Where I come from

Where I come from is at the edge of the land. On a high hill overlooking the sea, its base was cropped into fields and farms though its crest crowned with forest. My house stood high up there, at the boundary of the woods, and looked back landwards over the valley of grass, hedgerows and towns.

There weren’t many roads where I came from, but the foxes and badgers had their tracks, and the wind would howl through its passages in the forest. The seagulls also had their ways, drifting overhead on their travels, the cold and saltiness of the sea somehow present in their mews. While the mist, ignoring all paths, rolled its way up and over the heath and through the woods leaving all soaked and dripping in its wake.

And where I come from, up there on the hill, you’re a little out of touch. For example, you don’t get pop references because the TV’s never on, nor the radio. It didn’t take me long to stop bothering asking ‘Who’s that?’ to friends at school when a celebrity was mentioned, to save myself the derision. In my house instead there were masks from distant lands and forgotten times, from obscure peoples with even more obscure traditions. These wooden faces hung from the walls in the hall and had the strange quality of changing expression. A leer in the bright of day might be a snarl in the half light of the evening. And up in my room, hung a crucifix complete with Christ with his hands and feet nailed. A visceral image of the ancient faith of the land that still found a home here.

Though it must be said that the other residents of the hill kept an even older religion. I might mention the cottage in the hollow with the primroses and herbs growing in the garden and a stuffed badger in the window. Though even older, and maybe older even than the hill itself was the tradition of the forest. The festivity of the bluebells in May when they donned excessive purples and greens. The energetic, humming chant of the bees in their service over the summer months, attending the parades of flowers each with their allotted times, and the pilgrimage of the birds even from distant Africa. The fade from green to sack-cloth brown of the canopy as the land prepared for the winter fasting, where it slept, often under a snowy blanket. The reawakening in Spring, all the more glorious for the fast, when the spiders fill the air with silky lanterns. This religion that once covered the whole land is still going strong on the hill where I come from.

But where I come from, you can often feel lonely. The school bus had a stop just for me at the edge of the trees. My schoolmates joked that I must live in the woods -like some kind of werewolf- as they watched me head off beneath the trees. On many nights, as I did homework at my desk, I’d look out into the darkened valley. The glowing amber lights of the town below looked so warm. I would gaze, and wonder what went on within those houses. Warm food served up to families at tables, or friends playing games together, drinking and laughing. Lovers in each-others arms. I would wonder if I could ever be a part of a home like those. Sure, I had visited fiends, stayed days and nights, but would I ever truly belong in such a place? When I looked out of a window on the other side of the house, I saw the darkened arches of trees melting quickly into pitch black. It was true, I did live in the woods.

Well, what did it matter if I couldn’t belong in the town, when there was no reason I couldn’t invite friends over to me, to the place where I came from? There was no reason why I couldn’t throw a party. And that’s what I did, on Halloween, the night of all nights. I spent all of the bright Autumn day preparing with a few friends: travelled and bought provisions, cleaned the house, put up decorations, baked snacks, set up games, and of course, got lots and lots of booze and arranged it all neatly. We were quite exhausted by the time the sun went down and the first guests started to arrive. “Get to the sign that says ‘unsuitable for motors’ at the steep bit, yep, ignore it and go up there then you’re here!”  I directed further guests on the phone. Ghouls arrived, mummies too, vampires and witches, and a skeleton crew, until a veritable host of the undead had assembled under the rising moon.

And then the party began. The beats flared up and the drinks started flowing. The artificial lights shone with all the colours of the rainbow in the darkened house, and the undead guests started to dance. Under fake cobwebs, and cut-out skeleton bunting. Among glowing pumpkins, and lamps. In the crampt kitchen space, we danced. Coalescing into rings, joining hands, turning together, and breaking apart, we writhed to the throbbing beat. Our energy surged and we sang along in all but dulcet tones. We stomped our feet and clapped our hands and the cacophony only grew. The masks on the walls were smiling now, looking more alive than ever. One could only wonder if something in the night reminded them of good times long ago.

And then, galvanized by the steady flow of wine and cider, and mixed drinks of unnatural blue, we broke ranks and spilled outside for an apple bobbing contest. For a time we ran back and forth with apples in our mouths and icy water on our faces, all braying with laughter. Anna had mastered the art, and could pluck an apple off the surface of the water like a Swallow, while Theo sunk his whole torso into depths to force one to the bottom with his face, guaranteeing a bite. We spilt back in to the epicentre of the music, swaying and clumsy and struggling to balance. And numb with laughter, and through many attempts, we formed a shaking dog pile. We then had a double-take when we saw an actual dog, as Lupa had followed us in. Black eyes calm and tail gently wagging, She stole all our affection. And twenty undead hands reached out and caressed her fluffy white fur.

