by Ray Bradbury
‘And you—?’
‘Ha!’ she cried. ‘I’ve long since caught mine. It will not catch again. Get!’
I gladly went. For I was full of the cold night and the white moon, old time, and her. The wind blew me up the grassy knoll. At the door, I turned. She was still there on the milky road, her shawl straight out on the weather, one hand upraised.
‘Hurry,’ I thought I heard her whisper, ‘tell him he’s needed!’
I rammed the door, slammed into the house, fell across the hall, my heart a bombardment, my image in the great hall mirror a shock of colorless lightning.
John was in the library drinking yet another sherry, and poured me some. ‘Someday,’ he said, ‘you’ll learn to take anything I say with more than a grain of salt. Jesus, look at you! Ice cold. Drink that down. Here’s another to go after it!’
I drank, he poured, I drank. ‘Was it all a joke, then?’
‘What else?’ John laughed, then stopped.
The croon was outside the house again, the merest fingernail of mourn, as the moon scraped down the roof.
‘There’s your banshee,’ I said, looking at my drink, unable to move.
‘Sure, kid, sure, unh-huh,’ said John. ‘Drink your drink, Doug, and I’ll read you that great review of your book from the London Times again.’
‘You burned it, John.’
‘Sure, kid, but I recall it all as if it were this morn. Drink up.’
‘John,’ I said, staring into the fire, looking at the hearth where the ashes of the burned paper blew in a great breath. ‘Does … did … that review really exist?’
‘My God, of course, sure, yes. Actually.…’ Here he paused and gave it great imaginative concern. ‘The Times knew my love for you, Doug, and asked me to review your book.’ John reached his long arm over to refill my glass. ‘I did it. Under an assumed name, of course, now ain’t that swell of me? But I had to be fair, Doug, had to be fair. So I wrote what I truly felt were the good things, the not-so-good things in your book. Criticized it just the way I would when you hand in a lousy screenplay scene and I make you do it over. Now ain’t that A-one double absolutely square of me? Eh?’
He leaned at me. He put his hand on my chin and lifted it and gazed long and sweetly into my eyes.
‘You’re not upset?’
‘No,’ I said, but my voice broke.
‘By God, now, if you aren’t. Sorry. A joke, kid, only a joke.’ And here he gave me a friendly punch on the arm.
Slight as it was, it was a sledgehammer striking home.
‘I wish you hadn’t made it up, the joke, I wish the article was real,’ I said.
‘So do I, kid. You look bad. I—’
The wind moved around the house. The windows stirred and whispered.
Quite suddenly I said, for no reason that I knew:
‘The banshee. It’s out there.’
‘That was a joke, Doug. You got to watch out for me.’
‘No,’ I said, looking at the window. ‘It’s there.’
John laughed. ‘You saw it, did you?’
‘It’s a young and lovely woman with a shawl on a cold night. A young woman with long black hair and great green eyes and a complexion like snow and a proud Phoenician prow of a nose. Sound like anyone you ever in your life knew, John?’
‘Thousands.’ John laughed more quietly now, looking to see the weight of my joke. ‘Hell—’
‘She’s waiting for you,’ I said. ‘Down at the bottom of the drive.’
John glanced, uncertainly, at the window.
‘That was the sound we heard,’ I said. ‘She described you or someone like you. Called you Willy, Will, William. But I knew it was you.’
John mused. ‘Young, you say, and beautiful, and out there right this moment …?’
‘The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.’
‘Not carrying a knife—?’
‘Unarmed.’
John exhaled. ‘Well, then, I think I should just go out there and have a chat with her, eh, don’t you think?’
‘She’s waiting.’
He moved toward the front door.
‘Put on your coat, it’s a cold night,’ I said.
He was putting on his coat when we heard the sound from outside, very clear this time. The wail and then the sob and then the wail.
‘God,’ said John, his hand on the doorknob, not wanting to show the white feather in front of me. ‘She’s really there.’
He forced himself to turn the knob and open the door. The wind sighed in, bringing another faint wail with it.
John stood in the cold weather, peering down that long walk into the dark.
‘Wait!’ I cried, at the last moment.
John waited.
‘There’s one thing I haven’t told you,’ I said. ‘She’s out there, all right. And she’s walking. But … she’s dead.’
