We may not be able to tell exactly what is wrong, but there is always the something. We can’t think properly, life is gone, we are weeping, or we want to, even in the happiest moments there is that black dog, that wrong feeling.
It is the esbat of the dark moon, and tonight I offer up juice and alcohol, salt and water and incense at the altar of the spirits. I remember the spirits of this house and of the earth. Everything has a spirit, all spirits ought to be served, especially those who cannot serve themselves, or those it is our responsibility to serve. Perhaps for a storyteller the chief spirits to be served are those of our characters. They are given to us and no one else, to be fostered. Sing to them, talk to them, burn incense for them, cajole them, be them, see them.
The other day I went to the beach. We went. It was cool because spring is late in getting here, and the beach was nearly empty in the first few days of May. I remember years before I used to go the beach with someone else and there were so many people. I would look at the people. There was this one boy, maybe thirteen, with bright blue eyes in a pale face. He wasn’t handsome, really, but he was stunning. His knees were drawn to his chest, and he had dark hair plastered to his head. He became Roy Cane, and in a way Ian. He became a template for the men of the Cane family. The way when h