At the end of each tribal conclave, we throw the bones to see when our next Grand Sabbat will be.

When a given event happens every year, people begin to take it for granted. That's why the Grand Sabbat—the great ritual gathering of the clans of the Witch-tribe—takes place regularly at irregular intervals.

The last was three years ago. Three years was far too long to wait between Sabbats. But that's what the bones said, and the full longing of those too-many years between, their course finally run, swept us together into a vast wave of fiery consummation.

In the usual way of things, one generally goes into the throwing of the bones with a plan: next year, or the year after.

But if you throw the bones, you have to listen to what they say. Sometimes they agree with you, and sometimes they don't. In the end, the bones have final say.

Well, the bones have spoken.

On our last morning together, the Antlered led us up out of the forest into the full light of day, to the hayfield, bright with flowers and lark-song. Raising a hand of farewell, he turned and walked off up and over the shoulder of the rise. In a great blaze of white flame, we watched him descend into the earth.

After the final blessing and the song of parting, we spread the cloth on the ground and threw the bones.

“Next year,” said the bones.

Thank Goddess.