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.
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Dolmen
The Archdruid was dying.
From all over Gaul, druids gathered to his bedside to ease his passage from this world to the next. As they stood around him chanting, a novice brought him a bowl of fresh milk, but the Archdruid refused it.
The novice took the milk to the hearth, warmed it, and stirred in some honey. As he poured the milk back into the bowl, he spied a jar of apple brandy that had been a gift from the local chieftain, and added a goodly amount to the warmed milk-and-honey.
He held the bowl to the lips of the Archdruid, who drank it down to the last drop.
“Old Father, do you have any final words of wisdom to guide us after you have gone Behind the Sunset?” asked a senior druid.
With difficulty, the Archdruid raised himself on his elbow. An otherwordly light shone from his eyes.
“Whatever you do, boys,” he said, “for gods' sakes, don't sell that cow.”
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