Samhain

by Erica Caldwell

I

Celts traveling on Samhain hollowed out turnips and filled their fleshy shell with candlelight. In the murky darkness the light scared off wandering spirits and kept the bearer safe. The turnip glow identified those who were truly human, allowing fellow travelers to flock together against supernatural forces.

But going abroad on Samhain was dangerous, and those who did so were wary. Beautiful music was especially dangerous, for the spirits tried to entice travelers to dance and entertain them until dawn, trapping them behind the veil when it once again covered the gateway between the worlds.

A cluster of lights dip and glow on a windy hillside. You hurry toward them, relieved to see the friendly light slice through the eerie darkness. There’s something about this night that makes your skin crawl; something strange in the rustling leaves, something sinister in the wind.

Suddenly a different note floats on the breeze, an unearthly choir singing an irresistible refrain. You rush toward the huddled group, covering your ears as you join the lighted circle. The strange siren song continues, and one light breaks away from the rest. It ventures into the enchanted darkness and is never seen again.

 

II

My dad scooped all the guts out of a pumpkin, carved out a face, and slipped it on over his head. I hear a squishy noise, like pulling your boot out of the mud. I think how the slimy guts must have stained his red hair orange, how a stray seed might have stuck to his ear. How echo-like it must have been inside that overgrown gourd, how muffled and strange the world outside must have sounded.

I love slipping my hand into tangled pumpkin guts; I ball my hand into a fist and listen with sick delight as the slippery seeds squeeze out between my fingers. When we were little, Mom didn’t let us carve pumpkins. We only scraped out the insides. She would sit down with a kitchen knife, like an artist at her canvas, and pencil in our requests for the face.

“Triangles for eyes – no, stars for eyes. Stars, like that. Can you make fangs, Mom? I want mine to be scary.”

“I want mine to have a Christmas tree for a nose!”

Mom would poke and saw and slice until the masterpiece was finished. Then she’d hunt for old decrepit candles, turn off the light, and let the faces glow.

 

III

When the Irish came to America they brought Samhain with them, a legacy from the ancient fathers. Samhain, the night when the veil between the living and the dead was blown away.

They told a tale about Jack, a mischievous man with a bad reputation. One night Jack moaned that he would give his soul to the Devil if he had the money for one last drink. With a swish of his long black cloak, the stranger sitting next to Jack left some coins on the counter.

But Jack knew it was the Devil in disguise, so he snatched the coins and put them in his wallet with a silver cross. Trapped by the cross, the Devil agreed not to take Jack’s soul for another ten years.

Ten years later, the Devil met Jack on a lonely road and reminded him of their bargain. But Jack tricked the Devil into climbing a tree, and then quickly carved a cross into the flaky bark. The Devil was trapped.

In exchange for his freedom, the Devil agreed never to come for Jack again. But when Jack died, his earthly deeds followed him and he was barred from both heaven and hell. The Devil himself turned him away, and Jack, doomed to wander earth until the end of time, became Jack of the Lantern, carrying a turnip with a single ember to light his lonely way.

 

IV

An elephant, an Indian, a pirate, a witch, a clown, a ghost, Little Bo Peep. I was all of these things. And I had a long list of all the things I wanted to be. But my favorite Halloween costume was Wonder Woman. I loved Wonder Woman. I wore the costume for months, long after my candy was gone and my Jack O’ Lantern was rotten.

There are still remnants of it in our dress-up box at home. A makeshift tiara and a magic lasso tucked into the depths of sunbonnets and suede. Mom sewed white stars onto a pair of blue shorts and a golden eagle onto my red turtleneck. She glued a red felt star onto a yellow headband for my tiara and red knee socks over fuzzy white tights filled in for red boots.

Unfortunately, Mom made me wear my real boots and my pink sweatshirt trick-or-treating. I was furious. Wonder Woman never wore a pink sweatshirt. But the Halloween winds were chilly, so this Amazon princess bundled up before she stepped out into the dark.

 

V

The Celtics scared off hostile or mischievous spirits with disguise. Using animal skins, branches, paint, they decked themselves out as horrific counterparts of the spirits and demons that haunted them.

Then they paraded through their villages, chasing away recently departed souls prowling for bodies to inhabit. Many would gather at the Druid’s bonfires, where sacrifices were made and fortunes told.

Is that a spirit or a friend? You brush the fur out of your eyes and look closer, but still can’t tell. It looks like a fox and smells like a skunk. You look around the fire-lit circle at the terrifying faces. Any one of them might be a spirit; all of them might be. You must blend in. Adjust the skin draped down your back, the furry tail brushing against your arm. Smoke drifts into your nostrils, momentarily blocking the smell of leaves and dried skins. You wrap the furry hide closer around your shoulders with a strange feeling of oneness.

 

VI

We waited by the door while Mom shrugged on her heavy winter coat, jingling the car keys in her hand like a starting bell. Finally she was ready. We burst through the door into the cool starry night, anxious to start the great candy-quest.

Trick-or-treating isn’t easy in the country. There’s a long distance between the houses. We stopped at grandparents and neighbors and friends, posing for pictures, collecting treats. Dennis and Connie were friends of my parents. Connie made donuts on Halloween, and she slipped an extra one or two into my bag. Dennis contributed Kraft macaroni and cheese and a can of mushrooms. He knew my favorites. Elmarie was an elderly lady with an enormous white cat named Snowflake. Every year she had a treat for us, a teddy bear or a pin, a snow globe, a pencil sharpener.

She was always the last stop, and she was always waiting. I liked her treats. They lasted longer than candy.

 

VII

A small feast was set outside the door of every house on Samhain. A feast to appease the wandering spirits and make sure they didn’t intrude. For who knew what tricks ghouls would play once inside? If the offerings were gone in the morning, it was a good sign. The spirits had accepted the token. No mortal would steal a gift left for the dead. Unless the gnawing hunger and short dark days of winter were scarier than the ghosts that roamed abroad on Samhain.

A loaf of bread, a pint of ale. Perhaps a bit of meat. Something to quench the spirits’ hunger before they trespass into your home, and your life.

In the morning you wake from uneasy sleep. The old year gone. Winter here with its chill and its dark.

Will you survive? Or will you join the spirits when they return next Samhain? Time will tell.

The End