by Ray Bradbury
When he was gone, I sat at the typewriter for a long while, swaying, not able to see the paper. And then at last, instead of writing “Moby Dick, page 79, scene 30, shot 2, ” I wrote something else.
Very slowly, I typed these words:
BANSHEE
A story
And then I wrote steadily for the next two hours.
It was one of those nights, crossing Ireland, motoring through the sleeping towns from Dublin, where you came upon mist and encountered fog that blew away in rain to become a blowing silence. All the country was still and cold and waiting. It was a night for strange encounters at empty crossroads with great filaments of ghost spiderweb and no spider in a hundred miles. Gates creaked far across meadows, where windows rattled with brittle moonlight.
It was, as they said, banshee weather. I sensed, I knew this as my taxi hummed through a final gate and I arrived at Courtown House, so far from Dublin that if that city died in the night, no one would know.
I paid my driver and watched the taxi turn to go back to the living city, leaving me alone with twenty pages of screenplay in my pocket, and my employer waiting inside. I stood in the midnight silence, breathing in Ireland and breathing out the damp coal mines in my soul.
Then I knocked.
The door flew wide almost instantly. John was there, shoving a glass of sherry into my hand and hauling me in.
“Good God, kid. Get that coat off. Give me the script. Almost finished, eh? So you say. You got me curious. The house is empty. The family’s in Paris. We’ll have a good read, knock the hell out of your scenes, drink a bottle, you can stay over, be in bed by two and—what’s that?”
The door still stood open. John took a step, tilted his head, closed his eyes, listened.
The wind rustled beyond in the meadows. It made a sound in the clouds like someone turning back the covers of a vast bed.
I listened.
There was the softest moan and sob from somewhere off in the dark fields.
Eyes still shut, John whispered, “You know what that is, kid?”
“What?”
“Tell you later. Jump.”
With the door slammed, he turned about and, the grand lord of the empty manor, strode ahead of me in his hacking coat, drill slacks, polished half-boots, his hair, as always, wind-blown from swimming upstream or down with strange women in unfamiliar beds.
Planting himself on the library hearth, he gave me one of those beacon flashes of laughter, the teeth that beckoned like a lighthouse beam swift and gone, as he traded me a second sherry for the screenplay, which he had to seize from my hand.
“Let’s see what my genius, my left ventricle, my right arm, has birthed. Sit. Drink. Watch.” He stood astride the hearthstones, warming his backside, leafing the manuscript pages, conscious of me drinking my sherry much too fast, shutting my eyes each time he let a page drop and flutter to the carpet. When he finished he let the last page sail, lit a small cigarillo and puffed it, staring at the ceiling, making me wait.
“You son of a bitch,” he said at last, exhaling. “It’s good. Damn you to hell, kid. It’s good!”
My skeleton collapsed within me. I had not expected such a midriff blow of praise.
“It needs a little cutting, of course!”
My skeleton reassembled itself.
“Of course,” I said.
He bent to gather the pages like a great loping chimpanzee and turned. I felt he wanted to hurl them into the fire. He watched the flames and gripped the pages.
“Someday, kid,” he said quietly, “you must teach me to write.”
I was relaxing now, accepting the inevitable, full of true admiration.
“Someday,” I said, laughing, “you must teach me to direct.”
“The Beast will be our film, son. Quite a team.”
I arose and came to clink glasses with him.
“Quite a team we are!” He changed gears. “How are the wife and kids?”
“They’ve arrived and are waiting for me in Sicily, where it’s warm.”
“We’ll get you to them, and sun, straight off! I—”
John froze dramatically, cocked his head, and listened.
“Hey, what goes on …” he whispered.
I turned and waited.
This time, outside the great old house, there was the merest thread of sound, like someone running a fingernail over the paint, or someone sliding down out of the dry reach of a tree. Then there was the softest exhalation of a moan, followed by something like a sob.
