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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 the first evening of this summer's Grand Convocation of the Midwest Tribe of Witches, we turned our faces to the West and chanted a prayer to Thunder (see below) asking for good weather during our get-together.

Among the gods, Thunder in particular is well-known to have a taste for hard liquor. At prayer's end, we poured out an entire bottle of Jameson whiskey in libation.

That, believe me, was a sacrifice felt by everyone.

Throughout the three following days of our gathering, the weather was absolutely beautiful.

During the feast on Sunday evening, we heard a roll of thunder from the north. A rainbow appeared in the eastern sky. This was followed by a second roll of thunder from the southern sky.

No rain, however, fell.

Monday afternoon, I had a phone message from a friend who had remained on-site, calling to report that (everyone having packed up and left), it had finally begun to rain.

Gently, as it happens.

If you ask me, the money laid out for that bottle of Jamie was money well spent.

Every single penny.

“Mister, you want something that'll change your life?”

I've stopped to grab some take-out on my way home from the 2018 Midwest Grand Sabbat. My heart is so full, it hurts. If it weren't for the beauty, who could possibly bear the pain?

I look at the sad little man asking me his sad little question.

He's no way cool enough to be dealing, so I presume he's pimping for some religion or other. I wonder if his religion gives him anything like what mine gives me. Just that morning I had watched the Stag That Walks on Two Legs, clothed in white fire, step into the sky.

I hope for his sake that it does. Looking at him, though, I rather doubt it.

I smile, a little sadly.

I tell you, it's the damnedest thing.

Every few years, the witches get together up on the ridge for one of their big shindigs.

Every few years, without any rhyme or reason to it.

Harvest time coming on, and suddenly they'll be up there, hooting and hollering and carrying on. All night they'll be at it, sun-down to sun-up.

Eeriest thing you ever heard. Hear the drums for miles, you can.

Funny, those are always bumper years: corn, apples, hay. Hens laying like crazy, and the cows! Seems like you never stop milking.

There's always good hunting, too, the falls of those years. Those are good venison years.

And here's something else: after the last one, in the spring, that's when Martha had the Twins. Nobody else in her family, or mine, ever had twins before.

Now, ain't that just the damnedest thing?

Registrations are coming in for this year's Midwest Grand Sabbat.

(The firelight on the trees. The Stag That Walks On Two Legs, come down from the altar. The frenzied dancing. The love-making in the shadows.)

Yesterday one arrived that had actually been signed in blood.

In the dream, it was the morning of this year's upcoming Grand Sabbat.

As I'm making preparations, Tall Rob comes up to me: beautiful Rob, wet-dream of the Western World, looking just as good as he did when I last saw him 10 years ago.

“Here, I wanted you to have this,” he says in his husky voice, pushing a handful of wadded bills into my hand. “Looking forward.” He smiles and moves off.

I look at the money for a moment, then push it uncounted into my pocket.

Rob has been dead for 10 years.

At the Midwest Grand Sabbat this summer, four people will be taking their oaths and receiving their Marks, and in this way joining the Tribe of Witches.

Since the Middle Ages, this thedish (tribal) initiation has traditionally begun with three questions, given here in their contemporary formulations:

Do you reject Yahweh, and all his lies, and all his empty promises?

Do you renounce the waters of baptism?

Do you give yourself body and soul, whole and all, to the Horns and the Wandering Moon, and take the Craft to be your home?

It's always a powerful moment, the more so by the very nature of the questions involved.

Here's the clincher: Only one of these questions has a right answer.