A Tale for Samhain
The fields of Rock Strand were awash with shades of violet during the early days of September. Towering fronds of wild carrot embraced delicate Queen Anne’s Lace. Their lacey blossoms shimmering purple beneath the dimming light.
“Paddy, d’ye think we have a chance of winnin’ the New Grower’s prize at this year’s Samhain Fête,” queried Petey Corrigan. Petey always looked to the sage advice of his scholar twin Paddy when he needed sound answers.
“Petey, it’s like this, Cathighan promised that the seeds he brought over from St. Lucia will rival the biggest turnip in any Rock Strand kitchen garden,” Paddy assured his twin.
“Sure, but what do we really know about Cathighan and his understandin’ of our fields. Does he know that McCracken’s donkey manure is like manna from heaven when it comes to growin’ the finest turnips in Rock Strand?” argued Petey.
“Petey, I just know it. Y’see, Cathighan is that mystical sort, like the old woman, the soothsayer, in Jack in the Beanstalk that Missus Honor read to us last week,” explained Paddy.
“Listen here Petey,” continued Paddy. “Cathighan might not know about our turnips, but sure as the autumn day is short, he knows about pumpkins.”
Cathighan is new to the village. A traveling seanachie, he arrived at St. Patrick’s Parish door on the coldest and darkest of all eves in December, the night of the winter solstice.
Shivering with fever, bearing holes in his woolen trousers and split seams in his worn brogues, his long toes nearly frostbit with the cold. Snow clung to his matted tight curls forming constellations of stars that blended with the salt in his peppery hair.
Young Father Francis Fahey and his collie Wren barely heard the tired knock that night, but sure when Father Francis opened the heavy oak door, he almost fainted at the vision of what he thought to be one of Christ’s magi. Those eyes, so blue they almost appeared white, looked into Father Fahey’s soul.
Since then, Cathighan has become a respected seanachie in the village of Rock Strand. On rainy dark nights, Cathighan brings stories of sunshine and sweet fruit, tumbling warm seas, and birds the color of wild fuchsia, who balance on long, stick-like legs.
The people of Rock Strand were warmed by Cathighan’s rich, melodious voice and his fantastical stories of his island’s birds and swaying trees, so very different from the sturdy rocks and cold waters that blanket the shores of their village.
Now, how Cathighan sailed upon his warm seas and landed upon their cold Atlantic shores, the villagers may never know, but his talent at telling stories and his willingness to lend a hand to every fisherman and farmer in town has ensured Cathighan a most honored place among his friends in Rock Strand.
“Sure Paddy, wise Cathighan is. All cloudy eyed, just like the old woman that Jack met on his way to market.”
“And Paddy,” Petey chimed on, “didn’t Cathighan give us a handful of seeds to plant. Why if Jack’s beanstalk can reach the clouds of heaven, our pumpkin should be at least as big as McCracken’s prize pig.”
“Aye, Petey, Cathighan’s eyes are telling and true, just like the clouds before a storm.”
Petey finally agreed, “You might be right Paddy. If Cathighan and his seeds are on target, we just might be the winners of that basket of sweets from Big Tom’s Emporium of Sweeties.”
The twins continued on their way home from after-school practices with their choir and spelling bee comrades. Aside from talking about the sprinkle of freckles that dot the twin noses of their friends Bridie and Rosie McCracken, Big Tom’s Emporium was their second favorite note of conversation.
“Ah, did y’see the sweeties that Big Tom has on display for the autumn harvest,” crooned Petey.
“Sure, don’t he have these grand spiders made from licorice candy floss.”
“Right y’be Petey. This year’s prize basket of sweeties surely will be the grandest ever. I can’t wait to sink my teeth into the blackberry wine gums shaped like miniature fairy cakes. Sure, doesn’t Tom have real fairy’s wings sittin’ right on top of each glorious confection?” admired Paddy.
Caught up in dreams of sweeties and prize-winning pumpkins, Paddy and Petey wound their way home to their mammy’s steaming parsnip soup and brown bread. From the neighboring field, McCracken’s donkey greeted the boys with a familiar hee haw, and the Corrigan’s spaniel Blarney came running from the light of the open cottage door to welcome the twins home.
