The Pooka

I can’t believe it! The Fifth Cycle has a “connection” with the pooka (No Spoilers.), and I haven’t written about this creature yet. Oh, well. Better late than never. The pooka is a shapeshifter. It takes on all sorts of forms. In fact, its appearance varies with whatever county in Ireland you might encounter it. In County Down, the pooka looks like a short, disfigured goblin. In County Laois, it’s a monstrous giant. In Counties Waterford and Wexford, the pooka looks like a giant eagle, while in Roscommon, it takes the form of a wild goat. A horse is another popular form the pooka is known to take, so is a hare, dog or a young bull. They take human form, too, on occasion. What all of these different forms have in common is that they have black hair, feathers, or fur.

Pookas are mainly known for creating mischief. Their favorite trick is to lure a hapless human into climbing on its back and taking it for a wild ride through the forest. The reluctant rider always survives. They just end up a bit bruised when the pooka tosses them at the end of the ride. 

Pookas are known to be very chatty and helpful too. People were known to seek them out for advice. Pookas were also known to predict the future too. It’s doubtful that the pooka wouldn’t help humans without something in return.

Pookas are typically associated with the harvest-time. When the harvest is brought in, it’s tradition for farmers to leave a few stalks behind. That is known as the “pooka’s share.” If a farmer did not leave the pooka its share, they could expect trouble. The pooka would destroy the farmer’s property, breaking down fences, terrorizing livestock, and destroying crops when it was time for them to come in. They were not without their benevolent side though. If a farmer regularly leaves the pooka its share, it becomes a sort of guardian. The pooka would also use its ability to see into the future to help these farmers, warning them if some sort of natural disaster was approaching. It would also protect the farmer against any kind of threat, human or supernatural.

A few pookas just seem to be helpful by nature. The famous Irish poet Lady Wilde once related the tale of a pooka that took the form of a young bull that secretly aids a farmer’s son with milling corn into flour, ultimately making the farmer very wealthy. If a pooka takes the form of a hare, it will most likely be helpful, wise and even humorous.

The title character in the play/film Harvey is identified as a pooka. The mysterious rabbit character in the movie Donnie Darko, who guides Donnie throughout the movie has been called a pooka as well – or at least serves that purpose.

The pooka is a tremendous character. I’m looking forward to using this new information I’ve learned in continuing installments of The Fifth Cycle. A pooka (or two) might end up appearing in other stories as well.

Abhartach - The Irish Vampire King

         Many moons ago, I wrote a couple of blog posts titled “Dracula’s Influences.” About a year ago, I discovered another one. A creature of much more ancient origins and from Bram Stoker’s native Ireland. Let’s meet the Abhartach (ah-BART-tig).  

    He is first mentioned in 1869 by an Irish historian named Patrick Weston Joyce in his book The Origin and History of Irish Names of Places. There are three legends. The first one begins in the parish of Slaghtaverty in County Derry. According to Joyce, Abhartach means dwarf and it was the nickname of a cruel creature who possessed powerful magics. The Abhartach’s tomb can be found in Slaghtaverty. 

        A local chieftain, some say it was the legendary hero Finn McCool, killed and buried him. The reference to Finn McCool tells us this story took place a few thousand years ago. Anyway, the locals thought they were saved – but the very next day the Abhartach rose from the grave and was said to be twice as evil and twice as powerful as he was before. 
The chieftain/McCool killed and buried the Abhartach a second time – only to have it rise from the dead a third time and go on a rampage all over Ireland. The chieftain/McCool was determined to stop him. Only this time, before setting out in pursuit of the Abhartach, he consulted a local Druid first, who told him to bury the Abhartach upside down after killing it. I imagine, if the Abhartach came back to life again, it would be disoriented and dig deeper into the earth than toward the surface. 

        There are a couple more spins on the legend that link the Abhartach even more with the modern vampire. In one, when the Abhartach escapes from the grave, it goes in search of fresh blood to drink. This time, the chieftain goes by the name, Cathain, and instead of going to a Druid for help, he goes to a Catholic Saint, who tells him the only way to kill the Abhartach is to stab him through the heart with a sword made of Yew wood. Yew is well-known in Irish lore for its magical properties. The Abhartach would then need to be buried upside down with a great stone buried on top of him to keep him buried for good. 

