Only twice in the year...

Author: * MacMorna Niafer - 3 Posts on this thread out of 2,705 Posts sitewide.
Date: May 2, 2003 - 09:34

...do the doors to The Otherworld stand wide; at Beltaine and at Samhain. Here is a bit of a tale of what happened to myself in my my younger days. I call it:

SAMHAIN ENCOUNTER

The wind shrieked through the barren wood like monster or demon, newly-freed from eons of captivity. Blackened branches, silhouetted by a pale moon, knocked against one another in a primitive rhythm. I tightened my scarf and tugged my cap more firmly over my ears. Clutching my cloak, I leaned into the wind and continued my homeward trek. I glanced down, disgustedly, at my darkened lantern. It had blown out one more time than I had energy to re-light it.

"Decidedly foul weather!" I muttered. "Especially for Samhain!"

"What’s that ye be sayin’, Laddie?" came a rough voice from my immediate right.

Startled, I jumped about three feet to the left, impacting against something soft and cushy that gave out with a distinctly feminine, "WHOOOFFF!!" I regained my balance and back-pedaled to the center of the path. I turned in a full circle, my stick raised and ready for whatever was about to attack. Eyes darting here and there, searching for the source of the voices, I continued walking backwards down the path. I lashed out at an imaginary ‘something’ and was treated to a sharp rap on the noggin. From the brilliant flashes and the way my knees started to buckle, I recognized the weapon as none other than a fine Irish shillelagh.

"Here, now! Don’t be strikin’ out like that," came the gravelly voice again. "Ye might be doin’ some injury!"

"’At’s OK, Fergie!" answered the female counterpart from directly behind me. "I’m thinkin’ we’ve given the lad a turribull fright! Leave be, now, an’ don’t be crackin' the boy’s pate!" She gave a deep chuckle. "He’ll be havin’ enough trouble ‘splainin’ to the Missus, as it is!"

I spun on my heel and found myself face-to-face with a rather matronly, totally transparent ghost. Pale blue outlines defined her ample boundaries, and an even paler cloud suggested contours and features. Slowly, I turned in the other direction to see a skinny old man with a jutting beard and sharp, piercing eyes. He still held his stick at the ready.

"But Maggie! It were self-defense!" the old fellow whined. "He were gonna knock me!"

"Now Fergie," she replied. "Ye canna go knockin’ the lad, an’ that’s that! After all, he’s kin!"

Kin? Maggie? Fergie? My mind spun. I looked more closely at the old fellow, and then at the woman. "You, … uhhh … you wouldn’t happen to be my Aunt Margaret?" I asked, still somewhat confused. "And then, … you would be Uncle Fergus! But it can’t be. You’ve both been gone these forty years and more."

"Mac, me boy! Don’t ya be knowin’ it’s Samhain?" Uncle Fergus chuckled. "The gates are open, an’ we’ve come fer a visit, now!"

"Well! Don’t be just standin’ there gawpin’!" she exclaimed. "Let’s all go up to the house and have a bit o’ tea."

She led the way up a narrow side path to a snug little cottage nestled in the trees. Lamps were lit and glowing warmly through the windows. Fergus stirred up the fire and tossed on a couple of fresh turves. Maggie filled the kettle and hung it on the hook. She dusted off a stool and drew it up before the hearth, then they took seats on either side of me. I shook my head in wonderment. I could have been no more than five years old when Aunt Margaret died. Uncle Fergus took to bed shortly thereafter, and only left it when the wake was over. Yet, here they were, lively as ever and chattering like a couple of magpies. As the memories came flooding back, their forms became more substantial, picking up a bit of color and more than a few wrinkles.

Maggie (no longer "Aunt Margaret", at her insistence) brought a tin of biscuits from the shelf while Fergus poured the tea. We sipped and talked of the old days, wanting to know about people they knew and how they were getting on. Sadly, I had to report that most of them were gone. We munched on the biscuits and they wanted to know if I had married and how many little ones I had around the house. I talked of my sweet Mary and how we met. I told them about how my "little ones" weren’t so little anymore, what with James (our youngest) off at college in Dublin and all.

In return, they told stories of how it was when they were young. Tales of how they met and how after Caitlin, their first, was taken from them with the fever, they never had the heart for any more children. There were happy tales and sad tales and humorous tales and a lot of sentimental talk. The fire burned low and the tea was gone. I started to make my excuses in preparation for leaving, but Maggie would have none of that. She insisted I stay the night, that it was "best not to be walkin’ around these woods in th’ dark." She made up a straw pallet on the floor near the hearth and supplied it with thick woolen blankets. After a final round of hugs and handshakes, they retired to their little "cubby bed" at the other side of the room, and pulled the curtain. I removed my boots and curled up by the fire. What a fine evening this has been, I thought as I drifted off to sleep.

I awoke, cold and damp. The chill November sunrise cut through the tangle of branches to illuminate the roughly square clearing where I had spent the night. My boots had been my pillow and my cloak had served as blanket. I pulled on my boots and brushed the dead leaves from my hair. What a strange dream! Kicking around the clearing, I discovered a few crumbling bricks and the remains of a foundation. Near to where I had been lying, I found a rusted iron hook and some bits of corroded copper that could have once been a kettle. Could it have been other than a dream. Perhaps I shall never know. I considered the possibilities as I pushed my way through the dense undergrowth and back to the main road. If I tell Mary about this, I thought as I walked, she’ll never let me go to the pub again!