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.
"Just Like in the Woodcuts"
Our chant begins low and slow, but soon we are shouting, frenzied.
Horned One! Horned One! Horned One!
From the woods, a horn rings out. Another joins it, nearing, and another.
We call, He comes.
In the moving torchlight, He shines. Borne high, He stands astride, arms raised. His horns reach up to heaven.
At a run, His bearers cross the final slope and enter our midst, bringing Him in. He steps, precisely, from palanquin to altar. The drums fall silent.
In the sudden stillness, He scans our fire-lit faces. Between His antlers, constellations revolve.
His arms reach out, embracing.
Come to Me, My People, He says.
As one, we mass forward.
sabbat n. the ecstatic adoration of the embodied Horned God
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