The dead are always listening, but now the Veil has thinned it is time that we listen.
Last night I took my silver tray, a portable alter of sorts, to bathe in the darkness of a moonless sky. I lit candles and sage and called upon my three disir to form the boundary of a triangle for my sacred tasks. I called on each corner as an aspect of my womanhood.
Bloodied Warrior of vicious protection.
Dark Mother of unknowable depths.
Dreaded Enchantress of infinite wisdom.
I called on the the wights that live within my home.
Wights of Place, of Hearth and Home,
of Brick and Beam, of Wood and Stone.
Heed my Triangle, drawn with power,
I summon your strength in this sacred hour.
I called on the spirits of blood and bone and shadow.
Spirits of Blood, Spirits of Bone,
Spirits of Shadow I call you Home.
Beyond the Veil and through the dark,
Come and heed the witch’s hark.
And finally I called upon the beloved and mighty dead of my ancestral tree. I called them by first name and surname and I sang to them through our bound of kinship and as I chanted the wind blew out my candles leaving me shrouded in darkness. I whispered.
I know you.
I see you.
I hear you.
I will speak your names.
And the dead spoke.