Echoes of the Past

by Sage Gregory (United States of America)

A leap into the unknown Ireland

“Thank you miss,” he says, pocketing the change. “Be back to pick you up at nine.” His pinky jabs at the illuminated red of the car's digital clock. I nod, though he doesn’t wait long enough for affirmation. The glow of the half-faded ‘taxi’ sign rushes into the trees. I pull my hood down. The dark rain-heavy clouds begin to disperse, an odd occurrence for Belfast. Usually rain clouds linger long enough to make their presence known. I hitch my sliding bag up higher onto my shoulders, the straps loosening from the weight of it. Hands clench, unclench. A nervous smile tugs the corner of my mouth up, up towards the rising moon. Giant’s Ring stands just as it has for thousands of years. It’s dark, weathered stones find themselves in the midst of another circle. The Irish Order of the Thelema, hands interlocked, crowded around the neolithic tomb. I had been anxious about this moment. This moment where my harmless albeit wild imagination met reality. A reality that flirted the line between actuality and fiction. But this is not a story about comfort. The words they speak carry, the wind playing messenger and delivering to me only a segment. Like a tune without lyrics. From my spot on the hill I cannot make out their words, though the drone of their voices are clear. Their inflections, laced with reverence, speak of prayer. They sway, hands together, heads thrown back, eyes wide. They do not miss one moment of wonder, their eyes carefully mapping the clouds departure and the clearly visible moon, though it is not yet sundown, and will not be for hours. The Midsummer daylight lingering long after its time. They pray with eyes open. I do not know why I find this beautiful. But this is not a story about discovery. I begin to eat the snack I brought, forming prayers of my own, thanking the Irish for their strawberries, smaller yet infinitely sweeter than any grown on American soil. I eat them as I watch, green tips and all. The clearing has taken on a feeling almost palpable in its strength. I watch in puzzled thought as the Order forms a line of billowing cloth and awkward limbs, drums strapped to bulging torsos. The head of the line, a man adorned in the antlers of a stag, begins the chant that is quick to spread to the other occupants. “Life, light, love, liberty,” he says, the twin drums ringing out after the hard ‘r’ of his ‘liberty’. His accent isn’t Belfast, perhaps Donegal or Dublin. Anticipation. That is the feeling. I can taste it. Anticipation in every mouthful, mingling with the red of the strawberries’ juices. I glance around the circle again, wondering if anyone else has noticed. Still just me. But this is not a story about loneliness. The antlered man prances in and out of the stone structure; he walks this way and that, stopping in front of a single girl. Her medieval dress contrasts with her contemporary tattoos. It is a beautiful contradiction– the blending of two ages. In this moment I can imagine, without much difficulty, that these two beings are divine. Though I watch it now with my own eyes, I do not feel that I belong. But this is not a story about acceptance. I hear the rustle of the branches from the trees behind me as the wind plays among their boughs, the smell of the pine in my lungs a testament to their love affair. The warmth of the taxi’s central heating contrasts with the ever colder wind, my glasses instantly fogging in protest. “How’d your boys play?” I ask. The words taste funny on my tongue. “Lost to Poland. We’re not a strong a team as we could be, pity that,” he says. The taxi’s wipers war against the beginnings of a shower, the streetlights distorted in the small rain droplets. I leave my hood down.