Roísín Ní Scárath: The mná feasa face the ban-sí, Summer 1842
It came as no surprise to my Ma and Granma when several days later they were again summoned to the castle. Marguerite’s condition had worsened; her chamber stank of urine and faeces, she appeared malnourished and remained gagged to ensure her silence. Her dishevelled hair could not disguise a bruise on her temple.
Black Thomas recounted to them a debacle which began when the pastor of St Finian’s insisted on removing Caragh’s “pagan trinkets” from the room. It seemed that for all of his assurances, the warnings of a peasant witch had in her absence lost what limited authority Caragh had earned. Fortunately for the household, Eilise had taken them to heart and on a warm day had sewn one of the charms into the lining of the master’s coat. She herself wore an old blunt nail beneath her dress.
Black Thomas recounted to them a debacle which began when the pastor of St Finian’s insisted on removing Caragh’s “pagan trinkets” from the room. It seemed that for all of his assurances, the warnings of a peasant witch had in her absence lost what limited authority Caragh had earned. Fortunately for the household, Eilise had taken them to heart and on a warm day had sewn one of the charms into the lining of the master’s coat. She herself wore an old blunt nail beneath her dress.
When Black Thomas returned, the chambers were filled that same enchanting song. The pastor attacked him with an inhuman fury, but Black Thomas in those days was a powerful man and dragged the insane priest into the adjacent chamber before his own sanity was overcome. He applied the horseshoe to the vicar’s bare head with somewhat more force than Caragh had effected before, stoppered his ears and applied the horseshoe to his sister’s temple with similar enthusiasm.
He presented now the cold aspect of a man resolved to accept any course of action to protect his family, even if that meant the sacrifice of his beloved sister. His eyes told a story of private sorrow, buried in the manner for which English men pride themselves. Granma Caragh hoped sincerely that Eilise would survive the treatment she had devised, but she was relieved that Black Thomas would now be compliant.
She announced her intention to treat with the ban-sí and instructed them to stopper their ears. Evie began to sing a song in Old Gaelic, to a rebel tune for which Black Thomas expressed his distaste. The gag was removed and the ban-sí released her enchanting song. It grew in volume and Caragh feared for those who might wander innocently within its reach, but Evie was possessed of a voice that was equally powerful and delightful. Caragh unstoppered her ears, wincing at the cacophony which surrounded her, and the ban-sí soon halted its strange melody. Evie moderated her volume and Marguerite delivered a torrent of ancient invective. Though she could not speak the language, Caragh understood too well its violent intention.
She demanded to speak with Marguerite.
“We are one.” Even as Marguerite spoke, the ban-sí song rose up once more, but it was powerless while Evie sang Caragh’s counter-melody. “I speak for the ban-sí princess, whom you may address as Lady Norig, and for her willing vessel Eitigh, princess of all Ireland, whom your ancestor murdered on the threshold of her coronation.” She indicated Evie with a nod. “Release us and my lady will spare your child from the vengeance she has promised to you, blood of the priestess.”
“Lady Norig, I bid you kindly, release this woman and return to the home of the Sí,” said Caragh.
“Marguerite gave me this vessel willingly. She does not wish me to abandon her, nor I to leave her. Bow to us and accept our dominion.”
“Ah, you know girls, I cannot do that. For what price did Marguerite give up her soul?”
Pride bloomed across Marguerite’s bruised face. Caragh observed that there was a youthful pitch to the voice when Marguerite spoke. “Lady Norig granted me the power to bend men and women alike to my will, the power to be a woman of equal to any man. She will return the Sí to daylight and become the High Queen of Men and Sí across all Ireland. All men and women, Irish and English, Catholic and Protestant, will bow to a new trinity of Queen Norig, Princess Eitigh and Lady Marguerite.”
Caragh feared that Evie would falter, though she could not risk breaking Marguerite’s gaze. To encourage her daughter, she laughed in the face of the ban-sí’s ambition. “And what is it you’ve done with this power? Ridden a few young bucks and murdered their sweethearts? Will you rule the whole land from between your thighs?”
“Eitigh, first vessel of my queen, once bore within her a prince of Men and Sí, one who would have returned her father Mananaán to his rightful place as ruler of this isle. In the place you now call Kinnitty, your ancestor cut the whelp from her belly, removed Eitigh’s head and imprisoned us beneath a stone inscribed with powerful magics. Eitigh’s hunger for a prince burns within me.”
“And I thought you were only using her for the riding.”
“The seed of Men has yet to quicken within us. I feel no shame in taking pleasure in the search for a man of noble Irish stock. Those women were not worthy of their men.”
“Far be it from me to deny a woman her pleasures. I’ve only one stallion in my life but he’s never left me wanting,” said Caragh.
“I shall be sure to take him, if only for the pleasure.”
“You’ll do no such thing, you fairy trollop. If this is how you want to carry on, I’ll be putting a stop to your caterwauling.”
She took from her bag a pine cone and held it before Marguerite, who shrank back against the bedstead, fearful eyes fixed upon this new implement. She had for several days soaked it in an infusion of rusty water and every kind of plant that the Sí were known to dislike, before baking it slowly to harden. “Something in my blood told me this would work. I’ll be thanking that ancestor and you can keep your curses.”
With that, Caragh shoved the pine cone into Marguerite’s mouth, silencing her song. She signalled Evie to stop. Pink-faced, she caught her breath and they adjourned to the reception chamber with Black Thomas.
The master of Kinnitty spoke as soon as the doors were closed. “Is that it? Did I hear that my sister has abandoned her reason and thrown in her lot with this demon?”
“If she tells it true, she gave herself up willingly. The ban-sí has been her secret companion since she was a babe.”
“I daresay she was always a cruel child, yet she is my sister all the same. Is there nothing we can do? No witchcraft that will drive them apart? It seems the monster fears both your witchcraft and the legacy you represent.”
“I heard that myself. Mananaán I have heard of, though I do not know Norig or Eitigh from our stories. The bards so rarely sing of Ireland’s women.”
Black Thomas shrugged. “History is the story of kings. Men make kings and women bear them.”
“And you wonder why this Norig seeks power in your daughter’s willing vessel? I’ve half a mind to help them.”
“Good God, woman, you cannot be serious. Now tell me what we are to do while my patience remains.”
“Still your tongue and let an old lady have her fun with you. Sure this Norig will be no less a tyrant than yourself and your English queen.” She waited to see if Black Thomas would erupt at this provocation, but he restrained himself to a sullen stare. “We shall not abandon Marguerite yet. I have a notion.”
“You may count me your servant in this enterprise. Do what you must.”
“Be in no doubt, Mr Bernard. Your Marguerite will suffer in this, even if she is saved. You must prepare the household with a fiction of your own.”
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