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.
There Is No Moon But Her
To Pagan Friends, Going to the City of Hekate
“They worship the Moon here, just like we do at home.”
—Osred Osbertson to his brother Oswin, King of the Hwicce
Remember.
Remember, it is not to Istanbul that you go, neither to Constantinople.
Rather, you go to Byzantium: pagan Byzantium, City of Hekate, City of the Moon.
She, Threefold Lady, was the city's patron in its youth. Now, in its age, she is its patron still. From each mosque, her crescents proclaim her; let them say what they will.
There is no Moon but Her.
(Whose sacred dogs still rule those streets by night?)
Say what they will, Holy Wisdom is hers, as it was and always shall be. From the ancients we know that, among its columns, columns from the far-famed temple of Artemis of Ephesus, wonder of the world, still stand, remembering. Find them, feel them, remember.
(We of the Old Ways remember that things might have been far otherwise. We remember, and we tell those tales, remembering.)
She waxes, she wanes, she waxes again. What was hers, is still, and ever shall be.
Seek her in her city, my friends: Moon-come-down, in the city of the Golden Horn.
There you shall surely find her.
.
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