‘I’m not afraid,’ said John.
‘No,’ I said, ‘but I am. You’ll never come back. Much as I hate you right now, I can’t let you go. Shut the door, John.’
The sob again, and then the wail.
‘Shut the door.’
I reached over to knock his hand off the brass doorknob, but he held tight, cocked his head, looked at me and sighed.
‘You’re really good, kid. Almost as good as me. I’m putting you in my next film. You’ll be a star.’
Then he turned, stepped out into the cold night, and shut the door, quietly.
I waited until I heard his steps on the gravel path, then locked the door, and hurried through the house, putting out the lights. As I passed through the library, the wind mourned down the chimney and scattered the dark ashes of the London Times across the hearth.
I stood blinking at the ashes for a long moment, then shook myself, ran upstairs two at a time, banged open my tower room door, slammed it, undressed, and was in bed with the covers over my head when a town clock, far away, sounded one in the deep morning.
And my room was so high, so lost in the house and the sky, that no matter who or what tapped or knocked or banged at the door below, whispering and then begging and then screaming—
Who could possibly hear?
One for His Lordship, and One for the Road!
Someone’s born, and it may take the best part of a day for the news to ferment, percolate, or otherwise circumnavigate across the Irish meadows to the nearest town, and the nearest pub, which is Heeber Finn’s.
But let someone die, and a whole symphonic band lifts in the fields and hills. The grand ta-ta slams across country to ricochet off the pub slates and shake the drinkers to calamitous cries for: more!
So it was this hot summer day. The pub was no sooner opened, aired, and mobbed than Finn, at the door, saw a dust flurry up the road.
‘That’s Doone,’ muttered Finn.
Doone was the local anthem sprinter, fast at getting out of cinemas ahead of the damned national tune, and swift at bringing news.
‘And the news is bad,’ murmured Finn. ‘It’s that fast he’s running!’
‘Ha!’ cried Doone, as he leaped across the sill. ‘It’s done, and he’s dead!’
The mob at the bar turned.
Doone enjoyed his moment of triumph, making them wait.
‘Ah, God, here’s a drink. Maybe that’ll make you talk!’
Finn shoved a glass in Doone’s waiting paw. Doone wet his whistle and arranged the facts.
‘Himself,’ he gasped, at last. ‘Lord Kilgotten. Dead. And not an hour past!’
‘Ah, God,’ said one and all, quietly. ‘Bless the old man. A sweet nature. A dear chap.’
For Lord Kilgotten had wandered their fields, pastures, barns, and this bar all the years of their lives. His departure was like the Normans rowing back to France or the damned Brits pulling out of Bombay.
‘A fine man,’ said Finn, drinking to the memory, ‘even though he did spend two weeks a year in London.’
‘How old was he?’ asked Brannigan. ‘Eighty-five?
Eighty-eight? We thought we might have buried him long since.’
‘Men like that,’ said Doone, ‘God has to hit with an axe to scare them off the place. Paris, now, we thought that might have slain him, years past, but no. Drink, that should have drowned him, but he swam for the shore, no, no. It was that teeny bolt of lightning in the field’s midst, an hour ago, and him under the tree picking strawberries with his nineteen-year-old secretary lady.’
‘Jesus,’ said Finn. ‘There’s no strawberries this time of year. It was her hit him with a bolt of fever. Burned to a crisp!’
That fired off a twenty-one-gun salute of laughs that hushed itself down when they considered the subject and more townsfolk arrived to breathe the air and bless himself.
‘I wonder,’ mused Heeber Finn, at last, in a voice that would make the Valhalla gods sit still at table, and not scratch, ‘I wonder. What’s to become of all that wine? The wine, that is, which Lord Kilgotten has stashed in barrels and bins, by the quarts and the tons, by the scores and precious thousands in his cellars and attics, and, who knows, under his bed?’
‘Aye,’ said everyone, stunned, suddenly remembering. ‘Aye. Sure. What?’
‘It has been left, no doubt, to some damn Yank driftabout cousin or nephew, corrupted by Rome, driven mad by Paris, who’ll jet in tomorrow, who’ll seize and drink, grab and run, and Kilcock and us left beggared and buggered on the road behind!’ said Doone, all in one breath.
