Part One; At The River's Bend I Call You As You Are

If you live in North America, you have probably witnessed the scarlet Sun as of late, caused by a thick blanket of smoke spewed by the wildfires currently tearing through the Canadian Prairies. At the time of writing this, upwards of a hundred wildfires are currently burning through the dry bones of vegetation left by an unusually dry, warm Winter, which gave way to an early Spring boasting record-breaking temperatures, and a more than 50% reduction in seasonal rainfall. Blessed am I to reside at the very center of these raging fires, and although the city center has not been at the mercy of these rampant Salamanders, smoke has obscured the sky and shrouded the city in a heavy smog, reducing visibility and thickening the air with the smell of smoldering plant life. Despite the frankly dystopian feeling hanging in the air, and the difficult reminder that even these Northern latitudes are not immune to climate change, there is an odd, otherworldly beauty to this province-wide smokehouse. At the very least, that is the thought I hold onto to keep me from turning to worry.

Every curse comes with its blessing, and from these trying times come developments in my personal practice — a much-needed return to my true magical interests: the kind of Witchcraft which rends you asunder, to be remade in the image of the monstrous Other. Those of you who have been with me for many years may remember a time when my work was primarily informed by my relationship with the Man in Black, the Witch's Devil standing at the crossroads which divides Humankind and Wilderness; Hairy Cain, Witchfather, or Ol' Puck, depending on your inclinations. I knew him as the Man in Black, as 'El Vieux Yâbe, or perhaps as Charlot, the folk-devil who appears in so many Basse Côte-Nord tales and legends as a distinguished smooth-talker, whose horns and hooves are kept from sight by a mercury-laden top hat and leather riding boots. To keep a long story short, a pact was made, an oath was broken, and the proverbial rug was pulled from beneath my feet, leaving me to explore other paths and traditions for a time, tearing away from the grasp of cigarette-stained fingers and the beating of cloven hooves beneath the earth.

But, being the witch that I am, and having exhausted my knowledge of rain-bringing incantations, talismans, and techniques trying to call up a storm and quell the sudden heatwave (which started a few days before a visit with my lovely friends at With Cunning and Command and Haus of Ophidious), I turned to my old friend Charlot, drawing on a folk practice which I first encountered perusing the Courir Le Loup-Garou blog. Accompanied by the spirit of my witching foremother, I made my way down to the water, pockets lined with quarters, Carrefour oil, a pack of cigarettes, and my trusty bull-roarer. An offering of Pennycress and Dandelion picked from a field bordering the river was thrown into the low waters of the Serpent dividing my city, to appease its fickle spirit. There I stood, Carrefour oil upon my wrists, bull-roarer in hand, cigarette between my teeth, liquor thrown to the winds. My humble gift was carried away as Charlot was called by name, feet stomping upon the muddy rocks unused to the beating Sun splitting the thin layer of algae, bacteria, and silt covering their surface.

“I call you, Charlot, as you are, and from whichever place you be. Bring me a storm and I’ll pay you fair and square: one half today, one half tomorrow.”

I huffed and puffed, and blew smoke to the Heavens as a low hum was produced from the humble piece of Oak hung upon cotton thread spinning about. Silver flew from my hands, piercing shallow waters like raindrops upon pond scum.

I spat the last of the tobacco, and left the riverbank without looking back, trusting Charlot to do what he does best. And the winds did blow, and clouds did dot the blue above, and yet there was no rain to be felt. I laid amid tall grass where I could watch the sea overhead, not far from our meeting place, and though the Aspens did shake, and though the petals of Hawthorn were torn from their receptacles, a still azure was the only spectacle I was privy to. Confused — nay, annoyed — I chose to make my way home, taking a different route than that from which I came. I was not halfway when I saw him: the first Snake I'd seen in my six years living in this area, dead and half-dry, untouched by worm or beetle. Without asking too many questions, I threw the serpent into a bag I'd had on me, and carried him home with haste, knowing that he had something to do with the events of the day, but unsure as to how.

As I am writing, this new acquaintance of mine is desiccating in a mixture of sea salt, borax, and cornstarch — tucked between the Basil plants on my windowsill. Divination with the spirits of my court has revealed that Snake will indeed be necessary in the work that is to come, but there is much to be done before he will be called upon. In fact, it revealed that if I were to obtain the rain I so desperately wanted, I would have to acquire the means to conjure it myself.

This is the first entry in my record of working with Henbane as familiar; more is to come.

Cheers,

Mahigan