Echoes in a Hollow Space

Conseil Tenu par les Rats by Gustave Doré

Rat magic and first world problems

My third, and mostly successful, extermination company came to the house last week. They had to reinforce some of the extensive anti-rat measures they did last June to seal the house from intruders. That previous round of prevention seemed to have worked pretty well. It didn’t appear that I had lost any more appliances, anyway. Through chewing hoses and what-like, the rats had taken out my washer six times, my refrigerator water hoses twice, completely ruined the fairly new dishwasher so it can’t be fixed, and stolen insulation from my antique stove. All that seemed to cease, as I said, after the rat men did their thing last June. Then the furnace man showed up after the rat men left. During the summer when I wasn’t using heat, the rats had chewed holes through all the ducts and built nests—which is why I kept smelling something burning and can’t now use the furnace because of fire danger. I have no heat until the furnace crew comes to replace ducts on Saturday. It’s the busy season for heating folk and they’re working overtime to fit me in. Which I’m paying for, of course.

We didn’t used to live in the state of rat siege I’ve experienced in the last couple of years. I didn’t think it had anything to do with magic, but now I’m thinking maybe it did. Rat magic? Spirit of place magic? The magic of persistent and smart vermin and the spells to counter them. Or maybe the magic of my missing mother who died almost two years ago. She said the first time she stepped into this house it welcomed her with open arms. She knew she was home. I believe that. I truly think the house loved her. We had rats when she was alive, but nothing like this deluge and we never lost any appliances to them. My mama had her some powerful mojo, I tells you.

I’ve tried the magic of plugging holes with wire mess and solid metal, the magic of rat traps, the magic of cayenne pepper dumped down their holes and liquefied to spray on appliance hoses and the surfaces they frequent, the magic of poison, and now I’ve experienced the magic of my third round of mesh and metal and traps. These vermin are also partial to building rat nests in my bookshelves, consisting of my books and notebooks, taking over my art and craft cabinets–there’s a metaphor I don’t wish to examine too closely. I make sure I lock up every scrap of food at night, which cheeses off the cat. She liked snacking at night. I told her since she decided to retire from mousing, those were the breaks.

Before that second round of anti-ratting seemed to save my appliances, I felt pretty desperate. I decided I had nothing left to lose and I’d try some more conventional magic—spells and charms and the like. If nothing else, it was something to make me feel less helpless. Interestingly, rat spells are sparse, at least on the on the internet and in the books on magic I have. Our ancestors probably recognized the futility of trying to get rid of these insistent, persistent, adaptable rodents. I found one candle spell; an ancient Christian amulet which I talked about here; a few references to putting mummified cats in crawl spaces and building foundations to ward off the beasties. One of the more passive aggressive techniques I found entailed writing letters to the rats stating that the eating was much better at the neighbors’ houses and they should go there and leave (my) house alone. The letters are then stuffed down the rat holes. As any fan of Outlander can tell you, this is reminiscent of the Scottish tradition of “rat satires,” improvised songs indicating that they should leave the house alone and go to the neighbors.

I am not passive aggressive by nature, nor did I wish to mummify my cat or any other cat, and I felt I needed something quicker than making an amulet. I decided to do the candle spell.

My experience with the spell

I mentioned that I was desperate and wanted something quick, right? The spell had to begin on the night of the full moon at moonrise—and the day I found it was the full moon. I didn’t want to wait another month so decided to use what I had around the house. It called for yellow candles and the only yellow candles I had were about three inches long. You were supposed to run the spell for two hours every night until the candles burnt up. The ones I had probably wouldn’t make it through the first night, but I thought it better than nothing. (First corner cut.) The spell called for a sprig of heather so I confidently went into the front yard and only then realized the gardener had pulled up the heather bush. I quickly looked up the magic properties of heather and realized rosemary had many of the same, so I cut a sprig off my rosemary bush. (Second corner cut.) Moonrise was late that night and I had to get up at 5:45 the next morning for work, so I started the ritual early. (Third corner cut.) About 45 minutes into the ritual, the rats started making an unusual amount of noise in their favorite room, the one where I keep my birds. In general, their behavior was much louder and more aggressive that night. One of them got up on the fridge and scooted down the face of it, knocking off one of the magnets. My magnet portraying the three faces of Hecate. Most of the candles from my ritual burned out after about 90 minutes, but one brave little flame burned on. Just shy of the two hour mark the candleholder for that brave little flame spontaneously shattered.

Between the raucous behavior of the rats, the cracked glass, and the Hecate magnet I had a strong suspicion the Universe was telling me something. Maybe to do the ritual the proper way next time. Or maybe Hecate and the rat gods were saying, “I hate dabblers.” I rather thought it the latter. I’ve long maintained that dabbling is a dangerous practice, but I had set aside my principles that night in frustration. Henceforth, I’ve decided it would be better to take my own—and Hecate’s and the rat gods advice—and leave the magic to those who know what they’re doing.

