Hairy Consequences

The long hairs sticking out from inside my nose were a new development, which I initially missed. My wall mirror at the time was like any other here – polished steel, often scratched, typically blurred and warped. I could shave, covering large areas, but fine detail-work was trickier. That is how I never noticed the boar-tusk like hairs sweeping out…

Until I borrowed a friend’s hand mirror.

“What the hell?” I muttered aloud, annoyed. Patches of hair kept cropping up on my ears, requiring razor action. My eyebrows were prone to grow at an alarming rate, producing strands like spikes that seemed to have minds of their own. Now the nose?

When your hair is disrespectful, what do you do?

I leaned in to inspect what was growing out of my nose. Wondering how they got in there, much like I struggled to understand why I kept having out­growths of hair in strange places. But I shouldn’t have been surprised. Why?

Because the Pooka usually made an appearance, as if… 

The what, you ask?

Yeah, I know, it is a strange word to describe a spiritual pain in the ass. One I brought upon myself. Another impulsive decision that has led to crazy consequences.

Like having to endure the annoying Pooka sitting near my door, facing away, with its head partially turned, giving me side-eye. I glare at it, but it is unaffected, keeping a disrespectful gleam in its eyes. Its smirk seems to imply, “You’re an idiot” – which is probably true. I’m not sure it likes me, though. Tolerates me? Yes, because it keeps coming back. Partly because I don’t think it has a choice.

I have cause to wonder if it is simply waiting for me to kick the bucket. As much as I think it craves to be free of me, it does seem to be particularly pleased when I have “hairy” problems.

The most excited I ever saw the Pooka was the time I woke up, expecting a hairless chest, only to have my eyeballs nearly pop out as they ogled the hair ringing each nipple. It might’ve been hilarious, had I not been confused. How can inch-long hair sprout like a bush in a perfect ring around each nipple overnight? And why did the hair only grow there?!

As you can see, the nose-tusks were far from being the most shocking.

And this all started with the Pooka.

Okay, stop scowling at the page and I’ll explain! They say patience is a virtue, but whatever. A Pooka is a faery. How do you expect me to finish the story if you keep rolling your eyes? I can hardly blame you for doubting, but still. It might be a stretch of the imagination to believe faeries or other fantastical creatures exist, right? Maybe so.

Hard to have faith in something without substance? I understand.

To be honest, I shared your belief early on. Oh, the stories were amusing, even interesting, but what was the likelihood that a man passed into a faery realm, gone but a day by his reckoning, only to return and find nine-hundred years had passed? Or how probable is it that faery spirits really flit about, helping or being a nuisance? Doesn’t it make more sense for those stories to be byproducts of superstitions?

A convenient excuse in the face of the unexplainable?

But what if the stories could be true? Yeah, yeah, your skepticism is noted. Seriously, though, people believe in angels, demons, ghosts, and other spiritual manifestations! So, why not faeries?

Why not a Pooka?

* * *

When you’ve been an idiot in life (even if quality reasoning exists), landing in jail, stripped away from every connection to the natural world and loved ones, loneliness creeps in. And, like a virus, it begins to take over thoughts, moods, and actions. I felt as if the walls were slowly closing in: a constant threat to fall and crush me. My spirit was beaten down into a well of hopelessness.

As an escape from that despondency, I read.

Each book sent me on a wild journey of discovery, exploring myriad religions, philosophies, and esoteric concepts that have intrigued mystics for ages. I was not after the Philosopher’s Stone or the magical formula to turn iron into gold. Truthfully, I didn’t know what I was looking for: I just let my bleary eyes read on, wondering if anything could ever truly help me.

In Jewish mysticism, in the Kabbalah, I read about the Golem. A clay construct raised as a defender. But I didn’t need a bodyguard. Egypt’s The Book of the Dead, was definitely a key to the Otherworld, but it only encouraged me to leave the dead alone. Mummies were far more terrifying than beneficial, or so I believed. Much like Tengrism’s love for the sky was too abstract. I couldn’t interact with birds, anyhow. Nor was I down to maintain Zoroaster’s eternal flame. I could appreciate the cosmic struggle for balance, but again, not understanding my role deterred my interest.

Then I considered Voodoo, which gave me pause, but it turned out to be too macabre for my needs (and we won’t even discuss summoning demons).

Which left what? I did not know. Most belief systems bled together in my mind; some gaining favor, as others lost it with time. But then I stumbled upon Celticism and was enthralled. The stories were definitely part of it. Interactions with faeries: All the myths and legends. I read about druids and dryads and exploits of great warriors and gods leading up to the time of great Roman destruction.

Eventually I stumbled upon what a Pooka was, or what it could be.

