A FASCINATION WITH THE "KNOWN UNKNOWN" - WE LIKE TO FRIGHTEN OURSELVES, AND WHY IS THAT?
DOES OUR MIND REALLY PLAY TRICKS ON US, AND FOR WHAT PURPOSE IS THIS TRICKERY?
There are interesting times in all our lives, when we wake up after a little snooze, maybe at hearthside, at our work stations, or sitting out in the last warm sunshine of the fall season, and wonder momentarily, if what we had just been dreaming, was real, or just of sweet, romantic fiction. Did that beautiful lady in white kiss you on the cheek? Did that James Bond clone, really put his hand on your knee, and offer to take you off to the Casbah? There are many other occasions, when we awaken after being chased by some wild beast. You know the one, when it seems as if you are trying to run in waist-deep water, but the beast in pursuit, runs without resistance; and at about the precise second, when you expect to fall prey, and be eaten off-the-hoof, you snap wide awake, in a cold sweat, heart thumping in your chest. You survived. And then again, there are the daydreams, that we think we can control, but only partially. We like our curious dance with fiction, as projected by these near slumber, and full sleep encounters. We don't like nightmares, but the really neat dreams are worth falling asleep to restore. But it never happens exactly the same twice, which is the kind of variety most of us rather enjoy; and that's the trickery of the mind and memory, and of course, what you had before bedtime. If I eat anything with a trace amount of "curry" (how ironic eh?) within two hours of going to bed, I'm going to have a wild, wild night.
When I lived in the former home and medical office, of Dr. Peter McGibbon, on the main street of Bracebridge, which was a very haunted yet friendly dwelling place, I would hear the creaking stairs at the back of my second floor apartment, almost every night at around the same time. During this period of my residency, there was no one living in the attic, and no one else in that part of the house during the evenings. I could mindfully manufacture all kinds of malevolent beings, walking up and down those stairs, with hairy faces, fangs and horns, such that I would become so unsettled, it was infinitely better to just fall-off to sleep, and avoid all the surplus speculation. I got pretty good doing this, as a sort of preventative measure, to curtail conjuring up bad things. As you might expect, the leftover thoughts, then morphed into the dreamscape, and became even more dynamic and speculative, waking me up in the middle of the night, full of jagged anticipation. I still have dreams about the McGibbon House, as amalgamated with many other spirited residences in which I've dwelled, and I can expect them to return at least once a month. They seem pretty real. A similar number are about residences, but are so whacky, and the story-line so incredible, I don't wake up with a shiver. Instead, I awaken feeling that, if I could, I would kick my own ass for having eaten a danish as a bedtime snack. I blame food and beverage, taken at a late hour, for part of this dream animation.
The mind plays tricks all the time. Bet you can list the top ten that have dogged you, even in the past year. Actually putting a face to the person rustling the leaves on the walkway behind you, when in fact, there is no one present. Coming to believe there is someone at the door, because you can see a shadow moving, through the glass, only to find it's just the wind moving a tree bough across the beam of the street light. Someone calling out your name? Just your imagination, merging sounds to fit a feared situation, that possibly a spirit is trying to make a connection. In my experience, if a spirit wants to get your attention, they don't play around with your imagination to get the job done.
The curse of being a writer, and it's a big one, is that those of our ilk, in this well documented and portrayed (in characterizations in novels, on stage, and in the movies), ages-old profession, are never truly dislodged from the near-obsessive need to put something, anything, down in print. I quit writing for a couple of weeks, and it drives me nuts. I may not be a great, good, or even average writer, but God will never be able to chastise my Guardian Angel, that I didn't give my gift, if it was by divine intervention, a thorough work-out in this life.
Frankly, I think it's worse being a blogger, on this laptop contraption, because it is so much easier and convenient, than when I was working on a one hundred pound desk-model Underwood, that could have anchored the ship, "Lusitania". More convenience, obviously means greater, quicker access, with almost immediate exposure to a global audience; (what a turn-on for a starving artist) and this affords more time out of each hour, and more initiative, to devote myself to wordsmithing. There are a lot of bad, bad aspects to this, that feed the compulsive amongst us, including writing text a minute before, and a minute after sex. I'm pretty sure there are writers out there, authoring during sex, in order to capture the actuality of the moment; or two. If you happen to be an author who likes to write while in an intimate moment, gosh, you must have a really patient partner; or one just as questionable as you are. Whatever turns your crank. Point of all this lead-up, is to explain the fact, being a writer is a sort of addiction, without having to pay for the drugs. We get a buzz doing our work. Which is great, except it's hard to turn it off, when exhaustion sets in, and it does in many discernibly awkward ways. Like falling asleep during sex for one. Now there's a bummer. Go ahead, write about that one!
