my pig, nicely spiced with the beer she’d used to drown them. The fact that Arabella steadfastly rejected them seemed a mere detail. Daphne had recently established a tannery in a large shed in her garden, in which she cured sheepskins. The smell of animal fat and saltpetre never quite left her. She let her black curly hair grow long and seldom tied it back from her face. Her children saw her as deeply embarrassing and her friends trod warily. On a personal level I found her scratchy and unpredictable, but this didn’t stop me from teasing her.
I was fortunate this time. She merely tapped a finger on the table in front of her and sat back inher chair. The message was one of suppressed impatience.
We went on to plan the ceremony for Samhain, which required careful preparation. It was to take place in the very convenient Long Barrow at Notgrove, which was an ancient Megalithic burial ground dating back to 3,000 BC or thereabouts. As old as Stonehenge, anyway, or so Kenneth claimed from something he read. For a ritual centred on death and the passage between the different realms, it was perfect. The bodies once buried there had long ago disappeared, but the atmosphere remained – or so we assured ourselves. English Heritage, nominally in control of the site, paid us no heed, so long as we left no obvious damage. The local people were mostly unconcerned about our activities, despite Daphne’s attempts to awaken their interest. They had their own bowdlerised version of the great festival, all the dafter for being over and done with long before midnight – the moment when its entire meaning was made manifest.
Hallowe’en – as Samhain has become known in the general population – is a festival of contradictions: silence and feasting, sacrifice and survival, fire and blood. It overflows with material for effective and focused rituals. Children dressing as caricature witches and knocking on doors with empty threats is a bewildering corruption. Their confused parents and teachers, timidly dodginganything ‘incorrect’ make no attempt to explain what lies behind. Even references to ghosts carry nervous over-the-shoulder glances, for fear the authorities will accuse them of needlessly frightening the little ones. The idea that in times of acute hardship and bitter winters superfluous infants themselves might have been despatched to the spirit world hadn’t for a moment occurred to the merrymakers. Even in our own wiccan circles, I never heard it mentioned.
We agreed timings and the wording of the incantations and prayers, and then I produced the food. Shy Leslie, the youngest of the group, who had barely said a word during the business part of the evening, followed me into the kitchen, and without having to be told, began to arrange the cold meat, coleslaw and cheese on plates. It took me a moment to remember where his name had recently cropped up, in some quite different context. Then the snippet from Gaynor about his partnering Oliver at bridge came back to me. I almost said something, but it seemed intrusive, irrelevant to the moment.
He was a pleasant boy in his mid-twenties, much cleverer than at first appeared. His pagan convictions ran as deep as could be, brought up as he’d been by a wiccan mother who had never attempted to conceal her beliefs or way of life. He was married to a pretty girl a year or two older thanhimself, who came to our moots from time to time, but plainly held none of the required convictions. ‘No Joanne today?’ I said, just to make conversation.
He shook his head, without meeting my eye. ‘Nope,’ was all the reply I got.
Just as everybody started eating, I remembered Gaynor’s request. ‘Hang on,’ I said, waving for hush. ‘I forgot to say we’ve had an application for a divination.’ And then, to my shame, I told them who and why and what. Strictly speaking, this was not necessary. More than that, it was breaking a confidence to reveal Gaynor’s feelings towards Oliver
I was fortunate this time. She merely tapped a finger on the table in front of her and sat back inher chair. The message was one of suppressed impatience.
We went on to plan the ceremony for Samhain, which required careful preparation. It was to take place in the very convenient Long Barrow at Notgrove, which was an ancient Megalithic burial ground dating back to 3,000 BC or thereabouts. As old as Stonehenge, anyway, or so Kenneth claimed from something he read. For a ritual centred on death and the passage between the different realms, it was perfect. The bodies once buried there had long ago disappeared, but the atmosphere remained – or so we assured ourselves. English Heritage, nominally in control of the site, paid us no heed, so long as we left no obvious damage. The local people were mostly unconcerned about our activities, despite Daphne’s attempts to awaken their interest. They had their own bowdlerised version of the great festival, all the dafter for being over and done with long before midnight – the moment when its entire meaning was made manifest.
Hallowe’en – as Samhain has become known in the general population – is a festival of contradictions: silence and feasting, sacrifice and survival, fire and blood. It overflows with material for effective and focused rituals. Children dressing as caricature witches and knocking on doors with empty threats is a bewildering corruption. Their confused parents and teachers, timidly dodginganything ‘incorrect’ make no attempt to explain what lies behind. Even references to ghosts carry nervous over-the-shoulder glances, for fear the authorities will accuse them of needlessly frightening the little ones. The idea that in times of acute hardship and bitter winters superfluous infants themselves might have been despatched to the spirit world hadn’t for a moment occurred to the merrymakers. Even in our own wiccan circles, I never heard it mentioned.
We agreed timings and the wording of the incantations and prayers, and then I produced the food. Shy Leslie, the youngest of the group, who had barely said a word during the business part of the evening, followed me into the kitchen, and without having to be told, began to arrange the cold meat, coleslaw and cheese on plates. It took me a moment to remember where his name had recently cropped up, in some quite different context. Then the snippet from Gaynor about his partnering Oliver at bridge came back to me. I almost said something, but it seemed intrusive, irrelevant to the moment.
He was a pleasant boy in his mid-twenties, much cleverer than at first appeared. His pagan convictions ran as deep as could be, brought up as he’d been by a wiccan mother who had never attempted to conceal her beliefs or way of life. He was married to a pretty girl a year or two older thanhimself, who came to our moots from time to time, but plainly held none of the required convictions. ‘No Joanne today?’ I said, just to make conversation.
He shook his head, without meeting my eye. ‘Nope,’ was all the reply I got.
Just as everybody started eating, I remembered Gaynor’s request. ‘Hang on,’ I said, waving for hush. ‘I forgot to say we’ve had an application for a divination.’ And then, to my shame, I told them who and why and what. Strictly speaking, this was not necessary. More than that, it was breaking a confidence to reveal Gaynor’s feelings towards Oliver
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