John leaned in a starkly dramatic pose, like a statue in a stage pantomime, his mouth wide, as if to allow sounds entry to the inner ear. His eyes now unlocked to become as huge as hens’ eggs with pretended alarm.
“Shall I tell you what that sound is, kid? A banshee!”
“A what?” I cried.
“Banshee!” he intoned. “The ghosts of old women who haunt the roads an hour before someone dies. That’s what that sound was!” He stepped to the window, raised the shade, and peered out. “Shh! Maybe it means … us!”
“Cut it out, John!” I laughed quietly.
“No, kid, no.” He fixed his gaze far into the darkness, savoring his melodrama. “I’ve lived here two years. Death’s out there. The banshee always knows! Where were we?”
John broke the spell as simply as that, strode back to the hearth and blinked at the script as if it were a brand-new puzzle.
“You ever figure, kid, how much the Beast is like me? The hero plowing the seas, plowing women left and right, off round the world and no stops? Maybe that’s why I’m doing it. You ever wonder how many women I’ve had? Hundreds! I—”
He stopped, for my lines on the page had shut him again. His face took fire as the words sank in.
“Brilliant!”
I waited, uncertainly.
“No, not that!” He threw the manuscript aside to seize a copy of the London Times off the mantel. “This! A brilliant review of your new book of stories!”
“What?” I jumped.
“Easy, kid. I’ll read this grand review to you! You’ll love it. Terrific!”
My heart took water and sank. I could see another joke coming on or, worse, the truth disguised as a joke.
“Listen!”
John lifted the Times and read, like Ahab, from the holy text.
“ ‘These stories may well be the huge success of American literature—’ ” John stopped and gave me an innocent blink. “How you like it so far, kid?”
“Continue, John,” I mourned. I slugged my sherry back. It was a toss of doom that slid down to meet a collapse of will.
“ ‘—but here in London,’ ” John intoned, “ ‘we ask more from our tellers of tales. Attempting to emulate the ideas of Kipling, the style of Maugham, the wit of Waugh, he drowns somewhere in mid-Atlantic. This is ramshackle stuff, mostly bad shades of superior scribes. Young man, go home!’ ”
I leaped up and ran, but John, with a lazy flip of his underhand, tossed the Times into the fire, where it flapped like a dying bird and swiftly died in flame and roaring sparks.
Imbalanced, staring down, I was wild to grab that damned paper out but finally glad the thing was lost.
John studied my face happily. My face boiled, my teeth ground shut. My hand, struck to the mantel, was a cold rock fist.
Tears burst from my eyes, since words could not burst from my aching mouth.
“What’s wrong, kid?” John peered up at me with true curiosity, like a monkey edging up to another sick beast in its cage. “You feeling poorly?”
“John, for Christ’s sake!” I burst out. “Did you have to do than!”
I kicked at the fire, making the logs tumble and a great firefly wheel of sparks gush up the flue.
“Why, kid, I didn’t think—”
“Like hell you didn’t!” I blazed, turning to glare at him with tear-splintered eyes. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Hell, nothing, kid. It was a fine review, great! I just added a
few lines, to get your goat!”
“I’ll never know now!” I cried. “Look!”
I gave the ashes a final, scattering kick.
“You can buy a copy in Dublin tomorrow, kid. You’ll see. They love you. God, I just didn’t want you to get a big head, right? The joke’s over. Isn’t it enough, dear son, that you have just written the finest scenes you ever wrote in your life for your truly great screenplay?” John put his arm around my shoulder.
That was John: kick you in the tripes, then pour on the wild sweet honey by the larder ton.
“Know what your problem is, son?” He shoved yet another sherry in my trembling fingers. “Eh?”
“What?” I gasped, like a sniveling kid, revived and wanting to laugh again. “What?”
“The thing is, kid …” John made his face radiant. His eyes fastened to mine like Svengali’s. “You don’t love me half as much as I love you!”