I go to bed each evening, and lay awake for at least a half hour, trying to come up with an idea for the next day's blog, or newspaper column. I will even ponder some ideas for a book project or serious short story. Is it any wonder then, I dream in story-lines, so intensely in fact, that even after I've been awoken by something or other, I will rejoin the same script, with some minor variations. My record is five back-to-back chapters, with the same theme and same characters. I'm told this is a little bit exceptional. I don't know. Just that it probably has something to do with the fact, I can't separate myself from authordom and civilian life, especially at bedtime. If my friends and family wonder why I talk so much, it's to give my head a break from thinking-up story-lines.
I am always looking for ideas to ramp-up a project, whether a feature article for the print media, or something online.
I had a dream a few years back, that I have never been able to dislodge from my recall. I've had an angel dream buried in my mind since about the age of five, and, as God must certainly be my witness, I never want to lose-it either. This one, well, I could live without. My life is crazy enough without this on the back burner. It was pretty nuts as dreams go, and involved my arrival at a mansion, that for purposes of comparison, seemed a reasonable likeness to Frank-N-Furter's abode, from the cult classic, "The Rocky Horror Picture Show." It was a night-time visit to dreamland, that was bathed in a strange misty yellow glow, that may, for me, have been a sensory perception, even in slumber, of Hollywood special affects. I watch a lot of television and old movies, and I often dream with a story-line that could be made into a movie. I've got an Alfred Hitchcock-Tim Burton perspective hitting together like those old amusement-park bumper cars.
In the extravagant story-line of this particular dream, I have to enter the house to meet with someone of great importance to the welfare of my career, although I forgot who this individual was, in the moments before fully crossing the threshold into sleep. I stood in the foyer of the place trying to figure out why I was there, and who I needed to visit. Someone with a wizard's conical shaped hat, decorated with gold moon shapes and pointed stars, handed me a chili-dog in a linen napkin. I could smell it, but thankfully I didn't try to taste it, or I might have gnawed Suzanne's ear off. Doesn't that make you mad when that happens. A dream with food but you never get to eat.
So I started wandering through this mansion, and by golly, it was like I imagine Tim Burton's place looks like. First of all, I have to explain, that with my TMJ affliction, which is a dysfunction of my jaw, with a compromise to a myriad of nerves, and has other strange spin-offs when aggravated, I will dream in technicolor like Joseph's famous coat. Vivid color. In this particular dreamscape, man oh man, the dazzling colors and wildly overlapping music, was making this one for the record books.
From the moment I entered, there were dozens of characters dressed like clowns, with white face and red noses, orange hair, yellow socks and big red shoes. There was carnival music playing, a merry-go-round in the parlor, and house-guests, and or residents, were juggling articles which looked a lot like glass ornaments; throwing them back and forth to each other, while I walked in between. Each door I passed through, had a different cast of characters, and their outfits changed from clown-wear, to what one would expect to be worn by a Victorian-era undertaker. In fact, there were two people I know, from our town, dressed in black period attire, with top hats, and were doing a little soft-shoe dance, without moving their upper bodies as if embalmed from the waist up. They were dancing to an organ recital given by another undertaker spinning occasionally on a stool, with a rabbit popping up and down from the top of his stove-pipe hat. I will never get this image out of my mind.
I walked quickly to another room, and there were ladies dressed in elaborate gowns, from the period of the mid 1700's, with white powdered hair, that I could even smell when I got close. There were ten or so men opposite the women, bowing to one another, engaged on the dance floor, but they all had the same face. Yes, it was someone I knew from our town. The music was being provided on a harpsichord by a skeleton also in period dress, with a powdered wig. I couldn't wait to get out of there, and in the next room, were some spent rock 'n rollers, sprawled on couches, with martini glasses in their hands, listening to Led Zeppelin on the phonograph. The room was totally adorned in 1970's circa decor, and there were record covers laying on the shag carpet, beneath an orange, cylindrical overhead light, suspended from a thick gold chain.
