Uh, Oh, That's a Hoof
Tonight is the original Samhain, and tomorrow All Saints' Day. Being where we are, in Celtic Galicia, we're very serious about the ancient traditions. We remember our dead these days, just as we've done for millennia and appreciate the Church's moving its All Hallows feast to the appropriate date back in the eighth century. That said, now we celebrate our ancestors by taking flowers to the cemetery, instead of leaving doors open and a plate of food by the fire. But we still frighten off evil spirits that might commingle with the good ones by carving pumpkins and squashes and setting candles in them.
Some years when I came on vacation, and talk got around to ghost stories, friends and I agreed to leave a tape recorder in the cemetery late one night to see if it would record any voices. We never did. We were too much in awe of the dead at night. It comes from too many centuries of folklore of the dead, such as the Santa Compaña in Galicia, which portends the death of those tricked into joining the candle-lit procession. Or the Güestía in Asturias, a procession of the dead with a smouldering bone for light, that visits the house of the dying to have him join them. Though what would some of us have done if we had encountered a penitent like Txili did in Lekeitio, Euskadi?
In centuries past, the fishermen of Lekeitio didn't have the national meteorological agency to tell them if the seas were fit to sail for their livelihood. There was a guard, whose name was Txili, who would go to a highpoint near the port to look at the sea in the early hours of the morning. He would decide if the seas, the skies, and the winds were favorable to the town's fisherfolk. At that time there were penitents who stopped to flagellate themselves before holy images inside the town and outside, along the roads. The guard was asked by his tavern friends if he wasn't scare to find himself alone with one in the middle of the night. Of course he wasn't. He wasn't scared of anything in the night, not even of the devil himself.
One night he was at his checkpoint, and saw a hulking, bony man dressed as a penitent come toward him. The penitent asked Txili if he would accompany him to a church with holy images on a nearby hill. Txili acquiesced and went with him.
They passed by several wayside images on the path to the hermitage, but the penitent did not stop to pray, rather quickened his step to be out of their shadow. That was not normal. Even those who were not penitents would stop to cross themselves and maybe offer up a short prayer. When they passed the chapel and the man didn't bother to look at it, Txili found the penitent's attitude even stranger and started to doubt himself and the giant dark figure striding at his side. Finally they reached the ruins of a chapel, which the stranger strode around, not daring to pass over what remained of the threshold. "Are you scared of me now?" the stranger asked Txili when he was finished and had come to stand before him.
Txili started to tremble and lowered his eyes. What he saw made him fly down the hill, the stranger pressing on him, and calling out, "What? Running? So now you are scared of me?" Txili reached the chapel, wrenched open the door, and flung himself inside, pressing against the altar. He could hear the penitent outside, stalking around the chapel, but not daring to enter the sacred space. "Damn you! You were mine!" the stranger thundered. After a few hours of snorting and pacing outside, a strong thwack was heard as something hit the door, and then all was silence as daybreak came. On the splintered door was the print of a clawed hand, and all around the chapel were the cloven hoofprints left by the hooves Txili had noticed on the penitent when he had looked down.
So, if you walk along the lanes at night, and notice a stranger pass by a wayside crucifix without bothering to make the Sign of the Cross, beware. Look down. If you see cloven hooves instead of human feet, run as if the devil were behind you. He is.
Some years when I came on vacation, and talk got around to ghost stories, friends and I agreed to leave a tape recorder in the cemetery late one night to see if it would record any voices. We never did. We were too much in awe of the dead at night. It comes from too many centuries of folklore of the dead, such as the Santa Compaña in Galicia, which portends the death of those tricked into joining the candle-lit procession. Or the Güestía in Asturias, a procession of the dead with a smouldering bone for light, that visits the house of the dying to have him join them. Though what would some of us have done if we had encountered a penitent like Txili did in Lekeitio, Euskadi?
In centuries past, the fishermen of Lekeitio didn't have the national meteorological agency to tell them if the seas were fit to sail for their livelihood. There was a guard, whose name was Txili, who would go to a highpoint near the port to look at the sea in the early hours of the morning. He would decide if the seas, the skies, and the winds were favorable to the town's fisherfolk. At that time there were penitents who stopped to flagellate themselves before holy images inside the town and outside, along the roads. The guard was asked by his tavern friends if he wasn't scare to find himself alone with one in the middle of the night. Of course he wasn't. He wasn't scared of anything in the night, not even of the devil himself.
One night he was at his checkpoint, and saw a hulking, bony man dressed as a penitent come toward him. The penitent asked Txili if he would accompany him to a church with holy images on a nearby hill. Txili acquiesced and went with him.
They passed by several wayside images on the path to the hermitage, but the penitent did not stop to pray, rather quickened his step to be out of their shadow. That was not normal. Even those who were not penitents would stop to cross themselves and maybe offer up a short prayer. When they passed the chapel and the man didn't bother to look at it, Txili found the penitent's attitude even stranger and started to doubt himself and the giant dark figure striding at his side. Finally they reached the ruins of a chapel, which the stranger strode around, not daring to pass over what remained of the threshold. "Are you scared of me now?" the stranger asked Txili when he was finished and had come to stand before him.
Txili started to tremble and lowered his eyes. What he saw made him fly down the hill, the stranger pressing on him, and calling out, "What? Running? So now you are scared of me?" Txili reached the chapel, wrenched open the door, and flung himself inside, pressing against the altar. He could hear the penitent outside, stalking around the chapel, but not daring to enter the sacred space. "Damn you! You were mine!" the stranger thundered. After a few hours of snorting and pacing outside, a strong thwack was heard as something hit the door, and then all was silence as daybreak came. On the splintered door was the print of a clawed hand, and all around the chapel were the cloven hoofprints left by the hooves Txili had noticed on the penitent when he had looked down.
So, if you walk along the lanes at night, and notice a stranger pass by a wayside crucifix without bothering to make the Sign of the Cross, beware. Look down. If you see cloven hooves instead of human feet, run as if the devil were behind you. He is.
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