THE NIGHT

‘She walks in beauty, like the night’.

‘I often think that the night is more alive and more richly colored than the day’.

‘’Tis now the very witching time of night/ When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out/ Contagion to this world’.

Three different obversations on ‘the night’. The first by Lord Byron, the second by Vincent Van Gogh, and the third by Shakespeare.

I have always loved the night. When I was a kid, ‘bedtime’ for me meant listening to WLS Chicago on my bedside radio, hearing the night voices from a city far from my own, and later getting a schedule of flights in and out of the Birmingham airport so when I heard the night planes going over I knew where they were headed.

I had a little wrought-iron balcony outside my room. I could remove the window screens, climb out and sit there in the beautiful quiet of the summer night. And many nights, way down at the end of the street where there was a single street light, would begin the nightbird’s song. I was both gladdened and made sad by this song. Gladdened because I knew nature viewed the night with as much value as I gave it, and saddened because sometimes I thought myself and the nightbird the only ones with beating hearts there in the hours long after midnight.

I have always worked at night, beginning usually at ten and going until three or four and many times all night. I love the quiet, and sitting outside on the balcony I now have I feel the velvet of the dark. A little night rain, a little fog rolling in, a throb of distant thunder, the far-off sound of a train heading across a landscape of deep blue under the universe of stars…it’s all good.

But what have we here? Isn’t the night the realm of horrors? Of lurking evil, phantoms drifting over graveyards, vampires and werewolves on the prowl?

An aside: I can never get enough of those great old Hammer vampire movies where the coach is racing on the forest road to get to the village before nightfall, and of course the safety of the local tavern with its cast of faithful regulars, ale from the barrel tap, the warming fireplace and oil lamps and all the rest to ward off the evils of the night. On the walk for home, however…a different story, because one has left the protection of the light. (And more on that later).

But even Shakespeare is of two minds regarding the night. On the other side of the yawning churchyards and the contagion of hell, he regards this:

‘How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!/Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music/Creep in our ears; soft stillness and the night/Become the touches of sweet harmony.’

It’s been theorized that at least for Americans, three persons out of ten are afraid of the dark, and I believe one can infer in that statement a fear of a ‘dark night’. One might wonder what that percentage would have been fifty years ago, before the constant reassurance (and glow) of the cell phone. Take that back another fifty years, and we’re in the realm of the yawning churchyards.

A question: why fear the night?

At this point Mr. T storms onto the scene with a shouted “’Cause it’s dark, fool!”

And this fear goes back to the mists of time, when safety was found in huddling around the fire, understanding that beyond the circle of light the night held the dangers of predatory animals that had two important advantages over humans: better vision in the dark and a better sense of smell. So cling to the fire, ye cavepersons of old, because the saber-toothed tiger’s out there on the prowl, and now as we sit at the top of the food chain we call those predatory night-garbed creatures other human beings, the likes of which can put the fear of night into the bravest soul.

Women have been associated with the night, also from way back in those mists of time. Take a representative sampling of the ‘goddess of the night’ from different cultures:

The Greek Nyx, daughter of Chaos and mother of the Day though it’s debatable how much of a mothering instinct this one had. Garbed in black robes as she rides her chariot across the sky, she was known also as the mother to such offspring as Moros (Destiny), Thanatos (Death), Hypnos (Sleep) and Ker (Destruction). Quite a family. In his Illiad, Homer states that even Zeus fears Nyx.

A wise god, indeed, as we no longer have Zeus but we still have the Night.

The Norse goddess Nott, similar to Nyx, described as ‘black and swarthy’ and riding her ebony horse across the heavens. Also ascribed to her was the birth of Day, as well as three marriages one of which resulted in the birth of Joro, the entire Earth.

The Egyptian Nut, referred to as a nude woman whose dark body covers the sky. She was considered one of the oldest of Egyptian dieties, and her sacred symbol was the ladder used by Osiris, the god of the dead, for entry into the heavens. This ladder symbol, called a maqet, has been found placed in tombs to provide such spiritual ascension.

Ahhhh, yes…about the ‘witching hour’.

Well it really should be the ‘witching hours’, because in early belief (and perhaps still believed) those hours were from midnight until three in the morning. These were the ‘open’ hours, during which spirits rose from their graves and witches brewed their spells and plotted destruction against humanity. Evil forces of all shapes and sizes roamed during these hours, slipping into the rooms where innocents slept and doing their best worstnesses.

The Tudors of England had a defense against this. They went to bed shortly after sundown and awakened around one in the morning. This became a family time, and all participated in conversations, reading, meditations or games. Then around three it was back to sleep again until dawn. It was a way to remain vigilant against the evil powers that could steal a soul while one slept, so eyes open during these hours meant nothing could get into the family chamber with wicked intent.

As I say, I love the velvet mysteries of the night. I enjoy walking at night and I’ve had some interesting experiences.

On a night walk in Hilton Head, I was on a road so dark I literally could not see the hand in front of my face, my legs or feet or the road. It was like walking on a treadmill in a sensory deprivation tank…no moon, no stars, nothing.

On the beach in Daytona Beach, the tide had washed up dozens of jellyfish, which ahead of me for a hundred yards glowed with blue-green luminescence under the bright full moon.

On another beach walk far past the lights of the last condominium building, I came across a leatherette of alligators digging for turtle eggs. My presence was not welcome and I beat a not-so-dignified retreat.

One walk I will always remember was when I was about twenty-four years old and living in an apartment building in a gritty section of Birmingham. I was working the night shift at a newspaper and when I got home I decided to go for a walk around two o’clock. When I was out the building’s door I was joined by a big, ferocious-looking black Doberman that scared the life out of me but came up friendly and walked at my side the entire route, about an hour and back. When I got back home, the dog ran off and I never saw it again.

I am not without my own quota of ‘dark fear’. I lived in another apartment that was haunted. I have no problem with the dark, but in this instance the power went out quite regularly in that area, and darkness in this apartment brought upon me a sensation of dread and oppression, as if something was there in a corner watching me. No candle or oil lamp helped ease that feeling. My girlfriend at the time lived nearby, so when the lights when out at my place I fled to hers. That place was torn down and a nice-looking garden home built in its stead. I wonder if the current owners keep a supply of candles on hand, but then again the area has been ‘gentrified’ and I’m sure they don’t have power outages there as they used to.

So it seems ghosts enjoy the night just as much as I do, because though I had some bizarre experiences there during the night I never had any concern during the day, it was just a regular old ratty apartment.

The night is my friend. It encourages my imagination and soothes away all cares that might linger from the daytime world. The night is a time when I dream awake. It’s been my friend my entire life, and every daytime hour I look forward to being again in the company of that friend, who has understood me and nurtured me through the best and the worst of times.

I often think of the nightbird singing far down at the end of the street, under the glow of the only light to be seen. I never heard another bird answer that singular song. Was the nightbird singing for another one? No. The nightbird sang only for the joy of it, and also I believe for the joy of being free and alive in the soft hand of the night.

I would like to think that the nightbird’s message to the world—if only heard by one little boy on a wrought-iron balcony—was ‘I was here, and you will not forget me’.

I will close with another quote from Shakespeare that sums up my feeling about the night quite well:

‘This night I hold an old accustomed feast, Whereto I have invited many a guest/ Such as I love; and you among the store/ One more, most welcome, makes my number more’.