I wrote this piece many years ago trying to expose the dark roots off Halloween.
Older and Wiser
Widowed and aged she feared tonight’s visit from the Druid priests. They would soon be at her door demanding food and drink or tribute. It was the usual fees for their intervention with the Celtic gods. If their requests were not met, they would find a way to extract payment in some way. They were not easily deterred nor were their memories of imagined slights easily forgotten.
For hours they would gather in a nearby grove with thick curtains of mistletoe clinging to the oak’s ancient branches. At a clearing in the thicket they’d build a large fire and chant as they danced, preparing themselves for the darkness of night. Beating on drums made from human skins and playing eerie tunes on ivory hued flutes of men’s leg bones, they directed their worship to Anextiomarus the protector god, to Ankou the god of death, and to the goddess of fertility and abundance Rosmerta.
It was rumored the instruments they used in worship ceremonies were made from the victims of the priests wrath and the candles they used were made from the tallow of those who failed to pay tribute for protection. The priests always arrived on All Hallows Eve carrying those candles. Their faces hooded, darkened, and lost in the shadows of the candles’ reflectors.
This year the old woman’s pantry was especially sparse. She’d have barely enough food to survive the winter. How could she keep the little provisions that she had?
She sat and thought as her small barley cake baked in the hot coals of her fire. The cake almost burned as she sought an answer to her problem. The room darkened as the night drew nearer. Was there a way to save her food?
“Berries,” she exclaimed. “I have a few dried strawberries.” Quickly, she ground them and added water. She must hurry. Surely they would be at her door soon. She’d barely finished with her plan when there was a loud pounding on her door. She lifted the latch and offered them the small barley cake from her hearth.
The priest closest to her moved nearer to see the proffered item. The flickering light from the candle fell on the old woman’s wrinkled face and hands. He backed away. “Pox!” he shrilled. “The old woman has the pox.”
When they’d gone, she closed the door, and laughed. Wiping the berries from her face and hands she smeared them on her cake. “This will be a sweet treat for my supper tonight.”