to think as I steal a breath.
But I can’t. The tall, moon-white visage of willowy manhood taunts my inner eyes. Pointed ears. Slightly pointed canines. A wicked, knowing smile. Glistening wings like a dragonfly’s and golden rings on every finger, not to mention a silver cuff on his ear.
God, yes, I want that piece of faelord yumminess. Don’t I?
That image of... whoever he is, is like the fae version of a male model, a pinup for banshee girls across the British Isles and beyond.
Why? Why, when I’ve never even seen anyone who looks remotely like that?
Because marrying a regular human would probably lead to divorce, permanent injury, or even death to the groom, that’s why.
“Yowwwwwl!”
I stop singing abruptly as Marmalade is pushed off the counter by a now six-foot fern with an attitude, snapping fiddleheads out of its soil like whips.
I groan and start humming something dark and threatening, making the leaves and vines that are now running across my floor shrink and shimmy back into their pots. It stops the new growth—but doesn’t really fix the fact that my small shop now looks like a jungle.
Except for that damn African violet. It sits, small and complacent, gloating at me.
Maybe someone cursed that pot. I’ll have to replant it.
Can most banshees do this? Well, yes and no. We all have some power that aligns with our elemental sign. Mine is earth. My mother’s is water.
Every time I backtalked her growing up, the spigots in the house exploded on me.
“I’m going to be up until dawn pruning my own little shop of horrors,” I laugh and let Marmalade go to work shredding and boxing an overgrown frond with her back feet. “At least I can sleep in.”