Tales from The Cailleach: INTO A HARE

A sharp sickle hangs above the Lough Field.

By the hearth I rest my bones, thoughts conjured by shifting shadows.

How much reaping have I seen since those first seeds were planted?

How many harvests by scythe, then horse now harvester?

In bygone days they thought my spirit in the corn.

Cutting the Cailleach, Co. Antrim.

Pic © www.duchas.ie

At times my hare-shape, spied amongst the stalks, caused old ones to make the sign and murmur against ill-wishing.  

They recognised my power.

Still now, at my great age, I go about at harvest to fulfil my duty. 

Barley, wheat, oats and grass, all are judged for fitness.

This year was no exception.

At the swollen moon I lay besides the hearth, shawl wrapped tightly, trusting my gnarled fingers 

to remember. 

Nine haws, nine knots, a hag stone bound in red. 

Eyes closed I breathed archaic words upon the charm.

Damp earth-scent replaced turf smoke. 

I diminished, 

I re-formed.

Detail from "Into a Hare" by Jane Brideson.

A twitch of whiskers then I was off across the silvered land.

Past Lone Thorn, 

Detail from "Into a Hare" by Jane Brideson.

Shining Mound

Detail from "Into a Hare" by Jane Brideson.

and Sacred Well.

Detail from "Into a Hare" by Jane Brideson.

Around the Hag’s Hill then spiralling far beyond. 

Fulfilling work began at EQUINOX 

"Into a Hare" by Jane Brideson.

The cycle ended I sensed the wholeness in the land.

***

Next morning, an old woman once again, I rose and placed the kettle on the range for tea.

The phone rang. 

I knew that smiling voice,  “All’s well?” 

“ Yes. The harvest’s saved, great goodness in the grain this year. 

 We’ll celebrate at Samhain so?” I asked.

“Ah, we will of course” came his reply. We laughed and I could see that twinkle in his eye. 

The Dagda’s parties were legendary.

A MAGICAL SAMHAIN

As the year deepens into winter I recalled a Samhain night seven years ago when I decided to
journey into the darkness of the countryside, where the sky was lit only by stars.
The scent of turf smoke and frost was in the air as I left the warmth of the hearth and travelled
down the small country roads hereabouts. All was silence with the headlights illuminating dark hedgerows and occasional wisps of grey mist in the hollows.

I passed through villages adorned with lit pumpkins, plastic skeletons and windows decorated
for Hallowe'en. Once or twice there was a glimpse of small witches, ghouls and vampires moving from house to house looking to trick or treat.
It was just as I had expected it to be until we finally came to a village with no decorations.
None at all.
Not a pumpkin, a ghost or a skull anywhere.
In fact there were only one or two lights on behind the curtained windows giving the impression
that almost everyone was asleep in their beds.

My first thought was how sad it appeared.
It seemed that in this place the children and adults did not take part in the celebration of Hallowe'en
and I felt sorry for them missing out on the fun and colour we'd seen elsewhere.

As I slowly approached the last houses however I could see an orange glow in the distance.
On the outskirts, at a deserted cross roads, I discovered this bonfire.

Samhain bonfire © Jane Brideson. 

Nothing remained to show that anyone had been there, though the fire was well banked up to
continue burning late into the night.
I stood as close as the heat would allow hearing the crackle of the fire whilst I watched pictures form in the smoke and the dancing flames.

I understood then that the people of the village had rejected the commercialism of their ancient festival
and marked Samhain as a community in the old way.

Returning home I realised that I had stumbled upon a continuation of an ancient Samhain tradition which has taken place on this island for thousands of years.

It was truly a magical experience.

As we approach the darkest time of the year I wish you food, rest, warmth and
the blessings of your ancestors.