“Come on, John …”
“No, kid, I mean it. God, son, I’d kill for you. You’re the greatest living writer in the world, and I love you, heart and soul. Because of that, I thought you could take a little leg-pull. I see that I was wrong—”
“No, John,” I protested, hating myself, for now John was making me apologize. “It’s all right.”
“I’m sorry, kid, truly sorry—”
“Shut up!” I gasped a laugh. “I still love you. I—”
“That’s a boy! Now—” John spun about, brisked his palms together, and shuffled and reshuffled the script pages like a cardsharp. “Let’s spend an hour cutting this brilliant, superb scene of yours and—”
For the third time that night, the tone and color of his mood changed.
“Hist!” he cried. Eyes squinted, he swayed in the middle of the room, like a dead man under water. “Kid, you hear?”
The wind trembled the house. A long fingernail scraped an attic pane. A mourning whisper of cloud washed the moon.
“Banshees.” John nodded, head bent, waiting. He glanced up, abruptly. “Kid? Run out and see.”
“Like hell I will.”
“No, go on out,” John urged. “This has been a night of misconceptions, kid. You doubt me, you doubt it. Get my overcoat, in the hall. Jump!”
He jerked the hall closet door wide and yanked out his great tweed overcoat, which smelled of tobacco and fine whiskey. Clutching it in his two monkey hands, he beckoned it like a bull-fighter’s cape. “Huh, toro! Hah!”
“John,” I sighed, warily.
“Or are you a coward, kid, are you yellow? You—”
For this, the fourth time, we both heard a moan, a cry, a fading murmur beyond the wintry front door.
“It’s waiting, kid!” said John triumphantly. “Get out there. Run for the team!”
I was in the coat, anointed by tobacco scent and booze, as John buttoned me up with royal dignity, grabbed my ears, kissed my brow.
“I’ll be in the stands, kid, cheering you on. I’d go with you, but banshees are shy. Bless you, and if you don’t come back … I loved you like a son!”
“Jesus,” I exhaled, and flung the door wide.
But suddenly John leaped between me and the cold blowing moonlight.
“Don’t go out there, kid. I’ve changed my mind! If you got Wiled …”
“John,” I shook his hands away. “You want me out there. You’ve probably got your stable girl out there now, making noises for your big laugh—”
“No!” he cried in that mock-insult serious way he had, eyes wide, as he grasped my shoulders. “I swear to God!”
“John,” I said, half angry, half amused, “so long.”
I ran out the door, to immediate regrets. John slammed and locked the portal. Was he laughing? Seconds later, I saw John’s silhouette at the library window, sherry glass in hand, peering out at this night theater of which he was both director and hilarious audience.
I spun with a quiet curse, hunched my shoulders in Caesar’s cloak, ignored two dozen stab wounds given me by the wind, and stomped down along the graved drive.
I’ll give it a fast ten minutes, I thought, worry John, turn his joke inside out, stagger back in, shirt torn and bloody, with some fake tale of my own. Yes, by God that was the trick—
I stopped.
For in a small grove of trees below, I thought I saw something like a large paper kite blossom and blow away among the hedges.
Clouds sailed over an almost full moon and ran islands of dark to cover me.
Then there it was again, farther on, as if a whole cluster of flowers were suddenly torn free to snow away along the colorless path. At the same moment, there was the merest catch of a sob, the merest door hinge of a moan.
I flinched, pulled back, then glanced up at the house.
There was John’s face, of course, grinning like a pumpkin in the window, sipping sherry, toast-warm and at ease.
“Oh …” a voice wailed somewhere. “God …”
It was then that I saw the woman.
She stood leaning against a tree, dressed in a long, moon-colored dress over which she wore a hip-length heavy woolen shawl that had a life of its own, rippling and winging out and hovering with the weather.
She seemed not to see me or, if she did, did not care; I could not frighten her, nothing in the world would ever frighten her again. Everything poured out of her steady and unflinching gaze toward the house, that window, the library, and the silhouette of the man in the window.
