In the Name of the Blood on the Rose
If anything - for me - witchcraft is the erotic and intimate praising of the terrible beauty of existence. When I consider the sensual symbols of witches - which are their own living creatures of the Art - the broomstick, the stang, the knife, the skull, the cauldron, the cloud-cloaked moon, the cave, the crossroads... I am drawn into a powerful embrace of the most ordinary landscapes, items, and scenes... they all embody the palpable and unruly presence of the domestic, the regional, the chthonic, the dead.
And not just praising, but partnership. Partnership with the spiralling leviathan gaping of existence, the primordial Chaos from which all dreams forth.
Fate is as likely to be a beautiful and vital youth as She is to present as the "Loathly Lady", the ancient Hag who challenges us to be kings and queens. Clean up after yourself She says. Take responsibility, do not whinge or whine, cry if you have to, be scared if you must, but eventually you are going to have face the burning forests and rising seas. Go with that. Do not deny Fate.
So the Witch reverently journeys to the crossroads in the forest. They go where they know there will be running water and an entry downward into the fertile, pregnant darkness, echoing that original yawning void of Chaos. They take from their travelling basket a skull wrapped in red cloth and place this forgotten dead - except they aren’t forgotten at all - down in the centre of those two dirt roads and a candle is lit atop the skull. They are silent and underneath their cloak they are naked.
They whisper to the flame coming forth from the skull and name the dead witches - known and unknown - to come forth and form a ring of power around them. An owl with glowing amber eyes lands in the pine nearest to the working witch. A knife is lifted carefully from within the mysterious basket. It glows in the candlelight and it is as sharp as the edge of an elf arrow; it has the same provenance, though this iron tool may also keep the Good People at bay if need be. And so the witch carves a shallow and narrow line in the dirt around the skull and pronounces a tongue that only the stars and the hollow hills understand. Angels come as readily as demons do. The witch is lover to them all.
A stang for the Tree - for the Sabbatic Mountain, and for the Devil who dances and calls us to the Feast - they erect behind the skull. And the witch falls to the ground and begins to transform into the wolf they have always been. Their familiars come breathlessly close - to the breathless edge - and what was this is now that and everything is inside out and the other way round.
Later the dew glistens on a single red rose that blooms by the stream. If you looked closely you would see that each red petal is anointed with red blood. For those that know, this is the only sign at all that the witch has come.
The Witch left the Crossroads before dawn whispering reverently,
In the name of the Blood on the Rose
In the name of the Moon in the Sea
In the name of the Fire in the Mountain
In the name of the Trinity…
The witch’s magic has reworked reality and that reality has changed the witch. Her creatures of Art, his tools of sorcery, their vows and their sworn oaths are all committed in Darkness, to Darkness, to the revelation of the Terrible Beauty of Light erupting forth in brilliance.
Cross yourself when a witch comes near, yes to beg protection, but also to beg blessing at the hands of Fate. Cross yourself because you too, deep in your guts, understand that She has gone to the Crossroads and pronounced the Names of God.
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