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| George Buster Singleton |
The month of October has always been to me the month of mystery. For some strange reason during this month, I find myself wanting to return to old places that I have visited in the past, places where strange things have been seen or heard during the dark hours of the night.
Just a few days back, I returned to one such place, hoping to witness what I had on an earlier visit. I know that Halloween is just around the corner, and the ghosts and goblins will come out of hiding for a time of trick-or-treating. But I speak of a time when the spirits walked the ancient trails and the sounds of ghost drums could be heard on the winds of the late evenings; places where no one is there but you and the spirits from another time return to the spot.
Hiding my transportation, I carefully descended the steep slope into the deep ravine where in ancient times a large Indian village was located. I didn’t expect to see or hear anything since it was late afternoon, although the deep shadows had already begun to settle across the ancient village site.
Stillness in the ravine
Even though the cool winds sighed through the tall trees there in the huge raving, the stillness in the deep bottom made the hairs on my neck stand at attention. There at ground level, not a leaf or twig seemed to move in the late afternoon air.
There was no doubt in my mind that I was the only one in the deep ravine. In descending the only path into the area, I became aware of the odor of burning wood, as through a small campfire had been kindled a short time prior to my arrival. I had seen no evidence of smoke coming up from the deep ravine as I was climbing down the steep embankment to the ancient village floor.
Puzzled by the odor of the burning wood, I sat down with my back against a high embankment. This village had been used during the cold winter months when the icy winds swept down from the north, bringing with it freezing rain and snow. Under the protection of the high embankment, the brush huts and the glowing campfires were protected as the freezing winds howled high above the deep ravine.
The deep silence of the moment was broken by the rush of a searching armadillo as it hustled through the layers of dead leaves and grass there on the ancient village floor. Passing within inches of my feet, the ugly creature continued to make its way around the edge of the hill.
Strange thumping sounds
As I watched the armadillo disappear, I became aware of strange thumping sounds that seemed to be coming from nowhere. Looking in every direction, I saw nothing to give evidence of what was causing the low thumps that could barely be heard in the area around me.
Realizing that the odor of the burning wood had grown stronger, I slowly rose to my feet, almost expecting to see a small fire burning in the underbrush nearby. But there was nothing; no sign of smoke could be seen.
During earlier visits to this ancient village site, I had located several places where small rocks had been placed in small circles. Inside these were where the cook fires and the fires that warmed the villagers had been built. Looking across to one of the larger circles, the sounds of voices seemed to come from around the circle of rocks.
Some years back, I had visited this site and spent most of a night in the very same spot where I was no sitting. That night, flickers of light could be seen dancing up and around the larger of the rock circles. What appeared to be the muffled sounds of distant drums settled in and around the ancient village.
As I have stated many times in these writings, I have seen many strange happenings as I wander here and there, searching out various stories and tall tales relayed to me. I will be the first to admit that I am not the bravest soul around. I have had the living daylights frightened out of me, and here at this ancient village on an earlier visit was one of those times. Right about now, I was feeling quite uneasy.
Place of mystery
Deciding that it was time to leave this place of mystery, I eased myself up from the large rock where I had been sitting. The air around me seemed to grow heavy as though there were others present. Standing there with my back to the steep rock cliff, the muffled voices seemed to grow in number. No words could be deciphered or understood; the mumblings seemed to grow in magnitude.
Keeping my eyes on the large fire pit, I gradually edged my way backward up the steep dim trail that would eventually lead to the narrow dirt road at the top of the hill. Suddenly, as if some kind of signal had been given, total silence settled over the old village site. Not a leaf or a blade of pine straw moved in the late shadows across the ancient site. No sounds of birds or of any wildlife could be heard there in the bottom. It seemed as though nothing existed there under the tall rock cliff. A blanket of silence had settled across the old village site, almost as if it didn’t exist.
Climbing the steep hill and making my way across the dim trail to where I had hidden my motorcycle, many thoughts raced through my mind. What had I heard there at the bottom of the steep bluff? Were the spirits of another time still occupying the ancient Indian village? Perhaps, they had returned this day for a gathering of a meeting of sorts. Would the ceremonial fires flicker in the coming darkness there in the village? Or would the spirits of the past return at another time for a gathering of dancing and chanting and the beating of drums?
Getting too old
As I slowly made my way out up the dim trail toward the narrow dirt road some distance away, the thought came to mind that I might just be getting too old for this kind of wandering.
The mysteries that linger there at the bottom of the deep ravine might just have two wait until I get up enough nerve to return and stay put when the drums sound and the mystery voices speak from the shadows.
(Singleton, the author of the 1991 book “Of Foxfire and Phantom Soldiers,” passed away at the age of 79 on July 19, 2007. A longtime resident of Monroeville, he was born to Vincent William Singleton and Frances Cornelia Faile Singleton, during a late-night thunderstorm, on Dec. 14, 1927 in Marengo County, graduated from Sweet Water High School in 1946, served as a U.S. Marine paratrooper in the Korean War, worked as a riverboat deckhand, lived for a time among Apache Indians, was bitten at least twice by venomous snakes, moved to Monroe County on June 28, 1964 and served as the administrator of the Monroeville National Guard unit from June 28, 1964 to Dec. 14, 1987. He was promoted from the enlisted ranks to warrant officer in May 1972. For years, Singleton’s columns, titled “Monroe County history – Did you know?” and “Somewhere in Time” appeared in The Monroe Journal, and he wrote a lengthy series of articles about Monroe County that appeared in Alabama Life magazine. It’s believed that his first column appeared in the March 25, 1971 edition of The Monroe Journal. He also helped organize the Monroe County Museum and Historical Society and was also a past president of that organization. He is buried in Pineville Cemetery in Monroeville. The column above and all of Singleton’s other columns are available to the public through the microfilm records at the Monroe County Public Library in Monroeville. Singleton’s columns are presented here each week for research and scholarship purposes and as part of an effort to keep his work and memory alive.)




