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.

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The Old Worship

The morning after our first Grand Sabbat, a friend approached, a little hesitantly.

“That was you in the horns and the paint up on the altar last night?”

I pause, then smile and nod.

She shakes her head, incredulous.


“That's what I thought, but I still can't believe it. I swear, that was just not you. When he spoke, it wasn't your voice. He didn't move like you. He had 6 inches and 25 pounds on you." She pauses. "He was even, you know”—she laughs—“bigger than you.”

I laugh too. Skyclad was a lot more common in those days than it is now.

“That's him, then,” I say, meaning it.

Priestcraft is priestcraft, but that only opens the way. The Old Worship has its own mysteries.

And some things just can't be faked.


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Poet, scholar and storyteller Steven Posch was raised in the hardwood forests of western Pennsylvania by white-tailed deer. (That's the story, anyway.) He emigrated to Paganistan in 1979 and by sheer dint of personality has become one of Lake Country's foremost men-in-black. He is current keeper of the Minnesota Ooser.


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