Samhain Eve

SAMHAIN EVE

By Marty Malin

It’s the first of October and I’m having those urges again. An increasingly pressing need to make plans, to spend my birthday away from home. I can’t tell you exactly why. It’s always been this way, for as long as I can remember.

My wife Justine doesn’t understand this. I don’t really understand it either.

“You’re creeping me out, Mitch,” Justine said. “There’s something going on here and either you won’t let me in on your little secret, in which case why not just tell me to mind my own business, or you’ve blown a circuit board.” Justine’s working on her bachelor’s degree in electrical engineering, so she often uses such images.

My psychiatrist, Dr. Morgan, is trying to help both of us understand, but she’s clearly fumbling in the dark, looking at pages in my family album that Justine has tabbed with colorful Post-it arrows. Dr. Morgan seems a bit flummoxed as she looks through the album. The pages Justine has marked with the Post-its are my birthday photos, 8 x 10 photos of me and my parents, from the time I was one year old until I turned eighteen last year. We’re always holding hands in a circle, in front of an open fire, our faces raised to the sky.

And we’re naked. Skyclad, as my parents used to call it. I’m mildly embarrassed, wondering how Dr. Morgan will react to seeing me in my birthday suit.

Maybe I don’t need to worry. The reason we’re in Dr. Morgan’s office is that Justine can’t see the pictures. Or rather, Justine thinks there aren’t any pictures. She’s betting Dr. Morgan won’t see any pictures either.

“What’s going on, Mitch?” Justine asked when I showed her the album. “Your birthday pages have nothing on them. They’re blank. Why are you telling me they have pictures of you and your parents?”

 “What do you mean no pictures?  There are eighteen of them, one for every birthday celebration I ever had.”

“Mitch, I’m telling you there’s absolutely nothing on those pages. Nothing. They’re blank. There are no pictures. Not even any mounting corners on the album pages, like the other photos in the album. Nothing: zip, zilch, nada. You’re seeing things that aren’t there. Either that or you’re trying to be funny. Which, by the way, you aren’t, so cut it out.”

I insisted there were eighteen large photos. What was wrong with her?

“We need to get you some help, Mitch” she said finally. “Maybe this has something to do with the upcoming anniversary of your parents’ death, or disappearance, or whatever the hell happened to them.”

And that’s how we ended up here with Dr. Morgan. Allow me to tell you a little more of my story while Dr. Morgan is pondering what might be going on.

Ever since I can remember, my parents and I have gone on vacation toward the end of October. My parents called it my “birthday vacation.” That seems logical since I was born on October 31, in the year of our Lord 2000.

Halloween. Or, as my parents called it, Samhain Eve. They explained that Halloween’s a Christian version of the ancient Gaelic festival of Samhain with its ritual fires, seasonal foods and prayers. Most people think the fires are for chasing away ghosts. My parents said most people are wrong about that, as most people are wrong about almost everything.

My parents said we light fires on Samhain Eve to welcome the spirits of our ancestors on the night when the veil between the living and the dead is as sheer as a spiderweb. We’re not trying to scare them away. We’re helping them find us. The ancestors come looking for us on Samhain Eve to reassure us, to bless us and quiet our fears about death.

My parents chanted Samhain Eve prayers on my birthday, but they did not teach them to me. I never saw any ancestors either, but I knew they were there. My parents said I would understand more when I became a man but for now, all I needed to know was that my family loved me, and the ancestors also love and protect me.

I will explain all of this to Dr. Morgan when she finishes looking at the album. I don’t know if she will understand any better than my wife, but it’s the least I can do for her. I may tease her sometimes, but Dr. Morgan’s been an absolute godsend.

I don’t know for certain what happened to my parents, but they are probably now among the ancestors. We were on vacation last October as usual, somewhere in the South American rain forest, in Paraguay, I think. My parents simply disappeared into the jungle the day after my eighteenth birthday. The Guarani Indians who were celebrating with us told me my parents went dancing with the spirits.

Justine and I were engaged to be married soon so her family took me in while I wrestled with the loss of my mom and dad. Justine’s parents were the ones who connected me with Dr. Morgan. With her help, I got well enough to follow through with our planned marriage in June.

Things were going fine until my October urge reared its head. That’s when I dragged out the family album. I wanted to show Justine my pictures and explain our Samhain Eve tradition.

The first time my parents and I celebrated my Samhain Eve birthday together was when I was one year old. There I am in the picture, barely able to stand alone, the three of us holding hands in front of a huge bonfire. Mom said it was in Wyoming somewhere.

A couple of years ago, I asked my Dad who took these birthday photos. He and my mom just smiled. “We don’t know,” my mom said. “The photos just show up in the album. Likely, the ancestors have something to do with it.”

I thought she was just repeating family lore. Dad must have had a remote-controlled camera rigged up somewhere.

I could never remember much about these celebrations, even when my parents and I leafed through the album together. Mom would say things like, “Remember this birthday when you turned ten and we stayed in that old castle in the Carpathians?  You said you wanted to be a vampire when you grew up. Of course, we just laughed and explained there was no such thing.”