The hours rolled on and we danse macabre’d the night away. In the next room on, now lit uncomfortably by a naked bulb, a ping pong tournament had erupted. Or strip pong I should say, as the rule of shedding clothing for every loss was causing the event to resemble more and more a Dionysian ritual of old. And perhaps similar to those orgies of ancient Rome, our main consolation was how little we would remember. Then I caught something of a glimpse of Hell, when upon entering the bathroom I saw two forms on all fours, both retching into the same toilet bowl.

Slowly but surely the alcohol stream ran its course, and our energy burnt out. More and more people slunk off from the main group and didn’t return, and the music became less and less raucous, before finally someone switched it off, leaving nothing but a ringing silence in our ears. The bright, flickering lights went out also, and the rooms were dark but for softly glowing fairy lights. It was that stage of the party where half the guests had passed out, and among those that hadn’t were small groups having deep and meaningful chats in subdued voices in the corners, and couples lying down together. It was at this time of night that a few of my friends said “Hey, imagine if we went on a walk right now. Just with a candle.” I couldn’t believe it was being suggested, and I was more than keen to go. So we set off.

Outside was cool and the air was fresh. I felt my consciousness gradually reawakening as we set off across the garden. The moon and stars had sunken beneath thick black clouds, making the night now very dark. The little tea lights we’d brought were all we had to light the way, and we kept just one lit at a time to make them last. The round flame wobbled precariously as we walked, so we went carefully, and though too bright to look at directly, it only illuminated a couple of meters in each direction. We processed along a path at the border of the forest, stepping over brambles and puddles. Tree after tree went by in the flickering light. We passed over fields, and went beyond the marshy patch where the remains of an old house lay sunken deep in the mud. Following the path up a steep slope, we reached some level ground. To the left was a view over the valley, a constellation of orange lights- the few that remained on in the town- and to our right the path snaked upwards again, but this time into the forest, a tunnel of trees and thorns leading into a truly impenetrable darkness.

“Holy hell I’m not going in there…” one of my friends started, but the other nudged his arm and said to me “Hey, why don’t you take the candle and go up ahead as you know the way. We’ll light another and follow on.” I was surprised they wanted to press on further, and so I gladly obliged. With the little flame in hand, I set off through the tunnel. Head ducked beneath the low tree branches, and doing my best to avoid the snags of the dense brambles that swamped the path, I placed one foot in front of the other and climbed. Despite my efforts branches brushed at my face and thorns clawed my clothes. The little flame had turned a deep orange, and shrunken to little more than a flickering spark, threatening to go out. I stopped and turned around. The tunnel behind me was empty. “Guys?” I called out. There was no reply. I listened, but only heard the ringing from the music of the party in my ears, and the quiet murmur of the breeze in the trees. The spark gave one last spasm of light and went out.

I closed my eyes, and opened them again. There was no change. I stood in complete darkness, at the very centre of the void. I let out a deep breath.

It didn’t take long before I was back at the level ground and saw the lights of the town glinting in the distance. I’d gone by feel, as I often would when out at night, paying attention to the sensation of touch in my feet to not trip or lose balance. With the lights in sight it wasn’t hard to go back down the slope where I saw the glowing orb of the other tea light, and my friends. They’d waited for me. We had a laugh together about the prank they’d pulled, before going back as carefully as we’d come. Past the sunken house in the marsh. Past the fields, and the row of trees along the path. By now the sky had a faint touch of grey about it, and the silhouettes of objects beyond the immediate light of the candle were visible. We entered the silent house and slept.

We all woke up to a pale morning. People groaned and rubbed their heads, hiding their faces in sleeping bags and under duvets. The decorations looked meagre in the light of day, and you could barely tell that a line of fairy lights was still on. The remaining snacks had sunken and grown stale like the withered remains of petals on plants that have gone to seed. The well-mannered guests and the morning people were going round with bin bags collecting up rubbish, and pouring the dregs from half-drunk cans into the sink while the other guests slowly got up. After a subdued coffee or tea and bowl of cereal, the guests headed off one by one. They thanked me for hosting, and unsteadily made their way out to take lifts from parents. “See you soon mate!” called out one last friend from the drive, as his car sailed off down into the valley. A smile broke across my face, and I waved him goodbye.

Finally I was left alone, and set about the long task of clearing the decorations and getting the house back to normal. The wind stirred in the trees behind the house, and a few seagulls cruised overhead on their way to the sea.