The shadow of banshee hi.., p.1
The Shadow of Banshee Hill, page 1
EARLY PRAISE FOR
THE SHADOW OF BANSHEE HILL
“With an intelligent, lyrical and intense pen, Fionn Mac Meldrum chronicles a soul’s journey for place and redemption. This is not a simple tale, and Mac Meldrum’s characters do not follow type or expectation. Rather, this is an elegant examination of identity and purpose through characters who, like all of us, fail, and question, and doubt. Mac Meldrum has crafted a compelling narrative that takes this genre to a different level as complex as it is universal, and, with it, a debut novel that introduces a remarkable new voice.”
—Greg Fields, Through the Waters and the Wild
2022 Winner, Independent Press Award for Literary Fiction
“The Shadow of Banshee Hill is a smart, sexy, thrilling tale that seemlessly crosses multiple genres. Part revenge thriller, part gothic romance, part supernatural epic, part Irish folktale, Meldrum weaves these seemingly disparate elements into a refreshingly new kind of story that will keep you turning the pages.”
—Becky Hepinstall, Sisters of Shiloh
“Dripping with atmosphere and rollicking along at a breakneck pace, The Shadow of Banshee Hill is, for want of a better phrase, an absolute page-turner! By the time you reach the thrilling climax, you’ll be begging for more. Mac Meldrum has crafted a rich, compelling world with deep, complex characters who come to life through his expertly crafted dialogue.”
—Ruairí O’Hagan, Cork’s RedFM
“This beautifully written, wickedly delightful, Gothic indulgence has suspense, horror, and romance wrapped up in an entertaining package. An unputdownable treat whose next installment I will be waiting for with bated breath!”
—C. J. Pinard, USA Today Best-Selling Author of Enchanted Immortals
“The Shadow of Banshee Hill has many twists and turns . . . many detailed backstories . . . a beautiful finale!”
—Jeyran Main, Editor-in-Chief, Review Tales Magazine
“The Shadow of Banshee Hill is a book that captivates readers with its rich and atmospheric tone, vivid descriptions, and an intriguing sense of mystery from the very start. What makes The Shadow of Banshee Hill truly exceptional is Meldrum’s ability to transition between two distinct narratives while maintaining a consistent tone and atmosphere. The characters are deeply developed, and their emotional depth adds layers of complexity to the story. Fionn Mac Meldrum has crafted a mesmerizing tale that is both chilling and heartrending, leaving you with a lingering sense of unease and a thirst for more. The Shadow of Banshee Hill is a must-read for anyone who enjoys a gripping and atmospheric story that defies traditional genre boundaries.”
—Mikayla Robbins, Abide with Me
The Shadow of Banshee Hill
by Fionn Mac Meldrum
© Copyright 2023 Fionn Mac Meldrum
ISBN 979-8-88824-205-6
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means— electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other— except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The names, incidents, dialogue, and opinions expressed are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Published by
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Virginia Beach, VA 23455
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Dedicated to the memory
of my grandfather.
Blood will have blood.
—William Shakespeare, Macbeth
Revenant
Noun
(formal or literary)
Definition of revenant:
one that returns after death.
CHAPTER ONE
June 21, 1828
June 21, 1828
Town of St. John’s
Colony of Newfoundland
Canada
Good evening, sir. And to you too, ma’am,” saluted Cillian cordially to passing gentry as he pootled down Water Street, the central boulevard in the disorderly mess that was downtown St. John’s.
Donned in his finest duds, topped with a distinctive low bell hat, he paid no attention to the seafaring muckrakers and stirrers spilling out of the taverns in the midnight hour, a majority of whom you could bet your bottom dollar were right smart in liquor with only skulduggery on their intoxicated minds.
It somewhat amused him to think that he could, with such ease, extinguish every ounce of human life buzzing and swaying around him, but luckily for them, Cillian Valour was on his best behaviour that cool and damp night in the month of June. He had no other choice since he was fresh off the boat and couldn’t afford to have unwanted attention on him and his activities before he even found a place to lay his hat.
As he continued his walk, Cillian couldn’t ignore the feeling that someone’s eyes were burning a hole in his back. He could sense that he was being closely followed—by whom or by what was the question. He casually threw a glance over his shoulder and saw nobody behind him. Whoever was taking a fancy to the dapper-looking Irishman was soon going to realise they had made the biggest blunder of their lives.
Without letting the individual know he was onto them, Cillian threaded his way through the blended crowd and slyly scooted down a narrow alleyway between a drinking establishment and a bawdyhouse. Discarded trash, food scraps, and the contents of multitudinous chamber pots carpeted the soggy ground beneath the timber planks he navigated across.
Cillian could have dashed away, but where was the fun to be had in doing something like that? His curiosity was piqued, and like a cat, he sometimes liked to play with his prey before he pounced.
Upon exiting the squalid lane, he beelined toward a flight of stone steps. With swiftness, Cillian ascended the steep stairway until he found himself on a still, sleeping cobblestone side street much quieter than Water Street and its adjoining ways below.
He stopped for a moment to listen. “You’ve not given up already—have you?” Just as he finished his question, the clacking of heels sounded. Clearly, they had not given up the chase and in fact, were hot on his tail.
