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.
Putin's Gone!
Well, Putin's gone!
We hexed him a year ago, not long after he invaded Ukraine. At Dark of the Moon, we baptized the poppet with holy water from a Russian church and, after we'd magically bound him, I nailed him (by the throat, no less) to the Witch Tree.
(That's how you do it around here; the offense to the tree magnifies the bale.)
There he hung, just outside the front door, for a year, scaring the squirrels and (probably) the mail carrier. Every time I went past, I'd ill-wish him afresh.
A month later, his face peeled off.
So mote it be, I thought.
Summer went by, and Autumn; then Winter.
Three days ago, I noticed that he was gone.
The nail's still there, but the P-boy himself is gone, simply gone: not on the tree, not on the ground, not anywhere. It's as if he'd never been at all.
Magic is metaphor, but this pointless war has been going on for far too long now. Ōmen sīt, as the Romans used to say.
May it be for a sign.
Comments
-
Please login first in order for you to submit comments
