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 Thirteenth Treasure
On first Mother Night, we tapped the box of red.
It was a nice wine for winter: chewy, hearty, a little leathery.
Next day, there was still wine left.
On second Mother Night, we drank more from the box of red.
Next day, there was still wine left.
Tonight, Thirteenth Night, we'll keep on drinking.
As for tomorrow, we'll see.
I'm beginning to wonder if what we've got on our hands here may not be that legendary box of wine that, no matter how many rituals you take it to, never runs dry.
If so, come pull up a glass; I'd like to propose a toast.
Here's to the Thirteen Treasures of Paganistan.
And here's to their Chief: the wine-box that never runs dry.
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