Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
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.
Message Found on a Cell Phone
Hey Anita, it's Steven.
I can't remember whether or not there's reception down where you guys are camped. I know that Iacchus has a signal up top at the Big House, so presumably you'll get this sooner or later.
As you'll recall, my original plan was to get to the festival tomorrow—Wednesday—but I'm afraid there have been a few, ah, developments around here.
In fact, you're not going to believe this, but at the moment my house is surrounded by a mob of irate villagers, complete with pitchforks and torches.
Seriously, I am not making this up. You may even be able to hear them in the background. [Muffled shouting.] Like you say, life imitating art.
Gods, with all the kids around here, you'd think they could spare one or two every now and then. I mean, a guy's got to eat, right?
But no.
Well, don't go fashing yourself on my account. This big storm that I've got warlocked up should be hitting any minute now. That'll put paid to their cowan shenanigans.
Anyway, what with this and that, I'm afraid I won't be blowing in until Thursday after all. Expect me about mid-afternoon.
Hey, I wouldn't want to miss the big Goat Sacrifice now, would I?
So, give my love to everyone, and I'll be seeing you all soon.
Bye.
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