Supposedly a friendlier being in the faery realm, a Pooka (phouka or púca), I read, was sometimes a mischievous trickster but also helpful and well-disposed to mortals. To my desperate mind, that description seemed like a magical-potion life-line capable of assisting me while in jail. I lacked physical and mental strength. My hope was for instant gratification and growth, not the transformation that comes from long hours and hard work.

I should’ve known better, hmm? But, at that point in time, I would’ve done just about anything for a companion and the books on Celticism gave life to that idea.

R.J. Stewart described faeries as “People of Light” in his book, The Living World of Faery. Sirona Knight, in Celtic Traditions, explained how faeries are divided into two large groups: “Those belonging to a faery race or nation living in the faery realms in an organized society of their own … and individual faeries associated with a place, or occupation, or household…”

Then she wrote about how faeries “often mingle in the affairs of mortals,” giving me hope. So, when I read that a Pooka might be found, or one could be created…

Wait, what?

I could create my own little faery companion? All I needed to do was perform a little ceremony to focus and shape energy?

Sign me up!

* * *

Soon it will be Samhain again. As kids dress up in costumes, and masked balls, haunted houses, and other festivities play out around the world, I will sit here cringing at the prospect of the veil between this world and the Otherworld being at its thinnest.

My Pooka, of course, is already in rare form; especially haughty now, it sits rigidly, seeming larger and more intimidating than a companion should be. With each glance, the Pooka’s eyes flash, as if in warning. I think it believes that it has control over my destiny. 

Perhaps hard to imagine, but you don’t know where the little pain in the ass faery has dragged me. There have been lucid dreams in the past, where ghostly whispers entwined with inexplicable visions that I know I can’t talk about. Other physical changes have taken place, surely with an end goal, but I’m not sure what. I just can’t figure out the Pooka’s intentions.

Well, besides working to drive me insane!

Wait… is it turning? Standing? Moving?! Ohh…

Sorry, I had to stop writing because the Pooka suddenly appeared beside me with a stern look, no doubt reading the text. The shock of its closeness was one thing. It had never done that before. But then to learn that it can actually read…? My hands were sweating as it seemed to weigh and judge my comments, before blinking out again. That was some five hours ago.

I am still trying to understand what happened and why, but at least it did not pull me into its realm. I was only able to determine that I wasn’t locked in a dream by watching the Pooka’s swishing tail. In the faery realm, the Pooka has a distinctive switching sound as the hairs on the tip of its tail slap at the air. Or whatever they call it over there.

Now it is late at night, very quiet and still. The lights are dim. Clouds slip across the sky, shading the moon, which is just visible through my small window. Maybe that is why the Pooka is resting. It tends to stay away when the moon is obscured. At any rate, it is probably best to discuss things that won’t agitate it. Maybe how I created the Pooka is a safe topic? 

How I likely screwed up the process…

* * *

As I considered where I would put my altar, and what items I could use as “magical tools”, warnings bounced around in my head. “Don’t ever fool yourself into thinking you are its master,” Ms. Knight wrote. That was easy to discount at the time, because I was seeking a companion, a helper. Perhaps, even a friend? When she stated, “Your Pooka reflects or mirrors you in many ways,” this gave me pause, making me doubt my intentions. I mean, I knew I had faults! Many of which I sought to avoid or escape. If the Pooka inherited them, would it actually be what I desired?

I didn’t really sit down and think about how the Pooka might evolve and develop a unique personality. My aim was singular and admittedly selfish. Surely if the Pooka would “reflect my abilities” I should be able to focus the best of them into the creative process, right?

All I really considered about the Pooka was what I wanted it to be, how it would live, and what I wanted it to do. I made a list.

Ms. Knight solved my indecisiveness over where to place my altar: “Many things are used from tables, desks, and chairs…” So, why not the slab of concrete (which was a three-foot tall, roughly three-foot wide section in the back of my cell) that my mattress laid on? It would be easy to use one side and even hide my work from prying eyes, if needed.

For an altar cloth, I settled on a folded-up sheet: roughly two-foot square. “Magical tools” were trickier. For my bowl, I had to go to commissary, order some noodles, and keep the Styrofoam cup they came in. My wand (assuming I needed one) would be a pencil, but I had to do some last-minute trading to make sure I had a new one. For a sword, I’d simply use a new pen (because “the pen is mightier than the sword” right?). If I needed an athame (ritual dagger), I would use the same pen – imagining which one I held. The chalice and wine cup were easier to come by because they passed out small Styrofoam cups regularly. One I left blank – the chalice. The other – the wine cup- I added the Ogham rune for heather on the rim (symbolizing the divine love of the Goddess and God).

I wanted to hold the ceremony on Samhain (Halloween) at midnight. It seemed like that wouldn’t be a problem because I secured everything I needed with a month to spare. All that remained was to prepare my altar cloth with runic markings, and to make sure I didn’t lose it (2006 was a transition year for me, as I was moved several times and still subject to interviews). But everything worked out quite well. 

