When the average person discovers you’re a witch this question often comes up... "Do you practice 'skyclad'?" Ravenstar Coven's answer to that is,--- no, we don't work naked, --- not ever.! You would be surprised at the disappointed looks on faces when we say this, but maybe you wouldn't. Most folks love a scandalous things! But, our coven unanimously agreed that we would wear clothes. There was no vote. There never is. It was simply agreed. Really, --- New England has far too cold a climate for skyclad!
Gran was bustling about hours before the celebration, from dawn, actually, as she usually does for any celebration. Tatiana and I helped her put together the nine grains with which to bake the bread for Lammas, the first harvest. For the grains we used wheat, rye, barley, millet, flax, rice, corn meal, oats and even acorns, soaked for days and days to remove their tannic acid and then ground to flour.
Acorns are used, the fruit the oak, a very masculine tree, in honor of the stag god, consort of the moon goddess. The goddess is naturally depicted as the huntress, Diana; but, of course, she has many other names. The god is usually thought of as Herne. Our Lammas bread was made with plenty of eggs to bind all those coarse grains together and it was heavy on the wheat. It also contained sunflower seeds and black and white raisins. Many of the long and thick loaves were placed on the altar, which was piled high with apples, grapes and nuts in their shells. There were bottles of juices, rose wine and imported ale because it's traditional and part of the ritual to have "cakes and ale" afterwards. Things went well. Tall bamboo torches lit the area where the tables had been set. White, black, gold, orange, brown and red candles were shoved into empty wine bottles filled with multi-colored sands. They too provided illumination.
Many of us were dressed in the flowing robes of our choice. Tatiana wore cream colored muslin trimmed with chartreuse fabric leaves. I was gaudy in crimson, brown and purple silk. Gran wore black satin with her braided silver cord belt, sliver necklaces and strings of garnets. Bertram was in rust brown looking like a hunter, but with much gold jewelry, Yolanda in forest green and with her big, gleaming dematoid garnet brooch. Maeve was in flaming orange, matching her orange hair, and with many jangling charm bracelets on her arms. But, aside from her typical flamboyance and strident voice, which was loud as a bullhorn and as abrasive as a steel scouring pad, if a scouring pad could talk. She was pretty normal, - for her, that is. The other members of the coven were not as spectacularly dressed. Abigail Cummins wore her usual hippie-style vintage bell bottoms, leather fringes and love beads. Dave Svenson wore jeans, but also fur and strips of leather as his Nordic tradition warranted.
We made crowns of twisted grape vines and thin flexible maple branches; there were stalks of wheat and bright zinnias for anyone who wanted to wave them about. We dipped silky brushes in silver, gold, light blue and lavender paint and on our faces and bodies put magical spirals and stars. The women painted their legs. The men painted their chests. I asked James, who showed up after a while, if he wanted his chest painted, but he refused with a charming smile on his exceptionally handsome face. Still, when he came near our huge balfire, where we were cavorting and it was almost as bright as day and hot as a California beach, he took off his shirt.
The sight of James' magnificent and shining chest was atremendous charge for me and I went to get him a big cold mug of ale. I was rewarded with a gentle casual kiss on the lips which literally took my breath away. James' warm arm went around my waist. Then, he grinned, took a swig of ale, licked his top lip, laughed, and left to get a plate of food from the banquet tables. I just stood there stupidly with my mouth open.
Although our celebrations are only for coven members sometimes very good friends who are sympathetic toward our beliefs, like James, and the coven's close family members are invited. Children of coven members are always welcome, if they are well-behaved. James said he was very curious about the Craft. He stood apart, leaning against a tree with a sardonic expression on his face. I knew from the cross around his neck and the saint's medals on the same silver chain that he was a practicing Catholic.
But, when we started drumming to raise energy James came forward to beat enthusiastically on my bongos. Tatiana drummed on her Egyptian domek. I danced very sensually with my vintage castanets and with the zills or finger cymbals. Gran was at her Nigerian slit drum which could be heard over all other percussion instruments. I danced with Tatiana, around and around the enormous balfire.
It was very early in the morning, about three o'clock, when Gran, Tatiana and me were cleaning up and carrying the holiday things from the woods back to the house, with the help of a smiling, joking and very pleasant James, when we saw a figure dart out of the shadows near the front steps. The person was carrying a big canvas sack over his or her shoulder. The moon appeared from under gray clouds revealing the shocked face of Travis Hayko, his eyes wide. James dropped the folding chairs he was toting and ran toward him, chasing him toward the shadows of tall trees near road. The two figures merged. Then, James let out a sharp cry, his body folded up and he dropped instantly to the ground.
Tatiana got to him first. She was rolling him to his back when I ran up. I covered my mouth and gasped as I looked down at him. A switchblade stuck out of James' side, a stain of dark blood seeping rapidly into the ground. James' beautiful face was set in a grimace, but he made no sound.
Gran pointed a long finger back toward the house,- "Run, Tatiana! Call 911! Hurry! HURRY! OH, DO, DO HURRY!"
