How do you remember heroic souls who have died? In the second century, Greek astronomer Ptolemy did so by taking the memories of those who (to paraphrase Ralph Waldo Emerson) had “shuffled off their corporeal jackets” and slipped them into the stars. Ptolemy named stars and connected them with invisible lines to form the storied constellations known to many in the past and today.
There are some tales that have so seeped into a place that it is best to leave them be or risk upsetting the spirits who dwell within. But sometimes, even if you mind your own realm, the spirits come out and find you.
They were the sons of Death and hell followed with them as they rushed from Sudbury to Concord, Massachusetts, in the lightening dawn of April 19, 1775. Beside them, armed with muskets, swords, pitchforks, and improvised weapons, came two companies of Sudbury minutemen and militia, and behind them (as legend says),
on a white horse, a messenger galloped
west towards Worcester carrying the alarm
“Up! Up! The Regulars are as far as Concord!”
Have you ever sensed that something bad was about to happen? You don’t know how or why, but it’s as though an ancestral memory is shouting, “Awake! Danger is coming!” So it may have been for three men on April 19, 1775.
Concord transcendentalist Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote about life being full of circles. And this year, with the passing of Queen Elizabeth II, Concord, Massachusetts, once again finds itself full circle back in a world tied to a King Charles; this time, King Charles III.
This is a story of insanity, and it begins in ancient Ireland, where legend says there once lived the powerful Tuatha de Danann. They were Kings, Queens, Druids, and those possessed with magic arts long since forgotten or explained away by modern science. Among them was Cailleach (translation, “Old Hag”), the Witch Queen of Winter.
Oral and written history records are like dust; grains disappear over time—burned, blown away, forgotten. In some cases, just enough original particles remain that, when swept together, give a foothold for stories like this one.
Stand in Concord Center, on Lexington Road, with your back to the Old Hill Burying Ground and your gaze fixed on the gold-domed First Parish building across the street. Here you are standing in the area of Concord’s first meeting house. Below your feet are grains of dust walked over centuries before by Concord residents such as Puritan John Jones, the first minister of Concord. And what happened when he left this spot became something New England history tried to bury.
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