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.
A Night on Samhain Island
Under the Night Cottonwoods
Flanked by jack o' lanterns, the Shadow waits: darkness upon darkness.
Before her, the Stag that Walks on Two Legs.
Clustered around him, us.
The names have been called, the song sung, the apples eaten.
The Stripping
His sad eyes drink in each of us. It is finished.
The wand he bore throughout, he breaks now over his knee, the sound of its snapping like a shot in the night. The broken halves, he lays out on the ground.
He turns away from us now, toward the Shadow.
The crown of autumn leaves and antlers, he lifts from his head and lays at her feet. He unclasps and bundles his cloak, laying it with the crown. He strips off torque and, lastly, loincloth.
His naked skin shines pale with cold moonlight.
Into the Darkness
She extends a hand: the left. Come.
After a moment, he takes it, and passes by her, through the pumpkin gateway, into the night.
His flanks ripple as he walks, like a deer's. Leaves crunch beneath his feet. Slowly, palely, he merges into the night. His rustling steps fade into silence.
The empty pile—a melted witch, the leather bag of a bog body—mounds at her feet. To us now, she extends a hand: the right, with pointing finger.
Go.
By Pumpkin-Light
Behind us in the stone-built fire hall, shining like a jack o' lantern with hearth fire and candlelight, tables laden with food and drink await.
The Wheel turns, a new year begins.
We turn, and go.
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