think I should at least identify the general subject matter - what a reader would be aware of from the dust cover or back of a paperback when picking up the completed work at a store or library. . .

The story is about, and told from the POV, of the indigenous Faerie Folk of Turtle Island and their relationships with humans here, both native and transplanted. Many words and expressions used are the English equivalents of common Native American terms and concepts, (such as red day and blue day describing day and night) others are uniquely Fae and reflect ways of thinking, culture, society and their perceptions of their world and this (Inworld, Outworld, the Shroud, the Great Rending, etc.). A few are also meant as cognates of other terms appearing in the Fae lore of Europe, e.g. the Summer and Winter Councils would in a different setting be called the Seelie and Unseelie courts. Renaming them reflects the difference of place and it's influence (the ways of the Land itself are different between here and Europe) and result in difference in culture among the Fae as well as among the humans. Further, human terms in European Fae lore don't always accurately describe what they were meant to refer to, rather they reflect how human observers perceived a very different, even alien culture which they did not understand as it arose among a people whose minds work in an entirely different fashion. In this sense I am using the terms Hosting and Host (from European Fae lore) to refer to the same things for which humans have used them, but illustrating through POV what was really going among the Fae for which humans coined the terms in an attempt to describe. Ultimately these things are essentially a matter arising from the difficulties of translating distinct, unique concepts of a culture from their language (in this case, Ramira,) into English and I have chosen to use English words (many of which already have established precedents in this and similar contexts) rather than an overwhelming number of italicized foreign words, even though doing the latter might serve (through clear associations between certain word roots) to more fully convey the inherent depths of connection and relationship (hence importance) between certain core concepts, esp. voice, speech, song, word, weaving and story.

While this draft is far from final, I am hoping over the course of the opening chapter to convey at least a rudimentary sense of what these terms mean through their repeated usage in different ways and contexts, gradually building description of the culture. Much of it will be initially unfamiliar to readers and I've had to work at not getting bogged down in description and explanation at the expense of narrative as initially I found myself writing a great deal of expository material, much like what I do when developing my gaming world, rather than story. I went back and worked a lot of that into the character dialog in the Councils and in their initial descriptions, placing the explanations into contexts more specific to the story rather than as general background information, which helps to demonstrate how the culture perceives things and the structure of the society arising from it. While still not providing much action to move the plot forward at this point, the dialogs also serve to introduce other major characters, in particular the principal antagonist, and illustrating the nature of their goals along with the root conflict/tension which drives the plot. I'm chiefly concerned at this initial stage that there may still be too much that is unfamiliar and confusing to hold the reader's further interest until it becomes clear. It would be helpful to know how far readers here are getting (and why) since that won't be accomplished if I'm losing most readers only part way through the chapter. While I don't expect readers to have a full understanding of them at the end of it, that should unfold more deeply as the story itself unfolds, I'm trying to transmit at least enough of a sense of their meaning for readers to feel comfortable that they have sufficient grasp of them to continue further as well as a curiosity regarding the more complete picture - wondering how and why the Separation occurred, what it means to the worlds of humans and faeries and how it is expected to be resolved. Anyway,:


And He Turned in His Sleep, ch. 1
by Amergin O'Kai



The Longwalker yawned as he adjusted his pack, more out of lifelong habit than to ease its dwindling burden. The air here felt heavier than his few possessions, close and quiet, shrouded with an uncanny stillness. He had been walking since Darkmoon's Turning, leaving known trails early on the third red day to climb higher into the Spine of the World, heading northward into the upper valleys and tors. Now, only two blue days until Brightmoon's Turning, he was far above the passes and would soon be above the trees. The eerie calm tasted faintly of bloodmetal on his tongue when he drew a slow, deep breath and he knew he was drawing close to his quarry. The weight of the Shroud would only increase as he stalked it to its deep stone lair. He knew that soon he would have to fight the Sleeping's pull, chanting his Trail Call as a Medicine Song with all the power he could focus. Long gone now was the drive and stamina of his youth, when once for five red days and four blue days he had journeyed without stopping, bereft of food and rationing a single bladder of Earth's Blood, to recover a lost tale from one of the ancient Walked-Away Cities in the Colored Tableland to the south. He had found it, a labyrinth painted from the Four Corners of the World to the Center with sand, in a kiva deep within the mountain side from which the city had been cut. Full of power from the UrTime, that Story had changed his life. Indeed, it had first shown him the spoor he was tracking here and with each Story he had hunted, that spoor had grown more familiar, crossing and recrossing the trails on which he had coursed. The Crisscross Trail he had come to call it and knew that he was chasing a Legend.

