Streaks of red lit the night sky, crowds of people thronging the city streets in costumes, both ancient and modern, to partake in the yearly celebration. Torches and bonfires danced in the cool winds, sending orange sparks skyward where they disappeared by the light of the full moon. Music of old graced the proceedings, bringing a sense community and spiritualism on the heels of pride and family. In this time, no one was immune to the charms that Scotland portrayed. Tourists and natives shared stories of the past, memories of loved ones near and far, and sent love to the afterlife for those watching over. On this night, when the veil was thin, souls crossed the threshold to join the gala and revel in the freedom the earthly plane provided.
Scattered through the town, bands played songs of their own composing as tributes to their ancestors. Street vendors cooked and sold delicious foods meant for this celebration; Boxty, and Fairy Spice Cakes, Colcannon, Golden Herb Rolls, and pumpkin breads, coupled with bitter ales, spiced teas, and wines specially brewed after harvest. Customary merchants sold incenses of cinnamon, dragon's blood, and sage; loose and in sachets to carry as you wandered, as well as masks and bags to stock up on the various treats. Traditional items included altar kits to pay homage to family, symbols painted on wooden discs, wands, straw men, and remembrance cookies, each shaped like a miniature person. These could be eaten or placed around a ceremonial bonfire as an offering to the departed.
Processions wound through every cobbled street in the capitol city of Edinburgh, 414 miles from London. The stone buildings danced in the fire light, swaying as the holders walked, shuffled, or danced in time to the music, each clad in their own variant of deity or creature; bodies painted to seem otherworldly, wearing clothes of their ancestors, goddesses with towering tiaras and headdresses, gods with painted symbols, while most adorned masks and simple clothing to stave off the cold. Children, it seemed, were both spectator and participant, connecting with their ancient roots, and enjoying the lively atmosphere. Generations of all walked this solemn night and continued the practices that had once been snuffed by religious wars.
They had sought to crush the tradition, but it had become so much more.
Leaning against the pillar of St. Giles Cathedral, dark eyes watched the procession in silence, staring at each participant with wonder and pride. Another year gone by and people still flocked to the old ways; fires, tunes, gaiety, and comradery that seemed sorely lacking in today's age. Complete strangers honored the ancestors of old and made offerings at each stop so the dead could roam easily. Through the ram mask and headdress, the scene was like a theater; all the players were precisely where they needed to be, with new ones joining every hour, though not to be seen by those still walking the mortal plane. As she pushed from its safe point and took the stairs back to the streets, the hoodie/cloak wafted in the breeze and the feeling of happiness rushed through the ethereal form; it was good to be home.
This vacation came once a year, and it was a chance Andras could never miss. Each time she visited, humanity was one step ahead, and new fashions came into being; women wearing pants instead of gowns, mingling as equals, cars to replace horse travel and best of all, connecting through handheld devices to share the spirit of the season with those abroad. It was strange, the blueish glow coming from a simple black device, but it brought them joy. In the realm beyond, they had nothing as divine, though powers still outstripped their primitive technology.
As a Psychopomp, she was able to step through the veil and be at a person's side as the last breaths were taken. She'd seen the most beautiful sunsets on every continent, heard the outcries of loved ones left behind in all languages, and never had to wait for transport. Yet, there was nothing like that special link; the ability to instant send and receive such messages of people you wished to hear from, or capture, in complete essence, the majesty of the natural world. Civilizations had come and gone, and now, only existed as photos in her memory. To be able to share that… Such gift was priceless, and they would never know it until it was gone. Though, in their defense, their moments would forever be cemented on their individual pages and websites as reminders for their future families.
If they knew, could only see, the faces that stood beside them now. Would they be so apt to hide their identity and walk the grounds for trinkets and distractions? Grandparents and parents, siblings, cousins, children, and fallen friends, roamed mere steps behind their lineage and talked among themselves in states of pride or sorrow. The gray specters nearly gleamed in the dancing lights, the veil having broken hours before, and it was heartwarming to witness the generations come together and find the comfort they'd been denied. If only for this short time, the world had been righted, and she could revel in the normalcy of being.
Outside of the bright lights and orderly chaos, throngs of living and dead wound their way across dirt roads to the Calton hillsides where another show was taking place. Set in an almost Grecian temple, steeped in tradition and lore, an intense standoff between the Summer and Winter Kings saw characters in bright red face those in white. Spectating this battle, the Hag Goddess Cailleach, keeps her gaze sharp, but fair. As the tale unfolds, it will be her that decides the fate of the kings and brings in the change of season. The woman, grey haired and aged, had always been revered for her judgement and wise action, and this night saw no change.
Music and dance surrounding a large bonfire lend their own atmosphere and feeling to the night. Once upon a time, this performance was the main event of the season and townsfolk far and wide came on foot and horseback to partake in the joy. Homebrewed cider was passed between families and they'd spend the time following in reverence to their ancestors. Though most chose to ignore this, the cemetery they'd passed had been filled with altars and smaller parties and they chatted amiably of times past.
How she hated to see this come to an end. The ones who were gifted and could discern the silver shimmers in the darkness had cause to shed tears and stay in these hallowed sections until the daylight broke the veil to renewed life. It was their one night, a last chance, perhaps, to say what you'd missed in their life and find the peace ones heart so desperately needed. After all, she'd stayed at the bedsides of these individuals as they drew their last and watched the pain the ones behind suffered. The cries were always heart wrenching, but it was only for a time. Eventually they'd move far enough on to continue living, but their minds were forever burned with the memories. How short a time it was until they were reunited and the smiles reigned as they cross the bridge to their loved ones waiting arms. She was both fortunate and not to watch the cycle; she was the Ferrier for anguish and joy. Her consolation was the isolation from personal experience and she stayed forever thankful.
As dawn came to peak over the horizon, Andras slid the mask to rest on her head and opened the veil to the other side. The translucent beings said their goodbyes to the mortal coil and stepped back to their everlasting heaven. Another year come and gone, but there was now tranquility. Homage had been paid, fears laid to rest, and the sides pressed on. They'd take this knowledge and bide for next Samhain.
For herself, it was a return to her labor; shepherding new souls, and to repeat the ceaseless dance that had been bestowed at time's creation. She'd walk the lines of life and death as a goddess to some and a devil to others, but forever a goddess in her own right.
