Halloween Memories

 

Halloween. So … this is Halloween. I really only have one memory of Halloween, of Halloween proper, that is, of a Halloween participated in and enjoyed when I was a child. I think it must have been the Halloween of 1969; I am almost sure of it. That year I was a pirate, the brittle plastic mask, held on by a rubber elastic string, gripped a knife in its teeth. John (who must have been four or five) was a black cat, and Mike was a devil, if not THE Devil. His mask haunted the spare room closet for quite a while afterwards, probably contributing to the Legend of the Little Hoofer in years to come.

I remember sitting at the kitchen table with a brown paper grocery bag and some crayons and drawing a picture of my pirate mask on it for a trick-or-treat sack. Rather typically for me, I think, I accidentally drew it upside down. Unfortunately, there were no more bags in the cabinet over the oven where Mom kept them, so I was stuck with my mistake.

We went over to Omi’s house on Cottage Street before we began our trick-or-treating proper. She was making molasses popcorn balls in anticipation of Halloween visitors, and we all got a sample, fresh from the preparation. They hadn’t really had time to set yet and were kind of squishy and falling apart. I remember thinking with characteristic shallow childhood judgement that this traditional old-fashioned treat was not as good as store-bought ‘real’ candy. I have only vague impressions of actually going to any houses, only of the aftermath of our having paper bags of swag that grew ever more wrinkled as over the days we ate our way down from the best to the worst candy.

Then came the time of our bondage to the Jehovah’s Witnesses, and Halloween became an evening of lights-out all over the house and huddling in the back bedroom until all was over. But we still had the little black-and-white portable TV set, and Mom did not have the heart to deny us the Halloween specials, particularly It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. We lived out our holiday impulses second-hand with the Peanuts gang, especially through Linus with his relatable ‘unorthodox’ response to Halloween.  Emphasis was given to the Dolly Madison snack treats, Charlie Brown’s big sponsor at the time. We very seldom could afford them.

By the time the JW Era had passed for us, I was too old for Halloween. This was still when the holiday was reserved for children, and anyone much over ten who celebrated was seen as hopelessly stunted and immature. But it was well in time for Susan to enjoy it. We could still participate in a way through her, as when we set up a Halloween haunted house ‘run’ through the house and yard, hosted by Green-Face the Fortune -Teller (in a full-head mummy mask) for her and her friends.

There was a sort of upside to the heartbreak of being denied all holiday joys (including birthdays) during childhood. For one thing, it has made me appreciate the holidays all the more. Instead of being a yearly occurrence that staled and grew more unfulfilling as one got older, the holidays became a vision of a lost paradise, preserved in the amber glow of nostalgia, a bright mirror unstained by the dust of ages and use, a present preserved mint-in-box with all the possibilities intact. Perhaps the everyday usages of celebrations, with their tatters and disappointments, were forbidden me, but that, in a sense, preserved for me their inner reality and spiritual essence. And so, a Happy Halloween, indeed.  

  

Afternote: I eventually fictionalized quite a few Halloween memories in a short story, Brother Silas, published elsewhere on this blog. Look it up!

An Old-Fashioned Halloween

 

Thrand (Part Twelve)

[Something Like a Krett]

The young Morg babbled on brightly for the rest of the journey back to the Halls of Justice, much to Thrand’s bemusement. The chief topic was at first the big news of the King’s passing and what that might mean to the City; to Kettle it seemed to bode little change to the street folk except as a new subject for gossip. Already it was seen among them as a fresh dodge to ask for alms; folks in mourning cloaks were apparently sentimental touches, willing to give a few kretts in memory of Taryn or as a sort of pledge for good luck in the future. Thrand was able to enlighten the child (in a distant way, craftily avoiding his own involvement in the matter) about certain details and high consequences surrounding the subject. Along the way he revealed that he was, indeed, an officer of the Courts of some kind. Kettle took it all in easily, making some sound observations and asking a few canny questions in return, bright eyes alert, never distracted but constantly darting about the passing street.

Thrand, in turn, was able to find out quite a bit about the child, who showed no embarrassment or reluctance to answer any question, and indeed volunteered details with ease and an almost detached manner. Kettle was ten years old or so; hard to tell, exactly, being a true orphan and not a mere runaway as many of the other kids were. No, not a member of a gang, not a Mad Lad, or at least not yet, though hardship might force that in time.