        The final version of the Abhartach’s legend was told by a man named Bob Curran, a lecturer in Celtic history and folklore at the University of Ulster. He is still alive and remains an expert in his field. Anyway, according to Curran, the real “Castle Dracula” can be found between the towns of Garvagh and Dungiven, where a small hill now stands. Curran says that there was a fortress there during the 5th or 6th century A.D. where the Abhartach lived. 
        

        He was a tyrant with great magic powers, who was killed by another local chieftain, much like in the first version. In this version, the chieftain went to a Druid for help, who advised him to use a sword made of Yew wood – combining details from the first two versions. In Curran’s version, the Abhartach, fresh from the dead, demanded a bowl of blood from the local villagers. 

        We can draw a lot of parallels between the Abhartach and Dracula, along with the other influences I mentioned in previous posts, Lord Ruthven and Varney the Vampyre. Let’s not forget the most obvious influence – Lord Dracul aka Vlad the Impaler. I’m thinking the Abhartach, in his original glory, will make a great antagonist in a future story. 

Clurichauns and Far Darrigs

“Disgusting degenerates, every last one of them!” my leprechaun friend, cried out.

This was during one of our recent Zoom chats. I’d asked him to tell me about clurichauns, who are supposed to be cousins to the leprechauns, and those were the first words that came out of his face. His face twisted up with disgust, and if he wasn’t so tidy and fastidious I would have sworn he was going to spit on his floor.

“Shiftless, useless,” he went on to add. “Always drunk, always causing trouble.”

“So that part is true?” I asked.

“Don’t get me started,” Declan groaned. “They’re always dirty and disheveled and couldn’t hold their liquor if it had a handle. Mean drunks too. Always ready to pick a fight, always causing trouble.” He took a moment to adjust the lapels of his immaculate red coat. “Now us leprechauns are known to play pranks on humans, but they’re to teach them a lesson about being greedy and to appreciate what they have. But Clurichauns are a different story, destroying property, harassing livestock, breaking into homes and stealing everything in sight. And they’re hypocrites too! If they break into a house and find a human servant stealing, they’ll beat seven

shades of shite out of them, they will.”

“Do you think that’s maybe just to get their hands on whatever it is the humans are trying

to steal?” I asked.

Declan shrugged. “Could be. I wouldn’t put it past them.”

I didn’t mean to get Declan so worked up, talking about clurichauns. For the safety of our friendship, I decided not to ask him about the belief some humans held that clurichauns were

actually leprechauns that had gone on a bender – or had fallen from grace somehow.

“I suppose you’ll want to know about far darrigs too,” Declan snorted.

I really did and had planned on asking, but if talking about clurichauns got Declan so

upset I could only imagine how he’d feel talking about far darrigs, who were supposed to be

cousins to both leprechauns and clurichauns.

“Far darrigs.” Declan shook his head. “Horrible, horrible creatures. I mean, sure clurichauns are always up for a scrap, especially after a few drinks in them, but they mostly brawl with each other. Far darrigs, on the other hand, there’s something wrong with them.They’re just not right in the head. Sure, they play their pranks and cause mischief. Humans are their favorite targets, and unfortunately sometimes their antics lead to injury or even death. And the buggers see nothing wrong with it! It’s just some craic (good times). “Oh, and they take to wearing red too,” Declan huffed. “An insult to a leprechaun's traditional choice of attire. Clurichauns are prone to wear red too. Between the two, that’s why so many leprechauns have chosen to wear green and brown in order to not be associated. Me?” He grinned and straightened his red bowler hat. “I’ll never deviate from tradition.”

“Good for you.”

We each raised a glass of whiskey in a toast.

“The worst thing about far darrigs is they like to kidnap humans,” Declan continued.“They roam through villages and countrysides at night with large burlap sacks, big enough to fit a grown man. They hunt humans like wild game, digging holes, setting traps, and ganging up on them. They love taking little kiddies and leaving a changeling in their place.”

“What do they do to them?” I was almost afraid to ask.

“They keep them,” said Declan. “Raise them up like their own.”

“So a lot of far darrig were once human?”

Declan nodded. “It’s hard to tell. Just being around them makes them all twisted and ugly like other far darrigs. Grown-ups get off a little easier. They'll be forced to be servants, do all the

cooking and cleaning. Eventually, the far darrig get bored with them and let them go.” 

“Is there any way to protect yourself against them?”

