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.
The Old Worship
The morning after our first Grand Sabbat, a friend approached, a little hesitantly.
“That was you in the horns and the paint up on the altar last night?”
I pause, then smile and nod.
She shakes her head, incredulous.
“That's what I thought, but I still can't believe it. I swear, that was just not you. When he spoke, it wasn't your voice. He didn't move like you. He had 6 inches and 25 pounds on you." She pauses. "He was even, you know”—she laughs—“bigger than you.”
I laugh too. Skyclad was a lot more common in those days than it is now.
“That's him, then,” I say, meaning it.
Priestcraft is priestcraft, but that only opens the way. The Old Worship has its own mysteries.
And some things just can't be faked.
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