Goblins on Skye!

The heavens did open up and pour but I slipped on a skirt, dabbed on a bit of make-up--not too much I was thinking, the Skye folk who invited me for cider and bonfire may be somewhat earthy and did I want to look like an American floozy on first meeting?--and through the deluge I drove the two miles to the 1702 House on the Glen, next to the ancient Skeabost Bridge. I usually walk the old drovers path to this spot and have wanted to see the house, not knowing I had already been trading e-mails with the owner of the mysterious dwelling. There was also mention of a pig's head, which made me a bit nervous, vegetarian and all...

I saw no bonfire and was somewhat dismayed because I was assured this would happen even in the sod and soggy night and it was my landmark. It appeared I had reached the right abode when a young monk clad in brown habit opened the door and seemed to recognize me, calling me "Foofy", referring to my e-mail address. I was brought a cup of highly boozy Steaming Bishop (say that five times), amidst the raucous flurry of two teenaged Blues Brothers and a couple of masked and hairy ghosts. The atmosphere was enveloped by a bellowing Tim Curry humping out his declaration, "...cuz I'm a uh! trans-vestite-from Transylva-a-nnnyaa-a-a-a!" Oh dear, why didn't she tell me it's a belated All Hallow's Eve party? was all I could think momentarily. On second thought, Guy Fawkes rambled through my mind--dismissed, with no evidence of an effigy. Bonfire Night--of course!--with overtures of Hallow E'en for tardy revelers.

After what seemed like several trainloads of enchanted teen girls gliding down the bedeviled staircase, and a friendly encounter with a beguiling older monk resembling the younger, and a longer exchange on the sofa with an Englishman as ignorant as I was on the party theme, the wild black and oranged hostess tumbled down the stairs into the decadent candle-lit room and recognized me for what I was--the only American in the room, looking like a wet blanket in normal duds and ironically too little make-up for this crowd--what was I thinking!

I was chatted up by a Blues Brother who insisted he was a twenty-five-year-old writer and I spent a half-hour with this fifteen-year old enjoying the repartee, happy I could keep out of the wandering flood of painted people who all looked a bit lost and resurrected from the vasty deep. I'm not a lover of parties, where I usually end up talking to someone as happy as I am to endure the alcohol-induced madness from a corner.

With Rocky Horror Picture Show blasting through the darkened and ravaged building, I meandered out into the unsubdued rainfall to find the bonfire, where I expected apparitions to more naturally arise. The blaze brought me into contact with ghoulish grimaces and deathly shrouds, and I imagined? incantations of weird sisters, howls from the waving trees and prophesies from water spirits crying out from the nearby maniacal River Skeabost--"...you shall come to me..."--and I felt fingers on me and they convulsed with spectral delight of flesh to be had.

  I somehow made my way to the room where I might find food and looked suspiciously upon something that looked like pumpkin pie. "Haaa-ve some pie," a whispered inducement blew into my ear, and with wide pupils staring intently at the offering, I could only mutter, "It doesn't have pig's head, does it?"

 I did find the ill-fated pig sans body as I was grabbing for some gory licorice treats, and I photographed his mutilated remains out of respect for his demise and  posterity.



Later, a man without his mask was looking almost normal as he ate his chili. He looked down at me and grinned weirdly: "Welcome to Skye!"