“There are chants and charms, but by the time you realize what you’re up against, the far darrig have already got you. Best way to protect yourself from these nasty bastards – don’t go out at night.”

I grinned. “I’ll do that. Thank you.”

Declan and I sat and drank for a while longer. He told me more stories too about the mystical creatures that lived in Ireland, and those will be the subject of future blog posts.

The Sluagh

The Sluagh (pronounced SLOO - AH) were a last minute entry into my current work-in-progress, Death’s Fair Maiden, but they are indeed a welcome one, as they have the potential now to show up in more stories, and their role can be further developed. Sluagh, in Irish, means “Host.” They are also known as the Underfolk and are a gang of unforgiven dead that appear in this world during Halloween or Samhain (SOW-EEN) as it was known in ancient times. 

Back then, they were what might have been called “Faeries run amok,” who had no loyalty or allegiance to anyone and would terrorize humans without mercy. When Christianity took over Ireland, the Sluagh gained a more specific origin and purpose. To begin with, they were no longer wild fairies. Instead, they were unrepentant dead sinners still roaming the world. They were now, or had been, humans instead of fairies. 

Even death was said to defer to the Sluagh. Up close, they resembled frail, withered humans with sparse bits of black hair on the tops of their heads. Their hands and feet were bony claws, and they had beak-like mouths full of gnarled teeth. They also possessed black leathery wings that folded around them like a cloak when they weren’t in use.  

Don’t worry if you come across the Sluagh in person. It’s not an immediate death sentence. They tend to feed upon the sick and dying, especially if that person has not been given Last Rites. The heartbroken and those ready to give up on life are another of their favorites. The Sluagh appear like a flock of dark birds in the sky, flying in a V-pattern. They swarm their prey like a whirlwind and feast upon its soul. That person would then join the ranks of the Sluagh. Those who still believe keep the doors and windows on the west side of their houses shut in order to make sure the Sluagh cannot get inside.

They were amendable to sacrifices. To be specific, they would spare their intended victim if someone else offered to take their place. So there might be some good-hearted members of the Sluagh, which might be why there are stories of the Sluagh saving some humans’ lives.   While they do appear on Halloween/Samhain, the Sluagh can also be summoned any time. All one has to do is simply utter their name. The second way of summoning the Sluagh is by feeling heartbroken or depressed. Now I know as someone who experiences major depressive periods, it’s not a matter of choice. You’re overcome. You can’t just snap out of it, even if you’re afraid of being swarmed by the Sluagh. I take this as meaning that people who are depressed are especially vulnerable to the Sluagh. Our melancholy is like a hot trail they can follow.

I struggled for a bit on how the Sluagh should appear in Death’s Fair Maiden. The scene takes place at a Halloween carnival, so a couple of supernatural characters can compare how modern Halloween compares to ancient Samhain.  

Anyway, having the Sluagh descend upon the carnival like a giant flock would be difficult to pull off. Namely, how could it be explained away afterwards, without causing a giant ruckus? I did come up with a way to do that, but then the question came how two characters, as powerful as they were, could defeat so many enemies?  

The supernatural scenes in this story have also been pretty low-key, and I thought that having a big display that was NOT part of the story’s conclusion would stick out like the proverbial sore thumb.  

What I decided on was that in 21st century America, there is not a lot of magical energy for creatures like the Sluagh to draw upon, especially out in the suburbs. To that end, instead of a giant flock, I decided to turn the Sluagh into scavengers that roam the ground in small packs, searching for victims to carry away. I’ve written that scene, and I think it works. Like with a lot of the creatures I research for this blog, the more fascinated I become in them, the more -and I begin imagining how to feature them in further stories. Right now, I’m thinking of having some innocent soul (or souls) that are part of the Sluagh. They were either taken by force or sacrificed themselves in order to save another — and there is a family member who is trying to rescue them somehow. We’ll see how it goes!        

The Dullahan

“The Dullahan. That’s a good choice,” said my friend Declan, the leprechaun, during our latest Zoom chat. “It’s about time more people learned what inspired the story of the Headless Horseman that Mr. Washington Irving made so famous.”

 

I had to agree. My latest novel, Death’s Fair Maiden, features a banshee, and I thought a good supernatural foil for her would be the Dullahan. 

