Thursday, May 26, 2016


They say the BORN-WITCHES began on a remote sea crag, a barren island betwixt the Hebrides and Iceland, yet in a time before names were names and words were words. Sentient beings talked mind to mind then and all who drew air had a bit of the magic in them.

He who we call Loki tarried with mortals then, spawning little godlings and godlingas all about the Northland. He set them up in rude, raw, rocky castles, the keeps of which can still be seen set down upon the Western Marches of what ye call 'Highlands.' though no true mountains be there. Mortals love to exaggerate. They are as chessmen who whine. And those who bored us were thrown to the cearban and died in a most grievous manner, ripped to shreds in huge frowning, razor toothed maws. We watched and laughed as they cried.

Who are 'WE' ?... We are the LIVING ETHER, eddies and rivulets in the universal presence... not the GREAT GOD nor parts of THE GREAT GOD for we were made by HIM and have memories of what came soon after our birth. Sometimes it rained for days on end. Roses grew tall as trees, pollened by great, furry bees, like flying ponies.

What was I telling you? Oh, yes, where born-witches came from. Well, to be truthful, they came not from one place, or one particular event. Rather they accrued over time and coalesced into what we have now. Some early ones lived their whole lives in caves, conferring with sister witches and thinking thoughts that went out like radio waves. Maybe it's wrong to say they actually died. They go back to the ether and after a time they come back to us.

Some condensed on that rocky crag. Just stone. Just seawater. Nothing grew there, even the crabs stayed away. They waded into the sea for food, grabbing big fish for sustenance. Some liked whelk and clams too. Some liked cold, drowned mariners. A few weren't so drowned.

They rode six-gilled Greenland sharks. The witches, I mean. They thought songs, odes really. Not so much verbal, as tonal. They stared at the sun with impunity and threw their basic mind spells like hurricanes.

Loki brought them gifts, startled talking heads, twisted from the shoulders of Neolithic cavern painters. Some stayed quickened for days, jabbering away in a basic, human language known to all. They stuck out purple tongues and made faces. Then they died and were eaten.

My poem is done... not the tale, but the part I feel like telling now. Please let me go. Tornadoes need stirring and I'm very good at that...

My name is my name and not yours...

<more next time>


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