Dave White's Field

Their desire to be with her in Tír na nÓg becomes so great that they languish and sometimes even die waiting for the love of the lanashee.

No wonder we are told not to stare at people --- it sounds as though staring could be dangerous.

With a barely audible, but characteristic,
“Now,” she goes on,
“the lanashee is the one who deliberately drops her comb so that an unsuspecting young person might pick it up. If you do, she will come to reclaim it, trap you in her gaze, so it is said, and you are lost.”

Auntie Mary looks closely and intently at each one of us. She wags her finger:

“That's the reason why, in Ireland, we don't go round picking up any lost combs.”

More knowing nods, this time from all of us in her audience.

the lenanshee brushing her hair

“But if you do refuse the lanashee she will become your slave and want to remain with you.”

Auntie Mary nods slowly to emphasize the sudden twist in the story. And I have a strange feeling she is looking at me, but I am staring safely straight into the fire.

Does that mean you can turn the tables on the lenanshee? Do you avoid her eyes? How do you do that? How do you know if someone is the lenanshee?

The banshee is obviously the spirit of death. That much I have realised. But is the lenanshee the spirit of love and romance? I am full of questions. This is all too exciting.

“But that is another Story.” says Auntie Mary cutting short my eager attempt at a question by buttoning her lips with her forefinger. I wonder why? I am so disappointed.

“So the lanashee is not like the banashee who, as we know, vanishes when people appear.”

Auntie Mary has changed track suddenly. The lenanshee has well and truly vanished from this story.