 

The earliest records of the Dullahan go back to the sixth century, but it is supposed to be tied to the ancient Celtic god, Crom, who’d been worshipped in Ireland millennia ago. An ancient king, Tigermas, led a cult that worshipped Crom and part of that worship required human sacrifices that involved beheading the victim. As the presence of Christianity grew, Crom’s worship began dying off, but Crom still needed his sacrifices, and he manifested himself on Earth in the form of the Dullahan in order to have his sacrifices. 

It must be noted that, for centuries, beheadings were all the rage in ancient Ireland. It was practiced both in battle and as a form of punishment. The ancient Irish believed the head was where the soul was located, so when they removed the heads of their enemies they were also damaging their soul. 

The Dullahan was introduced to the masses in the 19th century collections of Irish folklore assembled by Thomas Crofton Croker and WB Yeats. It could be male or female. Most of the time, their head is still with them, either tucked under their arm or floating close to their bodies. The Dullahan uses a whip made from a human spine and rides a giant black steed. The steed shoots sparks and flames from its nostrils when it runs, but in some stories the steed is headless like its rider.

The Dullan’s head is supposed to have the color and texture of either stale dough or moldy cheese and is quite smooth. A rictus grin splits the face from ear to ear, and the eyes, which are small and black, dart about like malignant flies. The entire head glows with the phosphorescence of decaying matter and the Dullahan may use it as a lantern to guide its way through the darkness. 

The Dullahan possessed supernatural sight. Holding his severed head up high, he can see for vast distances across the countryside, even on the darkest night. Using this power, he can spy the house of a dying person, no matter where it lies. 

The Dullahan is a harbinger of death, sort of like the banshee, except the Dullahan isn’t attached to a particular family. Its victims appear to be random. However, since the Dullahan is connected to Crom, it is safe to assume the victim was chosen to be a sacrifice for one reason or another.

There’s no way to block the Dullahan’s path. All locks and gates burst open as it approaches. They don’t like being watched either when they’re on these gruesome errands. Anyone who sees the Dullahan is rewarded by having a basin of blood thrown in their faces, or by being struck blind in one eye with their whip.

There are some stories of the Dullahan being less predatory. In them, he also drives a black coach instead of riding a steed. It’s known the coach-a-bower or “silent coach.” It’s drawn by six black horses, which are sometimes headless themselves and travels so fast that the friction created by its movement often sets on fire the bushes along the sides of the road. The wagon is adorned with funeral objects like candles in skulls to light the way, and the spokes of the wheels are made from thigh bones. The wagon's covering is made from a worm-chewed pall or dried human skin. When the Dullahan stops riding, that is where a person is due to die and when a Dullahan calls out the person's name, the person immediately perishes. They join other departed souls inside the coach, and the Dullahan then drives them to the afterlife. 

I first read about the Dullahan many years ago and am excited to have now found the perfect story to include him in, Death’s Fair Maiden. Coming soon. Get ready for it.

Hungry Creatures

In Irish mythology, there are two creatures closely related to hunger. One of them is the Alp-Luachra or Joint Eater (I don’t know how it earned that name). It is parasitic and has been described as either looking like a small humanoid or a small green newt. It catches you while you’re sleeping, usually outdoors. It crawls down its victim’s throat and settles in its stomach. The Joint Eater gets away without being felt, because it secretes a specialized mucus that acts as a general anesthetic. Anything this mucus touches goes numb, allowing the Joint Eater to stealthily enter its victim. One source I found actually stated that ancient Irish used Joint Eaters medicinally because of their mucus. By applying or ingesting it, injuries would swiftly numb. 

 

 Once it is inside its victim, the Joint Eater will act like a tapeworm and feed off of whatever its victim is eating. The effects of the Joint Eater’s infestation aren’t felt until a few days after its infestation. The host becomes fatigued and weak then begins to slowly starve. The name Joint Eater most likely comes from the aching joints the victim feels during starvation. 

 The host will actually begin feeling the Joint Eater “wriggling” in their body after a while which worsens the mental condition of the host. If it’s a female, the Joint Eater has the potential to reproduce asexually so that it will be able to reproduce inside its host, laying anywhere between eight to twelve eggs which will hatch and begin feeding on the host as well. 

 How did the ancient Irish get rid of such a deadly pest? For either method, an aide would physically restrain the host and hold its mouth open. From there, the first option involved trying to lure out the Joint Eater(s) with some very savory food. If there were children, they would exit in a large clump then followed by the parent. By that point, the older Joint Eater would be as fat as the host’s mouth and eight to twelve times longer than the babies. 

