Showing posts with label Irish. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Irish. Show all posts

Monday, 17 September 2018

Scath Oran Blog Tour: The Banshee

Today, the blog is a stop on the Scath Oran book tour and I have a guest post by author Stacy Overby on one of my favourite subjects, the Banshee. I also have a look at Stacy's new poetry book, Scath Oran, so enjoy.



The Banshee


Banshees. They’re the quintessential mythical creature when it comes to creepiness and death. Many movies and stories include them, but what—beyond their shriek—do the stories tell about banshees? That question drew me to explore the myths surrounding banshees when writing Scath Oran.



Banshee Origins

The origins of the banshee are somewhat clouded, but one drew my attention. It is said that the banshees came from women who died during childbirth. These women-turned-banshees roamed, portending death, until they reached what would have been the end of their natural life. None of the myths talked about what happened from there, but the implication is that they passed into their version of Heaven or paradise. Other legends talk about banshees being created from women who were murdered. It seems that, regardless of the method, legends say banshees are created from women who meet tragic ends.
With this origin myth, the banshees would presumably appear as young women. While that was sometimes the case, it did not always hold true. This is one place where the Celtic belief in Maiden, Mother, Crone shows up. Just as often as the banshee appeared young, she also would appear as an older woman to an old “hag”. Another image from Scotland painted of the banshee was a woman washing bloodied clothes at the ford in a river. The one who saw her there washing the bloodied clothes would soon die.


The Banshee Cry


The keening and wailing of the banshee is perhaps the most classic aspect of the banshee, and the one most often thought of when the banshee are mentioned. Most legends agree that this cry is about warning someone of impending doom. Some legends say the banshee only cry at the death of a true blood Milesian Irish. Others talk about the number of banshee keening signified the greatness or holiness of the person who died.
Scholars believe the wailing of the banshee stems from a different Irish tradition. At funerals, the Irish would hire keeners to wail laments at a death. The better the keener, the more in demand she was. With this association with death and funerals, it is easy to see how this tradition crossed the line to become something more in legends.




The Fairy Connection

Another interesting aspect of banshees is that some Irish believed the banshee was a fairy woman who would bear the news of a loved one’s death. This held true even when the person died far from home and family. Thus, the banshee would be the herald bearing the news of the death before any human messenger could bring the sad tidings.

Also Known As

The banshee had multiple other names as well. She could be known as the bean chaointe, or keening woman. Bean nighe, or other variants, meaning little washerwoman or washer at the ford, is a Scottish variation to the banshee myth. The hag of the mist was yet another variation of the banshee stemming from Welsh legends. Which name was used depended on the region in which the story originated.


Other Facts


The intentions, and dangerousness, of the banshee also varied depending on the legend being studied. Some banshees were said to be closely tied to their families and their cries were sorrowful laments of the loss to the family. Other banshee legends talked of angry and vengeful female spirits who frightened and tormented those who heard her cries. A few even speak of the banshees causing the deaths they sang of, rather than just reporting them.
One of the most intriguing pieces of information on the banshee I found was about the beliefs in banshee. For many centuries, not believing in banshee was blasphemous in the British Isles—Ireland in specific. While this has waned in modern times, there are still those who believe in the existence of banshees as something more than myth and legend.


So, there you have it, a brief history of the banshees. They are featured several times in Scath Oran, including a story about how one banshee came to be. Scath Oran is available on Amazon and Draft2Digital. You can find me at www.thisisnothitchhikersguide.com.





Scath Oran: poetry from the Otherworld by Stacy Overby 






The Wee Folk. The Fae. Fairies.

Whatever you may call them, they have whispered secrets in this collection of poetry plucked from the halls of Tír na nÓg. But, be forewarned, not all is as it seems on a journey through the shining realm. Come, take a step into the fairy ring as songs of the Fae drift on the damp night air. 

