15 October 2008
244
R. Linda:
Some years ago when I was a budding reporter, I was sent up to the small village of Strangford in Northern Ireland. It be about 45 minutes from Belfast up on the coast and a typical fishing village as one might think. All the homes are nested together by the docks, where fishing trawlers dot the sea. It was 31 October, Samhain (sow-een) which is today called by the Christians, the Eve of All Saints Day, the next day being All Saints Day and the next, All Souls Day. This three-day "celebration" is lumped under the heading Hallowmas, a Celtic word (Halloween to the Western world).
It was rumoured that there was some kind of cult that had invaded this small village and I, being the new kid in the newsroom was sent to sniff out a story. I had arrived on a rather gloomy 31 October, where I met up with the town constable a Mr. Jack O'Leary. Constable O'Leary told me there was heard this chanting coming from the old buoy-making shacks up on Lenny's Lane near the outskirts of the village. We walked up the lane as the trees rattled their dried-up leaves like old men's bones, shaking at us as if we were trespassing sacred ground. The wind would burst at us and throw the fallen leaves up in small swirls of dancing colours as we walked. I should have known then there was trouble afoot as one such wind burst blew the leaves up as we walked revealing a garter snake slithering on the old dirt road before us, not to be trod upon. That black wiggling reptile gave me the creeps as it disappeared and the leaves returned earthward.
We arrived at the buoy shacks, dilapidated buildings of five or six, chicken wire ripped back from where windows once had been and bits of old sawdust mixed with the leaves on the floor, the only remains of what once was. Inside one of the shacks was an enclosed space where in past years of buoy making there might have been crates where stored buoys and other implements of the fishing trade were housed. Further inside this shack was a large red circle painted on the wall with a star in the middle.
"Witchcraft," Jack nodded at me as I took a picture of the drippy artwork. "It be red paint it be, not blood or anything else, we know that much. We just don't know what it means," he said pointing at the star symbol in the middle. "Usually the star be inverted."
Odd indeed, I thought. I looked around me and saw a bit of red cloth that had caught on an exposed nail. But nothing more than that was to be found. I sighed thinking this was a waste of me time. Probably teenagers having a bit of Samhain mischief.
Being this was Samhain, Jack was sure the cult members would meet that night since there was a full moon. We'd come back, hide in the abundant brush and catch the miscreants at "it" whatever "it" was. I was game, the weather was mild, the sea breeze just so, it being Samhain, why not?
I enjoyed a succulent mussel dinner at the Fish Pot Restaurant situated at the mouth of the Strangford Lough (lake). When Jack and I emerged from our repast the sun had set and it was early evening, 7:00 p.m. Darkness upon us, we made our way on foot out of the sleepy town toward Lenny's Lane, the twinkling of house lights fading the nearer to the buoy shacks we got. We toned our conversation to just above a whisper as we came within sight of the tops of the shacks on the hill.
The wind kicked up as it did earlier in the day and a chill settled as it left and came back. The dew was already glistening in the moonlight on the old brambles and I could see the most perfect of spider webs outlined in dewdrops.
It was then that we heard it, a low chanting, the words we could not yet make out. We both instinctively crouched down though I doubt we would have been seen at that distance. As we started up the old path to the shacks, a blood-curdling scream issued from above us and within seconds a figure, a red figure, came running towards us, pushing us both to the ground as it bolted on down the path in the moonlight. With chills running down our spines we gathered our wits quickly. We picked ourselves up and went in pursuit. The figure was headed for the lough and it was screaming bloody murder the entire time. I noticed the man, for it was a man, was either bleeding profusely or he was painted red from head to toe and was naked. I for one, let Jack take the lead for I was not about to tackle a red-painted naked guy, oh no not I.
Jack made a lunge but missed and went down as I raced passed thinking I needed to slow it down and let the figure get away, but Jack was up without a beat and I could hear his footfalls pounding behind me. Before we could gain on the man, he had jumped into the water and was making sounds as if he was relieved to be in the cold water. A lot of "ahhh's" and "ohhh that feels gooddd," and other exclamations of pleasure were to be heard as we stood there staring.
"Give us a hand here," the man said wading towards us.
