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.
Naked Pagans
Merrymeet 1997
It's been hot work at Grand Council all day, so I head down to Gull Lake for a quick dip before dinner. What I see there astounds me.
Clearly, word of the wild witches has got out. Every fishing boat on the lake has—coincidentally, no doubt—just happened to drift over to our side, the prospect of naked pagans apparently outweighing that of walleye on this sunny late August afternoon.
Ritual robe hiked up to her knees, a woman sits at the end of the dock, dangling her feet in the water.
Gods, what's with these people? I say, taking off my shirt. I'm half tempted to wave. All this to see a little bit of skin?
Cowans, she commiserates.
Hey, screen me, would you? I ask, crouching.
Anything for a fellow conspirator, she says, raising her arms.
Screened by her back and generous hanging sleeves, I slip out of my kilt and over the edge.
The water is refreshing and cool.
Above:
Fresco, Tomb of the Diver
Greek, ca. 470 bce
Paestum, Campania
Italy ("Greater Greece")
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