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Joy to the World – The Roisin Banshee Series
The next in my channeled series of short stories. Here the connection into the origins of the Season are seen, and this really isn’t set in Ireland; the Banshee being indigenous in various forms across the globe.Here for others in the series, and here and here.
She knocked the snow off her boots as she stepped into the cabin; the fire was low but it was warm enough to remove her mittens and fur lined hat. Her dark long hair fell perfectly from it; there were advantages to being a Spirit!
She moved across the room to the old woman in her bed.
The old woman opened her eyes as she heard her approach.
‘You came’ the old woman croaked.
‘Of course’ Roisin said as she knelt down and stroked the old woman’s hair ‘you asked’. Roisin placed another couple of logs on the fire.
‘No need’ said the old woman. ‘I won’t be here long’
‘I’m making tea anyway’ said Roisin, standing. ‘You deserve some warmth and peace as you pass’. She picked up the pot of herbs and placed some of them in the kettle, which she hung above the fire. Making sure she didn’t knock the snow globe covered in dust. She took the old ladies hand again.
‘I wish to bear my soul’ she said to Roisin.
‘Speak’ said the young Banshee, ‘I am listening’
‘When I was young, the world was at my feet. But I did not see myself for what I was. I spent so long doing as I was supposed to; saying my prayers, smiling, marrying and having children, working hard, I never just was. I was never me. When I realised who I was, the children had flown my nest and bones ached. I felt I was too old to be the person I could have been. And so I continued along the path I had created for myself, feeling I had no choice. I nursed my own, kind husband to his passing; and with that passing, I no longer had anyone to pour my love into. But from the pit I found myself in, I turned to the ways my mother had taught me; I left offerings to the Sprites for my losses; my empty home, my husband, my children and their new lives. I prayed to St Lusy and the women of the woods when the cold drew in; as I had been taught. This being the season for listening to the wisdom of women and not men; the truth being found on the tongues of those who had being told for so long that they should give everything and receive nothing. There is much wisdom found when you are always stood at the back, looking in. And as I lay there, in the cold of MidWinter, believing I would just vanish and fade away, praying for the cold and the emptiness to take me, I saw her stood there. In gold and white like a shining star, she reached out to me. Lusy. She gave me a glowing orb of light, of Orka. As I held it, I knew it was my time, not to pass but to be me. That the magic of the World, the wisdom, the joy, the love, lay within me. That my own loss of many kinds, that the joy I took from a life which was never intended for me, that the times I stood at the back and let others be seen, gave me a different perspective on the world. And that perspective needed to be seen and felt by others; this guiding light was not going to be extinguished that day. I needed to lead and to make changes to make sure that others, other girls, saw themselves as wise and great leaders, that could be stood at the front, holding hands with their men folk, and being seen. When I looked around, the light Lusy gave showed me the generations of those that had gone before, the white women of the forest, the old Gods and Goddesses all around. Stood there in support and solidarity. Giving me the strength from within when I thought all was lost. I took that orb, that glob, and placed it on the shelf above me.
And with the gift I had been given by St Lusy, I started where I should. With my own lilla gumman and gubben. And so I went from my home on the outskirts of the modern world, and I walked into town. I spent time with my children and grandchildren. And they made the time, the hinna, to spend with me. I showed them how to focus on what they took joy in, and to share the burden of what felt tedious or cumbersome, the jobbig of life. And from time to time I was the one at home with the little ones, I was vabba. And through them, I met others like them. In schools and playgrounds, and in homeless shelters and children’s homes. I passed on my wisdom through joy and not judgement. Through being; through showing them the way. I reminded them of the ways of our people, which the Romans and the church could not erase from our hearts, but which modern society was doing a grand job of robbing us of. I showed them herbs and offerings, told the stories of the elves and the sprites, and loved every minute of it. Crafting and loving and singing talking. All of that wonderful orka, energy of the warmth of life, pulsing through me soothed my aching bones and my aching heart. And I was whole for the first time in my life; leading not by instruction or judgement. But by just being. That is a gift women have to give; that the lilla gumman and gubben in our lives learn how to be by our actions not our words. We can help them see the best in themselves, by simply being ourself. Not by being who others have told us we should be.’
The old lady paused, her breath laboured. Roisin stood and poured the tea into the tin mug, stirring in honey and adding some cloves. She helped the old lady sit; who blew on her hot tea before taking a sup. ‘It’s good!’
‘Course it is’ smiled Roisin ‘It is your recipe!’ The old lady cackled ‘My mother’s recipe!’
And with that her mother was on the other side of the bed, ‘Mamma!’ the old lady smiled, her mother’s ethereal hand trying to comfort her daughter. ‘Doder’ her mother whispered across the ether.
The old lady’s shaking hand placed down her mug and she leaned back. ‘Now I really am old’ she said with more force than before ‘ and my bones really do ache. My whole body aches and now I know, with my soul, not with a broken heart, that is is time to pass’
‘Shall we wait for your barn; your youngens?’ asked Roisin.
‘Nej’ said the old lady ‘I will not pass easy, if they are by my side wishing my life to last longer. I choose when I pass, and I pass now. I have earned that right. They will be here soon enough; make sure they are cared for. Make sure you their sorrow is not too deep.’
‘Indeed you have earned the right for that, for all of that and more’ said Roisin and as she spoke a wind broke open the door and in wound a flurry of snow. A young burly man stood there wrapped in snowy hat and mittens, just like Roisin had only moments before. ‘Hezbend’ she murmed and as he bent down to scoop her up, all that he took was a version of her; a part of her that was 70 years younger. ‘Wif’ he said as he nuzzled into her and walked out into the cold.
Roisin followed them to the door; the glow of St Lusy in the snow at the end of the garden, near the trees and the offerings, guiding them to the other side in peace.
As Roisin turned she looked up at her own mother, stood there all in white. ‘I thought she may come with us’ said Roisin. ‘No little one’ said her mother ‘she did her work in her life. She did not wait, like many of us, until it was too late to fulfill what her heart told her to do. She has earned her right to her youth relived. Now child, we have work to do.’
The women turned, Roisin, her own mother and the woman’s mother. Together they gently rearranged the old lady’s hair, pulling her woolen quilts around her, covering the mirrors and lighting the candles. Then they retreated to the shadows to hold the space, to heal, to weep with the family when they came.
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