“I am a leaf,” he thought as he returned to his walking meditation. When he had returned from the Walked-Away City in the Greentable` he told his new-found Tale to the Winter Council Elders during Darkmoon. Stormtossed Longwalker, his mentor in the Taleseeker Medicine Lodge, had then gifted him with his Journeyman name, Windblown, and this Trail Call by which he might stave off the Sleeping. When Brightmoon came, he sat with the Truespeakers of his Hosting around the Summer Council fire and shared it among the Great Host of The Children of Voice. The Elders of the Weaver Society honor-gifted him his first Blue Feather, which he wore in his hair now along with many other nighteagle feathers, blue and brown. Since then he had been as a leaf blown by the Wind of Power that Story had released. It was a Turning Tale from the time of the Great Rending, telling of a powerful Redblood Dreamwalker who, mortally wounded, would pass into a deep Sleeping for seven generations of his people and Awaken with a Vision of the True World. Sharing his Vision at the council fires of his and many other nations,
like a pebble starting a landslide, its medicine would begin the Remembering of the Redblood. As more and more Redblood Awakened, the Story said, the Time of the Great ReTurning would finally arrive and with the Shroud lifted, the long Separation would come to an end.

Redhand Silentwalker had argued loudly in both councils, his warbonnet of Red Feathers shaking with rage as he spoke, to keep this Tale out of The Weaving. Windblown often thought it strange that it was not a Winter, but a Turning Lodge which bore the greatest enmity toward the Red Blood. The Silentwalkers ran the Hidden Trails of the Forgotten Nations through the Shroud into the Outworld to protect sacred places upon the Land of Forms from further damage. After the Great Rending, the Separation prevented the further harm which the Redblood had done to the World of Form from penetrating through the Inworld to the UrLand. Even so, the changes which the Redblood had made to the Outworld's form in the forgetfulness of their Sleeping could be seen reflected in the shapes of the Inworld, since both the Red Blood and the Silver had a hand in its Weaving. With each change that took place, each Story that died upon the lips of the People and unraveled the primal shape of the Inworld from its true pattern in the Urland, many Silentwalkers grew ever more angry. These would redouble their patrols through the Shroud, using their Killingstep to run down any Redblood Sleepwalkers who wandered too close to the Hidden Trailheads, and claiming a Red Feather with each one they slew. Redhand's warbonnet trailed down his back to the ground.

“The Redblood can never Awaken,” he had told the Winter Council. By that time it was an old refrain which many, Windblown among them, could nearly recite verbatim. “They are the Children of the Poisoner and it is their way to destroy. Three times their actions have caused the World to be rewoven until finally Creator made the Separation to protect the UrLand from them. The Shroud is all that stands in the way of them doing so again and must not be lifted.” Redblood and some other Silentwalkers called the act which had precipitated the founding of the the Turning Lodges the Great Murder and often spoke out in both Councils for making war upon the Redblood as the Worlds drew closer. “If we are to do anything, it is to destroy them in their Sleeping before they can do further harm. Only the Redblood have ever hunted their relations until an entire nation was rubbed out, never to return. Already the Long Knives have rubbed out the nations of Wolf and Bear in their own homelands. Our Truespeakers of these, and many other nations here, Otter, Beaver, Buffalo, with each turning tell our Summer Council this same tale of tears even as the Long Knives continue to rub out the Redblood of this Land. Soon our ancient friends and allies will be no more as Redblood kills Redblood and the madness of the Long Knives spreads throughout the World of Forms. Now old hatreds between our allies grow, like wild fires fanned by the wars of the Long Knives and many of them help the Long Knives to destroy their old enemies, only to be likewise turned upon and rubbed out when their help is no longer of use. It is the fate of all Redblood to likewise end, before they leave nothing else alive in the Outworld but themselves. I have nothing more to say.”

The Winter Lodges however, still recalled that it was the Redblood themselves who had been most deeply wounded when they felled the World Tree. The forgetfulness in which the Sleeping had shrouded them was necessary to allow the Redblood to heal during the Separation until they were ready to remember and the Worlds could be rewoven as one and made whole again. Windblown often wondered if some of the Silentwalkers were succumbing to the forgetfulness of the Sleeping themselves. Certainly the time they spent in the Shroud and upon the World of Forms itself had caused them to age at the pace of the Flow in the Outworld. In spite of the fact that Redhand was little older than him, already he looked like an Elder of his lodge.

