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.
Witches Have Always Been Different
Even back in pagan days, witches were different.
They lived in cities and ran things, like government and armies.
We lived in the sticks and tried to raise enough to get us through the winter.
They worshiped Younger Gods, the ones with human faces.
We still worshiped the Old Gods, the untamed powers, the wild.
They went to temples to pray.
We went to the woods to dance.
Their priests wore white linen.
Ours—if anything at all—wore black, and probably wool.
Their gods had beautiful statues.
Ours had trees and standing stones, the woman in white clay, the man with horns.
Even back in pagan days, witches were different.
Witches have always been other.
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So some us remembered Acteon as the God of the hunt before Artemis came along. Some of us would have worshipped Hermaphroditus as a water god though probably by a different name. Some of us would worship Morpheus the god of dreams and we would pay close attention to our dreams. None of would be quite the same as rest, not to society at large and not to each other, and we would all pay careful respect to local heroes, and important trees, rocks and springs.