Balog, Dizzabelle P. Block 4- St.

Padre Pio
Erese, Nathacia Zierra E.
PUTTING STONES IN GRAVES
Grave Culture

The Jewish tradition of leaving stones or pebbles on a grave is an ancient one, and its origins are
unclear. It is a custom or tradition, rather than a commandment, and over time many
interpretations have been offered for this practice.
Common Explanations for This Custom
 Warning To Kohanim (Jewish Priests)
During the times of the Temple in Jerusalem, Jewish priests (kohanim) became ritually impure if
they came within four feet of a corpse. As a result, Jews began marking graves with piles of
rocks in order to indicate to passing kohanim that they should stay back.
 To Keep the Soul in This World
The Talmud mentions that after a person dies her soul continues to dwell for a while in the grave
where she was buried. Putting stones on a grave keeps the soul down in this world, which some
people find comforting. Another related interpretation suggests that the stones keep demons and
golemsfrom getting into the graves.
 Stones Last Longer Than Flowers
Flowers, though beautiful, will eventually die. A stone will not die, and can symbolize the
permanence of memory and legacy.
 A Hebrew Pun
Rabbi Simkha Weintraub, rabbinic director of the New York Jewish Healing Center offered
another traditional interpretation: “The Hebrew word for ‘pebble’ is tz’ror – and it happens that
this Hebrew word also means ‘bond.’ When we pray the memorial El Maleh Rahamim prayer
(and at other times) we ask that the deceased be ‘bound up in the bond of life’ – tz’ror
haHayyim. By placing the stone, we show that we have been there, and that the individual’s
memory continues to live on in and through us.” Many people take special care in choosing a
stone to put on the grave of a loved one. It may be a stone from a place that was significant to the
deceased, a stone that was chosen at an event during which the deceased was especially missed,
or simply an interesting or attractive rock. Because there is no commandment to fulfill here,
placing a stone on a grave is an opportunity for you to create your own ritual, or do things in the
way that feels most meaningful to you.

Irish Faerie Folk of Yore and Yesterday: The Dearg-Due

You’ve probably heard of the saying, “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” No one wants to
be on the receiving end of one of those. People native to our beloved Ireland are probably
familiar with the legend of the Dearg-Due. One of the most tragic and frightening cases of “a
woman scorned,” her legend is still whispered at grave sites. Rocks are still placed over graves in
small towns and hamlets because of her. She is a vampire. Not the first, not the last, but threads
of her grim tale have been sewn into the fabric of all vampire myth…perhaps even into the most
legendary of all, Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Dearg-Due, meaning “red-blood sucker” in Irish
(pronounced DAH-ruhg DU-ah / DAH-ruh-guh DU-ah), was not the name of this poor girl in
life. In life, over two thousand years ago, she was a legendary beauty, with blood-red lips and
pale blonde hair. Her true name has been lost to the ages, overshadowed instead by the thing she
became. Men travelled from far and wide, and even from rival clans across the land, to not only
look upon her, but to win her hand. Her outward loveliness was said to be only a shadow of that
within her. Godly and kind, she was a blessing to all who knew her.
Of course, as fate would have it, this sweet-natured girl fell in love with a local peasant. His
name too, has been forgotten, swallowed by legend. He was a true match for her in all
things…handsome, kind-hearted…but lacking in the one that meant the most to the fair maiden’s
cruel Father: money. Without money, there was no stature in the community, and without stature,
there would be no security for the family. That love match would never be allowed to happen.
Instead, the Father gave his child to a vastly older, vastly crueler man, all to secure a name and a
fortune for the family. While the Father reveled in his newly acquired riches, he gave not a
thought to his poor daughter. She daily suffered terrible mental and physical abuse at the hands
of her new “husband.” His particular pleasure was found in drawing blood from her…watching
as the deep crimson welled up on her soft, porcelain skin. When she was not being abused, she
was kept locked away in a tower cell, so that only her husband could see her…touch her…bleed
her. And she waited, in vain, for the day that her former love, the kind peasant boy, would
somehow rescue her. That hope kept her alive for many months.
Until, one day, she realized there was no hope. No one would come for her. So she saved herself,
the only way she knew how. She committed suicide, it is believed, by secretly disposing of the
scraps of food left for her each day. It was a slow, and no doubt painful, death. She is buried in a
small churchyard, near “Strongbow’s Tree,” in the County of Waterford, Southeast Ireland.
Some say the months of abuse had broken and twisted her kind spirit, and before she finally
breathed her last, she renounced God and vowed a terrible vengeance. For the devout, souls of
those who commit suicide are never at rest, regardless; they are, in fact, doomed to walk forever
in torment.
Long before this sad tale, folklore in Ireland dictated that you should pile stones on the graves of
the newly dead, to prevent them from rising again. Perhaps it was out of sadness and guilt that
the townspeople did not pile the stones on her grave that first night. Perhaps they remembered
the kind and beautiful soul she was and thought she had suffered enough persecution and
defamation. After all, none of them had come to her rescue, despite the fact that they knew her
husband was a monster of a man, and none of them had ever seen her again after the day of their
marriage.
But alas, they were remembering the person she was, not the creature she became. Her undead
corpse rose from the earth the very night she was buried, driven by the half-remembered human
visions of her own blood welling on her skin, thirsting for revenge, thirsting for blood in return.
She rose that night as the Dearg-Due, “the red-blood drinker,” and thus her legend was born. She
steals blood from children, from the innocent, and especially from young men. Calling them with
a strange, haunting siren song that invades their sleep, she lures them out into the night with
her…tempting them to follow her, to her grave. Punishing them, as she was punished. Keeping
them with her, as she herself was kept. Those who go missing, those taken mysteriously ill,
those children who die inexplicably, are all attributed to the cursed, wandering, and
insatiable Dearg-Due.