Voice of Wisdom Winterchief stood forward as Redhand resumed his seat around the council fire. Its flames danced in her dark eyes as if they too burned, and were reflected like redblood in the bands of silver which streaked her obsidian hair so that the many nighteagle feathers she wore there looked as if they had grown along with it from her head. The tales of her deeds by which she had earned them told that when she changed into her Great Serpent's shape they actually did, sprouting forth with each kill. A few were red, but most were black, many of these barred with white. Even though she had never been a Silentwalker, Voice of Wisdom wore more Black Feathers than any of the Children of Voice had ever earned and none even among the Silentwalkers would dare challenge her. Since the Long Knives had come to the Land, more and more Silverblood had gone mad with the sorrow of their deeds, Breaking their spirits Away from the Great Hosts of their people. Worse still, the silence in their hearts where they once had heard the Voice of their Hosting more often than ever drove these Broken Ones to endanger both the Land and the People.

Originally Voice of Wisdom had been a Cowalker, guiding a long succession of Redblood warriors who had become Farwalkers, leaving their forms behind in the Outworld as they Journeyed through the Shroud to the Inworld for the sake of learning how better to help preserve the Land and the People. Over the course of her Journeys, Voice of Wisdom had entered the Outworld many times and returned with her Red Feathers. An elder of her lodge when the Long Knives invaded the Land, she had soon after been forced to put down a Broken One who had run amok in the Shroud and tried to kill her charge. With her first Black Feather she had left her Turning Lodge and gone to the Winter Council for guidance. Snowmantle Winterchief, by then eldest among all of The Children of Voice, saw clearly the turning that was taking place and had given her his place at the council fire to sit instead with the Summer Council. The Winter Council itself was now her lodge, and she had discharged its grimmest responsibility many times with a calm, deadly sureness.

As she spoke, her ancient face like stone, only the quiet evenness of her voice betrayed the Winterchief's growing rage. Held fast by her gaze, Redhand trembled as if he saw the story of his own fate within it, his many Red Feathers consumed in the Council Fire and another Black Feather claimed from their ashes. “My Relations,” she began softly, “The truth of these Redhands stories endangers us all the more by the Poison which they conceal. We must never forget that in the UrTime the Redblood and the Silverblood were but one People. It is the weight of the bloodmetal within both them and the Land which binds the Redblood to their forms in the Outworld even as the power of its medicine causes them to Sleep and Forget, preventing them from Hosting. The flux of it courses through the World of Forms along the Spine of the World from end to end, like the turning of the reddays and bluedays, forming the Shroud and speeding the Flow in the Outworld through the full course of a Sun's Turning while only the Flow of a Moon's Turning passes through the Inworld. In the Flow of only one redday and one blueday the moon there turns nearly from Dark to Bright, turning back again as the Flow of another redday and blueday turn about. For all that we have waited for the Redblood to Remember where they came from, they have waited far longer to be able to return to the True World. The Separation they have endured has been far greater and more sorrowful then our Separation from our ancient siblings. In their Sleeping they have been held separate from all their relations, even from each other as the many voices of their people drown each other out so that none can be heard in their hearts and no Great Host can speak to them. Windblown Longwalker has returned a Journeyman of the Trailseekers' Lodge with a Tale of hope. As the hearts of the Redblood are healed in the Remembering, once Awakened they will be able to hear once more the voices of their relations. We are told that when they hear the voices of their people again, not only will they listen, but from the Four Directions of the World the rainbow of their many races will join as one voice, a Great Host of all the Redblood nations joined as one, brighter and more beautiful than the new redday. Not even we can do this, and so our many nations have to exchange Truespeakers at the council fires each. Not from us will the Redblood learn as we have long believed, rather, the way of this Hosting the Silverblood will have to learn from The Children of the Rainbow. The medicine of this Story must go into the Weaving. It is true that only the Redblood have ever rubbed out another nation. This black and red thread of The Story must never be rewoven with a different color, certainly not silver. It is no more and no less the way of the Redblood to destroy than it is ours. If they are the Children of the Poisoner then so are we. After all, we too can destroy. We too can rub out a life. Redhand says that we too can rub out an entire nation, while Awake and Remembering what that means. This would be a greater murder than the Redblood can ever be capable of while in their Sleep. If the Redblood are mad, then it is the same madness as that of the Broken Ones and with the same cause – the loneliness of Separation. Windblown tells us that it can likewise be cured. That is all I have to say.”