We were both uncomfortable at the man's undress but Jack had the sense of mind to ask him what gives to which the reply was mumbo jumbo and we couldn't understand any of his babbling because he had become agitated once out of the water. Jack got his handcuffs out and cuffed the naked criminal at once and we started back towards town when there was another hue and cry from the direction of the buoy shacks. Jack, fast thinking, recuffed the naked red man to a tree branch and off we went towards the not-so-deserted buoy shacks.
"He'll catch his fright of cold," I said to Jack as we rushed uphill.
"Then go back and give em' yer jacket Gabe, I need to get up there."
And so I did approaching cautiously. The man had slumped down and was rolling around the ground grunting. Well, he certainly didn't need me jacket he was now covered in dried leaves and dirt and enough of it to form a second skin. I turned on me heel and ran up after Jack.
Upon me arrival at the top of the hill I saw Jack about to rush inside. I used every ounce of energy I had to catch up. We burst through the door together, Jack with billy club at the ready, me with camera. We both stopped in our tracks at the sight of the twelve red-robed individuals sitting cross-legged in a circle on the floor, thumb and forefingers together, eyes closed, humming. Yes, humming. Humming what -- I couldn't tell you, I think it might have been "om" but I couldn't be sure.
No one moved, I don't know if they even knew we were there, but we had burst in like gangbusters, so how they could not, I do not know. Me conclusion was they simply did not care we were there. Suddenly, one of them, a man, opened one eye and looked at us askew. Jack looked back at him like "Well?" the man winked and smiled, closed his eye and went back to humming.
Jack looked at me, and me at him and he scratched his head not quite knowing what to do. They were not breaking any law except trespassing on condemned property, so we did have them on that charge, but what about the naked man? Well, Jack needed to know about THAT, so he cleared his throat and with authority said, "Excuse me, please."
To this the humming stopped, everyone opened their eyes and looked up at us, all in shock that they were not alone, except for the one man who had winked and smiled at us. Before Jack could ask his questions, the group jumped up and began running around us in a circle screaming and shouting as they went by. We didn't quite know what to make of THIS new development.
Suddenly they all fell to the floor face down moaning and groaning. Talk about bizarre, talk about strange, talk about crazy.
"That's it," shouted Jack, "you're all under arrest, let's go," And like sheep, they all got up, dusted themselves off and filed single file down the hill as if none of the loonie-ness had ever taken place. And again like sheep, they filled into the constabulary like they knew the drill. It was then I remembered their thirteenth member. Jack threw the keys to me and told me to "Go get 'em, Gabe." I was going to miss me story and hesitated just long enough for newly arrived Sergeant Duffy to take the keys, ask Jack where the perp (perpetrator) was located and off he went.
The one smiley guy told Jack they were members of the Red Freedom Demons, an organisation that makes use of what others have abandoned. They thought since the buoy shacks were no longer used for anything useful, they'd make them useful. There they would hold their meetings, which consisted of humming to become attuned to the cosmic sounds of the universe so that afterwards, all geared up in cosmic vibes they'd go out and pick at the waste bins in town for edible food, that would not be wasted and the end result was living free, not wasting perfectly good things. They didn't bother anyone, as they moved about only at night, slept during the day at various abandoned places and generally never had to pay a penny for a thing, nor worry about taxes.
Red was the colour of radical freedom, it was explained and so were the robes. Or, to be more proper, sheets. They were old red sheets a factory had thrown out because the dye lot was off. No need for clothing when you could wrap yourself handily in discarded dye lots. Just as this was being told, Sergeant Duffy returned with a very dirt-encrusted naked man. And where was his robe, Jack inquired cynically, pointing at the dejected man.
"Oh, he's our newest member. We didn't have an extra sheet so he dosed himself in something red, I think," Smiley offered.
Jack turned to the exhausted naked man.
"You want to tell me where you're clothing is?"
"Don't have any," he replied sheepishly, "They don't allow anyone in the group who isn't dressed in red, so I found some ketchup and coated meself in that but then I didn't have enough. I found some red sauce so I dosed meself with that."
"And why were you running and screaming?" Jack asked intrigued.
"The red sauce . . . the red sauce was hot sauce, Tabasco I think, and when it dribbled down to me private parts it set me a fire like no other. I had to get relief so I ran for the lough I did," the man explained, his jaw jutted out proudly.
So much for the evil cult, the naked sacrificial lamb. It was a Hallowmas bust of small proportions. Not even worth me reporting when I got back to Belfast. SIGH.