I must have been looking for a bathroom (I make the mistake of having too much tea before bedtime), because the next three or more rooms I entered, were designed this way, but were otherwise occupied by more strange characters. In the first bathroom, a giant of a man, with a tuxedo and bowler hat, was sitting on the toilet as if it was a chair. He had his long legs crossed, and was reading a comic book. There was a thin woman in a similar tuxedo, but with a top hat, sitting on the sink with a cocktail glass in her hand. The music was different than in other rooms of the house, this one being something reminiscent of "Pop Goes The Weasel." I think there may have been someone behind the shower curtain, playing with a jack-in-the-box, but I could only see the silhouette behind the curtain. I'm pretty sure the water was running because the steam was fogging up the big floor to forehead mirror in the corner. As I was walking out the door, in a hurry, the woman yelled to me, asking if I knew when the Punch and Judy Show was going to start. A passing clown, hit me on the shoulder, and when I turned, he pinched my nose, and handed me a bright red candy apple with a bite out of it, and a worm doing an Irish jig. You think this is crazy stuff. Hold onto your bowler hat!
In the connecting room, which was also a bathroom, there was a naked woman in a huge, huge iron clawed bathtub, with a sparse covering of bubbles, with a powerfully sweet, nostalgic, tantalizing aroma; and when I tried to get backtrack through the door, there were a myriad of slide locks snapping together behind me, without any one actually performing the task. The lady talked to me as if we were old friends, and that nakedness wasn't a big deal, but I didn't want to look at her, feeling quite embarrassed; which would have made my face beet red, and if the heat I felt on my face, even in deep sleep, was any indication, I was obviously super intimidated at that moment. I would discover later, that one of our cats, Zappa, had got into the bedroom and was nesting on my shoulder, and a corner of the pillow. I saw the naked woman clearly, even though I was dreaming the opposite; that I refused to turn my head in her direction. She wasn't beckoning me toward the tub. I wouldn't look her in the eyes, for fear she was going to hypnotize me with her stare. She just wanted to converse. I wanted to exit. I've never been very good talking to naked people. It would be easier for me to be naked talking to them, instead of the reverse.
I found another door that was open, and beat a hasty retreat while the woman carried on her bathroom chat. The adjoining room was also a bathroom, and in this one, there was a large naked man in another iron tub, wearing a peak cap, and the water from the faucet was overflowing the sides, turning into a significant cataract hitting the wood floor. My feet were getting wet. I remember yelling at him to shut off the tap, but he kept singing something Italian, or so it sounded, and when I tried to shut the water flow down, I felt the floor beginning to cave-in just behind me. This bathroom was falling apart, toward, what turned out to be, the front of the manor house, and the naked guy in the bathtub was already starting to move toward the collapsing front wall, as the plumbing was being pulled out of the wall beside me. I can remember watching the tub with its rider racing down the slanted floor, in a frothing wave of water, and right through the brick wall into the night air, for the rest of the flight to the ground. I should note, that it gave every appearance of being an upper floor room but I never recall having climbed-up a single stair.
The man in the tub hit the ground upright, in a tangle of copper plumbing, and I was clinging to some remnant of bathroom fixture, reasonably sure I was going to injure myself if I let go. I did eventually lose my grip, and came tumbling down across the now open front of the mansion, landing on the fellow in the tub, and sending a wave of water high into the prevailing moonlight, that for all intents and purposes, was instead, a theatre spot-light. The naked guy pushed me off of him, and I landed upright, rubbing my eyes, and looking at the carnage left behind. Now, the front of the house, with all its many rooms, were fully exposed, and all the carry-on (remember the Carry-On movies with Sid James) antics within, were clearly visible; and just as weird as they were, when I had visited them earlier, during my happenstance walking tour.
I remember standing, hands on hips, looking up at the bizarre compartmentised scenes, watching clowns and undertakers, the naked lady, and the large man in the bowler, toilet-dancing in the upper chamber, and thinking to myself, I must never again, drink tea so close to going to bed. If I had to caption this dream something, if for example, I was going to eventually write a book about it, the words "Carnival," "Circus" and "Nightmare" would have to be somehow represented. The fact there was no front wall on the house, made no difference to all the other odd characters inside, and when I looked once more, the naked man was running down the cobbled lane, his white powdered butt cheeks looking like two disconnected, wobbling ham roasts, gyrating in the brilliant beam of moonlight, shining down on this whacko panorama. Which, if it had any relation to my conscious self, was probably the harbinger to let me know, of more whacky stuff to come before, retiring from this mortal coil.