Scath Oran: poetry from the Otherworld
releases September 22nd, 2018 and is available at
Draft2Digital






For more stops on the tour check out the list: Scath Oran Blog Tour






Monday, 24 October 2016

Halloween Week Begins With The Dark Man



Today, I officially kick off the beginning of my Halloween Week, (October 24th-31st) a spooky extravaganza of fun to celebrate the season. I have stories, poetry, a character interview with Lizzie Borden (from Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter), and some book spotlights, including one for the new release,  Furr by Axel Howerton. And don't forget to enter my Halloween Horror Haiku Giveaway (live until October 31st) by clicking on the Giveaway Tab at the top of the blog or this link: Halloween Horror Haiku Giveaway!  So come join me if you dare.

Now, settle in for my story based on another variation of the headless horsemen, this time a death rider from Ireland called The Dullahan. So don't walk alone at night and beware the Dark Man...




The Dark Man


On the blackest of evenings, when not a star nor moonbeam lit the sky and the clouds seemed made of soot and charcoal, a solitary figure walked the road home. His gait swayed and his liquor-laden breath puffed grey in the cold, while the lantern in his hand swung shadows across his footsteps. A jaunty, but off-tune, whistle played from his lips, and a grin lit his face.
“The best of nights it was!” He shouted raucous joy to the darkened heavens, before returning to his whistling.
His words echoed through the trees, a shiver to disturb the night birds and other things...
A shadow far beyond the road, the trees, or thoughts of drunken evenings, stirred. A scrape and a thump, a rhythmic pounding, and shudder of inky damnation set an ill-wind blowing across the countryside. And spinning on its eddy, came the sound of a name.
“Conall.”
The whistling man stopped at the chime of his name and turned, holding the lantern high and peering down the path he left behind. Hollow emptiness met his eyes and a chill breeze scattering the leaves of autumn.
“Hello. Is anyone there? If it’s you Fergus, you’ve had your laugh. Come on out.”
The only answer was the hoot of an owl.
Conall shrugged. “I’m hearing things, I suppose. Silly imaginings.”
He swung himself and his lantern roundabout, and took three steps forward before his name again travelled down the road to his ears.
“Conall.”
He shivered, but glanced back shining his light. Once more to see an empty road, devoid of any living soul. He shook his head, and turned back...
Another noise echoed, a faint thrash of hoofbeats. Conall spun, and saw nothing but a scatter of dust filling the air in the far distance. But no horse, no rider. Only the sound of a galloping beast and a spray of dirt.
He trembled, a shimmer of panic coursing through blood and bone. Then he ran, lantern waving wildly, racing as if the devil himself chased him. Breath heaving, feet pounding, his heart thumping a thunder boom in his chest, Conall bolted, while ever behind him rose the reverberation of a galloping horse. Closer, closer, louder, louder, until the rhythmic hammer of the sound smashed against his head, driving him faster into his mad flight.
He cried out, “What are you?!” as a immense shadow closed over him, and a great wind blew past him.
No not past, it felt as if the gale went through him. Chilled to the marrow, each breath an agony, Conall pulled short his frantic escape, stumbling over his feet as he stopped. A foul stench made him choke and he shuddered, his body rife with a damp stickiness. He looked down at his hands. They were covered in blood. His hands, his clothes his skin, his hair, all soaked in blood. On the tattered ends of his scream, he heard his name.
“Conall.”
Slowly, fearfully, he lifted his gaze. Before him was a massive black steed pawing at the ground. The creature tossed its head, snorting ruddy sparks from its nostrils and small flames from its mouth and staring at Conall with radiant crimson eyes. But as fearsome as the creature was, the rider atop its back seized Conall’s blood and soul in unspeakable dread.
It held all semblance of a man dressed in black, save it had no head, or rather a head tucked in the crook of its right arm. This severed cranium shimmered in a translucent glow and it grinned at him, a hideous grimace stretching from ear to lopsided ear. Blue veins snaked across sallow skin, and its coal-black eyes darted like summer mosquitoes. A low chuckle emanated from its mouth, followed by  another utterance of his name.
“Conall.”
Conall clutched his chest, choking out, “God save me!”
“It is too late for that.” The figure raised its left arm, and Conall spied a great whip made from the bones of a human spine. He fell to his knees, terror ripping through his guts.
“Spare me!”
Without word or mercy the creature brandished its whip, the malleable bones lashing around the flesh of Conall, and permeating to his very core. He screamed, the thousand times despair of the damned piercing him, and then he died, the soul shredded from his mortal form.
Farewell, Conall.”