Dr. Morgan looked up from the album.  “Mitch, will you describe for me what you see on this page?” she asked, pointing to a page with a bright green sticky arrow.

“That’s me and my parents on my fifth birthday. I think we were somewhere in Cabo, someplace like that.”

Dr. Morgan and Justine looked at each other. Justine started to speak but Dr. Morgan silenced her with “that look.”

“And this one?” Dr. Morgan asked, pointing to the page with the pink arrow.

 “That’s my seventeenth birthday,” I said. “I think we were staying in a dacha outside St. Petersburg, but I don’t remember much about that either.”

I reached for Justine’s hand. She was shaking. I moved closer and put my arm around her.

Dr. Morgan closed the album carefully. “I do not know how to explain this,” she said, “but I believe Mitch does see pictures on those pages where you and I see nothing. I simply do not understand his ability to do so. But I’m not comfortable concluding that Mitch is hallucinating. He seems completely in touch with reality. For the moment, it’s likely best that we accept that he is seeing what he says he is seeing and just leave it at that.”

“Well, I don’t,” said Justine, wiping tears from her eyes. “This is completely nuts.”

“I could refer you to another psychiatrist for a second opinion, if you wish. But nobody is in any danger, so I don’t think we need to be in a hurry about anything.”

Justine and I looked at each other.

“Do you want me to see someone else, Honey?” I asked. “Because if you do, I will.”

Justine shrugged her shoulders.

 “Why don’t we all do some more thinking about it,” Dr. Morgan said. “I’ll confer with a colleague, with your permission, and let’s get back together next week and talk further. May I keep the album until then?”

The following week, when we went back to Dr. Morgan’s office, she was her usual collected self.

“I’ve been talking with Dr. Chambliss down the hall. She’s a trained anthropologist as well as a licensed psychologist and she has a lot of experience with shamanism and other cultural traditions. I thought we might walk over to her office together. Are you game?”

Dr. Chambliss’ office was a museum of anthropological curiosities. Six-foot high wooden tribal figures dominated the cavernous room. The walls were covered with elaborate fetishes and masks inlaid with shells and ivory. Museum cases, filled with exotic objects, rattles, jewelry and the odd skull were stationed around the room.

 “Welcome,” Dr. Chambliss said warmly, as we entered her office. “Pay no attention to all of this,” she said, sweeping her arm around the room with a dismissive gesture. As if that were possible. The large desiccated crocodile lurking in one corner of the room seemed reason enough to pay attention. “Come, take a seat, be comfortable” she said, motioning us toward overstuffed chairs around a large low table in the center of the room. “Let me get some refreshments for everyone.”

We waited in silence broken only by the ticking of a grandmother clock standing between two carved wooden figures with outsized phalluses while Dr. Chambliss retrieved a tea trolley from a nook and poured steaming cups of mint tea.

She settled into her chair. “So, what do we think?” she said conspiratorially after a few moments. “As Dr. Morgan knows, gifted people in many cultures see things other people can’t see. And even in our own culture, as many as 3% of perfectly normal adults recall having unique perceptual experiences before the age of 21. We probably shouldn’t call them hallucinations.”

Dr. Morgan nodded her agreement.

 “Let me ask you a question, Mitch. When your parents showed you these photos when you were younger, what did you think?

“I enjoyed looking at them, but my father’s explanation that the photos somehow magically appeared in the album and that the ancestors had something to do with it wasn’t completely satisfying. So, on my seventeenth birthday, I vowed I would find that hidden camera somewhere. But I didn’t find it.

“And on my eighteenth birthday, I tried again. I still didn’t find any cameras but after I got back home from the jungle, I checked the album. The photo was there, just as I expected it would be. The only explanation that made sense was that the ancestors took the photo and put it in the album as they always had!”

Dr. Chambliss nodded. Dr. Morgan was as still as the statues along the wall.

 “So, I promised to tell you what I think,” Dr. Chambliss began. “I think there are images on that page that Mitch sees perfectly well, even if none of us can see them. In fact, I think only Mitch can see them now that his parents are no longer alive.”

“That just can’t be,” Justine said, shaking her head in disbelief. “Either the photographs are real, and we can all see them, or they’re not and Mitch can’t see them either.”

“But what if we postulate that they might not be photographs at all?” Dr. Chambliss said. “What if the ancestors have some different way of creating images? Images that were only meant for Mitch and his family to see?”  

“Well, if that’s the case, why can’t I see them?” Justine said. “Mitch and I are family now and I can’t see anything on those pages.”

Dr. Chambliss nodded her head patiently. “What are your plans for Mitch’s birthday this Halloween or, perhaps we should say, Samhain Eve?”

“Well, since Mitch’s birthday tradition is obviously so important to him, I booked a house in the California high desert outside of Borrego Springs. There’s a fire pit where he can do his birthday ritual, a hot tub and …”

Mitch interrupted excitedly, “We can celebrate my birthday.”

