Last night I was strolling around the damp streets of Newtownstewart looking for lost coins as usual. As I passed the Old Bridge, the same one that I have passed countless times in my weary life, I noticed a gap in the mossy stones. Squeezing myself through, I was amazed to find the remnants of a mediaeval home, complete with half-rotted weavings on the floor and disintegrating horsehair mattresses. After, examining these artefacts for a time, I moved through to the other end of the house which diminished into a very narrow corridor of wet stone walls.
Pushing through, I arrived in a cold, wet cave. Moving towards the far corner where I could see light, I was surprised to find Dave Gilmour from Pink Floyd crouching near a small fire. He was not surprised to see me, though.
"I have in my hand the Devil's hair. Touch it," he intoned. I refused. He held his hand outstretched, and it contained a matted clump of grey and black dirty hair. "Touch it," he again implored. Again I refused. His insistence became hypnotic with repetitition, and eventually I extended my thumb and forefinger towards the hair.
The moment I touched it, I felt an irritation in the roof of my mouth. Moving my tongue around, I could feel a piece of fluff sticking there. With my free hand I pulled at the bit of fluff, but it kept coming in a thin wool-like thread, pulling through a small hole in my palate with soft resistance. Dave Gilmour's eyes widened as he straightened up and watched intensely. "This is very significant. Very significant indeed. There have only ever been seven," he said, peering closely as the remains of the withdrawal mounted in my hand.
When it stopped, I looked down at his outstretched hand, only to find it empty, mine still in a pinched position directly above. Opening my other hand, I found a wet, dirty clump of greyish black hair. "This is significant. Very significant indeed," he again stated.
I never did find out why.