Gabe
Copyright © 2008 All rights reserved
R. Linda:
Some years ago when I was a budding reporter, I was sent up to the small village of Strangford in Northern Ireland. It be about 45 minutes from Belfast up on the coast and a typical fishing village as one might think. All the homes are nested together by the docks, where fishing trawlers dot the sea. It was 31 October, Samhain (sow-een) which is today called by the Christians, the Eve of All Saints Day, the next day being All Saints Day and the next, All Souls Day. This three-day "celebration" is lumped under the heading Hallowmas, a Celtic word (Halloween to the Western world).
It was rumoured that there was some kind of cult that had invaded this small village and I, being the new kid in the newsroom was sent to sniff out a story. I had arrived on a rather gloomy 31 October, where I met up with the town constable a Mr. Jack O'Leary. Constable O'Leary told me there was heard this chanting coming from the old buoy-making shacks up on Lenny's Lane near the outskirts of the village. We walked up the lane as the trees rattled their dried-up leaves like old men's bones, shaking at us as if we were trespassing sacred ground. The wind would burst at us and throw the fallen leaves up in small swirls of dancing colours as we walked. I should have known then there was trouble afoot as one such wind burst blew the leaves up as we walked revealing a garter snake slithering on the old dirt road before us, not to be trod upon. That black wiggling reptile gave me the creeps as it disappeared and the leaves returned earthward.
We arrived at the buoy shacks, dilapidated buildings of five or six, chicken wire ripped back from where windows once had been and bits of old sawdust mixed with the leaves on the floor, the only remains of what once was. Inside one of the shacks was an enclosed space where in past years of buoy making there might have been crates where stored buoys and other implements of the fishing trade were housed. Further inside this shack was a large red circle painted on the wall with a star in the middle.
"Witchcraft," Jack nodded at me as I took a picture of the drippy artwork. "It be red paint it be, not blood or anything else, we know that much. We just don't know what it means," he said pointing at the star symbol in the middle. "Usually the star be inverted."
Odd indeed, I thought. I looked around me and saw a bit of red cloth that had caught on an exposed nail. But nothing more than that was to be found. I sighed thinking this was a waste of me time. Probably teenagers having a bit of Samhain mischief.
Being this was Samhain, Jack was sure the cult members would meet that night since there was a full moon. We'd come back, hide in the abundant brush and catch the miscreants at "it" whatever "it" was. I was game, the weather was mild, the sea breeze just so, it being Samhain, why not?
I enjoyed a succulent mussel dinner at the Fish Pot Restaurant situated at the mouth of the Strangford Lough (lake). When Jack and I emerged from our repast the sun had set and it was early evening, 7:00 p.m. Darkness upon us, we made our way on foot out of the sleepy town toward Lenny's Lane, the twinkling of house lights fading the nearer to the buoy shacks we got. We toned our conversation to just above a whisper as we came within sight of the tops of the shacks on the hill.
The wind kicked up as it did earlier in the day and a chill settled as it left and came back. The dew was already glistening in the moonlight on the old brambles and I could see the most perfect of spider webs outlined in dewdrops.
It was then that we heard it, a low chanting, the words we could not yet make out. We both instinctively crouched down though I doubt we would have been seen at that distance. As we started up the old path to the shacks, a blood-curdling scream issued from above us and within seconds a figure, a red figure, came running towards us, pushing us both to the ground as it bolted on down the path in the moonlight. With chills running down our spines we gathered our wits quickly. We picked ourselves up and went in pursuit. The figure was headed for the lough and it was screaming bloody murder the entire time. I noticed the man, for it was a man, was either bleeding profusely or he was painted red from head to toe and was naked. I for one, let Jack take the lead for I was not about to tackle a red-painted naked guy, oh no not I.
Jack made a lunge but missed and went down as I raced passed thinking I needed to slow it down and let the figure get away, but Jack was up without a beat and I could hear his footfalls pounding behind me. Before we could gain on the man, he had jumped into the water and was making sounds as if he was relieved to be in the cold water. A lot of "ahhh's" and "ohhh that feels gooddd," and other exclamations of pleasure were to be heard as we stood there staring.
"Give us a hand here," the man said wading towards us.