I wonder, and I know this is crazy to even thing, if Washington Irving ever had dreams that he turned into stories, such as "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow?" Here now, after this rather unique opening, is part two of Irving's famous tale. Bracebridge, Ontario, to reiterate, was named after Irving's book, "Bracebridge Hall," in the year 1864. Each Hallowe'en I like to run this story, for the benefit of those who find it interesting literary provenance, to have a South Muskoka community, with so much in common with an internationally recognized author, and some of the best known fictional characters ever composed.
From the Archives, Part 2 Legend Of Sleepy Hollow
"AS ICHABOD APPROACHED THIS FEARFUL (TULIP) TREE, HE BEGAN TO WHISTLE; HE THOUGHT HIS WHISTLE WAS ANSWERED; IT WAS BUT A BLAST SWEEPING SHARPLY THROUGH THE DRY BRANCHES. AS HE APPROACHED A LITTLE NEARER, HE THOUGHT HE SAW SOMETHING WHITE HANGING IN THE MIDST OF THE TREE; HE PAUSED, AND CEASED WHISTLING; BUT ON LOOKING MORE NARROWLY, PERCEIVED THAT IT WAS A PLACE WHERE THE TREE HAD BEEN SCATHED BY LIGHTNING, AND THE WHITE WOOD LAID BARE. SUDDENLY HE HEARD A GROAN - HIS TEETH CHATTERED AND HIS KNEES SMOTE AGAINST THE SADDLE; IT WAS BUT THE RUBBING OF SOME HUGE BOUGH UPON ANOTHER, AS THEY WERE SWAYED ABOUT BY THE BREEZE. HE PASSED THE TREE IN SAFETY, BUT NEW PERILS LAY BEFORE HIM," WROTE WASHINGTON IN "THE SKETCH BOOK," PUBLISHED IN 1819; THE STORY OF COURSE, IS "THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW."
THE TOWN OF BRACEBRIDGE, ONTARIO, WAS NAMED OUT OF RESPECT FOR WASHINGTON IRVING'S SECOND BOOK OF SKETCHES, IN THE 1820'S, KNOWN THEN AS "BRACEBRIDGE HALL." IT WAS IN 1864 THAT CANADIAN POSTAL OFFICIAL, WILLIAM DAWSON LESUEUR, NAMED THE TOWN OF BRACEBRIDGE, ONTARIO, AFTER IRVING'S INTERNATIONALLY RESPECTED BOOK. IF YOU MISSED THE FIRST TWO COLUMNS IN THIS SHORT SERIES, YOU CAN ARCHIVE BACK TO MONDAY'S BLOG. BEING NAMED AFTER THE WORK OF WASHINGTON IRVING, WAS INTENDED BY LESUEUR, TO BE A MEMORIAL HONOR TO THE AMERICAN WRITER, WHO HAD DIED SOME YEARS EARLIER. IT WAS LIKELY THAT NEW RELEASES OF HIS BOOKS, AFTER HIS DEATH, WOUND UP ON LESUEUR'S DESK, AS ONE OF OUR COUNTRY'S UP AND COMING LITERARY CRITICS. WHEN ASSOCIATE HISTORIANS, IN THE PAST, HAVE WRITTEN THAT "HE NAMED BRACEBRIDGE AFTER THE TITLE OF A BOOK HE WAS READING AT THE TIME," THEY OF COURSE, WERE CORRECT TO ASSUME THIS.....BUT THEY FAILED TO EXPLAIN WHY. LESUEUR WENT ON TO BECOME WELL KNOWN AS A LITERARY CRITIC, WITH REVIEWS PUBLISHED IN SOME OF THE MOST INFLUENTIAL PERIODICALS IN NORTH AMERICA; WHILE AT THE SAME TIME, DUTIFULLY BECOMING A SIGNIFICANT CANADIAN HISTORIAN. HIS DAY JOB, IN PART, INVOLVED NAMING HAMLET POST OFFICES THROUGHOUT CANADA.