Kettle had one accomplishment, though, that lifted things above most fellow street urchins’ prospects. Somewhere along the line (memory would not supply how or who) the child had been taught to read, at least in a fashion, a talent that Kettle clung to and improved at every chance that came along. Indeed every street sign and merchant’s hoarding was rattled off proudly as they passed.   

  

Notes and Excuses

Looking at this passage I can see that I probably should have done more showing and less telling, After all, I am introducing Kettle, who will be a major character from now on, and I've written slightly less dialogue for the child than the cloak salesman. Perhaps I will, when I go back for rewrites. But right now, I'm frankly too tired.

Monday is always a heavy work day for me. And now, even with my usual physical debilities, I'm facing weather that has plunged forty degrees over night, with a threat of rain to complicate things. It's the end of the month, I have scarcely anything in the bank, with several medicines that need refilling, as well as the specter of Covid lurching through the family again. 

So I'm grateful, as far as writing goes, that I'm able to at least walk a bit if I can't run at the moment. I mean to take this day a step at a time, until at last I can snuggle down into bed with the fewest anxieties and undone tasks possible. 

Cultural Fossil?

 

When I was young, there was a sort of Babel family joke between Pop and his siblings (and older cousins, nephews, and nieces). It was not much of a joke. In fact, it was just a sort of a silly name; simply to say the name was to assume that the joke was made. Was it supposed to be pretentious? Was it just odd? What I do know was that all someone had to do was screw their face up and pronounce ‘BUX-ta-HOO-da’ in a certain sonorous tone and they would evoke a gale of giggles.

          It was only many years later that I learned that Dieterich Buxtahude (1637 -1707) “was a Danish organist and composer of the Baroque period, whose works are typical of the North German organ school. As a composer who worked in various vocal and instrumental idioms, Buxtehude's style greatly influenced other composers, such as Johann Sebastian Bach and George Frideric Handel. Buxtehude is considered one of the most important composers of the 17th century.” - Wikipedia.

Our ancestor, Amandus Babel, a Silesian-German immigrant (regarded as Prussian because of the regime in charge at the time) who first came to Texas in 1852, was a professor of music and well-versed in most of the classical composers. I like to think that this little jest was a sort of petrified joke passed down through the family long after its meaning and origin had faded from memory, perhaps even preserving the tones and grimaces of old Amandus or the affectionate mockery of his children.            

Action Figures To Be Noted: More Mythic Legions

 

Samir Scrollwarder

Conabus

Cry to the Co-Inherence

CRY TO THE CO-INHERENCE

 

I shall come to you, my brothers,

Where you have cast yourself into the dark,

Where you have cast yourself into the dust.

You who sought life and light,

You who sought love and lust,

Following the crooked path,

Following the fallen star.

Into the darkness I shall bring his light;

From the dust he shall give you life.

Because you loved much,

Because you suffered so,

My tears shall bear your testimony;

My pain shall bear us witness.

Take my hand as he takes me up.

Hold, believe, turn, and live.

 

--Sept. 21, 2016

 

Out of the Toybox: The Prod of Memory

 

For the past few days fugitive memories of other action figures, not posted, have been flitting through my mind. Whether they are still tucked away, or if I gave them to John or Kameron, I don't know. Real Ghostbusters, Legends of the Claw, Super Mario Bros (The Movie), Earthworm Jim, and The Shadow are some of the franchises, and there were more figures from them than those shown here. Not my photos, but snatched off the interwebs.

Friday Fiction: The Old Boy

 

Notes: I begin here a new feature for the Niche of Time. Every Friday I intend to post one of my old short stories, leading up to more recent efforts. I must have written The Old Boy in 1981 or 1982; it was one of my efforts to be read at our old high school club, Writer's Roundtable. I may have even taken it there in my first year of college. I remember Mr. Fleming read it out loud to the group for me, as I was too shy. At first he thought 'the Old Boy' was going to be the innkeeper, Josiah Bentley. It is full of a lot of my faults to excess, especially my use of accents that are not completely under my control or comprehension. Still, I think there is something there. It later became the first chapter of my first unfinished novel, The Shadow over Alben.