While the soft breeze of September turned to October wind, preparations for the Samhain Fete were in full swing. As always, the Widows Margaret and Bernadette were vying for top prize in the scone competition, while the new schoolteacher, stern-faced Mistress Donahue owned the secret recipe for soda scones that rose as high as her ego. The Corrigan boys thought it wise to share their secret St. Lucia pumpkins with Bridie and Rosie McCracken; so, both sets of twins were on the same ticket for the New Grower’s turnip contest. Turnips, rutabagas, pumpkins, sure weren’t they all the same?
Cathighan advised his apprentice growers to plant the seeds alongside the hive of a honeybee beneath the light of the full moon near the eve of St. John’s Night. He whispered, “By the full harvest moon, the biggest and most glorious pumpkin will then be ready to cut from the vine, and for every kingly pumpkin there will be an army of minions lining the path to his throne.”
The twins thought this a brilliant plan. Together with the aid of Mrs. McCracken’s prize honey hives, the manure from their donkey, the sweet company of Bridie and Rosie McCracken, and of course, Cathighan’s magic pumpkin seeds, there won’t be a doubt under the stars of heaven that they would win the basket of harvest sweeties from Big Tom’s Emporium.
The Samhain fete was but a week away and the two sets of twins met each night at the edge where their families’ fields joined to check on their pumpkins. The prize pumpkin grew larger each day.
“Ahh, Paddy, sure that is the finest turnip I ever did see,” admired a smitten Rosie McCracken.
“Indeed sister. Orange bellied and topped with a green hat, sure it is a grand turnip,” remarked Bridie.
“Girls, not to sound bold, but didn’t we tell you these are not turnips, but magic St. Lucia pumpkins,” explained the patient Paddy.
“Right he is ladies, but we are enterin’ the biggest pumpkin as a turnip,” furthered Petey.
“Well, I do hope we won’t be disqualified when the judges discover this handsome mammoth is not actually a turnip,” Rosie remarked.
“Just trust us, girls. We’ll be fillin’ our bellies with a treasure chest filled with sweeties,” assured Paddy.
On the night before the fete, the four children met to cut the pumpkin from the vine beneath the light of the full harvest moon. It took all their might to load the pumpkin atop the girls’ wagon, ready to deliver to the fete at the break of dawn.
Taking Cathighan’s words to heart, the twins cut the smaller pumpkins to act as guardians to the king of all turnips, their pumpkin. As soon as McBilly’s cock crowed at dawn, the children left their cottages to bring the pumpkin to the fete.
To their surprise, all the small pumpkins had vanished, and the king of all turnips, their pumpkin was half eaten. Petey, Bridie, and Rosie were heartbroken at the devastation, but Paddy was always quick with a new plan.
“Girls, let’s cut some holly from your da’s fields and gather some dried beehive that your mammy feeds to the crows. I bet we can disguise the half-eaten bit so it looks like a carved turnip. You know a Jack O’Lantern,” encouraged Paddy.
Never was a more brilliant plan hatched. The Corrigan-McCracken turnip-pumpkin with its wild plumes of holly and crown of beehive certainly stood out amid the pale purple turnips on the contest stage.
Father Fahey and Cathighan himself were the judges that day. After much deliberation, Father Colm, the pastor of St. Patrick’s Church, announced the winners of the New Grower’s Turnip Contest. “This year the prize will be shared between McBilly for his rather large turnip and . . .”
The children held their breath, each hoping for a win, when the Corrigan’s spaniel Blarney joined by Father Fahey’s collie Wren, each bearing a round pumpkin came running in to join the group. The Widow Margaret stood in dismay as her very own spaniel Fly came running behind the two dogs, covered in crumbs of sticky scone and what appeared to be large white seeds caked in orange goop.
Despite the widow’s alarming shrieks, Fly headed straight for the turnip in fancy dress and continued to eat away at his prize. Cathighan laughed as the other dogs set their pumpkins next to the king of all turnips and winked at the nervous children.
“And the co-winner for this year’s, ahem, New Grower’s turnip contest goes to the most imaginative turnip ever to arrive on the shores of Rock Strand. Congratulations Petey, Paddy, Rosie, and Bridie!”
With a cheer, the villagers of Rock Strand congratulated the beaming winners with a rousing chorus of “Hip, hip hooray!”
