Spirits of Samhain

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The red glow of the dying sun, half devoured by the distant hills, starkly silhouetted the roundhouse against the encircling stockade.  Long shadows, deep purple in the late evening light, extended their fingers across the village.  Night would soon be upon the land, the beginning of a new day and the ending of the old day’s celebrations.

Cradling the lantern gently between her hands, Liath was glad that the door to the roundhouse had been left ajar.  Her hands were numb with cold, and she was certain there would be frost on the grass by morning.  As she shivered, chilled and exhausted, she gripped the lantern more tightly, feeling the warmth from the coal held within, cupped in its mossy bed.  A gentle luminescence shone through the intricate carvings of wild, chimeric beasts that circled the lantern, so skillfully designed that they seemed to shift and writhe as if alive.  Her mind warned her that it would be a very bad thing to drop such a precious object.  Rónán had spent two days carefully hollowing out and carving the largest turnip he could find.  Her young son would be devastated if she should accidently destroy his work.  Moreover, the coal that it contained had been taken from the day’s ceremonial bonfire, and would be used to restart the roundhouse’s central fire, the first fire of the year … the lighting of which was a very portentous event.

Thoughts of Rónán brought equal measures of joy and sadness to Liath… joy because he was clearly developing a talent as a skilled artisan, and sadness because, at fourteen winters, he was of an age to be apprenticed to a master carver, and she would miss him terribly when it was his time to leave.  However, now was not the time to think of such things, she chided herself, not on Samhain’s eve.

Liath quickly slipped through the half-opened entranceway, her shoulder brushing the wickerwork door as she passed.  It had been warm enough today, once the sun had come over the horizon, that the roundhouse had been left open to let the breeze drive out last night’s smoke and freshen the air.  Inside, the darkness was nearly complete, the tiny glow from the lantern and the grey radiance from the entrance barely lighting her way.  Liath didn’t fear the gloom … her bare feet knew this path well.  A few quick steps brought her to the center of the roundhouse where she knelt down.  As her eyes acclimatized to the dim light, the rock ring of the central hearth became visible.  The hearth was cold now, the fire having been ritually extinguished earlier, symbolizing the end of the year.  However, all the things she would need to start the fire anew had been carefully arranged before the hearth stones.  There, before her knees, were piles of tinder – thistledown, dried bracken, willowherb seed heads, dried coltsfoot leaves, and shredded birch bark – and pieces of kindling laid out according to its size, from smallest to largest.  Sitting atop one of the hearth stones was her most prized fire-starting magic, a lump of hardened pine pitch.

In the center of the hearth, Liath made a soft bed of tinder, within which she placed the nugget of pine pitch.  As she worked, she remembered the morning’s conversation.

“Father, may I light the hearth fire this year?”

“No, son, not this year.”

“But why not?  I can start a fire as fast and as well as you and Mother.  I won’t fail.”

“No, of course you wouldn’t fail.  But that’s not the reason.  Your mother needs to light it this year.”

“But why?  She lit it last year.”

“It’s a personal thing, Rónán.  She needs to do it for herself.”

“Why?  Does she think she will see …”

“Hush!  Don’t speak of such things.  She will see what she needs to see.”

Slowly, Liath inverted the turnip lantern over the fluffy, dry tinder, allowing the coal to drop gently onto the pitch.  With care, she set the lantern aside on one of the flattened hearth stones.  More tinder was quickly added on top of the glowing coal.  Then, with gentle puffs, Liath blew on the coal, encouraging it to glow with ruddy life.  This was the third, and last, fire that she needed to light today.  The first had been the hardest.

In the cold grey light that preceded sunrise, Liath stood atop the watch hill that loomed over the village.  Although the crown of the hill was naked, bald like the head of an old man, a ring of ancient oaks stood guard around the hill’s rim.  They too, displayed signs of age … gaps had appeared like missing teeth where elder trees had fallen and new ones had not replaced them.  The clan had not allowed the regrowth of trees where they might block their view.  For many years now, the hill had been used more as a lookout to watch for invading armies than as a ceremonial site.  But not today.

People moved like ghostly shadows around her as Liath walked toward the old fire pit at the high point of the hill’s crest.  All around the pit’s stone ring, and elsewhere on the hill’s summit, were stacks of firewood, brought up by the villagers over the past several days.  On certain days, this was where signal fires were lit.  Today, on Samhain’s eve, she would start the new year’s Neid-fire here.  Kneeling by the old fire-scorched and blackened stones, she pulled out carefully dried tinder and kindling from a pouch at her waist.  Unwrapping the oiled skins from the bundle she had carried up the hill, she revealed a bow drill made of well-seasoned oak.  The Neid-fire must be started by friction, not with the more modern technique of sparking flint and iron pyrite together.  Using an oaken bow drill would make creating a coal by friction much harder work that with some other woods, but the symbolic nature of oak – interconnectedness, wisdom, and endurance – was an important element in the Neid-fire ceremony.