She had a face of snow, cut from that white cool marble that makes the finest Irish women; a long swan neck, a generous if quivering mouth, and eyes a soft and luminous green. So beautiful were those eyes, and her profile against the blown tree branches, that something in me turned, agonized, and died. I felt that killing wrench men feel when beauty passes and will not pass again. You want to cry out: Stay. I love you. But you do not speak. And the summer walks away in her flesh, never to return.
But now the beautiful woman, staring only at that window in the far house, spoke.
“Is he in there?” she said.
“What?” I heard myself say.
“Is that him?” she wondered. “The beast,” she said, with quiet fury. “The monster. Himself.”
“I don’t—”
“The great animal,” she went on, “that walks on two legs. He stays. All others go. He wipes his hands on flesh; girls are his napkins, women his midnight lunch. He keeps them stashed in cellar vintages and knows their years but not their names. Sweet Jesus, and is that him?”
I looked where she looked, at the shadow in the window, far across the croquet lawn.
And I thought of my director in Paris, in Rome, in New York, in Hollywood, and the millraces of women I had seen John tread, feet printing their skins, a dark Christ on a warm sea. A picnic of women, dancing on tables, eager for applause, and John, on his way out, saying, “Dear, lend me a fiver. That beggar by the door kills my heart.”
I watched this young woman, her dark hair stirred by the night wind, and asked:
“Who should he be?”
“Him,” she said. “Him that lives there and loved me and now does not.” She shut her eyes to let the tears fall.
“He doesn’t live there anymore,” I said.
“He does!” She whirled, as if she might strike or spit. “Why do you lie?”
“Listen.” I looked at the new but somehow old snow in her face. “That was another time.”
“No, there’s only now!” She made as if to rush for the house. “And I love him still, so much I’d kill for it, and myself lost at the end!”
“What’s his name?” I stood in her way. “His name?”
“Why, Joe, of course. Joey. Joseph!”
She moved. I raised my arms and shook my head.
“There’s only a Johnny there now. A John.”
“You lie! I feel him there. His name’s changed, but it’s him. Look! Feel!”
She put her hands up to touch on the wind toward the house, and I turned and sensed
with her, and it was another year, it was a time between. The wind said so, as did the night and the glow in that great window where the shadow stayed.
“That’s him!”
“A friend of mine,” I said gently.
“No friend of anyone, ever!”
I tried to look through her eyes and thought: My God, has it always been this way, forever some man in that house, forty, eighty, a hundred years ago! Not the same man, no, but all dark twins, and this lost girl on the road, with snow in her arms for love, and frost in her heart for comfort, and nothing to do but whisper and croon and mourn and sob until the sound of her weeping stilled at sunrise, but to start again with the rising of the moon.
“That’s my friend in there,” I said again.
“If that be true,” she whispered fiercely, “then you are my enemy!”
I looked down the road where the wind blew dust through the graveyard gates.
“Go back where you came from,” I said.
She looked at the same road and the same dust, and her voice faded. “Is there to be no peace, then?” she mourned. “Must I walk here, year on year, and no comeuppance?”
“If the man in there,” I said, “was really your Joe, your Joseph, what would you have me do?”
“Send him out to me,” she said quietly.
“What would you do with him?”
“Lie down with him,” she murmured, “and ne’er get up again. He would be kept like a stone in a cold river.”
“Ah,” I said, and nodded.
“Will you ask him, then, to be sent?”
“No. For he’s not yours. Much like. Near similar. And break-fasts on girls and wipes his mouth on their silks, one century called this, another that.”
“And no love in him, ever?”
“He says the word as fishermen toss their nets in the sea,” I said.
“Ah, Christ, and I’m caught!” And here she gave such a cry that the shadow came to the window in the great house across the lawn. “I’ll stay here the rest of the night,” she said. “Surely he will feel me here, his heart will melt, no matter what his name or how deviled his soul. What year is this? How long have I been waiting?”
