The Huntsman comes in from the rain and clings to the blue spoke like a flag yet to be unfurled. The hunting party rides wild with shrieks of ghosts and gates.
While the spring-rains fall from the sky, the dead rise with Papa Guede with a lust for life and rum.
I have been preparing for Fête Ghede, since Samhain earlier this year… Twenty-one hot chillies soaked in blessed rum, it is now time to pour libations of thanks for the blessings I have received.
The funny thing about the Dead that the living tend to forget is that the Dead are never very far away. We pack them into boxes, hide them away in Cemeteries and forget about them when the world continues to spin on. We sometimes remember them over a glass of wine, or when we hear a song on the radio, or even just by how the space where they used to be seems to shimmer with their presence for a moment. They are always guiding our path, like the stars in the sky.
The Otherworld is a mirror. When we look into the mirror, our souls are reflected back, for we in essence will also cross to the Other side and become one of Them. Some parts of our souls move on, while parts of us remain. We remain connected to our Ancestors, through the venous threads that pass through that mirror and it is through rituals of remembrance, whether small or large, that the threads begin to thicken.
The Spirit world is teeming with life…we are never separate from the Spirits, for we are spirits ourselves. As Witches we connect with the spirits of place, to the spirits in our homes, to the Gods and the Demigods, we thread and weave the patterns in the stars thick into our souls, into the very thread of our existence.
Outside I hear the mournful tones of the wind-beaten corrugated iron separating us and them. The sounds are diabolical, screeching hell-hounds. On these October nights, it is easy to slip into nightmares.
Water is pouring in torrents from the hole in the roof; the dead are calling. It is time for sacrifice. “I repay” I hear in my dreams, like Rose Madder.* Madness is pounding in my head, like a song that is stuck. Bones are dancing and the Night falls as silent and still as an owl.
“Sometimes I Raise the Dead”- Lyric from Dr Hook- Get my Rocks off
*Referenced from Stephen King’s Rose Madder 1995
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