The clan gathered around Liath, forming a ring as she began the long task of running the bow back and forth, spinning the spindle in the notch cut into the hearth board.  They waited, silently, expectantly.  She had done this task before, working the drill, but always, in the past, the great Druid, her father, had been in charge on the ceremony.  Now, it was only her, and she felt lonely and afraid.  What if she failed to start the fire?  Or couldn’t remember the right words to speak to appease the spirits?

Smoke drifted up from the hearth board and tickled her nose.  Liath spun the drill faster, increasing the friction.  A small glow in the notch appeared, but she knew better than to let up her efforts now.  When it was ready, the coal would drop from the notch and fall into the bed of tinder below.  Finally, with sweat running down her brow and into her eyes, the tiny coal was formed and tumbled down.  Quickly setting the bow drill aside, she blew gently on the coal, encouraging it, bringing life to it and the new year.  A wisp of smoke rewarded her efforts, swirling up into the air just as the first rays of sun came over the horizon.  She added tiny bits of kindling to the smouldering tinder and blew harder.  A small flame bloomed forth.  More kindling and more breath created a crackling, weaving, living fire.  One of the fire-tenders, individuals who had been selected by lottery for the honor of ensuring that the Neid-fire would be kept burning until sunset, came forward with the first large sticks of dried wood to feed the flames into a blaze.

In her head, Liath could hear her father’s voice, deep, rich, resonant.  “Where are you tonight, m’athair?  How can I do this without you?” she asked the ghosts in her head.  There was no reply.  Cúán, the great Druid, had gone to the otherworld shortly after Lughnasadh.  Although he had been the mentor to many – the chief’s sons learning their letters, numbers and history, the vates and midwives receiving their herb lore and knowledge of the workings of the body, the bards gaining the myths, laws, geneaology, and stories of the land, and yes, even a few young Druids – only Liath remained in the village now.  Was she Druid enough to follow in her father’s footsteps?  Had her many years of training been enough?

The clan was waiting.  Liath stood up and faced the fire, looking eastward into the rising sun.  She raised her arms and spoke, her words sounding thin and strange to her ears:

“As the nights grow long and the veil grows thin, we gather around this Neid-fire, a symbol of the beginning of a new year.  From its heart, we will each take a coal to light our own hearth fires, sharing its warmth.  May it protect us from any spirits that cross the veil tonight and visit our homes …”

Gradually, the tinder started to smoke, the lump of pitch caught fire, and small flames appeared.  As she had at dawn, Liath carefully fed the embryonic fire with fine pieces of kindling, encouraging the fire to grow and fill the roundhouse with its warm light.  Without looking, her inner sense informed her that the sun had finally set.  Night had arrived.  A cold breeze wafted through the open door, providing a draught for the fire and sending tendrils of smoking seeking the smoke hole in the roof.  Carried on the breeze was the enticing smell of roasting meat.  The fire pit had been opened, and fresh roasted beef, pork, and mutton were being served to everyone in the village.  Faolán, her beloved, and father of her son, would be sure to bring a plate of meat back to the roundhouse, along with some roasted roots -skirrets, turnips, parsnips and carrots – so they could eat together.  Faolán and Rónán were giving her some time to complete the hearth lighting ceremony before returning from the communal fire pit.  Unconsciously, her mind drifted back to the morning’s events.

Liath thrust an unlit torch deep into the flames of the Neid-fire.  The pitch soaked wood caught fire quickly, crackling and hissing.  Everyone seemed to be satisfied with her words and actions so far.  Now it was time to light the second fire of the day.  Holding the torch aloft, she walked slowly down the hill, through the village gates, and into the center of the village compound.  The clan followed behind her, a winding procession that extended almost from hill top to stockade.  Here, at the heart of the village, was a deep communal roasting pit filled with wood and liberally doused with pine pitch.  The resinous odor was intense in her nose, as Liath touched her torch to the wood, setting the pile alight almost instantly.  A roar of approval arose from the crowd.

A bull and several pigs and sheep were confined in pens not far from the fire.  These were animals from the clan’s herds, the beginning of a culling process where excess animals that could not be fed over the long winter to come must be slaughtered, the meat either eaten fresh, dried, or salted.  After the fire in the pit had burned down to a bed of coals, the freshly killed animals would be pit-roasted – covered with branches and soil, then left to simmer in their own juices until sunset.

The bull had a special role in the day’s ceremonies.  He had been treated with great kindness and fed apples and other treats for the past tenday.  Today, Liath would send his spirit to the otherworld with the clan’s prayers.  Two large men led the bull from its pen, one on each side of its head.  A third man carried a long, carefully sharpened knife.  On a table beside the fire pit was a large silver cauldron, beautifully worked with human and animal figures, an ancient relic from times long past.  Liath picked it up and walked towards the bull.  The animal was calm, unafraid.  She placed her had on its forehead, saying “May you go to the otherworld as you have lived in this one, with love.  Take our hopes and prayers to the gods that they may hear us.”