 The second method involved having the host eat large amounts of heavily salted meat then drink nothing afterward. Next, the host would lay down next to a large body of water and wait for the Joint Eater(s) to exit, desperate for water. This method is much more dangerous than the first one and used only as a last resort, because large amounts of salt added to a malnourished body had the potential to induce fatal heart attacks.

 The other hungry creature was known as the Fear Gorta or Hunger Man. It walked the earth in times of famine and would appear as an emaciated beggar seeking alms from passers-by.

 The Hunger Man didn’t feed on these travelers. He had a different M.O. The people who didn’t spare any food for the Hunger Man would meet with some sort of bad luck, and those who gave to the Hunger Man would find themselves rewarded with good fortune.

 The Hunger Man became very relevant during the famine years. People began referring to sudden feelings of great hunger as Fear Gorta, and they would often experience this when passing through places where people had died from the famine. In order to prepare for this, travelers would carry a piece of oat bread with them to eat when the Fear Gorta struck.

 I have a spot for both of these creatures in my writing. The Hunger Man appears in a short story I wrote that can be enjoyed by anyone who signs up to receive this month’s newsletter. It’s my vision of the creature, so I have given him some powers that aren’t mentioned in any myth I found in order to make him a serious threat. This story will be part of a continuing series. New ones will appear in future newsletters and will center on a mysterious occult investigator known only as W.B. I plan to have the Joint Eater appear in my current work-in-progress.

Writing and Mental Illness

I know this isn’t the most cheerful topic to write about, but it’s important to me and will also explain why I haven’t contributed anything for a while now.

 

I deal with Bipolar II. I was originally diagnosed with a “major depressive disorder” back in my late twenties, even though I displayed symptoms going as far back as my teens. It wasn’t until about thirteen years ago that diagnosis was changed to Bipolar II by a new psychiatrist I started seeing after moving to Arizona from California. 

Back then, Bipolar II had only recently been identified. The difference between it and Bipolar I is that my periods of mania aren’t as severe. You experience a relatively even keel, although I do feel I have suffered from full blown mania on more than one occasion.

Many great writers have dealt with mental illness, such as Ernest Hemingway and Sylvia Plath. It seems strange citing them as examples, considering their tragic ends. It is widely believed that mental illness enhances creativity. That hasn’t been proven scientifically, but there are so many examples out there that it has been accepted at face value. I have come to see my illness as being the price I pay for my creativity. 

It does not help my process. Not at all. I remember someone in a writing group I once belonged to asking if I could somehow “use” my illness in my writing. It doesn’t work like that. If anything, it hinders it greatly. I have no motivation. As much as I enjoy writing, I simply do not have the will to get started.

If anything, getting healthier has improved my writing. Medication keeps me steady, and I have had some wonderful therapists that have come in and out of my life have helped me build some much-needed stability. My most recent therapist, whom I often refer to as my “exorcist,” focused on rewiring my neural pathways, so I can finally escape the negative choices and negative thinking that have dominated my life. He was also the first therapist to recognize that I was dealing with Complex PTSD too. For that, I am forever grateful.

I suppose, over the years, I have felt that my illness could be “cured” and have had some therapists who led me to believe that. However, lately, I have come to grips with the reality that there is no cure. I am going to have to manage my illness my entire life – and that’s okay, since it mostly consists of me taking care better care of myself through diet, exercise, meditation, and positive self-talk, which are things that can benefit anyone. It boils down to the fact that, deep down, I haven’t liked myself very much over the years, and a lot of the self-indulgences I’ve taken part in were actually self-destructive. I want to take better care of myself now because I like myself much better now, and I deserve to treat myself well.

Earlier this year, the depression-side of my illness hit me hard. It’s like a hole opens up in the earth and swallows me whole. I struggle to get out and back to the light, but even the slightest activity takes so much energy out of me. I’m barely able to take care of the basics in life, and other activities like updating my blog or maintaining my social media presence falls by the wayside. Even activities I enjoy, such as volunteering at the Irish Cultural Center or singing with my Celtic choir seem like absolute burdens. 

