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 Goat for Thunder
My next-door neighbor stands in his front yard, garden hose in hand.
Welcome to the Long, Hot Summer of '23. We haven't seen Drop One of rain in weeks.
“Fifty percent chance of rain tonight,” I say over the fence.
He casts his eyes up to the sky: Here's hoping.
“Maybe we need to start thinking about killing the black goat,” I say: my standard in-group joke during rainless times like this.
(Black for dark rain-clouds. Thunder likes goats, they say. A bull, of course, would be even better, but these days, who can afford one?)
“Any chance they'd take squirrel instead?” he asks. Drought notwithstanding, it's been a bumper year for mast; there are even more squirrels frisking around than usual, which in this neighborhood is saying something.
“Not a chance,” I say. “It has to be something you value.”
He shakes his head. Damn gods. “Well, here's hoping,” he says.
“Here's hoping,” I say, and move along.
When you've got a favor to ask, it never hurts to bring along a gift. Maybe for now, we'll hold off on the goat. Tonight I'll face West and pour out a libation, though.
They say He likes liquor, too.
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