Blessedly, that night passed without incident. Out of fear of another volatile evening, we all slept in the same room with His Majesty, who had a tranquil night. We found that worthy of note on its own. Why the strength of the evils tormenting him ebbed and flowed in such unpredictable and capricious ways eludes me still. In fact, I find it particularly disquieting. It creates the impression that our primal foe is calculating and deliberate, even if indeed it is not. The tricks one’s mind plays to make sense of the senselessness of such things is one of the cruelest of deceptions.

The following morning, quarter past 10 or so, two carriages arrived with a total of four dying men and one woman. I must say, based on my practice of medicine, I ventured that none of them had more than a day or so to live. One of the men routinely vomited up a viscous brown substance, neither fluid nor solid, indicating acute liver disease. Another was unconscious and I feared would soon be dead, perhaps even before the evening. The other two men and the woman appeared quite ill, but I had not the experience with their ailments to diagnose them more precisely.

We treated all five as well as we could while we awaited nightfall. Two of the King’s guards managed to discover the precise location of the trees and pond that Robert had been so certain marked the dwelling place of this banshee. The guards reported to us their own profound unease with the area and insisted that they not be present there that night. Greville rejected their cowardly demand and said that they would have to be responsible for placing the dying patients, at a minimum.

Sir Lucas, however, added a further complication to the situation based on his knowledge.

“I don’t know how to say this, but banshees seem to, um, disappear when looked at for any length of time,” he explained to me. “Or so I understand it. I never truly believed that they existed, you know.”

“So how should we hunt this one without the benefit of sight?” I asked.

“I gave that some thought,” he said pensively, sucking his bottom lip inward. “I should think that you will have to locate the banshee via sound, via their… their wailing.”

“Eyes closed,” I affirmed. “Blindfolding will be best. It will avoid any chance I or anyone else slips up and glares at the accursed creature.”

“Yes, yes!” Sir Lucas shouted excitedly.

“I will do it with my boys, then,” I said. I unfurled Saint Augustine’s cudgel, which drew an admiring gasp from Sir Lucas. “And this blessed instrument should vanquish the beast.”

“Oh my. It looks ancient!” he commented, adjusting his glasses to examine it. “And yet strangely well-preserved.”

“Saints’ artifacts, like saints’ bodies themselves, are incorruptible,” I cheerily noted. “Even in this age of reason we would do well to pay homage to our holy figures.”

Sir Lucas responded with an awkward sign of the cross. I fought off a grimace at his sloppy display. He was well-meaning enough.

I grew apprehensive as the wintry darkness set in during the late afternoon. The thought of traipsing around in the dark in the Kew Gardens, trying to locate this banshee on its own terrain seemed far more dangerous the nearer the hour drew. Coming upon the ground where we were to hunt did not alleviate my concerns. There were many bushes and brambles laying low, some of them covered with a thin layer of snow that made them hard enough to see in daylight. At night with nothing but moonlight and oil lamps, I could only imagine. Beyond that, when time came for the hunt, we would be blindfolded.

We placed the dying patients near small fires to keep them warm. We provided them with ample means to dull their pain. Based on the colouration of their skin and other ordinary signs, I estimated that only one of the five would make it until morning. If the banshee wished to call souls to the grave that evening, it would have ample opportunity to do so.

When night came, my boys and I placed our blindfolds over our eyes and said a terse prayer for our safety. I had blessed their weapons, simple bludgeoning instruments, with holy water and various rites I thought might be useful in the circumstances. Whether any of that would empower them to slay a banshee was unknown to me. I felt that there was no harm that could be done.

Hoots of owls began to fill the sky. Distant howls of wolves made their own gentle nighttime song. As we waited in the dark, our anticipation of the banshee’s wails caused me to wonder if those howls and hoots were the banshee’s work instead. It is like a hunter who looks for his quarry for such a time that all starts to resemble it.

