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.
Walking Naked Into the Dark
At the jack o' lantern Gate, the Horned lays down his crown of antlers and autumn leaves.
He removes his torc.
He doffs his cloak.
Even the scanty loincloth he strips off.
Without looking back, he passes through the Gate.
Long after his pale rippling flanks have disappeared into darkness, we can still hear the dry leaves, crunching underfoot.
Later, around the hearth, someone asks: Gods, weren't you cold?
He laughs.
Here's the point at which I'm supposed to say—his voice drops a register—I was so deep in trance, I didn't even notice the cold, he says.
He laughs again and shakes his head.
Of course I was cold, he says. By the time I'd got to where I'd stashed my clothes, I swear, both nuts had crawled all the way back up into their sockets.
We laugh, as intended, but unconsciously, we all edge a little nearer the fire. Winter is upon us.
Some day we will, each one of us, walk naked and alone into the dark: our own, personal Samhain.
In his footsteps, we will walk.
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