The rat siege continues, though it has abated somewhat. I accept that it will continue. Nature always finds a way in where humans wish to keep it out—no magic about that. After all, the rats consider this their home as well. Maybe instead of fighting them I should try propitiating the rat gods? Or maybe the spirit of place, to see if the house will help me as it did my mother.

1/31/19 - Edited to add: None of the traps the exterminators used helped and the rats which had been sealed into the house by the exterminators thrived and were taking over. They were literally running across the living room every night as I watched TV and continuing to do much damage. I was finally forced to buy "JT Eaton 709-PN Bait Block Rodenticide Anticoagulant Bait, Peanut Butter Flavor, For Mice and Rats" from Amazon and scatter the blocks throughout the house and attic. It took about a month, and some unpleasantness—and yes, guilt on my part—but the problem finally abated.

 

Mirrored from Better Than Dead.

El Santuario de Chimayo

I’ve long been fascinated by places of pilgrimage, about the spirit of a place that inspires ordinary people to leave the familiar and embark upon an arduous quest. One such place is El Santuario de Chimayo in New Mexico. I’ve wanted to visit it for a long time. I haven’t made it there yet, but a friend recently made the trip and brought me back some holy dirt.

You see, this tiny church, located between Taos and Santa Fe, has long had a reputation for its miraculous healing dirt. Its walls are lined with crutches, Lourdes-style, and letters from people who claim to have used the dirt dug out of its sacristy to cure their ailments. Most rub it on affected areas and say prayers, though some are said to ingest it. The church discourages this practice and remains neutral on the question of healing. Yet still the pilgrims come. Unlike many other places of pilgrimage, El Santuario hasn’t replaced its sweet, simple church with a grand cathedral, which is one of the reasons I’ve wanted to go there. Tens of thousands of people each year make the trek, some walking during Holy Week from Taos or Santa Fe or even Albuquerque as an act of penitence and devotion, payback for answered prayers, or seeking blessings. Some are said to make part of the walk on their knees in a more extreme act of devotion.

The dirt comes from a tiny well, call el pocito, and the thing is…it’s got to be refilled periodically from the nearby hills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains because so many people come to scoop it out of the well: an estimated 25 to 30 tons a year. The pilgrims know this—the church doesn’t seek to hide it—and believe in the dirt’s power anyway.

El pocito, Chimayo

My friend, knowing my interest, brought a plastic baggie of it to me. I mean no disrespect by calling it holy dirt—the church itself refers to it that way on its website, where you can buy folk art and receptacles to hold it. The dirt itself is very fine grain and reddish-brown, containing tiny pebbles, and resembles nothing so much as brownie mix with chopped walnuts. I had to resist the urge to dab my finger and take a taste. I love folk art, and I admit to buying some of their chachkies, some to hold my dirt, some just because I liked them.

Chachkies

I’ve never witnessed the pilgrimage to Chimayo, nor any of the acts of devotion associated with it. But I did witness such acts at the Basilica of La Virgen de Guadalupe in Mexico City. I saw penitents crawl across the cobbled square in front of the church on their knees, heading towards the steps, up the aisle and to the altar. I saw a man and a woman. They were both older, maybe in their fifties or sixties. The woman wore a dress and kneeled on a cloth, pulling it forward with each “step” she took on her knees while family members hovered around with anxious faces. The man had only his pants between him and the cobbles. Both the man and the woman wore looks of pain—but determination. They would make this knee-walk of devotion.

Basilica of La Virgen de Guadalupe in Mexico City

I was 18 at the time and remember thinking they were crazy, that I would never make such a pledge to a deity, certainly never carry out such an act of devotion. I’m older now, and although I still would not make such a pledge (my knees would never hold up, for one thing), I no longer view their devotion as an act of insanity. These were ordinary people, maybe long time devotees, maybe touched for the first time by the awful and wonderful hand of deity. They made a sincere promise to that holy being and were trying with all their hearts—and their knees—to be faithful to that promise. How can I mock such faithfulness, such sincerity? I’m old enough now to know that I can’t mock them without doing damage to my own soul, my own seeking after truth.

And so it is with all pilgrimages, whether I share the belief of the pilgrims or not. I must respect their sincerity and their peaceful attempts to fulfill their promises to something beyond themselves.

Mirrored from Better Than Dead.

For most of the last week of our trip to England we rented a cottage in Street, near Glastonbury in Somerset. It was a great base of operations for taking in the West Country, and quite economical. The three of us split the equivalent of $500 for five days accommodation. Plus we each had our own room and could cook rather than eating out all the time and it was much more relaxing. I definitely recommend renting cottages.

This one was quite lovely, up on a hill above the town, and filled with memories.. Warm, welcoming, with a great spirit of place. We had the strangest game of Yahtzee one night while there. Every one of us got multiple yahtzees, each in turn, round and round—which if you've ever played the game is kind of unusual. We joked that the spirit of place just wanted everybody to be happy.