THE OLD BOY

 

Josiah Bentley was the innkeeper of The Old Arms, an ancient inn that the Bentleys had owned for generations. He was a crusty, white-haired, bulbous-nosed old man in his late sixties, and he brewed his own ale.

The Old Arms was on Bread Street and was so called because of the two rusty swords that hung on the mantle over the fireplace, and which with Bentley's great-great-great-grandfather was said to have fought bravely in the Battle of Goldenfield. As old as this battle gear was, the inn itself was far older: the Bentleys always swore that St. Hodge had blessed the corner-stone way back in the days of King Cadvan. The Old Arms under Josiah was famed throughout Corgrave as the place for good ale and long tales.

It was late in autumn, and a golden afternoon tinged in shadow, and Josiah as usual was weaving his tales, but this time with even more liveliness than was his wont. Part of this was due to the effects of his ale, and part was excitement over having what he considered a virgin audience.

A young gentleman from Belbury, a stranger to the legends and ways of the country round, was travelling to Oxshire and had stopped for refreshment. His name was Thomas Norfield, and he was a curious one. Josiah was only too glad to relate some of his best stories again, with the excellent excuse that the traveler had never heard them. All the regular patrons of the inn had settled down to hear the old classics and note how the Belbury boy received them.

"So the four queens brought the King acrost from Glastonbury up to Arthur's Rest, and there he walks to this day, lookin' out to sea to Britain, where he will return some day. They say ye can see him, on moonlit nights, and specially on May Eve, gazin' over the water. Ever he watches for Saxon ships, and other such marauders, and no one armed for war has landed in Arthur's Bay yet!" the old man finished up triumphantly.

There was a general round of applause. The stranger joined in enthusiastically. He was a bright contrast to the drably clad villagers, and with his sea-blue greatcoat and tricorne he stood out like a bluejay among sparrows. He was young, with black hair and grey eyes, and his pleasant but unremarkable face was now brightened by an approving smile.

"Very good, Mr. Bentley," he laughed. "That's one tale of Arthur I'd never heard."

"No, nor never would've neither, outside Alben. We knows the truth o' the matter here, we do." Old Josiah took a long pull of his tankard. The ale seemed to seep right down to his feet and start them tapping to an unheard song.

"But I always heard that Arthur went to Avalon at the end," Thomas Norfield added.

"Aye, and so he did, Tom, he did. But as Britain comes from Brut, Alben has come from Avalon, through the long wear of years, which will whittle away words as water wears stone. Alben is the true Isle of Avalon as there is any," creaked the innkeeper.

"Well," said Tom, and sat back in his chair with a look of amused incredulity, a look that Josiah took no notice of.

"What'd ye like to hear of now, Tom?" he asked.

"Tell 'un o' the boat o' Hodge," suggested Enoch Fisher from the chimney corner.

"No, no, the tale o' the Ford o' Ferlin, and the Black Arm," called another.

"Sing the song o' Father Bentley!" someone cried.

"And that I will," pronounced Josiah, and he started in a rusty yet strangely tuneful voice to sing the following song:

 

"Father Bentley, ye're old and wrinkly,

But how came your hair be so white?

'I was at the Battle o' the Goldenfield,

And there I catched a fright

And so me hair is so white-o.'

 

Father Bentley, ye're crooked and hobbly,

And your legs are horribly lame-ed.

'I wrassled th'Old Boy at Goldenfield,

And on his wrasslin' I blame it.

And so me legs are lame-ed-o.'

 

Father Bentley your nose is knurled,

And 'tis large and bright and red.

'Part it's the Old Boy tweakin' my nose,

And part 'tis the ale in me head!

And so me nose is red-o,

And so me nose is red.'"

 

When he finished the last note there was a round of applause, and some laughter and catcalls. Thomas joined in happily, and when the noise had died down, he said, "Very good, grandfather. A first-rate recital. But who is the Old Boy?"

Immediately the laughter fell completely dead. All the patrons of the inn seemed to have suddenly found something vastly interesting between their shoes, and were staring pointedly at it. Mother Holden drew her mouth into a straight line and clamped her teeth tightly down on her clay pipe.

"He'm a ghost," she said.

"No, no, one o' the Hidden Folk," protested a voice from the back of the crowd.

"He's the Devil hisself," said Fisher with a shudder. "I seen him once, as I passed down the road. His body was black as pitch. He stared at me out from under the hedge, with eyes moon-pale and round."