Click-clack. Click-clack.
“Ah, it seems I’ve a female admirer,” Cillian said with a grin.
The treads got closer and closer.
Click-clack. Click-clack. Click-clack.
Ensuring his body language was relaxed and loose, he stopped and withdrew a brass case decorated with his monogram C.P.V., a relatively new accessory that he had acquired before setting sail from the Cove of Cork. It contained a line of cigarettes he had hand-rolled the previous evening. Taking one smoke from the case, Cillian placed it between his lips. It dangled there, begging to be lit, as he patted down the pockets of his tailcoat.
“It seems to me that you be needing a light, sir?” inquired a nattily attired woman visibly in her budding years. The young lady with the wholesome, heart-shaped face housing dramatic, round eyes was Martha Ashworth.
In a smooth and deliberate fashion, Cillian first turned his shoulders, then his body, to face the fetching fledgling with large titian curls who looked as fertile and lush as the land they were stood upon. “Why, yes. It seems I’ve misplaced my matchbox.” He raised one eyebrow and stared at her. “I must have left it at the tavern—along with my wits. I would forget me noggin if it weren’t attached.”
Martha’s appearance surprised Cillian. Her coiffured hairstyle was expertly fashioned. Her hygiene was stellar. Her teeth were well cared for, unlike the mouths of most Newfoundlanders, which were wrecks of rotting teeth and infected gums. Not a tooth was chipped, cracked, nor plagued on her feminine smile. She looked the picture of decency, good health, and sense.
Her clothing was also remarkably refined. The emerald ruched skirt of satin with its matching gathered blouse that she was modelling was quite the modern look for a gentlewoman of the isle. Even Martha’s shoes smelled of fresh polish.
Something wasn’t adding up.
Cillian could immediately tell that he was not dealing with a wonton woman of ill repute or a simple pickpocket. Martha’s whole ensemble was more suited for a debutante—a choice lady who spent her time pottering around a lavish mansion, partaking in idle chitchat and gossip—not a cocotte looking for a few pieces of coin for some literal grunt work whilst grabbing her ankles.
“Here, let me.” Martha reached up her ruffled sleeve and took out a book of matches. She liberated a wooden splint from its stem, struck it cleanly, and carefully brought the flame up to his mouth.
As Cillian let the tip of his fag enter the emitting glow, he felt Martha more than merely looking at him. She penetratingly gawked. It felt as if she was trying to memorise, or even appraise, each and every infinitesimal detail of his countenance that wasn’t shadowed by the rim of his hat.
For the fun of it, he let her analyse and study his youthful and classically handsome visage. He inhaled deeply and then exhaled slowly. “You’re a gift from God on high, if I dare say so,” Cillian said with appreciation. “I thank you for the assistance on this damp night.”
“Glad I could provide you with a little delight,” Martha replied, rolling back her shoulders to the cold gusts of wind coming from the east.
“May I enquire what part of Ireland you hail from?” Cillian asked.
Martha gave him a how did you know look and smiled. The accent gave it away, yeah?”
“Just a little,” Cillian responded with a playful wink.
“I thought I had buried it enough.”
“There are some things one cannot kill in this world,” he said before taking another puff.
“It appears so,” she added, her body language flirtatious. “Let us see how good you are with accents then. In what county was I born and raised? If you can tell, I may gift you something special.”
Cillian couldn’t help but pleasantly laugh at her offer. “Well, from your intonation and accentuation to the way you gesticulate with your hands, and I must mention your pluck for being out so late alone in a rowdy port town, I would say that you were born in the west.”
Martha pressed her painted lips together. “The west—that’s right.”
“Still and all, if I had to be exact and hazard a guess, I would say it’s Galway you left behind. No, on second thought, I would say it’s Mayo. Mayo, yes—County Mayo is where you were born.”
Martha raised her wispy eyebrows. “Impressive, but . . .”
“But . . . you only lived in Mayo until you were twelve, maybe younger even—perhaps ten. Then you left for pastures new,” Cillian finished, his tone confident.
“How did you know that?” Martha asked, finding his incredibly accurate guess unsettling.
“You’ve a tinge of a Dubliner in you, too—not too strong though, but it’s unmistakably there.”
“That’s quite the ear you have. I did spend a couple of years in Dublin, but I grew up three miles north of a small town in Mayo called Swinford. You most likely have never heard of the place.”
“Ah, that I have,” replied Cillian with a nostalgic shake of his head. “I’ve spent a weekend or two in the area.”
“Did you enjoy your time whilst there?” Martha inquired further, her expression hardening a little.
Cillian noticed the change in her energy toward him. It was sudden and leant toward aggressive. But he gave no hint of his comprehension. “Oh, yes, I did. Possibly too much.”
“I bet you did.” With a clenched jaw, she continued. “Would I be wrong in assuming you are also new to Newfoundland, just like myself?”
Cillian dipped his head slightly. He took a long drag and blew smoke out toward the ground. The smoke wafted upward due to the breeze but failed to soften the chill around the pair. “What’s your name?” he asked, ignoring her query, not in the mood to chat.
