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(112) Porforr

My stag mask arrived from Amazon yesterday, so, after dark, I took it out to the fields behind my house—my destination was the small wood where the deer roam. Despite the caution from my girlfriend, “You’ll get arrested,” I continued along anyway. Here, in a dell in the wood, after I scrambled through the brambles, I sat in a cross-legged position like the stag god Cernunnos. I felt no fear in the darkness, closed my eyes with the mask over my head—not that I really expected anything to happen, not without sleeping there. Yet I was more at home than I thought I would be—perhaps it’s all the times I’ve had sex there.

When I stepped from the wood into the moonlight, I walked back up the field—Mars was very bright, as it has been all week, and, as often happens with these things, I had decided to go home and at the moment I gave up I saw two little red orbs down in a small copse that lies beneath a field that slopes up abruptly. I approached them with my stag mask over my face and as I walked the moon grew brighter and brighter—until I was one man with a stag headdress as he walked across an English field by moon and starlight.

The orbs disappeared when I came too close, just as they disappeared at Rollright—they were not so bright as there, but these fields, so far as I know, have no deep ceremonial significance. What this demonstrates is that the old ways are true: with the correct ceremonial dress and rites you can summon the spirits—perhaps sylphs or some intermediate creature. The fairies, goblins, and elves are real and are all around us—as are the gods, both malevolent and beneficent. The theriomorphic element is important, one must become the beast in order to summon the spirits—it has been done for centuries by those who know Arktos, the celestial poles.


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