"Hush your mouth, and avert all evil from this house!" Josiah exclaimed, crossing himself and adding a gesture even older in that country than Christianity. "No one knows quite what he be," he added in lower tones. "But me great-great-great-grandfather, him as was in the song and who carried them swords there, he met the Old Boy on the eve o' the Battle o' Goldenfield, and he strove with him, like Jacob and the angel. But 'twas a dark spirit. Granther's hair was turned white, but he was able to fight the next day. The Old Boy is still see'd by some--like Enoch Fisher there--as he haunts the road 'twixt here and Harton."

"Really?" said Tom, with off-handed interest. "Why, that's the road my schedule is taking me now. I ought to be in Harton tonight, at the latest."

"Lawks!" squeaked Old Man Marsh, a tiny wizened man in a battered cloak. "Ye can't do tha-at. Ye'd be far better to stay here for the night."

"Well, but I truly must go," said Tom as he rose and picked up his pack and his walking stick. He stretched, and seemed to suddenly realize the time. "Dear me. I'm actually on rather pressing business. I fear I've been having such a good time I've forgotten my errand. I must get to Oxshire as soon as possible, and I've delayed here too much already. See, the sun's almost down."

Josiah limped over to the window. "So it is," he said. He turned and looked steadily into Thomas Norfield's eyes. "Your set on goin' to Harton tonight? Te can't stay? Ye will go?"

"My good man, I must," said Tom.

"Then ye'd best be quick." The innkeeper became briskly business-like as he started to call out orders. "Hie, Hobden! Get out Hardheels and Silverfoot, and make 'em ready! Mother Holden! What have ye got for this lad, as is use against such as...?"

"Foolishness, I calls it," muttered the ancient beldame. "Let me see." She rummaged through a little sack tied to the belt that girdled her waist.

"Not much...here's rowan and red thread, to put the witches to their speed...sprigs o' oak and ash and thorn, that evil kind have ne'er borne..." She scrabbled in it some more, muttering bits of doggerel verse, then pulled the strings of the bag closed with a final gesture.

"Naught for the Old Boy." She chuckled grimly. "Better know your prayers, boy."

"There must be somewhat," mused Josiah.

"What do you mean? What's all this about?" demanded Tom. He had slung his travelling bag over his shoulder, and stood mystified at the exchange between innkeeper and old wife.

"Ye'll need a charm against the Old Boy," explained Josiah. "We can't send ye out unprotected. Wouldn't sit on our minds right."

"The spook? Oh, but really! Anyway, it didn't hurt Mr. Fisher, did it?"

"That 'twas in the daylight. No one goes that road at night." Josiah snapped his crooked fingers. "I have it. What about your grandson Jack?"

"He'm no use," grumbled Mother Holden. "The lubberly lout. Ain't e'en settled to an honest trade, yet."

"Well, he may well get one now. Charlie boy! Go fetch Jack Holden, and fast! And bring Father Eli, too!"

"But...," began Tom, but he was interrupted by the arrival of Hobden outside the door with two large horses. The innkeeper hustled Tom out the door to examine them. They were fine beasts, one a deep chestnut color, the other black with a white cross on its forehead, a white tail, and white socks on its feet.

"Now, the horses are a pound apiece, and better ye'll not find for the money," said Josiah. He went and patted the chestnut. "This one's Hardheels, the other's Silverfoot. A special one, that one is. Born on Easter Sunday. A fair sign, I call it. Ah, here's Father Eli now."

A small party consisting of chattering children, yelping dogs, and confused men came marching down the little lane. When they reached the inn, a tall saturnine man dressed in black robes stepped out of the middle of them.

"What is this, Josiah? What do you need me for?"

"Mister Norfield here would ride to Harton tonight. Could ye say the Word over the horses for us, for safety sake?"

"He rides...tonight?" The priest sucked in his breath, held it, and stared at Tom.  "Well, well. These be the horses, man?"

"Aye."

The priest approached the horses and spread his long thin hands on their foreheads. "May God bless these horses and their rider," he said lowly and fervently. "In coming and in going, in the road and at its side, by day or night. Send the angels to watch and ward. May they ride at their tails and on their heads. Amen."

