Dinner on Samhain

The evening was unseasonably warm. I had waited for this particular day for all year. I had relished the entire day, feeling the warmth of the sun, watching the changing leaves chasing themselves through the damp streets, and smelling the smoke come from random chimneys as they practiced for an actual cold spell. Usually Halloween was cold in my part of the country; so cold it was hard to enjoy being outdoors. Don’t get me wrong, we still enjoyed the night, with all its candy and delicious frightening undertone. We created costumes that barred our skin against the cold, cowboys with jeans and chaps but not Indians, with only loincloths, you understand.

But this year, well this year was different. Something strange, “unseasonably warm”, the weatherman had said and I believed him. I also believed the strange weather was the harbinger of something that would change me; the pricking in my thumbs was a dead giveaway.

I’ve always been a fan of the unknown, the unknowable. I admit I’ve been amused, even fascinated by the occult; palm reading, astrology and especially tarot cards have given me much pause over the years. Like every young man I’ve loved hearing about hauntings, ghosts who wait for loved ones and events to set them free, vampires whose sexual prowess is a magnet for unsuspecting girls to be drawn to their ultimate, yet deeply satisfying demise. The threat of the unknown that runs below the surface of midnight has always been an incredible draw for me; it has been the cause of much lost sleep, undone homework and dark fantasies. I live to be scared, and quite honestly, I believe in all that hokum. I think it’s real. Which gives me a chill every time I go up the stairs. Even to this day I can’t go up the stairs, the darkness behind me, without turning around, my back to the wall, just once on the ascent.

Years ago when I was interested in symbols and their meanings I got hooked on tarot cards. I was fascinated by their ancient, yet incredibly familiar, symbolism. I couldn’t get over how even though they had been created centuries ago, the original symbolism seemed to draw truth out of anyone who would give themselves over to the cards. I started using them, looking for the symbolism in my own life, messing around with the deck at coffee shops. People would stop by and ask a question or show an interest and I would do a reading for them. It was strange and a bit spooky at how good I was. I was able to peer into their lives for just a moment, using the old cards as a window to their personality and problems. The symbols and the persons eyes would speak to me and I would speak the truth. It was fun and a bit spooky. Somehow, by opening myself to the cards, I was able to draw on an ancient or untapped power that could speak to me.

My parents had always told me to stay away from that kind of thing – that if it wasn’t a part of Gods plan or design then it was of the Devil. And the Devil would try and mimic God by prophesying and fooling you into thinking that you knew something you didn’t. I always felt a tinge of guilt as I would draw another card from the pile, turn it over and the symbols would speak through me to the person asking the question. But not guilty enough to stop. I loved the feeling of knowing secrets, of prying into someone’s life, a stranger, who I knew nothing about, and looking through those cards like windows into their private lives.

I loved the feeling of playing with something I didn’t understand, and so I would keep reading the cards for people. I would look for the strange, the fantastical, the eerie or the haunting or unexplained, and I explore their origins, or just allow the mystery to wash over me.

When I was a kid I had a map in my room. It was a world map, huge, and colored. The National Geographic had made it for a classroom, but I had it in my bedroom. I mounted it on a large piece of corkboard, so that it could be filled with little, red-headed pins, like in the movies. I wanted to track something of interest to me, but that no one else seemed to know about or even care about. I wanted to map the unexplained. I started with Big Foot, or Sasquatch as the Indians called him. A red-headed pin was stuck in the mountains of the Pacific Northwest, somewhere in the miles of oldgrowth forest was a giant ape-man. A pin was stuck into a small lake in Scotland for the Loch Ness Monster, hidden beneath its murky depths. There was a pin for the Mothman of North Carolina, the chupacabra of the Southwest, the giant winged lizard of Texas, and dozens of others. My map blistered with pins, each red point representing some unexplained moment in human history. I was transfixed by the idea of the unknown being just below the surface and I looked for it everywhere.

So on this particular All Hallows Eve I found myself sitting in my living room as I did every year, watching out the windows for children to come with their yells of delight while teenagers skulked around in the darkness and bushes looking for ways to trick those of us who deserved it. I loved the silly, childish part of Halloween as much as I enjoyed the dark underbelly of it all. I loved watching the kids show up, smiles on their faces, bags held out at arms length and unflinching expectation of praise and candy. It was my second favorite part of Halloween.