Redhand's arguments fared no better around the Summer Council fire. None of the other Turning Lodges agreed with him, especially the CoWalkers, whose medicine was in complete contradiction to what he proposed, but it was the Eldest of the TwoFace Society, Lifts the Caul, who opposed his counsel most strongly. She had cowalked beside Snowmantle for countless turnings before herself guiding him back through the Silence of the Caul. Though she remained a midwife among the TwoFaces, that had been her last Great Leading of the People in either direction and she had returned from the Farwalking blind with her sorrow. Her eyes were now as white as the feathers she wore, by this time so many that her hair could not hold them, so they had been woven into the threads of her cloak until she looked like a lone Standing Person wrapped in the snows of winter. She stood before the Summer Council as straight and still as one for long moments until she finally spoke. As at the Winter Council Fire, Redhand quailed beneath the fixed gaze of the Elder's sightless eyes, as if seeing the Caul mirrored in them and hearing it's Silence in her stance. “We have a responsibility toward our allies. That few are left and fewer still may remain when the Great ReTurning comes, only makes that responsibility all the more precious. When the Long Knives came to the Land we sealed off the Hidden Trails that they might not seek the Inworld, bringing their Poisons with them. Before we did so, Voice of Wisdom agreed to bear a child of her Redblood CoWalker. I myself Led Song of Morning through the Caul to become the last Breed born to the Children of Voice. Some among us opposed that choice, and that she will become one of the next TrueSpeakers of our Host Redhand and others continue to oppose. Yet these choices affirm our commitment to our allies. Yes, the Poisons of the Long Knives are so great that they can be felt in the Inworld. One blueday not a Moon's Turning past, Earth'sBloodMedicine TrueSpeaker of the Children of Voice witnessed the betrayal and murder of his friend and of the people for whom he was TrueSpeaker beside the course of the Sandy Earth'sBlood. With the sealing of the Hidden Trails, he could do no more than watch as the Long Knives slaughtered our allies and heaped atrocity upon atrocity to their forms, whether still living or dead. The horror and sorrow of this act nearly Broke him, the Heart of our very Host, so that for seven reddays and seven bluedays the no other Voices in the Hosting could be heard through the wailing voice of his keening. Now our Heart is neither Broken nor whole, for the Poison of that act has wounded Medicine Earth'Blood beyond our healing and the Earth'sBlood is disappearing from that place, in the Inworld as well as the Out. This is truly the darkest turning our nation has faced since the Great Rending itself. Yet our Weavers, likewise those of the Redblood who remain in the Colored-Table Lands and many other allies as well, have told us since the Long Knives came and revealed the Poison that had overcome their Memory that this would be so, and will grow darker still before the Great ReTurning. Windblown has brought back the Tale of a great ally, who may already walk upon the World of Forms. We must seek him out and include his Story in the Weaving. To do otherwise is to abandon our allies and lose all hope.”

One by one the Voices in the Hosting assented to her counsel, even Redhand's, though with poor grace, and the Great Host of the Children of Voice chose to include Windblown's Tale in the Weaving. So for another Turning at least, the voices of the Redhand faction of the Silentwalker Medicine Lodge remained only whispers within the Hosting. Windblown was both saddened and deeply disturbed by Redhand's counsel. Like most Taleseekers, Windblown wore no Red Feathers for coup or kill. Even now, when he too had Journeyed through the Shroud on a number of occasions and had seen the Outworld first hand as he tracked the thread of a Story, he bore the Redblood there no great ill feeling. He recognized the truth in his accusations, and the voices of some of the Truespeakers might well soon fall silent in the Hosting when the nations they spoke for were no more and in their sorrow they lost themselves entirely in the Host. Once so lost, only their empty shapes remained behind, with no spirit to hold together their weaving or be led through the Caul by the TwoFaces. This was the madness of the Silverblood which could not be cured.