‘Aye.’ Their voices, like muffled dark velvet drums, marched toward the night. ‘Aye.’
‘There are no relatives!’ said Finn. ‘No dumb Yank nephews or dimwit nieces falling out of gondolas in Venice, but swimming this way. I have made it my business to know.’
Finn waited. It was his moment now. All stared. All leaned to hear his mighty proclamation.
‘Why not, I been thinking, if Kilgotten, by God, left all ten thousand bottles of Burgundy and Bordeaux to the citizens of the loveliest town in Eire? To us!’
There was an antic uproar of comment on this, cut across when the front doorflaps burst wide and Finn’s wife, who rarely visited the sty, stepped in, glared around and snapped.
‘Funeral’s in an hour!’
‘An hour?’ cried Finn. ‘Why, he’s only just cold—’
‘Noon’s the time,’ said the wife, growing taller the more she looked at this dreadful tribe. ‘The doc and the priest have just come from the Place. Quick funerals was his lordship’s will. “Uncivilized,” said Father Kelly, “and no hole dug.” “But there is!” said the Doc. “Hanrahan was supposed to die yesterday but took on a fit of mean and survived the night. I treated and treated him, but the man persists! Meanwhile, there’s his hole, unfilled. Kilgotten can have it, dirt and headstone.” All’s invited. Move your bums!’
The double-wing doors whiffled shut. The mystic woman was gone.
‘A funeral!’ cried Doone, prepared to sprint.
‘No!’ Finn beamed. ‘Get out. Pub’s closed. A wake!’
‘Even Christ,’ gasped Doone, mopping the sweat from his brow, ‘wouldn’t climb down off the cross to walk on a day like this.’
‘The heat,’ said Mulligan, ‘is intolerable.’
Coats off, they trudged up the hill, past the Kilgotten gatehouse, to encounter the town priest, Father Padraic Kelly, doing the same. He had all but his collar off, and was beet faced in the bargain.
‘It’s hell’s own day,’ he agreed, ‘none of us will keep!’
‘Why all the rush?’ said Finn, matching fiery stride for stride with the holy man. ‘I smell a rat. What’s up?’
‘Aye,’ said the priest. ‘There was a secret codicil in the will—’
‘I knew it!’ said Finn.
‘What?’ asked the crowd, fermenting close behind in the sun.
‘It would have caused a riot if it got out,’ was all Father Kelly would say, his eyes on the graveyard gates. ‘You’ll find out at the penultimate moment.’
‘Is that the moment before or the moment after the end, Father?’ asked Doone, innocently.
‘Ah, you’re so dumb you’re pitiful,’ sighed the priest. ‘Get your ass through that gate. Don’t fall in the hole!’
Doone did just that. The others followed, their faces assuming a darker tone as they passed through. The sun, as if to observe this, moved behind a cloud, and a sweet breeze came up for some moment of relief.
‘There’s the hole.’ The priest nodded. ‘Line up on both sides of the path, for God’s sake, and fix your ties, if you have some, and check your flies, above all. Let’s run a nice show for Kilgotten, and here he comes!’
And here, indeed, came Lord Kilgotten, in a box carried on the planks of one of his farm wagons, a simple good soul to be sure, and behind that wagon, a procession of other vehicles, cars, trucks that stretched half down the hill in the now once more piercing light.
‘What a procession!’ cried Finn.
‘I never seen the like!’ cried Doone.
‘Shut up,’ said the priest, politely.
‘My God,’ said Finn. ‘Do you see the coffin?’
‘We see, Finn, we see!’ gasped all.
For the coffin, trundling by, was beautifully wrought, finely nailed together with silver and gold nails, but the special strange wood of it?
Plankings from wine-crates, staves from boxes that had sailed from France only to collide and sink in Lord Kilgotten’s cellars!
A storm of exhalations swept the men from Finn’s pub. They toppled on their heels. They seized each other’s elbows.
‘You know the words, Finn,’ whispered Doone. ‘Tell us the names!’