THE TOWN OF BRACEBRIDGE HAS KNOWN FOR LONG AND LONG, ABOUT THIS IMPORTANT LITERARY CONNECTION, BUT HAS GENERALLY SHOWN LITTLE INTEREST IN DEVELOPING THE CONNECTION MORE FULLY. THIS I OFFERED THEM AT THE TURN OF THE NEW CENTURY, AS A LINK BETWEEN THE TOWN, AND THE IRVING MUSEUM, AT SUNNYSIDE, IN NEW YORK; SOMETHING I HAD ARRANGED PERSONALLY, AND AS AN EXTRA MEASURE, EVEN WROTE A SMALL BOOK ABOUT THE EXCITING, UNDER-UTILIZED RELATIONSHIP. THIS DIDN'T EXCITE THEM EITHER. OUR FAMILY EVEN WENT TO THE EXTENT OF HAVING A SMALL MUSEUM QUALITY EXHIBIT, OF WASHINGTON IRVING - WILLIAM DAWSON LESUEUR MATERIALS, (VISUALS) AVAILABLE FOR VIEWING, IN THE AUDITORIUM OF THE BRACEBRIDGE UNITED CHURCH....AT CHRISTMAS, AS A BOLSTER TO THE IDEA OF PROMOTING "BRACERBRIDGE HALL." THERE IS AN OUTSTANDING REFERENCE TO CHRISTMAS CELEBRATIONS, AT BRACEBRIDGE HALL, CONTAINED IN THIS BOOK, OF WHICH THE TOWN HAD THE RIGHTS OF PROVENANCE, TO FULLY EXPLOIT THE CONNECTION TO ONE OF THE WORLD'S BEST KNOWN AUTHORS. THERE HAVE BEEN BRACEBRIDGE HALL DINNERS IN THE PAST, BUT NOTHING THAT WOULD CONSTITUTE THE SEEDING OF A TRADITION. I THINK THIS HAS BEEN A TERRIBLE MISSED OPPORTUNITY, AND I REFLECT THIS EDITORIALLY WHENEVER I'M AFFORDED AN OPPORTUNITY.
AS FOR "THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW," IT WOULD BE A WONDERFUL OPPORTUNITY FOR THE BRACEBRIDGE BUSINESS COMMUNITY, AND AREA PUBLIC SCHOOLS, TO HAVE ADOPTED A WEEK LONG HALLOWEEN FESTIVAL, HONORING THE AUTHOR OF ONE OF THE BEST KNOWN STORIES OF THE PARANORMAL EVER WRITTEN......AND CELEBRATE THE PROVENANCE THEY WERE GIVEN BY ONE OF CANADA'S LEADING LITERARY REVIEWERS OF THE TIME. BUT JUST BECAUSE IT HASN'T BEEN EMBRACED, DOESN'T STOP A BLOGGER LIKE ME, FROM PRESENTING THE STORY, ABRIDGED AS IT MUST BE, FOR PURPOSES OF THIS BLOG. IT'S FOR READERS WHO LOVE OUR MUSKOKA LIFESTYLE STRAIGHT-UP......HISTORY ENJOYED FOR WHAT IT HAS BEEN, AND WHAT IT HAS MEANT EVER SINCE. I STILL REGRET THAT WILLIAM DAWSON LESUEUR HADN'T INCLUDED A WEE NOTE, BACK TO THE TOWN, IN AUGUST 1864, EXPLAINING WHY HE FELT THIS MEMORIAL TRIBUTE, WAS IMPORTANT TO THE FLEDGLING TOWN, BUILT ON THE EMBANKMENT OF THE MUSKOKA RIVER. BOY OH BOY, WOULD THAT HAVE BEEN EASIER TO WORK WITH, THAN THE COLD SELL TODAY.
"ABOUT TWO HUNDRED YARDS FROM THE TREE, A SMALL BROOK CROSSED THE ROAD, AND RAN INTO A MARSHY AND THICKLY-WOODED GLEN, KNOWN BY THE NAME 'WILEY'S SWAMP'. A FEW ROUGH LOGS, LAID SIDE BY SIDE, SERVED FOR A BRIDGE OVER THIS STREAM. ON THAT SIDE OF THE ROAD WHERE THE BROOK ENTERED THE WOOD, A GROUP OF OAKS AND CHESTNUTS MATTED THICK WITH WILD GRAPE-VINES, THREW A CAVERNOUS GLOOM OVER IT. TO PASS THIS BRIDGE, WAS THE SEVERIST TRIAL. IT WAS AT THIS IDENTICAL SPOT THAT THE UNFORTUNATE (MAJOR) ANDRE WAS CAPTURED, AND UNDER THE COVERT OF THOSE CHESTNUTS AND VINES WERE THE STURDY YEOMEN CONCEALED WHO SURPRISED HIM. THIS HAS EVER SINCE BEEN CONSIDERED A HAUNTED STREAM, AND FEARFUL ARE THE FEELINGS OF A SCHOOL-BOY, WHO HAS TO PASS IT ALONE AFTER DARK," WROTE IRVING.