Still, without hope he knew that the Turning would come when his people would be no more. Since the coming of the Long Knives all the Hosts of the Silverblood had begun to dwindle throughout the Land. and in the HomeLands of the Long Knives the Voices of many of their Hostings had been reduced to mere murmurings, in some places even, no more than the faintest echoes of lost nations. The Worlds could not forever remain rent asunder and in the course that Redhand SilentWalker proposed was woven the doom of all their nations. Even among the Elders few held the wisdom to perceive the weaving of their own stories and Redhand's anger blinded him to the dark truth of that story's ending, flaming higher in his heart with each Turning. In the blindness of his hatred, Redhand's shapes when he emerged from the Hidden Trails to stalk the Outworld with the KillingStep had become more grotesque and horrific, very like the nightmares of the Redblood. So terrifying were they that it was said that Redhand could sometimes claim a Red Feather without striking a blow. Worse still, he and others in his faction had ceased to distinguish between the Redblood nations upon the Land and the Long Knives who had invaded them. As a result, many of their allies had come to fear the medicine of Nighteagle which they once had held in esteem.

After the Summer Council Redhand had sought Windblown out within the Hill of the Hosting. The menace in his voice matched the fury in his eyes as he hissed, “You may be proud of this redday's weaving, but we both know that the Buffalo War will come in the Flow of little more than ten Sun's Turnings. If your precious hero has returned by then, the Redblood will not listen to him and he will have to walk the warpath once more to protect his people as they and the Long Knives again strive to rub each other out. If not, then there will be none left to listen when he does return. Your Tale will not change what has already been woven, but only serves to prolong the horror and agony of the Outworld's dying. Your hope is crueler than the Poison of the Long Knives and black indeed shall be your final weaving.”

The rattling of the PeaceStep bustles on his ankles carried a sinister buzz as he stalked away and Windblown realized with an icy chill that they were made from the tail of Rattlesnake. It was clear that in returning with his first Story he had made an enemy. Should the roar of Redhand's hatred ever drown out completely the Voices of the Hosting in his heart, Windblown knew that he would rather die than ask for the Kiss of Returning. In that case Windblown would be in great danger until Voice of Wisdom ran him down. Already it might well be only the fear of her that kept Redhand listening to the Hosting at all. The Voices inside had clearly become much subdued and Windblown did not need Redhand to warn him to watch his step.

Throughout high school I had to hide my Wiccan books and tools from my mom. At the time there was not so much in print to learn from, but there were a few good books. The Spiral Dance and Adler's Drawing Down the Moon had just come out and they were probably the most influential in my studies, along with Robert Grave's The White Goddess. My mom found (and destroyed) more than one copy of the first, as well as a couple of tarot decks, and I took to hiding my small library in my locker at school and in the basement during summers. I read everything I could get my hands on, scouring the library, and finding the Farrar's What Witches Do, and some books by Buckland and Sybil Leek, as well as more folklore and anthro (e.g. The Golden Bough,) but I got the most practical mileage from Starhawk's classic. The thing that made it so useful was the abundance of practical exercises and direct “how-to” ritual instruction and construction material. Having studied classical piano for eight years and clarinet for five, I was acutely aware of both the necessity and benefit of constant, regular practice in order to master something. Additionally, I had developed the self discipline and habits needed to engage in effective practice and I proceeded to work on the various meditations and exercises on a regular basis if not daily. I wanted to be certain that I was actually doing something and not just acting out fantasies of “being magyckal.” Over time I was able to ascertain by “touch” the “feel” of a cast circle around me and that of the elemental energies in the various quarters. At the time, and for a long time thereafter, I used a form of circle casting combined with quarter calling derived more directly from the Golden Dawn's Lesser Banishing Ritual of the Pentagram, where the circle is cast in parts from one quarter to the next, like panels between the watchtowers; calling east then projecting a portion of the circle from that point around to the south, then pausing, calling south, then continuing around to west, and so on. Not the most efficient method, but effective none the less. The biggest obstacle I faced was that of belief – was I really feeling something as I put my hand out to the circles edge, or just imagining what I wanted to be there? It wasn't for some years that I was able to get confirmation from others that they perceived the energy as well. Regardless, I continued to study and practice, reading whatever I could get my hands on and incorporating any practical exercises for shaping and directing energy that I could find into my repetitive “drills.”

