In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
A Night on Blue Mound
In Western Minnesota, there's a big ridge of Sioux quartzite that rises abruptly out of the prairie. (If it were in England, they'd call it a tor.) It's a local landmark, called Blue Mound because the red rock is covered with blue-green lichen. Over the shoulder of the mound is a stone row of unknown age that points to equinoctial sunrise and sunset. At the highest point of the ridge is a tall outcropping called Eagle Rock.
Once when I hopped besom and flew off to the dream sabbat, I followed the sunset westwards and ended up at Blue Mound. There was a big fire burning at the foot of Eagle Rock, with lots of different people dancing around it: red, white, black folks all together. (They say that the sabbat is the great equalizer.)
Sitting there cross-legged on top of Eagle Rock was, of course, the Old Buck himself, Mr. Splitfoot mon amour. Out east here, he mostly wears antlers, but there on the prairie he had, as one would expect, the shaggy red head of a buffalo bull.
If the gods have ontological reality—and I would contend that They do—surely one would expect Them to show Themselves differently to different people in different places?
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