"AS HE APPROACHED THE STREAM HIS HEART BEGAN TO THUMP; HE SUMMONED UP, HOWEVER, ALL HIS RESOLUTION, GAVE HIS HORSE HALF A SCORE OF KICKS IN THE RIBS, AND ATTEMPTED TO DASH BRISKLY ACROSS THE BRIDGE; BUT INSTEAD OF STARTING FORWARD, THE PERVERSE OLD ANIMAL MADE A LATERAL MOVEMENT, AND RAN BROADSIDE AGAINST THE FENCE. ICHABOD, WHOSE FEARS INCREASED WITH THE DELAY, JERKED THE REINS ON THE OTHER SIDE, AND KICKED LUSTILY WITH THE CONTRARY FOOT; IT WAS ALL IN VAIN; HIS STEED STARTED, IT IS TRUE, BUT IT WAS ONLY TO PLUNGE TO THE OPPOSITE SIDE OF THE ROAD INTO A THICKET OF BRAMBLES AND ALDER-BUSHES. THE SCHOOLMASTER NOW BESTOWED BOTH WHIP AND HEEL UPON THE STARVELING RIBS OF OLD GUNPOWDER, WHO DASHED FORWARDS, SNUFLING AND SNORTING, BUT CAME TO A STAND JUST BY THE BRIDGE, WITH A SUDDENNESS THAT HAD NEARLY SENT HIS RIDER SPRAWLING OVER HIS HEAD. JUST AT THIS MOMENT A PLASH TRAMP BY THE SIDE OF THE BRIDGE, CAUGHT THE SENSITIVE EAR OF ICHABOD. IN THE DARK SHADOW OF THE GROVE, ON THE MARGIN OF THE BROOK, HE BEHELD SOMETHING HUGE, MISSHAPEN, BLACK AND TOWERING. IT STIRRED NOT, BUT SEEMED GATHERED UP IN THE GLOOM LIKE SOME GIGANTIC MONSTER READY TO SPRING UPON THE TRAVELLER."
THE SKETCH BOOK ACCOUNT, OF ICABOD'S FATEFUL NIGHT, CONTINUES: "THE HAIR OF THE AFFRIGHTED PEDAGOGUE ROSE UPON HIS HEAD WITH TERROR. WHAT WAS TO BE DONE? TO TURN AND FLY WAS NOW TOO LATE; AND BESIDES, WHAT CHANCE WAS THERE OF ESCAPING GHOST OR GOBLIN, IF SUCH IT WAS, WHICH COULD RIDE UPON THE WINGS OF THE WIND? SUMMONING UP, THEREFORE, A SHOW OF COURAGE, HE DEMANDED IN STAMMERING ACCENTS, 'WHO ARE YOU?' HE RECEIVED NO REPLY. HE REPEATED HIS DEMAND IN A STILL MORE AGITATED VOICE. STILL THERE WAS NO ANSWER. ONCE MORE HE CUDGELLED THE SIDES OF THE INFLEXIBLE GUNPOWDER, AND SHUTTING HIS EYES, BROKE FORTH WITH INVOLUNTARY FERVOUR, INTO A PSALM TUNE. JUST THEN THE SHADOWY OBJECT OF ALARM PUT ITSELF IN MOTION, AND WITH A SCRAMBLE AND A BOUND, STOOD AT ONCE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD. THOUGH THE NIGHT WAS DARK AND DISMAL, YET THE FORM OF THE UNKNOWN MIGHT NOW IN SOME DEGREE, BE ASCERTAINED. HE APPEARED TO BE A HORSEMAN OF LARGE DIMENSIONS AND MOUNTED ON A BLACK HORSE OF POWERFUL FRAME. HE MADE NO OFFER OF MOLESTATION OR SOCIABILITY, BUT KEPT ALOOF ON ONE SIDE OF THE ROAD, JOGGING ALONG ON THE BLIND SIDE OF OLD GUNPOWDER, WHO HAD NOW GOT OVER HIS FRIGHT AND WAYWARDNESS."
EVERY ONE OF US, AT SOME POINT IN OUR LIFE'S JOURNEY, HAS FOUND OURSELVES IN A SIMILARLY UNSETTLING SITUATION, AS THE GOOD MR. CRANE. MAYBE WE HAVE COME UPON SOMETHING WE MIGHT HAVE BELIEVED TO BE AN APPARITION, HOVERING IN A DOORWAY; OR WITNESSED WHAT APPEARED TO BE A VICTORIAN WOMAN, WALKING THROUGH A LOCAL CEMETERY, SUDDENLY VANISHING INTO THIN AIR, UPON YOUR APPROACH.....SUCH THAT ONE QUESTIONS THE SENSES. MAYBE IT WAS THE CASE WE WERE FRIGHTENED, WHILE ON A PASSIVE COUNTRYSIDE HIKE, WHEN WE HEARD AN ANIMAL THRASHING IN THE UNDERBRUSH, FEARING THAT A BEAR MIGHT BE FLEXING FOR AN ATTACK. THINGS THAT GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT, UNSETTLE THE NERVES, AND ENGAGE OUR IMAGINATIONS.
