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.
Heart of Samhain
They enter from opposite ends of the circle: he in antlers and bare chest, she shrouded in shadow.
A flute sings. They join hands and dance.
Their dance ended, she reaches into his chest. He gives an involuntary, back-of-the-throat groan, and falls back.
Over him, she opens her hand: an apple, pulsing in the firelight. I wince at the juicy squelching noises as she cuts it up.
The pieces pass. We eat. On my palate, dull from fasting, the juice sings like autumn rain.
Suddenly, they are gone. The heart-drums begin to throb.
To their pulse, we dance in a new year.
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