Samhain 2008

Samhain. Nos Calan Graeaf. Summer's end. The first of winter's eve. The sun descends and the shadows move. Aflame, a chariot disappears beyond the horizon. A pale reflection of her departed brother, the huntress rules the night. Will we pack or prey?

Each day, we play different roles, sometimes changing by the hour. Magician, lover, warrior, king. Ingénue, vixen, amazon, priestess. Father, husband, son. Mother, maiden, crone. Each of us longs to be someone else at times, covets another's life. We wish to pack our cars and move away, to start again, only younger and wiser. Instead, we continue drinking at the masquerade, the music and clinking of glasses covering the agony stalking beyond the safety of our walls.

Tonight, we throw open the gates and pry away the mask. Stringers of adhesive cling to the emptiness we call our face. Peering behind it, we find our subconscious has become an ossuary filled with bones sorted and stacked by function. Deep within the catacombs, we are confronted by a wall of skulls. Dead end. No one gets out of here alive.

We build a bonfire and scribe our names to stones that we cast within to see who will come up missing in the morning. We pacify the tailor lest his silver needle weave a spell within our clothes. We ward ourselves with roses and crushed ivy. Prophetic dreams visit us in the silence of the night.

The deadliest gifts come in small and tidy packages, wrapped prettily with silver bows. Inside the most innocent of children, the bete noire lurks, eager to possess them. Each year, they run the streets in gangs, trapping us within our homes. We bribe them with foolish consistency lest they hobgoblin our distracted minds.

We scare ourselves because we want to be scared. Like a movie whose ending we can predict, or a game that children play, it teaches us and reminds us. Don't look behind every door. Don't wander through the maze alone. Fear the branches scratching at the window. Fear the shadows scurrying across the floor.

Tomorrow, we light the candles in remembrance our hallowed dead. Tonight, we fear the mischief of lesser souls until we know they are safely tucked away.


© 2008 Edward P. Morgan III