News

Rubble, Rubble, Toil, and Trouble

A dilapidated mansion on West 14th has become ground zero for Cleveland's embattled pagans.

By Mark Naymik 

On a brisk but sunny April morning, Gaiana Ravenlynx looks a bit out of place in her black robe as she strolls down the sidewalk along West 14th Street in Tremont. It's Sunday, and much of the morning's pedestrian traffic consists of small families in white shirts and high heels on their way to mass at one of the many neighborhood churches.

Ravenlynx is also on her way to a religious celebration, though one likely never witnessed by this morning's churchgoers.

The celebration is taking place outdoors, in the side yard of a large dilapidated house at the north end of the block, within shouting distance of Greek Orthodox and Catholic churches. Rooted in a belief system that predates Christianity, the open-air ritual will be led by the 27-year-old, raven-haired Ravenlynx, a licensed minister--and a witch.

The high priestess of a Cleveland coven known as DragonStar, Rev. Ravenlynx is a spiritual leader in the local pagan community. Broadly defined, paganism is an ancient Eastern religion that recognizes multiple male and female gods and celebrates the earth's seasons. When Ravenlynx performs pagan rituals--some might call them spells--she draws on the earth's natural energies like fire, water, and air, striving to create harmony with nature.

The yard's owner is a self-described eclectic pagan, Frank Giglio, who invited Rev. Ravenlynx here to help return harmony to his land. She will preside over a planting ritual aimed at healing the barren ground, now stripped of the artifacts, thick vegetation, and trees that covered it as recently as last September. That's when the city, armed with a health citation, bulldozed it flat.

Giglio is dressed in a tattered sportcoat, purple T-shirt, and blue jeans. He and nine other pagans, some with small rattles and drums, sit on logs laid out in a circle around a bonfire pit, awaiting Ravenlynx's instructions. A cat plays near a beat-up church pew, which has been dragged close to the circle. Giglio's weathered Victorian manor, which casts long shadows across the yard, looms large behind them, its purple siding and yellow trim providing a dramatic contrast to the brown soil.

Ravenlynx is greeted with smiles and hugs. Around her neck hangs the semiotics of their religion: a gold crescent moon, a tiny medicine bag filled with stones, and a small silver pentacle not much bigger than a quarter. A bright green pager dangles incongruously from a gold chain fastened around her waist. Like many clergy, Rev. Ravenlynx says she is on call "24-7"--that is, around the clock.

During the ritual, which is closed to outsiders, Rev. Ravenlynx will ask the gods to accept and protect two trees and dozens of small plants that will be planted later this day. And in the modern pagan tradition, a party will follow.

This is not the first time pagans have gathered in Giglio's yard. In essence, his property has become a center for religious services, much like the neighboring churches that give Tremont its character, as distinctive as the onion-topped towers of St. Theodosius Russian Orthodox Cathedral. For years, pagans have come here to celebrate seasonal holidays such as the spring and autumn equinoxes, summer solstice, and Lammas, which falls on August 1 and commemorates the year's first harvest. Some of the largest gatherings have taken place following the Beltane (May Day) celebrations on Public Square.

As part of these gatherings, Giglio often built a large bonfire in his yard, burning stray branches he gathered from nearby Lincoln Park. Drummers sat around the fire beating late into the night, the nearby highway taking the brunt of the noise.

Giglio's often Dionysiac gatherings did not go unnoticed in the neighborhood. While many artists and poets enjoyed Giglio's celebrations, some residents became upset over the condition of his property. Others began to speculate about what was going on during the parties, trading rumors of wild orgies and animal sacrifice.

City Hall noticed too. Since 1993, city inspectors have documented numerous building code violations related to his house, a hulking two-and-a-half-story mansion in need of serious and immediate repair. They have also cited Giglio for his wildly overgrown front and side yards, once so thick with vegetation passersby could hardly see beyond the sidewalk.

Giglio made attempts to repair portions of his roof, porch, and heating system, but they were not good enough to abate the city violations. He claims he is too poor to complete the improvements that will satisfy the city.

As for notices about his yard, Giglio has largely ignored them, even skipping related court appearances. The yard, to Giglio, is a sacred garden, land that he spent ten years carefully planning and cultivating--not some abandoned or weed-infested lot that can be regulated to meet the aesthetic values of an increasingly trendy neighborhood.

The city's patience ran out last September, when the commissioner of environment declared Giglio's yard a health emergency, citing its "noxious" weeds and potential for rodents. This triggered a visit to the yard by city workers, who arrived with a police escort, chain saws, and a large front-end loader. When they finished, Giglio was in jail. All that remained of his yard was dirt, broken glass, and tree stumps.

The decimation of Giglio's yard has become a rallying point for pagans locally and nationally, who are convinced that the city acted unfairly by ignoring his religious beliefs. As a result, they are organizing, threatening to file a civil lawsuit against the city, charging it with the destruction of property. And they vow that the yard, like the cycle of life, will be reborn.

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