Whenever I think of this place, I'm happy. So the spirit of place did its work well.

If you'd like to see the latest photos, CLICK HERE.

YOU REUSED THIS FOR FOLKLORE, HENCE THE PRIVATE. HENCE NO UPDATING LINK.

This may be the last bit of travelogue I feel inspired to write as I'm starting to "regularize" and get back into the routine. Then again, every time I think that, I new one of these bubbles to the surface.

And I did so want to talk about another high point on this trip, one that equals Tintagel in the imprint it left on my soul—maybe even surpasses it. Not as dramatic as Tintagel, much quieter, but no less magic: St. Madron's Holy Well in Cornwall. It's inland from Penzance only a few miles, but a whole different world from the bustling tourist centers along the coast. It wasn't featured prominently in my Green Guide, but I'd read about the well elsewhere and it was high on my wish list. My companions indulged me in this, and I think they were glad they did: an Episcopalian, an agnostic, and a wibbly-wobbly sort who's agnostic leaning towards pagan--we were all moved by this place. It's been holy since pagan times, taken over by the Christians, and still remains holy to both Christian and pagan. There are a couple of small churches nearby, one a St. Madron's church which we didn't get a chance to visit, and one called St. Grada—small, lovely, peaceful. But the well itself (and the ruined baptistry surrounding it) exist a mile north and a whole 'nother universe apart.

It's a half-mile, so they say, from the church to the gate leading to the well, and a quarter mile in to the ruined baptistry. Pastures surround the location, and the gate opens onto a tree-lined path. We progressed through dappled shade along the rough path, delicate wildflowers in white and pink and yellow leading the way. Maybe it's the screen of trees that shuts off all noise except the chirping of birds, the occasional movement of wild things in the overgrown brush on either side, but it's like stepping into another world, so different from the one we know—centuries older, maybe a millennium or two. We hushed in response, the sound of our quiet passage seeming unnaturally loud. We could hear the wheels of our own thoughts spinning in our heads.

It hadn't rained for several days, but the path was still damp, quite muddy in spots, sunken beneath water in places. Sometimes we had to scramble over rough stiles that crossed over the path of the winding stream. These were crudely cut blocks of gray stone--one to step up, a flat one to scramble over, one to step down--that we found at many of the countryside sites we visited in Cornwall.

The waters of the well, so they say, bring healing and also give mystical insight into the future. Puritan fanatics tried to smash it during the Civil War, but it still burbles on with fresh, pure, clean water. We were there on a Saturday, the end of April, but the waters are supposed to be their most potent on the first three Sundays in May. Maybe we got some residual from the build up to May, who knows?

After the second stile and down a bit, there's a stand of trees where people who've been cured by the well leave an offering—traditionally rags tied to the trees, but we saw all sorts of things. We left our offerings before the fact. All I had on me was a crimson velveteen scrunchie for my hair, one I was particularly partial to. I must say it looked lovely wrapped around the broken end of a branch.

There was a real presence in that place, a sense that something potent moved through those trees. And it didn't feel at all silly looking back on that crimson scrunchie! It felt damned good, a real uplift of the spirits, elated even. No guarantees of anything, no promises made, but for me a sense that I was making some kind of wordless promise; I was giving up something to the spirit of the place.

I'm not exactly sure why that particular bend in the stream became the location of the rag well offerings because it is around the path and down a bit from the actual well site. But I do know that the stream forked at this point, and in pagan beliefs, at any rate, forks in rivers are magical places. As are forked trees—ymp trees, they're called, where the branches split in a Y low enough on the trunk for a human to walk or climb through easily. There were some of those in that grove, too. Forks represent transition points, places where the energy (or magic) changes directions and, some believe, give a surge of power.

The actual well is enclosed by a roofless box of ancient stone, the ruins of the baptistry, steeped in age, covered in moss. An altar, strewn with wilted wildflowers, sits at the other end of the enclosure. The well itself is in another, smaller box, a catch basin for the waters before they flow out and into the stream. A cold, absolutely clear, surprisingly gentle stream for such a volume of water—and again, there was such a sense of presence there. Even if you don't go in for the mystical stuff, the thought that for thousands of years humans have been coming to this spot for prayer and offerings is simply mind-boggling. Maybe that's all the presence is at Madron, those innumerable human lives and energies that have intersected with this place—but whatever it is, it's potent. We just sat on the rough stone benches there for longest time, drinking it in, letting the peace invade our souls and smooth out the jangles. I was healed, although I hadn't been aware of being sick.

I snapped a few pictures, but it seemed a pretty futile (and maybe sacrilegious?) endeavor. I couldn't escape the realization that no film, no picture could ever capture the enveloping green peace of this place, surrounded by trees, accompanied by the trill of songbirds, the plash of water on stones, the gurgle of it running in a channel, the fresh smell of greenness all around. At best, these photos may jog some memories years hence, open the door to the soul memory left behind by St. Madron's Well.

You can see our pictures of the place by CLICKING HERE.