The backwaters of the south Louisiana bayou stirred with mosquito clouds and by scaly gator tails.
The moon peeked out from behind moss hanging from skeletal limbs, spanish moss and old mans beard.
The creole voodoo priestesses and witch doctors walked through the bog, their torches sparkling in the distance, just a few more fireflies dancing in the night.
My fathers guitar sighed the melodies of a poor Irish kid remembering the sounds of his ancestors.
The sound of the unseen things circling the house were nothing to fear as long as the music played. They would crawl through the mud on their hands and knees, eager to scurry towards our lamp light, but would stay trapped in their circling, fearful that the sweet sounds of Irish sorrow would end.
The words of the song would cease only long enough for my father to pull from a whiskey jug, then begin again, fending off the advancement of the shadowy things; those things that survived on superstition and lizard guts.
The song tonight recalled a folk hero that stood atop a hill for three days watching for the advancement of the English armies. He spotted them, blew his horn to warn the others, then fell dead. McGreggor, the good lad of Nethalbrosh.
My fathers hands went to the whiskey, and I felt the fear and the shadows advance.
No comments:
Post a Comment