Devils Cloak - Midnights Table - 2/3

The storm in the heart rages onward, and that surge of emotion twists in the chest. For a moment, I pondered, how could a witch describe this feeling? That feeling of witch-fire inside and outside yourself? It’s a phenomenon I sought to find words for in books and in the stories shared by practitioners of the time I deemed as far more skilled in this work.

I didn’t find it there, however. Instead, I found it in the unsaid tongue between witches - in the act of heresy rather than in the descriptions afforded to us. That wordless sense of understanding that serpent-like movement, It weaves with us. Have you noticed that? It seems the deeper relationship between the witch and their god-hood, their innate spirits, and the ones they have met on the way emanates out from them almost halo-like. There is something to be said about the witch’s tongue. It’s feeling it’s the ineffable and infallible wyrd. Somehow in a look, somehow in a physical expression or a gesture - the answer is there, still wordless.

I’d say there are many words for these things, this whisper like a divine serpentine dragon, the leviathan quake of the spirit that cannot be spoken of with a singular word because it is illusive to the spurs and whims of human language. Even the older terms seem to slip off their hide like a mere ripple in the cosmic ocean they ride.

And there I was, all body, all redness alive and in a dance with the lightning rod that is sometimes the sword, sometimes the blade that a witch witches with. It felt like angels were in my eyes fucking each other, and I could feel it all. All echos of a wordless and life-crushing and life-making poem.

In the dark, my hands danced with the amber glow. The candles filled with flecks of red, all married to that central candle in this working was emitting, and yet the walls, the floor, and the air felt aware - felt alive in that indescribable witches-way of things. the Devil was riding this wave with me. This Devil, this Godd, and I could see his songs in the air, and feel his graces stir the liquids I had poured in the rite. The sigils glow with the protective balm now infused by the fire’s warmth and the wet liquid wax.

Though this was part of a seven-day blessing for the candles I could now, on this dark moon in the sign of Pisces, feel the rush of the close of this rite. And though only seven days had passed and lifetimes still to come of dancing with him I felt longing in my chest, hunger in my fetch again. I can see how some may dance off into the woods among the mushrooms and wish never to return, to leave it all behind.

This is the desire that the church-clad folk fear. They fear the abandonment of all coercions and yielding to the ecstasy of being broken open again. How they must fear discovery, lest it shatter their towers of ignorance and control, and all fall into the open maw of fate to be remade or unmade.

Psalms falling from my lips, a bible in my hands as I witness the Lover - the Devil. There is no greater reflection - I feel, than to be head to head pressed in a loving gaze with the being that birthed liberation in the form of love. Witches fill the room, bodiless ones of older times. Named by legacies they have left, that we witches who walk the red worlds all thanks to. And with them, the persecuted ones who never uttered a heretics poem nor spilled an offering to the heart of witches, and next to them the queer ones, Those who held secret coos and fucked in the name of revolution and from their love and their anger threw bricks and stones as they were hunted and persecuted.

I see the witch’s blade in their hands too. I see the heretics gather, those who chose truth, love, and wisdom around Midnights Table - here with me. I think of the seventh day on the other side of this cloaked moon, on the day far from here, the one yet to come - the day I shall join them at midnight’s table and serve them in another way, in graceful union, as an equal, as a child of the same seed.

I think of the legacy we weave and are weaved by.

And I turn back to him, this Devil. Love and happiness wet his eyes, and dance on his face to meet his grin. “Hail the Godd of love made true. Hail the Devil” I say. May we be the sword and through us, may we defend the love in this world with all the fire that seeds the angels, all the heart that fills the reddest rivers, with all the unsaid poetry of the mighty dead. May we be the first brick, the blackest night, the enamorous spear of lightning, and may we be as angels on earth, and share the ineffable with the truest kin, honest with ourselves and the worlds.

xo
A

Félix-Hilaire Buhot

Jacques Cazotte's "Le Diable amoureux" (1st vignette), 1878