Destination: Earth Travel Journal

There is a banshee in Kilmainham Gaol; don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. It may be invisible to the eyes of the thousands of visitors to the historic site in the Irish capitol, but its wail, its unearthly and sorrow-filled wail, is inescapable and unforgettable.

Kilmainham Gaol lies on the outskirts of Dublin, outside the touristy core of the city yet still only a bus ride away, precisely how my wife and I made it over. Stepping off the bus, the jail seems like an unmovable sentinel clad in stone and iron. As we cross the door into the lobby, I find myself glancing back at the sunny world outside, an involuntary reaction to the ominous feeling of trepidation entering this massive structure engenders. 

We are gathered for our tour and first told a bit about Kilmainham’s history, a welcomed lesson helping to put the jail in its historical context, a formality I believe is more for the benefit of the non-natives, considering the prominent role the jail played in the birth of modern Ireland. After, a short film introduces the stories of the leaders of the Easter Rising—Pearse, Connolly, Plunkett—most of whom, after their arrests, were held, and executed here. With that in our minds, we were led into the jail. 

For the most part it little more than a dungeon, endless corridors leading one deeper into the bowels of its stony hell. The guide talks as we walk, breathing life into the unchanging hallways were prisoners once walked and now tourists gawk. My mind wanders trying to imagine what it must have been like to be imprisoned here. I especially wonder about the fighters of the Easter Rising, being locked within these walls after their valiant-but-doomed attempt at independence. Did they feel defeated? Did they face their impending end with the same bravery they faced the British Army? Based on what I know from history it seems they did, and yet, as I feel the cold stones with my bare hands, as I feel that stony chill get under my skin, I can’t help but think that they must have had an even greater fight trying to retain their courageous spirit once jailed than when actively fighting for the cause they were willing to give their life for. 

Lost in my thoughts, the sudden rush of light as we enter the East, or Victorian, Wing of the jail blinds me momentarily. In sharp contrast to the cavern-like quality of what we have traversed so far, this wing is ample and airy, a deceptive place that for a moment makes you forget you are still inside the jail. Three floors of cells spread out in a semi-circle, a central staircase connecting them all. Iron and glass make up the primary construction materials in addition to concrete, a textbook example of Victorian design and architecture showcasing the more “humane” approach towards dealing with the problems of society. The arched roof makes the wing look more like a basilica, and I’m fairly convinced that is not a coincidence. It is an architecturally beautiful place, undeniably, though I don’t believe any of the people imprisoned here ever stopped to think about that. 

The guide gathers us all near the central staircase while she talks about the Victorian Wing and its history. I am paying attention, enthralled by this section of the jail as I am, but I am unable to concentrate on her words. Somewhere above me, in the rafters, there is a violent noise, like a thousand chains being rattled. The wood panels shake visibly, as if an army was marching on them. I look up, concerned, though I seem to be the only one. The guide, especially, continues as if nothing in the world existed except her speech. The noise dies down so I turn my attention back to her. 

It’s not more than a minute before it starts again, the rattling and the stomping, louder now than a second before. I once again look up, scanning the entire roof with eyes, my brow furrowed. My Disney-trained mind wonders momentarily, do they have a ride somewhere up there? I dismiss the dumb thought quickly, but I can’t quite fathom what’s causing it. And then the wailing begins. 

It’s slow at first, a mere whistling, like someone whispering in your ear. But then it grows, fast and angry, a howl of unbound rage, a cry of primal anger. It’s a sound that makes every hair on the back of my neck stand up and my skin crawl. It happens again, accompanied now by the rattling and stomping, an embittered and furious lament. I look at my wife and her eyes are glued to the ceiling as well. We exchange glances, and silently, we both mouth the same word: banshee. 

The guide finishes her discourse and lets us loose to wander around the area for a bit. The sound, the horrible and haunting cacophony, continues, waxing and waning. We approach the guide and with eyes wide open I ask her, “What is this noise?” She smiles, undoubtedly having had this question asked before. “It’s the wind,” she explains. “It filters through the cracks in the ceiling and travels in between the wooden panels and the glass originals they cover. It shakes the wooden panels and makes that noise as it travels.” I look at her for a few seconds, trying to figure out if she’s telling the truth. “It sounds like a banshee,” I tell her flat out. “It does, doesn’t it?” She smiles a conspiratorial smile as she says this and walks away from us. 

The wail continues to ring for the ten minutes we spend in the Victorian Wing, exploring the various cells, walking up and down the central staircase, catching glimpses of the life of the people held here during the years the jail was operational. The rattling and stomping become the percussion to the banshee’s song of death and longing, a fitting soundtrack to this entire complex. I almost grow accustomed to it; almost. As we leave to continue our tour, the cacophony reaches a crescendo of frightening proportion. The rattling and stomping grow in intensity, the sound of a million fists pounding at the same time, while the wail escalates in pitch, a soprano hitting the highest note in the performance of a lifetime. It lasts but a second; it’s a sudden explosion of sound and emotion, the banshee’s last scream from beyond. And then silence, utter stillness; the quiet of the grave. 

There is a banshee in Kilmainham Gaol and I heard her song of death. Be alert when you visit and you may hear her song, too, though be forewarned, you will never forget it.