The man turned sharply, and looked hard in Tom's eyes.

"God be with you," he said evenly, and then vanished into the gathering shadows of the street.

As Tom was still gaping after him, a stout looking young man dressed in brown with a white shirt pushed his way to the front of the crowd.

"What do ye want o' me, Mr. Bentley?" he inquired.

"Ah, Jack, us has a job for ye, lad," said old Josiah with a wink.

"Well, what can I do, then? Do ye need me to cord you up some wood again, or is it helpin' at the taps?"

"No, I mean a real job. I mean ye to be Mr. Norfield here's squire, and guide him up to Harton, and beyond."

A smile broadened the young man's features. "Well, that's good. No more Jack-o'-trades for me, then!" He came up to Tom and extended his hand. "Jack Holden, at your service, sir. Pleased to meet ye, Master Norfield."

"And I you," said Tom, taking his hand. "And now I really must--"

"First we must have a swearin' in," said Old Man Marsh, raising a rough hand in an official manner. "'Tain't legal wi'out a swearin' in. Draw your sword, young master, and hold it cross-like."

Tom hesitated a moment, and then, looking at the expectant circle of faces around him, slowly did so. Old Man Marsh nodded.

"Now Jack, you say, 'I, Jack Holden, do swear, by my head and the cross of this sword, to do faithful service to thee, Thomas Norfield, until death or ye release me.'"

Jack slowly and carefully repeated the formula.

"That's fine, lad. Now, you say, 'I, Tom Norfield, take thee, Jack Holden, as squire, to pay and preserve and provide for, till death or my word release ye.'"

Tom spoke the words haltingly, then stood self-consciously staring at the suddenly solemn crowd silently watching and witnessing. The moment was broken by the bustling Mother Holen who came in a flurry of skirts out of the inn.

"Hah, Jack, I've your bag here," she said, dumping it into his startled hands. "Now, ye be good, and good luck to ye!"

"What! D'ye mean we ride tonight?" the young man asked incredulously. "What about--Him?"

"The horses got the Word on 'em, and, well...ye know who ye are, Jack. Now ye've been squired, and can't rightly back out. Now haste ye, for the sun sets!"

After a hurried exchange of silver between the bewildered Tom and the innkeeper, the two travellers, now master and squire, were helped up onto the horses, Tom on Silverfoot and Jack on Hardheels. Josiah brought them a lamp on a long pole to place on the crupper of the chestnut. The crowd cheered farewells and well wishes.

"Good-bye, boys. Good luck to ye!" Mr. Bentley stood leaning on his stick and watched them until they disappeared around a corner. Then he sighed and turned back toward the inn. "Ye shall have need o' it," he muttered.

 

***********

 

The two men rode silently down the road a while. Tom was a little nervous. He couldn't help but feel that he might have been hustled a bit by the people of Corgrave. And he wasn't afraid of the Old Boy, but the people at the inn had seemed quite sincere in their beliefs. Perhaps there was something real behind it all, like a highwayman who covered his activities with the old tale, and therefore a real threat.

"Well, Master," said Jack, startling Tom out of his reverie. "Ye've picked a good road to travel at night."

"Listen, Jack," said Tom, stopping his horse. Jack stopped next to him. "This is pretty foolish. There's still enough light left for you to make it home. If you want, I will release you, and you can go back."

Jack thought a moment, his head cocked to one side. Then he picked up his reigns and set his horse going again. "No. I figure 'tis like Mother Holden said. I'm squired. Besides, I wouldn't let any man ride this stretch alone. If two Christian souls can't beat you-know-who to Harton, and one o' them a Corgrave lad, then Alben ain't got no hope anyways. What time've ye got?"

Tom drew out his pocket watch. "It's five minutes past six."

"Aye. Aye, the moon'll rise 'round seven-thirty."

They rode on in silence a while in the gathering gloom. Black trees and skeleton hedges rose up on either side of the road. Dwindling in the distance could be seen the warm, cozy lights of Corgrave.

The first stars had kindled and the lamp was shining brightly when Tom spoke again.

"The people at The Old Arms spoke of you as some kind of charm," he said. "Why is that?"

Jack, who had been peering into the shadows on either side, replied evenly. "Oh, that. Well, I'm the seventh son of a seventh son, seemingly--never knew my grandad or nuncles--and so I'm uncanny at a number o' things. I can lay ghosts and such, but mostly luck favors me. I can find lost things more readily than most."