The best part of Halloween was the history of it all. The ancient tradition of the year ending, the harvest coming in, and people waiting for the dead, on this night of transitions to visit their ancient homes for a single night. You wait for those who come, you wait for them with honor and gifts, and those who don’t will be punished. And if you’re forced to travel, if you have to be out on the roads, with those who have passed before, make sure you dress like them. Looking like a demon or ghost might get you passed those who actually are visiting from the Other Side; and if they don’t catch you then you can’t be drawn into their world just beyond the veil which is drawn so thin on this of all nights. The point of All Hallow’s Eve is to be kind to those who have gone before you; give them honor and gifts as they deserve; do not short them or your curse will be drastic.

And like all modern people I know these old traditions, these silly superstitions, are foolish, childish, but I still do them. So on this night I make an extra plate of food and I leave it outside; it’s piled high with the food I prepared for my family and has a hefty drink next to it. I have lots of treats for everyone that comes to my door, big or small, scary or cute, everyone gets gifts of candy and praise. I do not discriminate. Because those who refuse gifts to passerby’s who are too scary or too big, run the risk of offending a wandering spirit who only wants to feel the warmth of humanity for one night of the year.

The evening is incredibly warm, pleasantly so. The number of trick or treaters is huge, due to the inviting weather. Outside I can hear laughter and screams; kids and adults alike are enjoying themselves more than any other year. The kids are comfortable and warm and are having a great time. My own kids are out having their own fun with friends. I’ve propped the door open so I can smell the leaves and smoke and rainy breeze and hear the kids running and screaming and laughing. I’m sitting at the table, in between knocks on the door, and lazily flipping through my tarot cards. Traditionally this is the best night of the year to read your future; the line between this world and the next is thin and fragile and a deck of tarot cards is just the thing to peer through the veil of mystery and pierce the future. The Fool crossed by the Four of Swords. Above is the Queen of Wands. Below is the Queen of Rods. Before is the Queen of Shields. After is the Queen of Swords. I’m surrounded by women. Not a bad start to the end of the pagan year.

There is a wind at the door. Just a breeze really. And a small ash gray cat. A kitten really. She is standing there as if she is part of our household. She mews softly and looks around, her yellow eyes adjusting to the brightness of the room. She rubs herself against the door frame and then walks into the room as if she’s been here a million times before. She walks in, as big as life, jumps on the couch, does a couple of cat-turns and lays down, closes her eyes, and quietly starts to pure. A shiver runs up my back and down my arms. I look at my wife and she looks at me and we both smile and shrug our shoulders.

My wife has never really been a Believer. She tolerates me and my silly beliefs, but she doesn’t really buy into it. She would rather have cutsy pumpkins and smiling ghosts on the walls, rather than the cobwebs on the ceiling, the pictures hung with old cheesecloth and the witches table, spread with handmade wand, Book of Shadows, ingredients of all kinds and random bones and tarot cards strewn about. She thinks it’s a bit macabre; I think it’s cool.

So, when this completely out of the ordinary thing happens she looks a bit taken back. Maybe I hide it better than she does but I’m a bit shocked as well and excited. When does a small kitten wander away from its home, only to make itself completely comfortable in a strangers living room? Only on Halloween. We smile and laugh, and wait for the kitten to leave, but it doesn’t. Kids come and go; the candy level drops and within minutes, as a group of kids leave, there is another visitor, this time a white one. She is the same size as the other one, and like the other one, doesn’t hesitate to come into the house, jump up onto the couch and curl up next to its friend. The first one opens its eyes long enough to see who is there and then closes them as the second one settles in.

There is little time to consider what this all means because there is a third visitor at the door. She is the same size as the first two and as black as coal. She looks at all of us, walks straight to the couch as if by forgone direction, and jumps up to join her sisters. I am speechless. The three kittens, for the rest of the night, purr, fight, jostle, sit and stare. They make no movement to leave the house. They ask for nothing while they are there. For the rest of the evening they just sit and enjoy the trick-or-treaters that come to our door with us.

The evening is over too quickly. It always is. Halloween always ends much too soon for me and moves onto the sickly sweet holidays without a backward glance. But this evening is worse. It seems only minutes and the noises from outside die down; the wind picks up and a chill actually touches the air. It’s getting late and the candy is running out. As if from a silent signal all three of our guests get up from their place, stretch, yawn and stretch again and make their way to the door. There is no sweet mewing at my feet, no plaintive longing in their eyes, there is only the surety of moving toward the door and the use of a house that is only mine for this lifetime but has an older owner. For that night the house wasn’t mine, but belonged to someone else. They came and they used what was theirs, pure and simple. And the night went on; the cards were restacked and reshuffled and dealt once more; and never did those cards come up again. And the next year was bitterly cold.