Three Knocks

The Banshee’s Wail has always been a foretelling that a terrible, imminent death, is on its way. I know this. I’ve always known this. My Nan told my mother. She told me. We all hope it never happens.

But no one has made mention of three knocks on the door.

No one knew what I was talking about when I came downstairs that morning and asked who knocked on my bedroom door at the blue point of night, right before morning breaks over the horizon. Mother insisted it was a dream, and Nan suggested someone went for a sleeping wander about the house. I sat beside them with my cup of tea and shook my head.

“No, I don’t think that’s the case.” I sipped. Nan took up a pat of butter with a small knife and spread it across her scone. She took a bite and sawed at the dough with her good teeth.

“Rip it into pieces before you put it in your mouth, why dontcha?” Mother gestured. “Before you leave your remaining teggies in the nooks and crannies, eh?”

Nan flung her hand stiff and dismissive at Mother, then took another bite of her breakfast. I stared at her and wondered if that’s what I’d look like in sixty to ninety years; I didn’t actually know how many years Nan had on her. Her face reduced to jowls, like the hound my father owned when we were small. She did have a decent amount of teeth left, although none too great for chewing. Her hair was neat under her sleeping cap; With no men in the house for the next two weeks, there wasn’t a need to be presentable. At least in her eyes. I never made myself up for the men of our home. I got that from Mother who—on the other hand—seemed to be a closer, more accurate representation of who I’d become. She still had all of her teeth, with the two in the front ever so slightly crossed over one another. A trait I inherited. And her eyes were my eyes. She noticed me observing the stages of my life, my eyes squinting and thoughtful, my mouth tight and thin.

“When Irish eyes are smiling, they’re usually up to something, dear.” She said this to me every time I lied.

“I’m just trying to determine if I dreamed that knocking last night, is all.” I lied. I felt she would be offended if I told her that I was trying to deduce if looking like her would make or break my spirits in thirty years.

“Could’ve been a Leprechaun,” Nan chimed in, dead-on. “Perhaps they are lost. The Caverns are a ways off from here. Or a fairy. Maybe a fae. Tell me, did it wake ye? Did ye see a glow under the door?”

“No glow under the door,” I said.

“Agh, Ma. Only dreamed it up, did she.” Mother turned to me. “It was only a dream love. I heard nothin’. Nan doesn’t hear nothin’ to begin with. And—” She pointed to our current hound on the floor— “Conan there didn’t stir. His ears are as big as boat sails.” Conan heard his name and came to my side. He knew Mother wouldn’t stroke him.

That settled that. Nan returned to her battle with breakfast, Mother resigned to her stitching, and I stroked Conan between his big boat sail ears. “You didn’t hear anything, did ye? You old sausage.” He whined.

I didn’t believe too much in the fae, the magick, or the Leprechauns—even though our home is placed smack-middle between Slieve Foy and the Fairy Cavern that sits on Carlingford Lough. Nan told us stories—my brother and me—about the Leprechauns that would sometimes become lost between the two landmarks. She blamed a lot on their mischievous nature, like the hanging clothes unpinned and strewn about the yard, or Conan’s food bowls turned upside down. If something went missing, like matches or a knife, Nan told us it was a Leprechaun who needed it for their journey. She always assured us that we’d be left alone if we didn’t bother them. “But, if ye happen to see one,” she warned, “always keep your eye on it. Or it’ll vanish!”

The only thing I had to keep an eye on that day was the washing. Nan tucked herself away for her mid-morning nap, and Mother moved her stitching from the breakfast table to the sitting room. While Da was south in Dublin conducting business—whatever that meant—Mother took it upon herself to repair every ratty piece of clothing in his closet. He never took to wasting things, and my ma never let him throw something away because of a small tear. While everything he owned now was patched, stitched, and mended, Da hadn’t purchased a new pair of trousers since his wedding.

I fastened the washing to the line and took a step back to admire my handiwork. All bed sheets, shirts, dresses, trousers, and unmentionables billowed in the salty air. It was cloudy but there would be no rain that day. Each piece of laundry hung sturdy and resolute; Nan had bony and arthritic fingers, and the missing clothespins and cloth was most likely the result of her inefficient hangings. As I stared at the bed sheet whipping like a flag and licked the grass with every other wave, the clouds parted and allowed the sun to shine warm and fleeting on my face. I closed my eyes and inhaled through my nostrils. When I opened my eyes again, I noticed the shadow of a small figure on the other side of the white sheets. I lurched forward and ripped the sheet from its pins to reveal nothing except ground. I looked west towards the mountain, but there was nothing but pasture.

I didn’t tell Mother, nor Nan, what I thought I saw—or thought I saw—over dinner later that night. They suspected nothing, as dinner is relatively silent. The tinkling sound of forks on plates offered a quiet symphony—as well as the sounds of Nan as she slurped from her bowl of stew. She placed the bowl back onto the table and wiped her mouth with a cloth napkin. “Did ye get the washin’?”

“Agh!” I looked to the window and, although it was nearly pitch black outside, I could make out the white sheet as it flapped around. “I’ll get it.”

“You do that, dear,” Mother said. “I’ll clean up here. Go on.” She collected bowls and plates into a neat pile before her. I stood and made my way to the back door where my wellies sat from earlier. I pulled them on, grabbed the basket, and walked into the night. The moon hung half-illuminated in the sky, and from where I stood I watched Mother and Nan’s shadows scuttle about to clean up our dinner. I did this walk a thousand, hundred thousand times before, but for some reason, I felt a chill.

It must have been the cold, I thought. Autumn was on her way and with it always came frigid northerly winds knocking everything about.

Knocking.

I heard it again. Three knocks on the cottage door. I stood, squinting, waiting for Mother or Nan to turn and answer the call. It happened twice, three times, yet they did nothing. Mother stood at the washbasin and scrubbed. Nan sat at the kitchen table, her back to me, with the steam of her tea rising as if it were coming out from the top of her head. Then, from the corner of my eye, a small figure. I could barely make it out. It was there then it wasn’t. I must have been losing my mind.

Then why did I run? I dropped the laundry basket and took off in my wellies through the soft earth in an attempt to catch this trickster. The shadow seemed to appear then disappear every other time I blinked. I wanted to call after it, but the pastures were sloped and I needed my lungs for the uphill pursuit. Over the stone wall and through the grazing fields that belonged to someone several homes away, I saw the shadow. Then I didn’t. Then I did.

“Wait!” I howled. The moon barely led me along. Up and over craggy rock, into a small meadow—I felt like I’d been running for hours. Nothing looked familiar to me, but then again, I’d never been this far away from home so late at night. I slowed when the earth began to level out, and found myself at the foot of several rolling hills. These mounds were peppered with huge bits of stone, as if some giant dropped them through its fingers while it passed through our town. I didn’t remember when I lost the shadow, but I kept on straight because there was nowhere else to go. It felt like the hilly terrain drew nearer and closed me in, forcing me to walk where it wanted. With only the moon now to guide me, I paused at a glean of brass (gold?) that sat knee height between two pieces of stone. I crouched to find a door.

I knocked three times.