Our dying subjects periodically groaned while they slipped into the delirium that precedes death. I tightened my grip on the cudgel. The air formed a vice around me. I could feel that at any moment the banshee’s wailing would begin.

Hoooooot, an owl sounded out as it flew above us. Hooooooot.

I sighed. Even with the heavy coat I wore, the cold began to pierce through. I wouldn’t be able to remain out the entire night and I wondered if our quarry knew this.

A voice then wailed in the distance, “Heno yw eich nossssonnnnnn.”

A prickling shock washed over my skin. My boys and I had waited hours to hear that sound. Now that it came upon us, I wished that we had simply been able to stand freezing until morning, without so much as the slightest incident. That was no longer our reality.

My old ears had a difficult time discerning the direction from which the wail had come. A swirling wind had picked up and it made matters confusing to me.

“Boys,” I whispered as I extended my arm, “grab my hand and point me in its direction.”

I believe it was John who grabbed my hand first and pointed almost directly to my right. Then the other two reached out and fumbled about to distinguish my arm from John’s. The tugged it slightly further to the right, but in the same general orientation.

“Hennnnoooooo yw eich nossssonnnnnn.”

The voice was weaker that time, but in the same direction. As quietly as possible, we all walked carefully toward that distant wailing. I was deliberate with each of my steps, using the tips of my boots to feel out the snow and undergrowth I was to encounter. Each crackle of the desiccated branches and crinkle of the snow below my boots sounded thunderously out in that still night air.

Moaning came out from one of the patients, the one whom I had deemed the most likely to die immediately. They were clearly near the end where a terminally ill person calls out to their already deceased relatives. I realized, however, that with the banshee’s presence there was the cruel fact that they might be deprived the opportunity to meet their deceased loved ones. The banshee, so long as it lived, would prevent that and keep them bound to the earth.

“HENO YW EICH NOSON!” the wailing voice called out in a sharp shriek.

My spine tingled. Three wails meant that one life had expired, or at least momentarily would. We only had twelve more before our supply of the near-dead would be depleted. I realized, however, that the direction of the wail had changed somewhat from before. It was closer, but differently oriented. It sounded as though it had been behind us.

“Boys,” I whispered, “turn around.”

“And a bit to the left,” Robert added.

I worried that the banshee knew our gambit, even though they were rumored to be near-mindless abominations. If it could keep us moving in circles while our dying expired, we would waste the entire night.

“Heno yw eich nossssonnnnnn.”

It called for the soul of a second victim. At least the call had felt as though it was in the same direction. I heard one of the boys, probably Thomas based on the lackadaisical cadence of his steps, sweep further to the right. I wanted to admonish him for breaking from our plan, but I realized that there might be merit to his course of action. Flanking the banshee and forcing it toward one of us was necessary. Should we all have headed in the same direction, it is almost certain that the beast could outmaneuver us.

“Hennnnoooooo yw eich nossssonnnnnn.”

The voice shifted again, further to the left, but well away of where we had started. My heart raced. My steps felt more uneasy than they had before. I had heard of men growing wobbly on the battlefield before, but I had never experienced it myself. I forced long and slow breaths to the best extent I could to prevent my panic from growing any further. In my mind, I pictured the long and twisted claws of the banshee coming down upon me at any moment. It was as though I could already feel those horrible nails rip through my flesh and rend my body.

“HENO YW EICH NOSON!”

Six times the beast had wailed and I felt we had made only a little progress. I hoped that it was the case that it was wailing for our terminally ill patients and not for us. Doubts on that point haunted me with each step I took. The banshee could well have been calling for our deaths. In which case, any number of horrid abominations could sweep down upon us. The banshee would have been the least of them.

“Heno yw eich nossssonnnnnn.”

That call was closer. Much closer. I could feel the wispy words flicker up against my chin.

“Boys?” I whispered so weakly I could barely hear myself. There was no response.

The winter winds rose and ripped against my skin. Within seconds I could no longer feel my face as shards of ice pelted me and frigid air sapped all of my heat.

