I was pretty bummed yesterday, after the Professor tried to kill me off–first by making three gallons of sangria and pouring it into cups that looked suspiciously like the cups containing the egg dye (at one point, someone looked up from the eggs and said, sadly, “I drank the yellow,” but it wasn’t me) on Friday night, and then by hopping me up on jelly beans and egg-shaped M&Ms until I was in a sugar stupor, loading me up with more sangria, and then packing us all into a tiny car in such a way that I ended up laying across three people with one of my knees bent askew and my head tilted up under the Sheik’s arm. One bump, hit wrong, and I would have been ejected from the car onto the big naked statue.
(Weep for the poor Southern Baptists, in that case. Would they have been more outraged at my public drunkenness, as I slept off the evening in the outstretched arms of a three story tall naked man, or at the naked man’s public nudity? Decisions, decision.)
But on my way to and from work, I spent it with XTC’s song, “The Greenman,” which is the best non-Christian Easter song there is: all about love and rebirth and the way the things we love get hidden and carried along with us, even after we’re supposed to be done with them.
Why put a head up high on the church wall, even a leafy green one?
When Bendigeid Fran, the son of Llyr, king of his land, went to rescue his sister, Branwen, he was mortally wounded and knew he was dying. “Cut off my head, and take it with you to Harlech,” he said to his friends, “And while you remain there, my head will be as good a company to you as it ever way when it was on my body.”
The gift he gave these weary warriors, who had defeated the Irish, but at tremendous cost, was seven years of forgetfulness. They didn’t remember their fallen comrades or any other sorrows. Bendigeid Fran’s head was great company to them and they enjoyed his company without grieving his death.
One day, Heilyn, the son of Gwynn, opened a door Bendigeid Fran told his friends to keep shut, and, as Lady Charlotte Guest so eloquently puts it, “when they had looked [out the door], they were as conscious of all the evils they had ever sustained, and of all the friends and companions they had lost, and of all the misery that had befallen them, as if all had happened in that very spot.”
Maybe there isn’t a direct connection, but hanging heads on walls in places set aside from the rest of the world that bring luck and joy. . . that seems to be a mighty big coincidence, if they don’t have anything to do with each other. And I like to imagine that there’s a god, who’s name we’ve now forgotten, who whispered in the ear of one of his last followers, “cut off my head, and take it with you to church and there it will be as good a company to you as it ever was when it was on my body.”