Dave White's Field

Another refill from the teapot, the explanations of the Fairy world over, the lenanshee abandoned for another time another story, Auntie Mary keens on to her young Irish princes and princesses,

“The summer's gone and all the roses are dying
Tis you, tis you must go and I must bide.”

“Like a ghost, shimmering in the moonlight, the banashee sits on the stone at the end of the lane in Johnstown, Waterford, where your Nanny and Grandad live.

“She combs her long, flowing, shining locks, enticing any unsuspecting passerby to come and behold her.”

Of course, Auntie Mary knows full well we all know the stone she is talking about: it is a small pillar that we like to sit on. We play games there of `run-outs' and `it', and the stone serves as a `home' base.

We have never known it before as a `fairy-mound' for the banshee, but it is not hard to imagine her taking up residence there after dark.

Auntie Mary's comb slips artlessly from her hand and onto the floor in front of us. She smiles and gives us a look as if inviting one of us to pick it up. There's an expectant pause, a few knowing looks, but we are far too street-wise to fall for that one. Besides, we are royalty. It's beneath us.

She smiles again, not quite the Mona Lisa smile, just a hint of mystery and mischief playing on her face. She picks it up herself with a glint of satisfaction in her eye: that we have learned the lesson of `combs that go astray'.