A week out, I decided to draw the pentagram. Then I placed the folded sheet over it. Using a finely sharpened, but older pencil, I began applying runes. My back wall was south, so the corners closest to me ended up with the rune for the Reed tree. Ngetal, the word I wrote under the runes, would offer healing ability, spiritual awareness/perception, flexibility, and durability to my Pooka. The corners closest to the wall received the rune for the Blackthorn tree. Straif, the word I wrote under these would give cleansing, healing, death (of self), and piercing self-reflection. 

The right side, or west, was the god side: I chose Dagda and Borvo. Near the northern runes, I drew Dagda’s magical sword and chalice for his wisdom, prosperity, abundance, and knowledge. Borvo’s sun disc and harp were drawn closer to the southern runes for his healing of unseen and concealed truths, and inspiration through dreams.

The two goddesses I added to the left, or east, were Sirona (partly because the author I followed shared her name), and Dana (the Mother Goddess). Not knowing their symbols, I simply wrote their names. Dana to the north, for her wisdom and the power of creation. Sirona to the south, for her link to the astral plane, the etheric energy my Pooka would need (plus, she was linked to the Sun, which would rise in the east).

As the week leading up to Samhain passed, I found myself growing more anxious, nervous. But I also became possessed with a fervent desire to succeed. I felt strange, full of emotion, until that final day when I woke up feeling preternaturally calm.

Evidently the stars had aligned, because the day went smoothly. At group recreation in the morning, we played handball and I won. The shower afterward seemed more refreshing, cleansing, and relaxing. Most of the guys on my pod were in a good mood for a change. Even the food “hit the spot.” I saved the purple-colored juice to act as “wine.” 

After That ‘70s Show and George Lopez they began showing movies. Hocus Pocus was followed by Edward Scissorhands, which reminded me of better days at home with my family. Was that an omen that I would soon rejoin them? When they announced “Movie time, movie time,” for the third time, I turned away and began setting up my altar, folding my mattress back to reveal the sheet. All the drawn runes remained.

Grabbing the masculine ritual tools, the athame/sword (my pen) – I didn’t have an incense burner – I placed them on the right side of the altar cloth. My chalice (a Styrofoam cup) with water in it, bowl (a noodle container), and cauldron (a last-minute addition of an empty cereal bowl) – the nurturing tools – were placed on the left side.

Estimating time was tricky because I didn’t have a clock. The TV was turned off at 10 P.M., providing the point from where I began to count internally. When I figured two hours had passed, nearing the midnight mark, I took off my sweater, donning the other sheet as a robe.

Please don’t laugh. It might seem silly to you, but what else was I supposed to use? I couldn’t just walk to a community magic shop and grab what I needed. Besides, the cells were cold. Sheet-wrapping was fairly common practice, so I didn’t stand out.

I picked up my pen, imagining it to be a sword. Not too ornate; a weapon of war, well-honed and in good condition. My robe became a deep green, hooded affair in my mind. The cell became a grove of trees, with my altar on a large stone in the center. The Styrofoam became baked clay. The cauldron became iron. I even had candles there, red ones burning on the gods side, green ones for the goddesses on the left. With reverence, I poured water from my transformed – now golden – chalice into the bowl, to mix with the salt. I then picked up a sprig of greenery, dipped it into the salt water, and sprinkled it about my altar in a clockwise fashion. 

My words were meaningful, but little more than a whisper in the cell-like grove: “Be gone from here all evil and foulness and darkness. Be gone from this place in Our Lady’s Name!” I imagined a white light edged in cobalt blue clearing the area. I repeated those phrases two more times. Then I cast the sprig aside, and placed the wooden cross in the cauldron. 

The sword I held (already consecrated with water at sunrise) glowed with a pale light in my mind. Facing north, I visualized a bright blue-white flame shooting from the tip of it as I spun clockwise, creating a protected circle around me. Taking up another sprig, I dipped it in the salt water, faced north and chanted, “Ayea, Ayea, Dagda! Ayea, Ayea, Borvo! Ayea, Ayea, Dana! Ayea, Ayea, Sirona! Ayea, Ayea, Ayea!”

To the east, south, and west, I sprinkled more water and repeated the chant. Then I faced my altar and said, “Blessed be! Blessed be the Gods! Blessed be those who are gathered here.”

That is when a toilet flushed. I cringed, just knowing a foul stench would creep into my cell soon. Re-centering my mind, I continued: “I consecrate this circle of power to the ancient goddesses and gods. May they…” 

A door slammed.

The guard was making rounds. Bah! I paced, shuffling toward the door and back. Light flashed into my darkened cell, paused, but passed on. I returned to my altar, gritting my teeth.

“I consecrate this…” 

Another flush.

I looked at the ceiling, waited. No other sounds came, so I tried again.

This, of course, is when the aromatic surprise seeped into my awareness. 