“Hennnnoooooo yw eich nossssonnnnnn.”

That was even closer. I could smell the rot of the banshee’s flesh and breath. They felt even colder than the winter winds. And they were damp, as though it breathed out the dampness of that pond. I tasted the skin of the frogs, fish, and weeds.

I prayed to God to steady my hand as I reached out with Saint Augustine’s cudgel.

“HENO YW EICH NOSON!”

A third set completed. Only two remained. That last wail had come far closer. It was almost within my ability to reach out and touch. I was sure of it. My entire body grew cold and unsteady. As I thought of my sons and how I had not heard anything from them for some moments, I grew faint. I fell to the ground, my right foot tangled in a bramble of vines.

“Heno yw eich nossssonnnnnn.”

At that point I was certain the banshee was taunting me in my impotence. I could not dislodge my foot. It was as though it was ensnared in sentient tentacles that conspired to keep me there.

“Hennnnoooooo yw eich nossssonnnnnn.”

The banshee was moving far swifter through its wails. Before long we would be on to our last potential victim. That was, of course, unless the banshee meant to claim any of my boys or myself. I tugged to remove my foot from the brambles, but I only succeeded in a sharp thorn cutting across my leg.

“HENO YW EICH NOSON!”

Now four were doomed. I reasoned that it had been no more than two minutes between the third and fourth victims. Perhaps far less. I breathed so quickly that I felt dizzy, the world slipping away from me. The wintry winds became a blizzard, howling so loudly that I could not hear anything else. I became terrified that I would not hear the banshee’s wails. I would lose its position and, even worse, not hear it coming toward me.

“Heno yw eich nossssonnnnnn.”

That wail came so close that it brushed past me like one of the blizzard’s gusts. I even swung the cudgel to attempt to land a blow. I only met with air. A void had set in around me.

“Hennnnoooooo yw eich nossssonnnnnn.”

My boys, wherever they were and whatever had happened to them, would not be able to help me.

“HENO YW EICH NOSON!”

A fifth victim. We had not found our quarry, even employing the dastardliest means. I had at least managed to free my foot so that we could set out from that vile place. I calmed myself now that the opportunity had passed us by. Even the winds settled down, as though the earth itself offered a reprieve. It was a peaceful moment, but I lamented planning yet another jaunt to hunt the beast.

“Heno yw eich nossssonnnnnn.”

My heart stopped. A sixth. That could only mean one thing. I cried out for my boys, but I heard nothing.

“Willllllissssssssssss,” the slithering voice called out and wrapped around me. That was not a wail. It was a voice as clear as any I had ever heard.

I steadied my hands and wondered if the time had come to accept my fate. I felt the hag approaching from behind and decided that I should at least attempt another swing. With my right hand, I swung the cudgel. It fell with a shattering crack upon its quarry.

At once, a shriek unlike any other I had ever heard emanated from the cudgel’s victim. Sepulchral, pained, violent, it sent waves of anguish that washed over me, knocking me down to the ground.

I removed my blindfold to see this milky white figure floating in the air before me, its head turned skyward, its jaw distended and drooping far below what should have been possible. Where my cudgel had struck there was a most queer of wounds. It was as though the banshee was made of fabric that frayed apart, an invisible force pulling to pieces.

So terrible was its death rattles that I could not even hear my three boys approaching from behind me. With a burst of sickly green light searing through its eyes, the banshee crumpled to the ground, collapsing into a pile of rags and melted skin. I stomped on the pile with my foot. Believing that it had all ended as simply as that, did not come easily to me.

“Is it over, father?” John rumbled.

Glancing around the dark grove of trees surrounding that accursed pond, I expected that something more might come. Beyond the hoots of owls and the distant howls of wolves, there was nothing. I saw, once again, a red blur that disappeared with a single blink, but I had no cause to make note of it at that time.

“Maybe,” I said. “And maybe is the best we can hope for.”