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I am in my grandmother's house (not Kilmarnock, the other one), but it is not her house as it was. There is bright hardwood floors, more open space, and green lampshades and walls. It is much warmer-feeling than I remember it. My coven-mates are there, but my grandmother is not...they are talking about her ritual tools. Wait...ritual tools? Weird. My grandmother was an Anglican her whole life. I somehow am thinking this as they're talking about how lovely her divination tools are, and her athame. I listen for a while, watching flame reflect off varnished oak floors, and then I leave.
It is twilight. I am walking down a street, past a very large cemetery lined with trees. In a clearing near the road, a woman is setting up very precise rows and patterns of jar candles, red, blue, green, and gold. There are also some bowls of water, in these colours. I ask her what she is doing - she says it is research, although I don't understand how it works. There is the dim flickering of these candles in the darkening clearing, the rustling of dying leaves in the trees, and all the while this woman scurries around, trying to "make this work". I watch for a while, thinking that she has her elements all mixed up, and then I move on.
I begin to find raven's feathers at my feet. I keep picking them up, following them, in the long golden grass, until I come upon the dried, desiccated corpse of the raven itself. I pick it up, the bones and remnants of skin flaking into my hands, and as the sun flashes its last ruddy light over the earth, it regrows its flesh and feathers and flies away into the night, leaving me.
I awake.
It is twilight. I am walking down a street, past a very large cemetery lined with trees. In a clearing near the road, a woman is setting up very precise rows and patterns of jar candles, red, blue, green, and gold. There are also some bowls of water, in these colours. I ask her what she is doing - she says it is research, although I don't understand how it works. There is the dim flickering of these candles in the darkening clearing, the rustling of dying leaves in the trees, and all the while this woman scurries around, trying to "make this work". I watch for a while, thinking that she has her elements all mixed up, and then I move on.
I begin to find raven's feathers at my feet. I keep picking them up, following them, in the long golden grass, until I come upon the dried, desiccated corpse of the raven itself. I pick it up, the bones and remnants of skin flaking into my hands, and as the sun flashes its last ruddy light over the earth, it regrows its flesh and feathers and flies away into the night, leaving me.
I awake.