A lot of what caused this current bout had to do with the state of the world we’re currently living in, and the fact that I’m still not able to support myself entirely with my writing. I do everything the “experts” recommend as far as marketing and promotion go but have seen very little in return. I was seriously questioning “why am I doing this?” One day, the truth came to me. I would be miserable if I didn’t write. It’s a part of me. It’s who I am.

It made me recall another severe depressive period I went through about five years ago. The one thing that really saved my life was the story I was working on at that time called Illumina. I haven’t released it yet. It’s pretty experimental, and I’m not sure how it will be received. Either way, it was important to me.

It was another story that saved my life again and dragged me out of this latest period of depression. It’s challenging me in a good way, and I am truly enjoying it. So those of you who are still with me, thank you for hanging in there. Also, for anyone out there who is experiencing depression, mania, or anxiety, do not hold it in. It will not pass on its own, although it may seem like it at times. Above all, do not be ashamed of it!

Seek professional help and hold on to the people in your life who will truly support you in this process. There is no quick cure. No magic pill. It is ongoing. It can be frustrating and challenging at times, but don’t give up, hang in there. I assure you it is worth it.

Thank you,

Dan

All 'bout Banshees

“You sure you don’t want to do something about pookas?” my leprechaun friend, Declan, asked me. We were having one of our regular Zoom chats. I swear I still can’t get over how great his WiFi connection is, seeing as how he lives somewhere beneath the Coolidge Mountains in County Meath, Ireland. “After all, you’ve got one in The Fifth Cycle, and you’re getting ready for a big PR blitz on that book, with Saint Paddy’s Day coming up and everything.”

 

 I told him I’d thought about it, but I really did go into quite a bit about pookas in the books. It felt redundant. I told Declan I’d been thinking a lot about banshees lately.

 

“Ah, been ‘haunted’ by banshees, have you?” Declan laughed at his own bad joke, before going into more detail about the legendary wailing spirit, who was also known as the White Lady and the Little Washerwoman.

 Stories about banshees dated back to the 8th century AD. They were associated with battles and battlefields back then. While they moaned and wailed, they would wash the bloody clothes of someone who was destined to die in the upcoming battle. In some stories, she washed the heads and limbs of the soon-to-be dead as well. 

 “The banshees were connected to The Morrigan, you know her,” said Declan. Yes, she died feature prominently in The Fifth Cycle. “As the goddess of battles, she had knowledge of who was going to survive and who wasn’t. Often times, seeing the banshee and knowing they were destined to die was a great test for warriors. Knowing they were going to die, would they try to defy fate as flee, or would they head fast into battle and look for an honorable death.” Declan gave me a sly grin. “Of course no one escapes fate. Those who did flee still ended up dying and usually in some demeaning way.”

 I shared with Declan how I’d read that the banshees later became tied to the finest families in Ireland. 

 “Tis true,” he confirmed. “Pretty much, any family whose name started with an O, Mc, or Mac had their own banshee, which was usually the ghost of an honored ancestor and always a woman. Believe it or not, it was quite a blessing. The banshee appearing, knowing who was set to die, it allowed the family time to prepare, get their affairs in order and all. It also allowed the soon-to-be departed to settle any debts they might have as well.”

 That was a far cry from the banshees of pop culture with their hideous features and piercing wails. 

 “That’s not that all off base, I must say,” Declan added. “Banshees took care of their families. They were guardian spirits, and when the situation called for it became spirits of vengeance. If someone in the family was wronged, they’d haunt the guilty party, appearing like a monster and wailing and shrieking, tormenting them until they took their own lives.”

 Wow, was all I could say to that. I asked Declan if he could share anything else about banshees with me.

 “I told you how banshees belonged to certain Irish families,” he started. “That family’s banshee would continue to serve that family for as long as a trace of their ancestral home remained. Once that was gone, so was the banshee.”

 Interesting. I thanked Declan for the information, and we continued our chat, sipping tea and chatting about day-to-day things. All the while though, my imagination started forming a character. A banshee. I knew that once this character was complete, a story would soon follow.

A Leprechaun's Guide to Yule

From your friend, Declan.

 It’s the most wonderful time of the year! I’m not talking about Christmas. I’m talking about original version, Yule, a celebration of the Winter Solstice that lasts twelve nights. Oh, and for those of you who merely skimmed the title, this is your old pal, Declan, here, and I’ve been given the honor of writing this month’s blog post, and it’s all about how me and my kind -- leprechauns, pooka, gillie-doos, the whole lot – celebrate this special occasion.