I WAS IN SUCH A SITUATION ONCE, WHEN ON MY WAY HOME, ON A MIDNIGHT HIKE, TO A COTTAGE LOCATED ON THE EXTENSION OF BEAUMONT DRIVE, IN BRACEBRIDGE, I WAS STOPPED AT THE INTERSECTION TO KIRBY'S BEACH, BY THE STRANGE APPEARANCE OF A WOLF. ONLY ONE THANKFULLY. I HAD NO WEAPON TO THWART AN ATTACK EXCEPT MY BARE HANDS. THERE WERE NO NEARBY RESIDENCES TO SEEK ASSISTANCE, AND YELLING WOULD HAVE SERVED LITTLE PURPOSE, AT THAT POINT, OTHER THAN TO POSSIBLY, BUT NOT LIKELY, SCARE OFF THE LONE WOLF. THERE WAS ENOUGH MOONLIGHT, TO SEE THE ANIMAL CLEARLY, STANDING IN MY WAY. IT GROWLED, BARED ITS TEETCH, AND BEGAN TO MOVE AROUND ME, BUT NEVER TRIED TO CLOSE THE DISTANCE BETWEEN US. I MOVED IN THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION, SO THAT I EVENTUALLY GAINED OPEN ROAD TO THE BEAUMONT FARM, LESS THAN HALF A KILOMETRE WEST. THE WOLF, OF SUBSTANTIAL SIZE AND WEIGHT, NEVER TOOK ITS EYES OFF ME, AND I NEVER LOST MY PERSPECTIVE EITHER. AFTER A MINUTE OR SO OF SHIFTING LOCATIONS, THE WOLF STOOD WHERE I HAD BEGUN THE SHOWDOWN, AND I WAS NOW UNOBSTRUCTED ON MY ESCAPE ROUTE. I KNEW IT WAS POINTLESS TO ATTEMPT TO OUTRUN THE WOLF, SO I JUST CONTINUED TO ACT INDIFFERENT, SHOWING NO SIGNS OF FEAR. I WAS SCARED TO DEATH HOWEVER, BECAUSE I WAS SURE OTHER WOLVES WERE IN THE VICINITY. WE STOOD STARING EYE TO EYE, AND WITHOUT WARNING, THE ANIMAL MADE WHAT APPEARED TO BE A LUNGE FORWARD, SENDING ME BACK, AND THEN IN THE SAME SUCCESSION OF MOVEMENTS, TURNED AWAY ALMOST AS IF IT HAD BEEN SCARED AWAY BY SOMETHING ELSE. POSSIBLY MY GUARDIAN ANGEL THWACKED IT ON THE END OF ITS NOSE. I DON'T KNOW, BUT I RAN ALL THE WAY HOME AFTER THAT ENCOUNTER. SO HOW ABOUT YOU? DO REMEMBER TIMES WHEN, ALL OF A SUDDEN, YOUR SENSE OF SECURITY AND NORMALCY WAS SHATTERED, BY SOME UNEXPECTED, UNEXPLAINED INTERVENTION....BENIGN OR OF SOME PARANORMAL QUALITY, NEVER FULLY EXPLAINED? MOST CAN BE EXPLAINED. SOME REMAIN LIFE-LONG MYSTERIES.
