It started in a dark forest… It was cold, a cold that seeped into the bones and beneath the skin, it spread itself through the very veins of the land, into the heart.
The cold and the dark were one.
The spirits howled through the wind-whipped trees, moaning and crying, wailing and baying. Their forms shifted like smoke. They moved like dervishes dancing and twirling, swirling and whirling.
The spirits danced through the witches bodies, working their way through their fingers and toes, their bellies, their souls. As the witches danced ridden by spirits, the cold started to thaw.
With each drum beat beaten from the witches hearts upon the ground, the earth awoke. The witches howled and yelled the names of the spirits, the spirits of old, of darkness and cold, of beauty and death, of life and spring and hope.
The chant echoed through the forest, and trembled through the air stirring the hearts of people who could not understand the rising in their hearts.
The warmth rose up from the heart of the land, the witches, and reached through the spirit of every being. As the witches cavorted lost in the ecstasy of the dance, tears fell from their eyes, the tears spoke of grief and sadness, pain and suffering, of surrender and joy, life and love and the sweet breath of hope.
The dance would last until dawn… Upon the ground the witches had fallen, naked but warm, exhausted from their midnight ride.
All text Copyright 2013 of Nightshade author of The Purple Broom