At the end of high school (in June of '82,) I moved out of my parents house very precipitously and struck out on my own. During that following summer and fall I gathered magyckal tools for my altar and immersed myself in further study. Most of what I was digging for during those 3 years was along the lines of folklore, mythology and pagan theology – continuing to explore my spiritual questions from childhood in this newer context and developing my relationships with the Ancient Ones. What I sought most was a personal relationship with the Lady and Lord, tho' I could not determine “how I saw them” or name them clearly. That is, trying to determine which goddess and god I worshiped. Sometime during that summer I encountered Buckland's Seax-Wicca material and began working with Wotan and Freja. While I didn't adopt the tradition as a whole, I felt most comfortable and connected with them – particularly in viewing the older, more continental/germanic face of Wotan as a wandering shaman. It was then with these connections that I first swore my vows as a Wiccan priest on Samhain of '82. I performed the ritual in private, using a Seax-Wicca self-initiation ritual. I had spent the preceding three years both gaining confidence in the reality of the energies I was working with and my dedication to the path of service to the Ancient Ones as their priest and the certainty of my desire and intent to live in a world filled with magyck and hope of wholeness and renewal. I knew then that I could not foresee where my path might take me but I felt entirely safe` and comfortable in my trust that it could only lead to deeper understanding and beauty.

I pretty much always planned to become a priest. I've heard it said that you know you're a writer if all you can think about is writing – when you wake up you feel you have to write. The same can be said of artists, musicians, anyone with a “calling” or “vocation.” I've always thought, a lot, about “God;” more than I think about sex even (and being quite the “pervert” I think about sex a lot). Even as a child I thought about “God,” striving to comprehend what that is. I can recall at the age of about 6 or 7 my dad telling me (in response to my questions) that God is infinite and trying to explain the term. I further recall staying awake many nights contemplating this and trying to grasp the fundamental concept of infinity. My dad had been raised Baptist but was never a particularly religious man, not subscribing to any external dogma or prescribed practice. My mom was Catholic, and as part of the requirements for them to be married in the Catholic church my dad had agreed that any children they had would be raised as Catholic. (While not necessarily germane to this topic, it may as well be noted that my brother and sister and I are all adopted, and unrelated prior to adoption.) My questions were such that my dad was willing to acknowledge he was unable to answer well. My mom on the other hand was evidently very frightened by my questions – or at least by my persistence in seeking answers to them. When the sort of trite answers usually presented to children failed to pass the scrutiny of my burgeoning child's intellect, much less satisfy my curiosity, she resorted to trying to laugh the matter off and ultimately to mocking.

Although much of the details of my mom's abusive behavior while I was growing up have little relevance to the topic of my priesthood, certain factors do have some bearing and influence on the path I have chosen and how I walk it. Most significantly with regard to how little I have been willing to discuss it with others. My mom's reactions to my spiritual probing became progressively more angry and verbally, psychologically abusive over time. I recall at the age of about 10 describing to my mom something I had begun to experience sometimes during my night time prayers: an almost physical feeling of “rising” or “floating” as if levitating, coupled with a feeling of “expansion” as if I were growing very large, huge and earth spanning in fact. This almost physical sensation was accompanied by a feeling of awareness of the presence of what (I was instinctively certain) could only be referred to as “divine” or “holy” - though this was the sense of an energy or state rather than an entity. My mom reacted to my telling her this with immediate and overwhelming fury. I am unable to recall what she said specifically, so sudden and terrifying was her response, but the gist of it was that she claimed it was something evil – arising from my swollen ego and self importance, while at the same time not actually real – just my deluding myself, and that I was not to pursue/explore it further or speak of it to anyone whatsoever or I would be severely punished for doing so. This particular event was so traumatic that I was unable to recall it until some 8-9 years ago when I encountered a description of precisely the same experience while reading the Autobiography, or “Confessions” of Santa Theresa de Avila.