"ICHABOD, WHO HAD NO RELISH FOR THIS STRANGE MIDNIGHT COMPANION, AND BETHOUGHT HIMSELF OF THE ADVENTURE OF BROM BONES, WITH THE GALLOPING HESSIAN, NOW QUICKENED HIS STEED IN HOPES OF LEAVING HIM BEHIND." WRITES IRVING OF MR. CRANE'S EXIT FROM WHAT HE BELIEVED WAS IMMINENT PERIL. "THE STRANGER HOWEVER, QUIKENED HIS HORSE TO AN EQUAL PACE. ICHABOD PULLED UP, AND FELL INTO A WALK, THINKING TO LAG BEHIND - THE OTHER DID THE SAME. HIS HEART BEGAN TO SINK WITHIN HIM; HE ENDEAVOURED TO RESUME HIS PSALM TUNE, BUT HIS PARCHED TONGUE CLOVE TO THE ROOF OF HIS MOUTH, AND HE COULD NOT UTTER A STAVE. THERE WAS SOMETHING IN THE MOODY AND DOGGED SILENCE OF HIS PERTINACIOUS COMPANION THAT WAS MYSTERIOUS, AND APPALLING. IT WAS SOON FEARFULLY ACCOUNTED FOR. ON MOUNTING A RISING GROUND WHICH BROUGHT THE FIGURE OF HIS FELLOW-TRAVELLER IN RELIEF AGAINST THE SKY, GIGANTIC IN HEIGHT, AND MUFFLED IN A CLOAK. ICHABOD WAS HORROR-STRUCK, ON PERCEIVING THAT HE WAS HEADLESS, BUT HIS HORROR WAS STILL MORE INCREASED, ON OBSERVING THE HEAD, WHICH SHOULD HAVE RESTED ON HIS SHOULDERS, WAS CARRIED BEFORE HIM ON THE POMMEL OF HIS SADLE! HIS TERROR ROSE TO DESPARATION; HE RAINED A SHOWER OF KICKS AND BLOWS UPON GUNPOWDER, HOPING, BY A SUDDEN MOVEMENT, TO GIVE HIS COMPANION THE SLIP - BUT THE SPECTRE STARTED A FULL JUMP WITH HIM. AWAY, THEN, THEY DASHED THROUGH THICK AND THIN; STONES FLYING AND SPARKS FLASHING AT EVERY BOUND. ICHABOD'S FLIMSY GARMENTS FLUTTERED OVER HIS HORSE'S HEAD, IN THE EAGERNESS OF HIS FLIGHT.
"THEY HAD NOW REACHED THE ROAD WHICH TURNS OFF TO SLEEPY HOLLOW; BUT GUNPOWDER, WHO SEEMED POSSESSED WITH A DEMON, INSTEAD OF KEEPING UP, MADE AN OPPOSITE TURN, AND PLUNGED HEADLONG DOWN HILL TO THE LEFT. THIS ROAD LEADS THROUGH A SANDY HOLLOW, SHADED BY TREES FOR ABOUT A QUARTER OF A MILE, WHERE IT CROSSES THE BRIDGE FAMOUS IN GOBLIN STORY; AND JUST BEYOND THE SWELL, THE GREEN KNOLL, ON WHICH STANDS THE WHITEWASHED CHURCH.
"AS YET THE PANIC OF THE STEED HAD GIVEN HIS UNSKILLFUL RIDER AN APPARENT ADVANTAGE IN THE CHASE; BUT JUST AS HE HAD GOT HALFWAY THROUGH THE HOLLOW, THE GIRTHS OF THE SADDLE GAVE WAY, AND HE FELT IT SLIPPING FROM UNDER HIM. HE SEIZED IT BY THE POMMEL AND ENDEAVOURED TO HOLD IT FIRM, BUT IN VAIN; AND HAD JUST TIME TO SAVE HIMSELF BY CLASPING OLD GUNPOWDER ROUND THE NECK, WHEN THE SADDLE FELL TO THE EARTH, AND HE HEARD IT TRAMPLED UNDER FOOT BY HIS PURSUER. FOR A MOMENT OF TERROR OF HANS VAN RIPPER'S WRATH, PASSED ACROSS HIS MIND - FOR IT WAS HIS SUNDAY SADDLE; BUT THIS WAS NO TIME FOR PETTY FEARS; THE GOBLIN WAS HARD ON HIS HAUNCHES; AND UNSKILLED RIDER THAT HE WAS, HE HAD MUCH ADO TO MAINTAIN HIS SEAT; SOMETIMES SLIPPING ON ONE SIDE, SOMETIMES TO ANOTHER, AND SOMETIMES, JOLTED ON THE HIGH RIDGE OF HIS HORSE'S BACKBONE, WITH A VIOLENCE THAT HE VERILY FEARED WOULD CLEAVE HIM ASUNDER."
PLEASE REJOIN THE STORY OF ICHABOD CRANE, AND HIS TERROR-FILLED RIDE FROM THE MENANCE OF THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN, IN TOMORROW'S PART THREE OF "THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW."
THANKS SO MUCH FOR KEEPING ME COMPANY. THERE'S MUCH MORE TO COME.
HAPPY HALLOWEEN.
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