Moonrise Memoirs of a Mountain Witchling

Moonrise Memoirs of a Mountain Witchling

Walk the mountain road with me, lover. I want to feel the wild feminine’s pulse beat beneath my feet and remember the language spoken by the lipless, moss-covered stones and their protective mother-oaks. I want to hold your hand and watch the venomous snakes swim beneath the low-hanging blueberry bushes and hear them whisper-hiss their wicked wisdom to the underwater demons of the lake. I want to stare long into the haunted forest and wait until the wolves start howling before I tell you all my secrets, before I share with you my visions of reckoning and grace, before I bury my soft bottom in the cold dirt and root myself here in this place forever.

Climb the knotty pines with me, my love; the lower branches will hold you while I scamper to the top like a striped critter and cast spells on all that lies below. I’ll chirp tragic love poetry to you when I’m finished, while you cradle me like the soft-bodied creature I am, then we’ll sprout black, greasy-feathered wings and take to the sky just as the sun sets. The shadows of our wide wings will bless the holy ground, and, when we’ve become too tired to fly against the wild wind, we’ll turn home again to nest on the crumbling rooftop of my grandmother’s mountain cabin.

Let me show you where I used to write about Witches and yearn for godlessness. Here on this still-rotten stump, I thought myself a small sorceress, enchanting all-things-green with my freckled skin and blasphemic tongue. Here on this flat, crystal-veined stone, I used to stand and beg the angels with alien faces to carry me moonward, and here, right here on this sunken tree branch, I used to dangle my fat feet in the water and listen to the ghosts of wolf-women as they prayed to their old gods and bid me to join them.

Does your skull ache, my love? We’re growing long antlers now and falling to all fours. Run with me through the forest and kick up some dead pine needles! Let’s be hunter and huntress and stalk the ones with store-bought weapons. My cloven hooves are heavy, and your crown has eight, sharp points. Charge them, you broad-chested beast, and make them rethink their sport of choice. I’ll bless them then with my doe-eyed feminine majesty, and we’ll prance away, showing them the furry white of our rumps, while they repent for all their sins against the Mother.

Come to bed with me now, lover. We’ve had a long day of shape-shifting and nostalgia. It’s after moonrise, this Witch is tired, and the night-birds are singing Black Hole Sun in memoriam. Light the oil lamps and tell me the truth when I ask you what the most primitive form of your soul knows that I don’t. Let’s sleep now as horned lord and satiated lady, the two bawdy lovers who will rule over this lonely mountain until our skin is paper-thin and our throats shake with more magick than our human voices can handle.

Danielle Dulsky

Danielle Dulsky is a long-time activist for wild woman spirituality and the divine feminine’s return. She is the author of Woman Most Wild (coming May 2017 from New World Library). A multi-media artist, yoga teacher and teacher trainer, and energy worker, Danielle is on a mission to inspire women to be fearless...