 

 It would start with a pilgrimage to a very special place in Ireland, known as Newgrange, a huge earthen mound constructed over five-thousand years ago. Take that, you Egyptians and your bloody pyramids!

 

Anyway, the architects of Newgrange were so brilliant they constructed it in the right exact place that when the sun rises on the Winter Solstice, it hits an opening above the entryway and lights up the entire inside of the structure, all those twisty turns and passageways. I wish I could tell you who those magnificent architects were and how they were able to create such miraculous sites – as you’d find all over Ireland – but alas even some secrets are hidden even from me.

 The Winter Solstice is the longest night of the year, and Yule is a time to rejoice and be full of hope. It means the sun was beginning its long journey back towards, promising the warm days of spring will return to us, and all the world will be fresh and green again. 

 While at Newgrange, we sing and dance around bonfires, count the year’s blessings, and pray to the elements. When it’s time to return home where we prepare the great hall in our home inside the Cooley Mountains for the festivities. We hang wreaths and strings of holly and mistletoe all over the walls and from the ceilings, and the entire hall is filled with the sound of laughter, music, and song. We sing about our ancestors and the gods of old, not to mention the ballad of the Battle of the Holly King and the Oak King, the twin rulers of the heavens who are locked forever in eternal battle. For this is their holiday. This time of the year the Oak King always prevails, but don’t count the Holly King out for good. He returns on the Summer Solstice to reclaim his seat in the heavens.

 

 Let’s not forget about the food and drink. Lots of cakes and cookies, peppermint fudge, and of course the traditional plum pudding. There’s tender roasted boar and cup after cup of warm, wonderful wassail. We exchange handmade crafts and revel in each other’s company, knowing that we will make it through the long cold winter together.

 

 There’s Yule for you! And no matter what you celebrate, may your holidays be festive and joyful. 

The Legend of Stingy Jack: A Halloween Leftover

“You’ve celebrated how many Samhains and you still don’t know where the jack o’lantern comes from?” my leprechaun friend, Declan, scoffed.

 

We were having another Zoom meeting. Usually, we had tea. This time it was a pint of the plain and a drop of the pure. Him, in his home beneath the Cooley Mountains in County Louth, Ireland and me in my home in Phoenix, Arizona.

 “Allow me then to regale you with the legend of Stingy Jack,” Declan started. “A long time ago in Ireland, there lived a man named Jack. He was so stingy, he’d squeeze a penny until his fingertips met in the middle. He was not only stingy but just a horrible, horrible bloke. A thief and liar, he’d steal from a beggar, and even the parish priest would go out of the way to spit on him at least once a day.

 “Anyway, Jack loved his drink. In fact, so much, the local public house was the only place he’d ever behave. He’d sit in a corner table nursing his pint, not talking to anyone, and of course no one in the pub wanted anything to do with him. Except one day, this well-dressed gent that no one had ever seen before popped into the pub. Some thought he was just passing through. Others thought, he was a guest of the local landlord. Either way, to everyone’s shock and surprise, this gent took a seat with our Jack. Of course, no one was more shocked or surprised than Jack himself.

 Declan chuckled. “It turned out this gent was none other than the Devil himself. He’d come to claim Jack’s filthy soul. That pint he was drinking was on its way to destroying the last bit of healthy gut inside of him. Jack, to his credit, didn’t beg, didn’t plead for more time. He was ready to accept his fate.

 ‘Will you do a dying man a favor, your lordship?” Jack started. ‘Will you sit with me and allow me to finish my pint? Me – last – pint?’

 “Back then, the Devil was an amiable chap – Och, but that would all change after his dealings with Jack. So, the Devil sat with Jack while he finished his pint. Now, to his credit Jack did have a touch of the Blarney, so he soon had the Devil in stitches laughing along with his old jokes and stories. But finally, Jack had drained his glass, and the Devil declared it was time to go.

 ‘Alright, pay for your pint and be on our way,’ he said.

 ‘But I haven’t any money,’ Jack admitted.

 ‘What? How were you expecting to pay for your drink then?’

 ‘I wasn’t. I was just going to start a fight with someone and get chucked out,’ said Jack. Of course, he was lying through his hole. If Jack could be counted on for one thing, he always paid for his drinks. ‘Will you be a mate and pay for me? For – me – last – pint?”

 ‘I never carry any money on me,’ said the Devil. 

