Samhain 2010 - a reading (on YouTube)
Samhain is upon us, the season of leaf mold and decay.
Spun white threads of fungus creep across the forest floor like spider silk in hiding. The grove that glowed at midsummer has sickened, its heartwood is corrupt. In its final act of dying, the sacred tree laid a scent trail upon the wind. Now, rival colonies move in to fight over its remains. Under foot, its acorns crack and crumble, their soft interiors rot and blacken to reflect the misty night.
Beyond the hidden border, beyond the wall of thorns, the churchyard stands empty. A headless witch lurks near the crossroads, a black shadow snuffling beside her. She cradles a basket of steaming sweetbread to entice the unwary she plans to bake into her pies.
Deep in her woodland lair, tailors unravel the bewitching threads of her bloodstained kirtle. They whipstitch her victims' lips and eyelids shut. As her spellbound minions ply their delicate, golden needles, she stuffs unspun wool deep within their ears. Too late for them; they've already believed her lies.
Her shadow slides steel against naked steel in preparation to carve up thought and memory, like the dark familiars of an elder god already crackling within the fire. The smoke inside smells sickly sweet, like a horde of apples left to overwinter one year too many.
By moonlight, she ransacks the burial chambers of misty, musty cairns. She grinds their nitered bones beneath a pestle, then soaks them in rancid blood. She kneads the mixture smooth with ancient, arthritic hands. At midnight, she wagers with the shadow for butchered souls to leaven her sweet, dark, gobshite loaves. She stores their broken knucklebones in a bag beside her bed.
Behind her decrepit cottage, a midden rises where a single acorn soon takes root. A seedling feeds on discarded blood and bone until it grows strong enough to weave a spell around the somnolent, sated witch. Its golden branches then entwine through her rafters, its roots collapse her cellar walls, casting down her evil reign, crushing her quietly beneath.
And from the foundation of that tangled knotwork, the sacred grove will rise again.
© 2010 Edward P. Morgan III
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ReplyDeleteNotes and asides:
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So where did this one come from? You've got me. But I'll give you a few starting points.
I started with the idea of the leaf mold and decay, and the rot within the grove. One of our pines died this past a few days ago, going from green to brown within a week. We have to have it removed. It always makes me sad to see a tree die. Though our arborist tells me that when pines get terminally sick, they emit a set of chemicals that call the beetles to them to kill them. Like the arboreal version of suicide. Part of the natural cycle of death and rebirth.
As I was working on the message, I walked through the living room and saw a black, crocheted dice-bag Karen had made me on an end table. The line "She keeps their broken knucklebones in a bag beside her bed" popped in my head. What? But I had to write it down.
The last is the word gobshite, which until today I never knew existed. I was looking up goblin to see what the official word for something goblin-esque was when I saw gob and which made me think of gobsmacked. That last word wasn't in my dictionary, but gobshite was. It's a mean or contemptible person (which derived from a wad of expectorated chewing tobacco or tobacco juice). You have to love the British and what they do with the language.
Ok, a bit more. The headless witch is Welsh, a part of their Samhain legend. But most of her surroundings are more Hansel and Gretel than Nos Galan Gaeaf. Except for the tailors of Glamorgan. Thought and Memory are the names of Odin's two ravens (familiars of an elder god) who fly the Earth and report what they see to him at night. It's a bad sign if someone decides to roast them. Oh, and a touch of Jack and the Beanstalk ("I'll grind his bones to make my bread").
As for the rest of it, you're on your own. I suspect it has to do with what I see going on in the world right now. To quote a Chinese curse, we live in interesting times. I just wish I knew what I'd done to continue to annoy them.
Or more likely, it is just the combination of a front, a headache and a couple hours of missing sleep.
Whichever, I hope you enjoy your fey, young visitors this Samhain night, and that they are more a treat than tricksy.
Picture notes:
ReplyDeleteSome days it's better to be lucky than good. We had several ideas for pictures on this one. But before we started shooting the easy ones, I wandered out into the park on the off chance I could find some bones.
I started by thinking, if I were a predator, where would I take my kill to eat? Somewhere people don't go often. So I went to a spot where we took an Imbolc picture a couple years ago, a place that often floods and isn't in a high traffic area. Looking around, I found feathers, probably from a mourning dove, and a few shards of bone. Not bad. As I scouted out more of the clearing, I saw more feathers, 2-3 birds worth. Something liked to eat there.
Then I looked down, and saw a skull sitting on a pile of downy feathers. It blended perfectly with them in the light. When I turned it over, I said to myself, "my God, that's a cat." Which, after a brief time of disbelief, it turned out to be. Perhaps older judging by the groove in one of its teeth. So, I dragged Karen out with her camera when she got home from work.
When we finished, we left the skull beneath the bole of a tree where no one else should find it, and thanked the small soul for allowing us to disturb him.
Thank you for the wonderful night sleep I won't get. Great stuff for wonderful nightmares. Just when I thought it was safe to quit sleeping with a talisman, sword, and staff. You have a great future in front of you telling bed time stories to naughty little kids.
ReplyDeleteGreat imagery.