Finn eyed the coffin made of vintage shipping crates, and at last exhaled:
‘Pull out my tongue and jump on it. Look! There’s Château Lafite Rothschild, nineteen seventy. Château-neuf du Pape, “sixty-eight! Upside down, that label, Le Corton! Downside up: La Lagune! What style, my God, what class! I wouldn’t so much mind being buried in burned-stamp-labeled wood like that, myself!’
‘I wonder,’ mused Doone, ‘can he read the labels from inside?’
‘Put a sock in it,’ muttered the priest. ‘Here comes the rest!’
If the body in the box was not enough to pull clouds over the sun, this second arrival caused an even greater ripple of uneasiness to oil the sweating men.
‘It was as if,’ Doone recalled, later, ‘someone had slipped, fallen in the grave, broken an ankle, and spoiled the whole afternoon!’
For the last part of the procession was a series of cars and trucks ramshackle-loaded with French vineyard crates, and finally a great old brewery wagon from early Guinness days, drawn by a team of proud white horses, draped in black, and sweating with the surprise they drew behind.
‘I will be damned,’ said Finn. ‘Lord Kilgotten’s brought his own wake with him!’
‘Hurrah!’ was the cry. ‘What a dear soul.’
‘He must’ve known the day would ignite a nun, or kindle a priest, and our tongues on our chests!’
‘Gangway! Let it pass!’
The men stood aside as all the wagons, carrying strange labels from southern France and northern Italy, making tidal sounds of bulked liquids, lumbered into the churchyard.
‘Someday,’ whispered Doone, ‘we must raise a statue to Kilgotten, a philosopher of friends!’
‘Pull up your socks,’ said the priest. ‘It’s too soon to tell. For here comes something worse than an undertaker!’
‘What could be worse?’
With the last of the wine wagons drawn up about the grave, a single man strode up the road, hat on, coat buttoned, cuffs properly shot, shoes polished against all reason, mustache waxed and cool, unmelted, a prim case like a lady’s purse tucked under his clenched arm, and about him an air of the ice house, a thing fresh born from a snowy vault, tongue like an icicle, stare like a frozen pond.
‘Jesus,’ said Finn.
‘It’s a lawyer!’ said Doone.
All stood aside.
The lawyer, for that is what it was, strode past like Moses as the Red Sea obeyed, or King Louis on a stroll, or the haughtiest tart on Piccadilly: choose one.
‘It’s Kilgotten’s law,’ hissed Muldoon. ‘I seen him stalking Dublin like the Apocalypse. With a lie for a name: Clement! Half-ass Irish, full-ass Briton. The worst!’
‘What can be worse than death?’ someone whispered.
‘We,’ murmured the priest, ‘shall soon see.’
‘Gentlemen!’
A voice called. The mob turned.
Lawyer Clement, at the rim of the grave, took the prim briefcase from under his arm, opened it, and drew forth a symboled and ribboned document, the beauty of which bugged the eye and rammed and sank the heart.
‘Before the obsequies,’ he said. ‘Before Father Kelly orates, I have a message, this codicil in Lord Kilgotten’s will, which I shall read aloud.’
‘I bet it’s the eleventh Commandment,’ murmured the priest, eyes down.
‘What would the eleventh Commandment be?’ asked Doone, scowling.
‘Why not: “THOU SHALT SHUT UP AND LISTEN”’ said the priest. ‘Ssh.’
For the lawyer was reading from his ribboned document and his voice floated on the hot summer wind, like this:
‘“And whereas my wines are the finest—”’
‘They are that!’ said Finn.
‘“—and whereas the greatest labels from across the world fill my cellars, and whereas the people of this town, Kilcock, do not appreciate such things, but prefer the – er – hard stuff …”’
‘Who says?!’ cried Doone.
‘Back in your ditch,’ warned the priest, sotto voce.
‘“I do hereby proclaim and pronounce,”’ read the lawyer, with a great smarmy smirk of satisfaction, ‘“that contrary to the old adage, a man can indeed take it with him. And I so order, write, and sign this codicil to my last will and testament in what might well be the final month of my life.” Signed, William, Lord Kilgotten. Last month, on the seventh.’
The lawyer stopped, folded the paper and stood, eyes shut, waiting for the thunderclap that would follow the lightning bolt.
‘Does that mean,’ asked Doone, wincing, ‘that the lord intends to—?’
