It Wouldn’t Be Halloween Without Pipkin

It was a small town by a small river and a small lake in a small northern part of a Midwest state. There wasn’t so much wilderness around you couldn’t see the town. But on the other hand there wasn’t so much town you couldn’t see and feel and touch and smell the wilderness. The town was full of trees. And dry grass and dead flowers now that autumn was here. And full of fences to walk on and sidewalks to skate on and a large ravine to tumble in and yell across. And the town was full of… 

Boys. 

And it was the afternoon of Halloween. 

And all the houses shut against a cool wind. 

And the town full of cold sunlight. 

But suddenly, the day was gone. 

Night came out from under each tree and spread.

- Ray Bradbury, The Halloween Tree

The Order Of The Halloween Tree

A photo series tribute to Ray Bradbury's classic tale.

This series comes to an end with Chapter 6:  Ralph Bengstrum 

Ralph stood in his Mummy costume, stunned, watching the last shadows go.

“Is that why I’m dressed like a mummy?” He fingered the bandages. He touched his clay-wrinkled ancient face. “Is that what my part of Halloween is all about?”

“All, boy, all,” murmured Moundshroud. “The Egyptians, why, they built to last. Ten thousand years they planned for. Tombs, boys, tombs. Graves.  Mummies. Bones. Death, death. Death was at the very heart, gizzard, light, soul, and body of their life! Tombs and more tombs with secret passages, so none might be found, so grave robbers could not borrow souls and toys and gold. You are a mummy, boy, because that was how they dressed for Eternity.  Spun up in a cocoon of threads, they hoped to come forth like lovely butterflies in some far dear loving world. Know your cocoon, boy. Touch the strange stuffs.”

 

“Why,” said Ralph the Mummy, blinking at the smoky walls and old hieroglyphics. “Every day was Halloween to them!"

The Order Of The Halloween Tree

A photo series tribute to Ray Bradbury's classic tale.

Chapter 5:  Hackles Nibley
 
“Mr. Moundshroud, is that you!” cried Tom.

For towering forty feet above them in the sky, an immense scythe in his hands, was this cowled figure, its face in midnight fogs.

The blade swung down: hisssssss!
 
“Mr. Moundshroud, let us be!”

“Shut up.” Someone knocked Toms elbow. Mr. Moundshroud lay on the earth beside him. “That’s not me. That’s—”

“Samhain!” cried the voice in the fog. “God of the Dead! I harvest thus, and so!”
Sssss-whoooshhhh!
 
“All those who died this year are here! And for their sins, this night, are turned to beasts!”
Sssssswooommmmmmm!

“Please,” whimpered Ralph-the-Mummy.

“Sssssssttttt! The scythe zippered Hackles Nibley’s spine, ripping his costume in a long tear, knocking his own small scythe free of his hands.

“Beasts!”

And the harvest wheat, flailed up, spun round on the wind, shrieking its souls, all those who had died in the past twelve months, rained to earth.

The Order Of The Halloween Tree

A photo series tribute to Ray Bradbury's classic tale.

Chapter 4:  The Devil Boy

"But, let me introduce myself! Moundshroud is the name.  Carapace Clavicle Moundshroud. Does that have a ring, boys? Does it sound for you?”
  
It sounds, the boys thought, oh, oh, it sounds … !

Moundshroud.

“A fine name,” said Mr. Moundshroud, giving it a full sepulchral night-church sound. “And a fine night. And all the deep dark wild long history of Halloween waiting to swallow us whole!”

“Swallow us?”

“Yes!” cried Moundshroud. “Lads, look at yourselves. Why are you, boy, wearing that Skull face? And you, boy, carrying a scythe, and you, lad, made up like a Witch? And you, you, you!” He thrust his bony finger at each mask. “You don’t know, do you? You just put on those faces and old mothball clothes and jump out, but you don’t really know, do you?”

“Well,” said Tom, a mouse behind his skull-white muslin. “Er—no.”

“Yeah,” said the Devil boy. “Come to think of it, Why am I wearing this?” He fingered his cloak and sharp rubber horns and lovely pitchfork.

The Order Of The Halloween Tree

A photo series tribute to Ray Bradbury's classic tale.

Chapter 3:  Henry-Hank Smith

Fires burned all over Europe. At every crossroad and by every haystack dark forms jumped in cats across flames. Cauldrons bubbled. Old hags cursed. Dogs frolicked red-hot coals.

“Witches, witches, everywhere,” said Tom, amazed. “I never knew they were so many!”

“Mobs and multitudes, Tom. Europe was flooded to the dikes. Witches underfoot, under bed, in the cellars and high attics.”

“Boy oh boy,” said Henry-Hank, proud in his Witch costume. “Real witches!

The Order Of The Halloween Tree

A photo series tribute to Ray Bradbury's classic tale.

Chapter 2:  George Smith

In the west, the sun, smothered and dying in clouds, sank. Moundshroud hooted his delight:

“There it goes, boys. The heart, soul, and flesh of Halloween. The Sun! There Osiris is murdered again. There sinks Mithras, the Persian fire. There falls Phoebus Apollo all Grecian light. Sun and flame, boys. Look and blink. Turn that crystal spyglass. Swing it down the Mediterranean Coast a thousand miles. See the Greek Isles?”

“Sure,” said plain George Smith, dressed up as fancy pale ghost. “Cities, towns, streets, houses. People jumping out on porches to bring food!”

“Yes.” Moundshroud beamed. “Their Festival of the Dead: the Feast of Pots. Trick-or-Treat old style. But tricks from the dead if you don’t feed them. So treats are laid out in fine banquets on the sill!”

The Order Of The Halloween Tree

A photo series tribute to Ray Bradbury's classic tale.

Chapter 1:  Tom Skelton

Tom Skelton shivered. Anyone could see that the wind was a special wind this night, and the darkness took on a special feel because it was All Hallows’ Eve. Everything seemed cut from soft black velvet or gold or orange velvet.  Smoke panted up out of a thousand chimneys like the plumes of funeral parades. From kitchen windows drifted two pumpkin smells: gourds being cut, pies being baked.  

The cries behind the locked house doors grew more exasperated as shadows of boys flew by windows. Half-dressed boys, greasepaint on their cheeks; here a hunchback, there a medium-sized giant. Attics were still being rummaged, old locks broken, old steamer chests disemboweled for costumes.

Tom Skelton put on his bones.

He grinned at the spinal cord, the ribcage, the kneecaps stitched white on black cotton.

Lucky! he thought. What a name you got! Tom Skelton. Great for Halloween! Everyone calls you Skeleton! So what do you wear?

Bones.