Liath stepped back.  In one swift stroke, the knife was passed across the bull’s throat in a deep and wide arc, cutting both carotids and the windpipe.  The animal struggled only momentarily, then became limp.  It was a clean kill.  Liath was satisfied.  She hated to see suffering.  Stepping forward with the cauldron, she collected the blood spilling from the bull’s throat as the three men held it up.  Once the cauldron was full, Liath would ladle out the fresh blood into bowls brought by a member of each household.  The blood would be sprinkled around each roundhouse as a protection against the restless dead and any chaotic spirits that might cross through the veil tonight.

Liath felt her stomach rumble.  Now that her hunger was awakened, she could smell the freshly baked cakes, rich with the sweetness of dried fruit, that were cooling on a table not far from the hearth.  Faolán had baked them before extinguishing the hearth fire for the day.  The small, flat cakes would be eaten with the meal, and some would be set aside, along with a little milk, as a repast for the ancestors.

The stillness of the roundhouse disturbed Liath.  Once, the house would have been filled with chatter and laughter, but not anymore.  Not for two winters now, since Aria, her mother, had departed to the otherworld shortly after winter solstice.  Cúán had been devastated.  Once a strong and active man of indeterminate age, with only a few streaks of silver in his dark shaggy hair, he had became old before the spring lambs were born.  When his hair turned completely white and his frame became frail and bent, Liath mourned in her heart, not only for the loss of her mother, but now for her father as well, for she knew his days were numbered.  However, he remained dedicated to his duties to the people, and continued in his role as Druid for the village, leading the celebrations marking the turning of the wheel of the seasons, teaching, healing, and providing wise advice.  But he stopped taking on more students, and as the ones he was mentoring finished their time with him, the roundhouse grew emptier and emptier.  When Cúán had weakened, Liath had taken on more and more of the tasks he had once done.  However, she had felt that she still needed to rely on his council.  Now that he was gone, there was no one to guide her.  She was on her own.  Had she done enough today?  Her throat was dry and hoarse … she had spoken many words, but were they the right ones?  Would the gods shelter them from the harsh winter to come?  Were the people comforted and reassured by what she had said?  Would they trust her as their liaison with the gods and that which was other than human?  Women who chose to become Druids, while not unknown, were rare.  Would the Chief want a man in this role, and seek a new Druid from elsewhere?  So many questions whirled about in her head.

Exhausted, Liath stared into the mesmerizing flames of the fire.  Abruptly, a cold blast of air gusted through the roundhouse door, fanning the flames so that they momentarily rose tall above her head, blue flashes amongst the twining of red, orange, and yellow.  Smoke and ash swirled upward, weaving into a spiral that reached for the darkened timbers of the roof.  The acrid fumes made her eyes water, or were those the tears of her deeply heart-felt loss?  Liath stared blearily at the eddying cloud above her head.  It almost seemed as though she could see familiar faces forming in the smoke.  Was that Cúán and Aria, together again in the afterlife as they has been so much a part of each other in this life?  Or was it just her tired imagination, creating what she most wanted to see?

A voice echoed in her head, a voice she recognized and longed to hear again.  “No, Liath, I’m not something you have created with your mind.  I am really here, just across the veil.  I’m with Aria now … I couldn’t wait any longer.”

“Father …” Liath didn’t speak aloud, for the conversation seemed to be contained in her head, and yet it was not of her head.  “I need you.  I love you.”  Tears rolled down her face.  “Mother, are you really there?”

“Yes, my child, I am here,” spoke a warm, musical voice, a woman’s voice that brought back memories from deep in her childhood.

Liath’s greatest worries flowed out of her mind, almost without conscious thought, “Father, how can I take your place?  I am not strong enough.  The clan won’t accept me as Druid …”

“Do not worry so, child.  You have done well.  The people trust you and have faith in your skills,” Cúán’s voice was filled with a father’s strong but gentle love.

“I still need your guidance …” Liath’s inner voice cried out disconsolately.

“We are here for you, Liath … our wisdom, our guidance, our love,” Cúán sighed a silent and fatherly sigh.  “You are a Druid.  I know … I trained you.  When you need us, you can step across the veil and reach out to us.  I have taught you how to do this.  You need only to remember how, just as you have tonight.”  For a moment, Liath felt the love of Cúán and Aria embrace her like a comforting blanket on a cold and dark night.  Then, as quickly as they had come, a cold puff of wind dispersed the swirling cloud of smoke, sending it out through the smoke hole, and they were gone.

Like a little child, Liath dragged the sleeve of her tunic across her face, wiping away the runnels of tears.  Back in the here and now of the real world, she heard laughter and voices, and the smell of succulent roasted meats filled the roundhouse.

“You finally got the hearth fire started,” young Rónán’s voice announced cheerfully from the door.  “I bet I could have done it in half the time,” he bragged with the naivety of childhood.