© A. F. Stewart 2016 All Rights Reserved 






And please, return and join me tomorrow for my dark poetry corner.




Friday, 8 May 2015

Book Spotlight: The Black Swans

I have a book spotlight today for the fantasy novel The Black Swans by N.W. Moors, a book based on one of my favourite Irish myths, The Children of Lir. Enjoy!



The Black Swans by N.W. Moors

Taisie MacDonnell loves Celtic music and when a traditional Irish group moves to her small town of Antrim, Maine, she's thrilled. She has no idea that becoming involved with Conn McLaren, the handsome pipe player will enmesh her in magic, a centuries-old enchantment and pursuit by the Fae.
This is a modern retelling of the Irish story "The Children of Lir".

The Black Swans is available from Amazon





Author Bio


N.W. Moors lives in Portland, Maine, land of lobster and pine trees. She's a voracious reader and avid traveler - she loves to visit Great Britain and Ireland. Researching trips meant that she tries to learn as much about the area as possible.




Tuesday, 17 March 2015

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Here's a creepy little poem to celebrate St. Patrick's Day.




An Irish Lullaby

Hush now, close your eyes
against the looming night
and the tempting moonlight.
Hush now, close your eyes.

Against the looming night
when the Fae Folk roam,
between morn and gloam.
Against the looming night

When the Fae Folk roam,
hear the banshee who wails.
I will sing you some tales,
when the Fae Folk roam.

Hear the banshee who wails.
Hush now, close your eyes,
dream of clear blue skies.
Hear the banshee who wails.

Hush now, close your eyes
against the looming night
and the tempting moonlight.
Hush now, close your eyes.


© All Rights Reserved A. F. Stewart


Monday, 17 March 2014

Irish Hearts: A Poem for St. Patrick's Day


Irish Hearts


That lilting song of the harp
echoes far o’er the Irish hills.
The spirit that nothing stills,
that lilting song of the harp.


Echoes far o’er the Irish hills,
shout the pride in Irish hearts
and the brotherhood imparts
echoes far o’er the Irish hills.


Shout the pride in Irish hearts
hear it sound, beyond the sea
adrift on the wind, flying free
Shout the pride in Irish hearts


Hear it sound, beyond the sea
a tender tune, a haunting voice
and those that hear, will rejoice.
Hear it sound, beyond the sea


A tender tune, a haunting voice,
that lilting song, of the harp.
Music with an ache so sharp,
a tender tune, a haunting voice.


That lilting song of the harp
echoes far o’er the Irish hills.
The spirit that nothing stills,
that lilting song of the harp.




Sunday, 17 March 2013

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

In honour of St. Patrick's Day, I'm posting one of my poems of Ireland from my book, Reflections of Poetry.  Enjoy.


Irish Sons and Daughters

Sing a song for the Emerald Isle
All you Irish daughters and sons
All you sweet, fortunate ones
Sing a song for the Emerald Isle

All you Irish daughters and sons
Show me your nation’s pride
Leave no listener here dry-eyed
All you Irish daughters and sons

Show me your nation’s pride
Remember olden days of glory
Ring out each and every story
Show me your nation’s pride

Remember olden days of glory
Tell the gathered, lads and lasses
While the ale and whiskey passes
Remember olden days of glory

Tell the gathered, lads and lasses
Sing a song for the Emerald Isle
A song of cheer and stay awhile
Tell the gathered, lads and lasses.






Reflections of Poetry is available at:
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