“Right,” Justine continued. “If Mitch wants us to get butt-nekkid and hold hands by a fire, I’m game. What could it hurt? The stars should be beautiful in the high desert. It still feels kind of spooky, but if that’s what Mitch wants, and you and Dr. Morgan don’t think he’s completely crackers, that’s what we’ll do.”

“Sounds lovely,” Dr. Chambliss said. “I’ll be eager to hear all about it. For what it’s worth, you’ll be in good company. Thousands of Wiccans, neopagans and assorted others around the world will be celebrating Samhain Eve with their own prayers and ceremonies.

“Now, is there anything more I can do for you? Would you care for more tea?”

We politely declined.

The stars in the high desert were astonishingly beautiful. We had a spectacular view of the Milky Way. Maybe not all 400 billion stars and 100 billion planets but a slew of them.

Still, I was hesitant.

“What’s wrong?” asked Justine.

“What if we’re not supposed to do this? What if this was something only my parents understood?”

“You’re making way to big a deal about it, Mitch. It’ll be fun, dancing around the firepit like a couple of naked savages. We’ll probably freeze our asses off, but then we can get into our jammies and have hot cocoa and birthday cake.”

“I don’t know why I’m feeling like this. What if I get it wrong?  I don’t even know the prayers.”

“Listen, Mitch, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. We can just go stargazing or we can stay inside and play Scrabble. What are you afraid of?”

“It’s not that I’m afraid. It’s another feeling entirely. No. I need to do this. We need to do this. Everything in my being is telling me that’s what we need to do tonight.”

Mitch took Justine’s hands. “Honey, do you think my parents will come tonight?  I mean, the spirits of my parents?”

Justine was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know how this is supposed to work, Mitch. You know I’m skeptical about the whole ancestor thing. But if this is something you need to do, and it looks to me like it is, I’ll be there with you.”

I went outside to light the bonfire. The Milky Way splashed the sky with light and color. It was breathtaking. I went back inside to get Justine.

“It’s time,” I told her.

“Mitch, it’s barely 8:00 o’clock. Shouldn’t we wait until midnight?”

“I was born at 8:14 in the evening. This time seems right.”

“Okay. What do we do?”

“Let’s take off our clothes and go outside.”

I drew her close and kissed her. She was trembling.

“Are you cold?” I asked.

“No,” she answered. “I’m fine. Did I remember to tell you that I love you?”

I smiled and led her to the far side of the fire pit. The blazing flames warmed our backs.

“Look at the sky!” I said, taking her other hand, turning her gently to face me.

We held hands in silence. I don’t know where it came from, but I started praying.

Now is the night when the veil between
our world and the spirit world is thinnest.
Tonight is a night to welcome those who came before.
Tonight we honor the ancestors.
Spirits of our fathers and mothers, we call to you,
and welcome you to join us for this night.
You watch over us always,
protecting and guiding us,
and tonight we thank you, as we thank you always.
Your blood runs in our veins,
your spirits are in our hearts,
your memories are in our souls.

We remember all of you

And you live on within us

And within those who are yet to come.

We turned to face the desert and the mountains beyond. And we began to see them. Thousands of them, old men and women, young men and women, adolescents, children, infants. And in front of the throng, my mom and dad.

I started to call out to them, but they shook their heads. Again, we stood silently, regarding one another across the distance, across the thinnest of veils. I felt a warmth like I used to experience when my parents and I performed this ritual, before they disappeared in the rain forest. Later, Justine would tell me she felt it too.

I don’t know how long we stood there before the ancestors slowly dissolved into the desert night. And it was over. I drew Justine close to me.

“Did you see them?” I asked excitedly.

“Yes,” she said, squeezing my hand. “Oh Mitch, I still can’t believe it, but I just saw it, with my own eyes.”

Suddenly she tugged at my hand. “Let’s go back inside. I need to do something.”

We went back into the house and Justine went into the bedroom to retrieve the album.

“I’m almost afraid to look, Mitch.”

She sat beside me on the sofa and I opened the album. “Oh my God!” she said. “It’s all there, just like you said. Look at that one.  You’re so cute, dancing all bare butt with your mom and dad.”

We went through the pages one by one. I told her what I remembered about each birthday, which was everything. Unlike before, nothing was hazy. I remembered each celebration, each location.

There was a photo I hadn’t seen before. Justine and me holding hands, skyclad, the fire at our backs, looking up into the sky. The ancestors had welcomed her into the family. We were loved and protected.

But there was something different about the photo and it took me a moment to see it. Justine saw it about the same time I did. There was a circle of light, about the size of a nickel, on Justine’s abdomen, a couple of inches below her navel.

We looked at each other incredulously as it dawned on us what we were seeing.

Still, we were completely unprepared as we turned the page. Our hearts melted and we dissolved in laughter, shedding more than a few tears of joy, when we saw the face of our yet-to-be-born child.

The ancestors had written a name and birthdate below the photograph. But I’m a little superstitious, so I’m not going to reveal anything more.

Copyright © 2020. Harold Martin Malin, Jr. All Rights Reserved.

Originally published in the anthology Carqinez Review 2020. Writings from the Carquinez Straight Shoreline Communities. Benicia Literary Arts.