A year or so later, when I was old enough, I (re)expressed an interest in serving as an altar boy. I started some initial training/classes that the young assistant pastor of the church we attended was just initiating – a sort of Catholic Boy Scout organization (“sodality”) called “Knights of the Altar.” The concept was that being an altar boy (or “Server” since girls could finally do so as well,) could go beyond simply serving at mass, and become a path of broader spiritual development. I describe it as similar to the Boy scouts in that there was even training (in the manual) in various outdoor skills, including tracking, meant to bring one into closer relationship with “God's creation,” as well as some sort of merit badge like award system. Googling the sodality's name will bring up some interesting (albeit disturbing) material. Shortly thereafter my dad was transferred once more (from Sacramento to Salt Lake City) and so I didn't start serving at the altar until about a year later when we were settled into a new parish. There was no similar organization there, we simply had some periodic training classes at the church in what to do. I was allowed to do this primarily because my mom said she hoped it would “teach me some humility.” The topic of entering the priesthood, which I had been considering for a couple of years by this time and occasionally expressed was one which she generally tried to ignore or avoid entirely, only responding to (when at all) in the negative that I couldn't be a priest and she considered it ridiculous that I would even think I might be able to – she had by this time already long fallen into the pattern of portraying me as an utterly self-centered liar completely swollen and consumed with ego and self importance. When, a couple of years later, she made me quit serving (and quit Boy Scouts, which I was also involved in and doing well at,) she used this description further to claim that I “wasn't good enough and didn't deserve” to be either an altar boy or a scout. Throughout this time I continued my habitual practice of lying awake at night contemplating the nature of God, reality, existence, “why we're here,” “the meaning of life,” eventually even the meaning of “meaning,” etc. I have been able to subsequently recall that at a number of times I experienced a sort of “breakthrough” in my understanding, kensho-like, an almost ecstatic comprehension of (strictly) logical impossibility which was not only obviously so, but once apprehended, obviously absolutely necessary, that is, the only thing which actually makes any sort of sense at all in answer to these “questions.” Utterly inexpressible, defying language, and as my mom had already made quite clear, dangerous to try and describe or discuss; I subsequently forgot these experiences until such times as they were repeated – at which point, along with the shift in my awareness and understanding/comprehension, would come the memory of previous instances, only to be forgotten once more until sufficient repetition throughout the last decade (coupled with the feeling that it is at least safe to remember, if not discuss this, much less openly try to express/act out/live it) has served to ground these experiences in my conscious memory. (At this point I should note further the advice Doen Sensai gave me during dokusan 3 years ago at the Kanzeon Zen Center in Salt Lake City regarding such experience of awarness: to let go of them – holding on to the memory that I've experienced this understanding as meaningful is then merely further attachment of the false ego-self which only serves to obscure the experience of understanding. Or, in short, “Yeah, okay, right. So what? Big deal. . .”)

We moved to Denver at the start of my freshman year in high school. While working at my first summer job a year later, I met someone a few years older than me who claimed to be involved in a coven that worshiped the Classical Greek pantheon of Gods. While I didn't relate closely to the particular deities involved, (at least not as whole,) the very awareness that there were still people actively worshiping the ancient Pagan deities in any manner at all was a deeply profound revelation. The first things I had read in elementary school had been Greco/Roman and Germano-Norse mythology, Arthurian legends and fairy tails in general – devouring anything and everything I could dig up. I had already departed significantly from the doctrinal stance that the Catholic church was the only correct one – particularly with regard to ministry. I did not accept that the performance of sacrament was absolutely dependent upon Catholic ordination. This of course, subsequently calls into question the actual function of sacrament in life, particularly with regard to “salvation.” Once that was open to question the very nature (in particular the necessity) of “salvation” and “redemption” became suspect. This, coupled with the recognition of alternative concepts of deity, quickly led me to a complete theological break with Christianity as a whole – I could not accept the fundamental concept that humanity is so flawed as to require such divine intervention in order to experience the sacred/happiness/heaven. Either God fucked up, theologically preposterous for an omniscient, omnipotent being, or God deliberately made humanity as a flawed creation, letting humanity suffer from those flaws for millenia in order to eventually come and oh so generously forgive us for it and let us finally experience heaven if we are willing to jump through a very complicated set of behavioral and psychological hoops. Either way I concluded that Christianity, as currently expressed, posits an ultimate, supreme deity who is either an idiot or an asshole.

On Samhain of '79, during my sophomore year, I was scanning radio stations (while my parents were out at a party and so didn't hear what I did. . .) I came across Peter Boyle interviewing Jo and James Dixon of Castle Rising bookstore in Denver about witchcraft/Wicca. This was actually a show they did every year on that station, and I heard for the first time a description of a Pagan religion which perceived God as a mother giving birth to the world, rather than a craftsman creating it. They described a totally different way of perceiving deity from which necessarily followed a completely different relationship with deity than I had been exposed to or considered. Finally, I heard someone give voice to what I inherently believed about “God,” how I instinctively relate to such a being and a role of priesthood in life that expresses that relationship in a manner which I could find fulfilling.