 ‘Why not?’

 ‘I’m the Devil. I don’t need it.’

 ‘Shall we start brawling then?’ Jack asked. ‘Get ourselves chucked out?’

 ‘Absolutely not.’

 ‘Well, do you have the power to create coins?’

 The Devil scoffed. ‘Of course not. If I could do that, I’d retire.’

 ‘What can you do?’

 ‘I can change my form. I suppose I could change into a gold coin, and you could use me to pay for your pint.’

 ‘That sounds grand. And when the pub closes, you can change yourself back and sneak out, none the wiser.’

 “The Devil agreed and changed himself into a gold coin, but instead of using him to pay for his pint, he plucked the Devil in his pocket then took his Mammy’s old crucifix off his neck and dropped it in his pocket. That trapped the Devil good.”

 I laughed out loud.

 “Oh, we’re not done yet,” said Declan. “So Jack went on and had himself quite a night. He drank with what coin he had – except for the one that was actually the Devil. He even picked a few pockets so he could drink even more. He finally staggered out around dawn, stomach growling, aching for something to eat. He didn’t quite have his wits together from that night’s drinking to steal anything, so he fished through his pockets for some coin. But all he had was the coin the Devil had turned into. He pulled it from his pocket, and the Devil resumed the form of a well-dressed gent. Needless to say, he was not happy about being made a fool and still insisted on taking Jack’s soul with him.

 ‘Okay, your lordship,’ he said. ‘I’ll go quietly with you. But could I possibly get a bit of food in me first? Just a wee apple from that tree over there?’ Jack pointed.

 “The Devil didn’t see the harm in it. He followed Jack to the apple tree, watching him staggering and lurching and almost falling over more than once. When they got to the tree, Jack tried to climb its trunk but appeared to be in no shape.

 ‘Here, let me,’ said an impatient Devil.

 “The Devil scaled the tree and snatched up an apple. Only before he could climb back down, he saw that a now sobered-up Jack had carved four crosses into the tree trunk trapping the Devil. The Devil threatened Jack to scratch out the crosses, but our Jack only laughed at him. Soon, the Devil was pleading, thinking how undignified it would be to be caught in a tree like he was.

 ‘I’ll make you a deal,’ said Jack. ‘I’ll scratch out the crosses and let you down, only if you agree to never take my soul to Hell with you. Agreed?’

 “The Devil sighed. He agreed, and if anything he was a man of his word and let our Jack be. But years passed, and Jack’s body finally started giving out on him. He sought shelter in a barn one night. He collapsed on a pile of hay, clutching his Mammy’s crucifix, ready to join her in Heaven. And sure enough, an angel descended from above. Jack closed his eyes, ready to be taken away. Only …

 ‘You actually think Heaven would want you, Jack?’

 “Jack’s eyes popped open. There was no angel, only his old foe the Devil in disguise.

 ‘But we have a deal,’ Jack reminded him. ‘You said you won’t take my soul to Hell with you.’

 ‘And I won’t,’ grinned the Devil. 

“He punched a hole in Jack’s chest and pulled out a glowing ember. Jack whimpered as the Devil placed it in his hands. ‘Behold your soul. Yours to do with as you wish, Jack.’

“Jack shrieked and fought to shove his soul back into his chest, only it kept tumbling out. He looked to the Devil, but the Devil had already disappeared leaving nothing behind but his laughter. The soul burned Jack’s hands. It was too hot to carry. He juggled it back and forth. Finally, he spotted a hollowed-out gourd in the pigs’ trough and stuffed his soul inside it. He then staggered from the barn, holding the gourd out in front of him, his soul shining from it, lighting his way.”

Declan poured more whiskey into his glass. “So Jack wandered all about Ireland, the light of his soul, shining from his gourd, lighting his way. His story spread, and he soon went from being known as Stingy Jack to Jack o’the’lantern and later Jack O’Lantern. Of course, Jack’s story came to scare people so much, they started carving their own gourds with terrifying faces on them in hopes it would scare away evil spirits on Samhain – including Jack himself if he should happen to wander down their street. Eventually, pumpkins were used because they were so big and easy to carve. That, and they were a symbol of the passing harvest.”

 I raised my glass to my computer screen to toast Declan and thank him for his marvelous story. We then freshened up our drinks, and I sat back as my leprechaun friend had more stories to share with me.