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It was a comparatively cold night for New Orleans in late October, with the wind blowing knife-sharp and the threat of rain to follow before long. Hannibal would have contentedly walked back to his living quarters despite the unpleasant weather, but Benjamin and Rose pressed him to stay. "You'll catch your death," Rose told him sternly, looking at him over her glasses with an expression that brooked no argument.
"If it be your will, Athene," Hannibal said with a graceful nod, and sat back down, picking up once more the book of verse he had been reading aloud to them.
Farewell! but whenever you welcome the hour
That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower,
Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too,
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you.
His griefs may return, not a hope may remain
Of the few that have brighten'd his pathway of pain,
But he ne'er will forget the short vision, that threw
Its enchantment around him, while lingering with you.
Even in the warmth and security of the sitting room, small drafts blew in from beneath the door, rattling the window frames, and the glass chimneys of the lamps couldn't stop the lights from flickering occasionally. The wind seemed to howl like a wolf, circling around the house for any point of weakness it could discover. Hannibal's voice carried over the sound, but he had to strain a little, and smiled gratefully when Rose poured him another cup of tea to soothe his throat.
In the moment of relative silence, another sound was heard over the wind. It sounded like a woman's voice, wailing and sobbing. Ben got up at once, concerned, for the prospect of a victim of some horrible tragedy at their door in the middle of the night was, sadly, not an unfamiliar one. But when he looked outside, there was no one to be seen.
"Strange," he said as he returned to the sitting room. "I could have sworn I heard someone. Maybe it's a cat, or some other animal..."
The cries continued, rising in volume and intensity, and Rose speculated with scientific perception that perhaps there was a nearby chimney angled just right for the wind to blow across it and cause the eerie sound. But Hannibal looked pale and left his tea untouched.
"It's not the wind," he said quietly. "I've heard the sound before, though not for many, many years. It's the cry of a banshee. It means that someone will die soon."
Ben frowned. He had heard of such a legend, but he was a little surprised that Hannibal gave credence to the myth. To him, it sounded about as plausible as the way his mother used to say that if a hen crowed, a death would soon follow. "Well, maybe she has the wrong house," he said, trying to lighten the mood, but Hannibal's face remained grave.
"I heard this keening before my grandfather died, and my father as well. What if..." He paused for a moment, not wanting to give voice to his fears.
Rose came over and crouched, taking his hands between hers. "Don't you think that paying attention to it could be what gives this thing power? Surely fear is a greater danger than any ghost or spirit."
Hannibal shook his head. "It's an omen - the banshee doesn't harm anyone directly, she only... announces when death is near."
Ben placed a comforting hand on Hannibal's shoulder. "Let's go to bed," he suggested. "We'll keep you company if you can't sleep. Or at least, take your mind off it."
"Very well, amicus meus. If I must go tonight, I'd rather it be with you. Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy."
"You're not going anywhere except upstairs with us," Rose told him firmly, as if she was going to personally fight off any spirits or omens that dared threaten anyone she loved.
In the morning, the sun shone weakly through the parting clouds, and Hannibal was still alive, rather to his surprise. "I must admit," he said over breakfast, "I didn't sleep a wink last night. The cries stopped at midnight, but I kept expecting it to return."
"Explain the legend to me a little bit more," Rose inquired with an academic curiosity.
"Well, it's said that the banshee is a spirit woman - or rather, many of them, each associated with a particular Irish family. She wails and cries outside the house before a family member's death."
"I don't claim to know how spirits work, but I suppose there's nothing to prevent one from following someone across an ocean," Ben said.
"You said you heard it when other members of your family died," Rose pressed on. "But did they hear it?"
"No," Hannibal said after a moment's thought. "I suppose they didn't."
"Then maybe it wasn't an omen for you," Rose said reasonably. "Maybe it was warning you about someone else in your family."
"If that's the case, I hope it wasn't one of the ones I cared for," the fiddler said under his breath.
It was nearly three months before Ben spotted a tiny notice in one of the papers mentioning the death of one Diogenes Stuart, long of the British Foreign Service, in India. Doing a little mental calculation, he guessed it must have been that night that they'd heard the banshee's wail. When he showed it to Hannibal, his friend sighed heavily and said, "Poor old Uncle Diogenes. I hope that they've sent the body home to be buried. Would you do the same for me, amicus meus?"
"If that's what you want," Ben agreed solemnly.
"I miss my home, even if I don't expect to see it again in life," Hannibal said. "But no. It would only cause trouble. I'll stay here, even after death, if you'll have me."
When cold in the earth lies the friend thou hast loved,
Be his faults and his follies forgot by thee then;
Or, if from their slumber the veil be removed,
Weep o'er them in silence, and close it again.
And oh! if 'tis pain to remember how far
From the pathways of light he was tempted to roam,
Be it bliss to remember that thou wert the star
That arose on his darkness, and guided him home.