“I consecrate this circle of power,” I whispered, breathing slowly, using my mouth, “to the ancient goddesses and gods. May they bless this circle with their presence and love.”

Through with that, I knocked on my altar with my hand, in three series of three.

After a quick break, I stuffed toilet paper in my nose. I began calling in the watchtowers, the wards, switching out my pen-sword for the bowl of salt water. I sprinkled salt water to the north, set the bowl down, and picked up my pen again, now imagining it as an athame – a silver-handled dagger with dull edges.

I lifted both arms and said, “Oh, great and mighty one, ruler of the North March, come, I pray you. Protect the gate of the North Ward. Come, I summon you!”

In similar fashion I summoned the rulers to protect the Eastern, Southern, and Western Wards. For the East Ward, I used the imaginary incense burner, waving it back and forth three times. A white candle served for the South Ward. And the chalice, sprinkling nine drops of water, secured the West Ward.

Only holding my athame, I centered myself and chanted, “Dagda, Borvo, Dagda, Borvo, Dana, Sirona, Dana, Sirona, Ayea, Ayea, Ayea!”

I kept calling their names, swaying as I sought to direct the power and energy into the cauldron to the wooden cross.

Then I laid my pen down and began to draw in unmanifest energy, slowly shaping it with my hands. My eyes were closed, as I sought to concentrate deeply on what I wanted the energy to become: a silver wolf.

Then another door banged, I could hear footsteps. I just kept standing there, shoulders hunched, but my train of thought flitted about. I wanted to imagine a wolf, with silver fur, but for some stupid reason I remembered a girl I knew, Tiffany. She had a great body and always wore low-cut tops. Attention grabbers, for sure. But every time I was around her, she had her ugly ass dog laying on them. It was a medium-sized, mostly bald chihuahua, with grayish color, pink-spotted skin. Wrinkles creased its eyes. Tufts of hair sprouted from its head, around its ears, on its feet, and on the tip of its tail.

Long ass whiskers always twitched as it looked around, especially at me with an expression that seemed to say, “look what I got!” Lucky, ugly bastard.

Then as the footsteps paused behind me, while light flashed into my cell, I noticed the energy in my hand take the shape of that dog!

No! I wanted to scream. I tried to pull the energy back – it was lifting from my hands, beginning to float toward the cauldron.

“Come back!” I hissed. The footsteps had receded. “No… No-no-no!”

But it was too late. The energy was now manifest… as a bald, light gray-skinned chihuahua, with slightly darker spots and silver tufts of hair in the strangest places. Just before it dipped into the cauldron (which was pulsing with a blue-white light), Tiffany’s voice rippled through the halls of my mind, “Poofy, good boy!”

* * *

Two days later, I woke up with hairy nipples. And that was the first time I saw Poofy, the asshole faery that has been doing its very best… to live up to what I wanted?

Selectively, of course

Evidently Poofy developed an unusual fascination with Straif, burying thorns of utter blackness so deep into my mind and spirit that I fell into a severe depression.  Within a week after the nipple episode, I swallowed a bag of pills and used a razor to open veins.

Basically, Poofy induced a piercing self-reflection that led to death of self.  Three days later I woke up.  Healed? Cleansed?  More spiritually aware?

As part of the creation process, I was instructed to merge as deeply as possible to give the Pooka strength.  So I guess it’s my own fault that the hair on my head almost immediately began to thin and migrate south, as if being directed by another’s will.

Since then hair has appeared in course patches on my hands, feet, lower back and even my ears.  Time has caused those growths to spread. When I finally developed the courage to raise the issue with Poofy, I was met with side-eye – and that “you’re an idiot” smirk.

Poofy displayed his individual personality.

Now, twelve years later, I just feel different. I’ve had to summon Poofy into a new amulet, another wooden cross, because the other one didn’t survive my transfer to this unit. The urge to escape back in 2010 was likely his doing, if I am being honest with myself. Why else would I have been willing to sacrifice ongoing appeals… to escape? Idiocy. Wait…

Poofy is smirking at me again. 

So, we are waiting for Samhain. I just know he has something special planned for me. Maybe it’s another vision, or worse, a transformation? I have been having strange urges lately. As the moon cycles pass, I am drawn to them, watching, longing. Poofy suffers from the same attraction, as if he draws strength from the silvery light.

Once he crouched and seemed to raise his head in a silent howl. I seriously thought about joining him, but an annoying bout of itching drew my attention away.

More hair. I don’t want it. It is a consequence I could live without. One I have no choice but to accept, though. 

* * *

Today is Samhain. As I look in the mirror the shock is complete. I am reminded of the movie Teen Wolf.

“Is that what I’m to become?” A full moon is spilling light into the cell.

Poofy loves his side-eye, but Poofy isn’t a chihuahua anymore…

He’s me.