“Kathleen—Kathleen Murphy.”
“May I ask where your husband is tonight, Kathleen Murphy, who was born and buttered in County Mayo?”
“I’m yet to procure one,” Martha answered matter-of-factly. “I’ve an unusual lifestyle that does not sit well with most men.”
“I would wager you could find many a husband here in St. John’s that would tolerate the quaerest of lifestyles,” joked Cillian, his grey eyes not leaving hers for a second.
“Mayhap, you’re right. I hear this town is filled with all sorts.” Martha’s face became dark and serious. “Tell me, does my fellow compatriot have a name?”
After a little hesitation, Cillian responded, “I do, but if you don’t mind, I would rather keep it to myself on this night.”
“Why would that be so? You have learned mine, is it not fair I learn yours?”
“Does a man really need a reason to keep his name to himself?”
“I suppose not,” Martha answered flatly. “In my experience, I’ve found that a man only needs to keep his name to himself if he’s running from someone or something.”
Cillian took yet another drag from his dwindling cigarette. He let the smoke leak out from between his flecked lips while trying to figure out her angle. “I thank you for your concern, Miss Murphy, but I assure you, this man can look after himself. I’ve made no enemies here in St. John’s—yet.” He followed his reply with a tension-breaking chuckle. “If I may say, you’re dressed to the nines and strolling about on your lonesome with a new morn soon approaching. It might be you who needs to be concerned for your safety.”
With a haughty expression, Martha responded, “I assure you, my anonymous sir, that this young lady can look after herself, too.”
They stared at one another for a long moment.
“Bite to match her bark. Aren’t you delightful?”
Martha’s lopsided smirk said more than she intended it to. She was obviously chancy. “You’ve no idea of what I can do.”
Cillian took one last puff and then let his fag drop to the ground. Looking directly at her, he stepped on the butt and grounded it into oblivion, not reciprocating her flirt.
Noticing his waning interest in her, Martha tilted her head and exposed her neck. “I’m curious to know what brings you to Newfoundland. Not many find themselves on these shores without a reason to be here.”
Cillian’s eyes homed in on her jugular vein that was pulsating and throbbing. It was as if it was taunting him. He felt a swell of excitement within him.
“I guess the same things that bring everyone here: the high society, the contemporary fashion, the innovation, the weather, the delectable cuisine,” he answered in jest. “Well, Miss Murphy, it was very nice making your acquaintance, but I should be on my way. I’m on tour with my lovely wife, whom I really should be getting back to.”
“Okay then . . . I wish you safe travels back to your lodgings and your better half. Be careful. You never know what type of monsters are out and about at this time of night.”
Cillian placed his fingers on the rounded edge of his topper and tipped it toward her. A couple of strands of his long, dark hair slipped out from under the hat and dangled over his pale, unwrinkled skin. “Thank you for the light,” he said, brushing the disobedient locks behind his ears. “It was very much appreciated. Go raibh maith agat.”
“Tá fáilte romhat,” she politely returned in their native tongue.
“I bid you a good night, Miss Murphy.”
“Wait! Don’t go yet. I was hoping we could have a little fun.”
Cillian drew his brows together. “Prithee, what class of fun do you have in mind?”
“Something along the lines of this . . .” Martha reached down and grabbed the hem of her skirt. She brazenly lifted it up, exposing her womanly mound of burnished copper curls. “Does this sort of fun interest you by any chance?”
“My Lord, what are you like?” laughed Cillian, shaking his head. “Even though I would like to let the big fella out to play, I do need to be getting back to my wife. She’ll be worried if I do not return soon. Unfortunately, I’ve no option but to naysay your enticing offer.”
Martha sighed and dropped her skirt. “I guess a Mayo gal is too much for you to handle?”
“I can guarantee you, Miss Murphy, that that’s not the case.”
“With a few indecent shakes of my wrist, I can release all your burdens. What do you say? Your wife needs not ever know,” Martha furthered.
“It would take more than a couple tugs to release all my burdens,” Cillian returned in a smooth voice.
“If that’s the case, how about you and I, the compatriots that we are, go somewhere more private—mayhap my accommodations, which are only around the corner on Glower Street. You might even learn a thing or two—or three—with me between the sheets.”
“I say you know your onions all right.”
Martha stepped closer, and with that step, she deliberately invaded his personal space. “That I do. I’m young, agile, and well-trained. You’ve never come across the likes of me before. Come on, let’s get inside before the heavens open.”
Cillian looked up at the dreary, overcast sky above that was filled with angry clouds and then brought his eyes back to her. “I’m flattered, but I must decline your gracious offer for an illicit thrill. Apologies again, Miss Murphy, I’m sure it would’ve been something to remember when old age has confined me to a chair, but I promised my wife I wouldn’t spoil any of my appetites before I return,” Cillian said, scanning the street behind Martha. “I do not like to disappoint her. I have never broken a promise to her before, and I have no plans on doing so tonight.”
“Fair’s fair. I shall let you be then, Mr. Valour. I pray you a good night’s sleep and a long, blissful marriage,” Martha wished, followed by a curtsey.
