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"What's with the red thread?" asks the cashier, eyeing my left wrist.

Och, now, there's a question and a half.

“Family reunion,” I tell her. “Bloodline kind of thing.”

When you first arrive at Grand Sabbat, they ask you the question that any witch can answer.

Respond correctly, and they knot the red thread around your wrist.

(Spun by hand it is, from the wool of a ram named Gandalf, and dyed red with sumac berries.)

I tie this knot in Old Hornie's name, aye till he fetch thee home again, they say.

It stays in place until you get home safely thereafter. (We haven't lost one yet.) They say that if you leave it on until it comes off of its own accord, he'll grant you a boon.

A rede to the wise: ask carefully.

Five weeks on and counting, I'm still wearing mine.

Even when wearing nothing else—toweling off after the shower, say—I'm wearing my red thread.

Every time that I see it, every time that I feel it, I remember.

Why are some people witches, and some not?

Easily told.

We're witches because he sires us himself, overshadowing our fathers at the moment of our conception.

Witches too, you see, have two daddies.

This year's was a Grand Sabbat memorable for its intimacy and intensity.

Now, when I'm with other thread-bearers, there's an odd kind of camaraderie among us that I can't recall from previous years. Now, proudly displaying our bound wrists, something shared, something deep and unspoken, passes between us.

And you, and you, and you were there.

Bloodline kind of thing.

All lands are the countries of the Wise.

Therefore, before Grand Sabbat, they test you. They ask you the question that any witch can answer.

Answer correctly, and you get your red thread.

You know what that means, of course.

I tie this knot in Old Hornie's name, they say. Aye, till he fetch thee home again.

Then they bind it around your wrist.

That's your laissez-passer to the Sabbat. Wear it, after, until you get safely home.

(If you wear it until it falls of its own accord, though, Old Hornie will grant you a boon, they say. Best ask wisely. You know his sense of humor.)

At the Grand Sabbat, the tribal gathering of Witches, everyone wears a red thread around the pulse point of the wrist. Thus do we know one another, the People of the Red Thread. Adults, children, babes in arms: all wear the thread.

All but one.

The Horned on the altar, He wears no thread.

On arrival, you are posed the question that any witch can answer. Having duly replied, you receive your thread.

I tie this knot in Old Hornie's name:

aye, till he fetch thee home again.

Behold: your passport to the Sabbat.

Thereafter, you wear the thread until you're safely home. Wear it till it falls of its own accord, and He'll grant you an asking, they say.

(If you feel it plucked, they say, look around and see.)

Yet He Himself wears none.

What is the Red Thread?

The Red Thread is the blood line, the Witch Blood: the Blood that flows from Him, Old Warlock, Wellspring, Father of Witches.

Why, then, does He wear none?

Well, let me put it this way: does Jesus wear a crucifix?

The sabbat site was off a rural road. We needed something to mark the entrance, something that would say, to those in the know, “Here Be Witches."

A sign?

A bunch of helium balloons?

In the end, I nailed a deer skull to the top of a fencepost. From every tine, a long red ribbon fluttered.

Even the youngest among us can read that rune.

Back when our youngest coven kid was first learning to talk, the two of us went over to the park one day to watch the rehearsal for the big May Day ceremony. As the costumed performers came in one by one, we played Name the Animal.

“Who's that?” I ask.

“Bear,” he says.

“Who's that?” I ask.

“Wolf,” he says.

“Who's that?” I ask.

“God,” he says.

It was Deer.

Veritas is boldly tattooed on my left forearm. In time it evolved to be surrounded by acanthus leaves and three pomegranates, creating a half sleeve down to wrist. In shades of grey, it is only augmented by single red thread.

Often, I am asked what it all means. Both the tattoo and the thread?  Many mistakenly assume I came to Qabalah through Madonna and that veritas refers to being a wino, in vino veritas or Harvard alumni whose motto is veritas. All are false. I am not a big fan of the Material Girl, or wine, and I did not go to Harvard.