"I see. And your presence is supposed to keep the Old Boy from attacking me."

"Avert," said Jack, and made the old sign. "Won't do no good naming names. It'll only draw...attention. But aye, that's the general hope. I can't vouch that I'm a sure charm against Him, though. When ye're a seventh son ye know when ye see somethin' whether ye can tackle it or no. Glad the parson put the good word on the horses. Keep 'em from boltin' or freezin' when they see Him."

"Ah. What should I do if we see the Old-, er, Him?"

"Don't do nothin' till he speaks. I'll tell ye then if I can handle Him. If I can't, clap spurs and ride for life's dear sake, I guess."

On and on they rode, as the stars wheeled overhead. Eventually the moon rose--it was a sickle--from behind the low hills off to their left.

"Them are the Yarely Downs," Jack had said laconically. "The grave mounds of the old people." They rode on.

Eventually they came to a stone marker, about man-size, that read "Harton--2 Miles."

"We're almost at it, Master," said Jack. "Mayhap we'll make it."

They hadn't gone seven yards from the stone when Jack said in low warning tones, "Ssss. Master. Look at the lantern!"

Tom turned and looked. The fire burned low and blue, and flickered in a wind that neither man felt.

"Don't turn around," whispered Jack. "Let me look first."

Tom watched his face as he slowly turned. It was corpse-pale in the dead blue light and beads of sweat glistened in the glare.

"Aye, He's there," Jack said in strangled tones. He turned away and faced front. "He's sittin' on the stone, watchin' us."

Suddenly a cold voice from high up bleated through the night air.

"I'm coming for you!" it called, and there was a thud as if something had jumped heavily to the ground.

""I can't lay it, Master!" screamed Jack. "Head for Harton!" And he kicked Hardheels in the ribs, making the great horse plunge headlong into the night.

A nightmarish ride began for Tom, the worst he'd ever had in his gentle life. He urged his horse on and on through endless tunnels of hedges, past broken stones and through over-grown weeds. And ever the steady thump of hard feet swiftly behind, growing slowly but surely closer, and ever and anon, stabbing the night, the cold bleating cry of "I'm coming for you!"

Hardheels and Silverfoot raced neck and neck through the dark, as the two men clung desperately to their reigns.

"I'm coming for you!"

They passed through mown fields, where stacks of hay threw deep shadows in the moonlight, and threadbare scarecrows leered mindlessly over nothing.

"I'm coming for you!"

They passed under a gibbet, and the dead man's toe bones trailed over their shoulders and faces.

"I'm coming for you!"

"Look! The town--!" gasped Jack. Tom looked up. Ahead of them lay Harton, a few lights gleaming in the windows. "Make it--churchyard--," Jack puffed, and tried to urge his horse faster on.

But the desperate chase had had its toll on their steeds, and they slowed as they neared town, despite their riders' frantic efforts. Finally they stopped exhausted, just short of the town limits, and all the two men could do was sit and watch in horror as the thing drew nearer. It groaned in delight.

Tom turned and faced his pursuer for the first time that night. It had slowed too, and was coming closer, gloating.

It was shaped like a man, pitch black, but its limbs were spindled out of all human proportion. The sharp, upcurving horns of a goat sprouted from its skull, and it twitched them from side to side, cutting the air. Its eyes were ice under moonlight.

"Now, I have you!" it screeched, and lunged forward, talons outstretched to fasten upon the helpless men.

Suddenly, clear in the night, a bell rang, in a deep pure voice. The Old Boy looked up in fear and surprise. The bell rang agin, piercing the night with silver music. The gangrel creature held its ears and cried out in pain. It turned its hateful eyes on Tom and Jack.

In a coarse reedy voice, it snarled. "If the bells of the church didn't ring so nigh, sure this night you both had died."

The bell rang a third time. The Old Boy turned and fled howling up the road, striking blue sparks off the stones with its feet, and set up a cold wail that seemed to echo off the moon and into their hearts forever.

When the stable boy at the inn in Harton took their horses, he remarked, "Damn! Ye must have rid these like the Devil hisself was after ye."

Thomas Norfield turned a haggard eye on him.

"As a matter of fact, He was."