We were both uncomfortable at the man's undress but Jack had the sense of mind to ask him what gives to which the reply was mumbo jumbo and we couldn't understand any of his babbling because he had become agitated once out of the water. Jack got his handcuffs out and cuffed the naked criminal at once and we started back towards town when there was another hue and cry from the direction of the buoy shacks. Jack, fast thinking, recuffed the naked red man to a tree branch and off we went towards the not-so-deserted buoy shacks.
"He'll catch his fright of cold," I said to Jack as we rushed uphill.
"Then go back and give em' yer jacket Gabe, I need to get up there."
And so I did approaching cautiously. The man had slumped down and was rolling around the ground grunting. Well, he certainly didn't need me jacket he was now covered in dried leaves and dirt and enough of it to form a second skin. I turned on me heel and ran up after Jack.
Upon me arrival at the top of the hill I saw Jack about to rush inside. I used every ounce of energy I had to catch up. We burst through the door together, Jack with billy club at the ready, me with camera. We both stopped in our tracks at the sight of the twelve red-robed individuals sitting cross-legged in a circle on the floor, thumb and forefingers together, eyes closed, humming. Yes, humming. Humming what -- I couldn't tell you, I think it might have been "om" but I couldn't be sure.
No one moved, I don't know if they even knew we were there, but we had burst in like gangbusters, so how they could not, I do not know. Me conclusion was they simply did not care we were there. Suddenly, one of them, a man, opened one eye and looked at us askew. Jack looked back at him like "Well?" the man winked and smiled, closed his eye and went back to humming.
Jack looked at me, and me at him and he scratched his head not quite knowing what to do. They were not breaking any law except trespassing on condemned property, so we did have them on that charge, but what about the naked man? Well, Jack needed to know about THAT, so he cleared his throat and with authority said, "Excuse me, please."
To this the humming stopped, everyone opened their eyes and looked up at us, all in shock that they were not alone, except for the one man who had winked and smiled at us. Before Jack could ask his questions, the group jumped up and began running around us in a circle screaming and shouting as they went by. We didn't quite know what to make of THIS new development.
Suddenly they all fell to the floor face down moaning and groaning. Talk about bizarre, talk about strange, talk about crazy.
"That's it," shouted Jack, "you're all under arrest, let's go," And like sheep, they all got up, dusted themselves off and filed single file down the hill as if none of the loonie-ness had ever taken place. And again like sheep, they filled into the constabulary like they knew the drill. It was then I remembered their thirteenth member. Jack threw the keys to me and told me to "Go get 'em, Gabe." I was going to miss me story and hesitated just long enough for newly arrived Sergeant Duffy to take the keys, ask Jack where the perp (perpetrator) was located and off he went.
The one smiley guy told Jack they were members of the Red Freedom Demons, an organisation that makes use of what others have abandoned. They thought since the buoy shacks were no longer used for anything useful, they'd make them useful. There they would hold their meetings, which consisted of humming to become attuned to the cosmic sounds of the universe so that afterwards, all geared up in cosmic vibes they'd go out and pick at the waste bins in town for edible food, that would not be wasted and the end result was living free, not wasting perfectly good things. They didn't bother anyone, as they moved about only at night, slept during the day at various abandoned places and generally never had to pay a penny for a thing, nor worry about taxes.
Red was the colour of radical freedom, it was explained and so were the robes. Or, to be more proper, sheets. They were old red sheets a factory had thrown out because the dye lot was off. No need for clothing when you could wrap yourself handily in discarded dye lots. Just as this was being told, Sergeant Duffy returned with a very dirt-encrusted naked man. And where was his robe, Jack inquired cynically, pointing at the dejected man.
"Oh, he's our newest member. We didn't have an extra sheet so he dosed himself in something red, I think," Smiley offered.
Jack turned to the exhausted naked man.
"You want to tell me where you're clothing is?"
"Don't have any," he replied sheepishly, "They don't allow anyone in the group who isn't dressed in red, so I found some ketchup and coated meself in that but then I didn't have enough. I found some red sauce so I dosed meself with that."
"And why were you running and screaming?" Jack asked intrigued.
"The red sauce . . . the red sauce was hot sauce, Tabasco I think, and when it dribbled down to me private parts it set me a fire like no other. I had to get relief so I ran for the lough I did," the man explained, his jaw jutted out proudly.
So much for the evil cult, the naked sacrificial lamb. It was a Hallowmas bust of small proportions. Not even worth me reporting when I got back to Belfast. SIGH.
Gabe
Copyright © 2008 All rights reserved