When the average person discovers you’re a witch this question often comes up... "Do you practice 'skyclad'?" Ravenstar Coven's answer to that is,--- no, we don't work naked, --- not ever.! You would be surprised at the disappointed looks on faces when we say this, but maybe you wouldn't. Most folks love a scandalous things! But, our coven unanimously agreed that we would wear clothes. There was no vote. There never is. It was simply agreed. Really, --- New England has far too cold a climate for skyclad!
Gran was bustling about hours before the celebration, from dawn, actually, as she usually does for any celebration. Tatiana and I helped her put together the nine grains with which to bake the bread for Lammas, the first harvest. For the grains we used wheat, rye, barley, millet, flax, rice, corn meal, oats and even acorns, soaked for days and days to remove their tannic acid and then ground to flour.
Acorns are used, the fruit the oak, a very masculine tree, in honor of the stag god, consort of the moon goddess. The goddess is naturally depicted as the huntress, Diana; but, of course, she has many other names. The god is usually thought of as Herne. Our Lammas bread was made with plenty of eggs to bind all those coarse grains together and it was heavy on the wheat. It also contained sunflower seeds and black and white raisins. Many of the long and thick loaves were placed on the altar, which was piled high with apples, grapes and nuts in their shells. There were bottles of juices, rose wine and imported ale because it's traditional and part of the ritual to have "cakes and ale" afterwards. Things went well. Tall bamboo torches lit the area where the tables had been set. White, black, gold, orange, brown and red candles were shoved into empty wine bottles filled with multi-colored sands. They too provided illumination.
Many of us were dressed in the flowing robes of our choice. Tatiana wore cream colored muslin trimmed with chartreuse fabric leaves. I was gaudy in crimson, brown and purple silk. Gran wore black satin with her braided silver cord belt, sliver necklaces and strings of garnets. Bertram was in rust brown looking like a hunter, but with much gold jewelry, Yolanda in forest green and with her big, gleaming dematoid garnet brooch. Maeve was in flaming orange, matching her orange hair, and with many jangling charm bracelets on her arms. But, aside from her typical flamboyance and strident voice, which was loud as a bullhorn and as abrasive as a steel scouring pad, if a scouring pad could talk. She was pretty normal, - for her, that is. The other members of the coven were not as spectacularly dressed. Abigail Cummins wore her usual hippie-style vintage bell bottoms, leather fringes and love beads. Dave Svenson wore jeans, but also fur and strips of leather as his Nordic tradition warranted.
We made crowns of twisted grape vines and thin flexible maple branches; there were stalks of wheat and bright zinnias for anyone who wanted to wave them about. We dipped silky brushes in silver, gold, light blue and lavender paint and on our faces and bodies put magical spirals and stars. The women painted their legs. The men painted their chests. I asked James, who showed up after a while, if he wanted his chest painted, but he refused with a charming smile on his exceptionally handsome face. Still, when he came near our huge balfire, where we were cavorting and it was almost as bright as day and hot as a California beach, he took off his shirt.
The sight of James' magnificent and shining chest was atremendous charge for me and I went to get him a big cold mug of ale. I was rewarded with a gentle casual kiss on the lips which literally took my breath away. James' warm arm went around my waist. Then, he grinned, took a swig of ale, licked his top lip, laughed, and left to get a plate of food from the banquet tables. I just stood there stupidly with my mouth open.
Although our celebrations are only for coven members sometimes very good friends who are sympathetic toward our beliefs, like James, and the coven's close family members are invited. Children of coven members are always welcome, if they are well-behaved. James said he was very curious about the Craft. He stood apart, leaning against a tree with a sardonic expression on his face. I knew from the cross around his neck and the saint's medals on the same silver chain that he was a practicing Catholic.
But, when we started drumming to raise energy James came forward to beat enthusiastically on my bongos. Tatiana drummed on her Egyptian domek. I danced very sensually with my vintage castanets and with the zills or finger cymbals. Gran was at her Nigerian slit drum which could be heard over all other percussion instruments. I danced with Tatiana, around and around the enormous balfire.
It was very early in the morning, about three o'clock, when Gran, Tatiana and me were cleaning up and carrying the holiday things from the woods back to the house, with the help of a smiling, joking and very pleasant James, when we saw a figure dart out of the shadows near the front steps. The person was carrying a big canvas sack over his or her shoulder. The moon appeared from under gray clouds revealing the shocked face of Travis Hayko, his eyes wide. James dropped the folding chairs he was toting and ran toward him, chasing him toward the shadows of tall trees near road. The two figures merged. Then, James let out a sharp cry, his body folded up and he dropped instantly to the ground.
Tatiana got to him first. She was rolling him to his back when I ran up. I covered my mouth and gasped as I looked down at him. A switchblade stuck out of James' side, a stain of dark blood seeping rapidly into the ground. James' beautiful face was set in a grimace, but he made no sound.
Gran pointed a long finger back toward the house,- "Run, Tatiana! Call 911! Hurry! HURRY! OH, DO, DO HURRY!"
