The Sound-Weaver's Cauldron

I. The Hall at the Edge of the Pines

In the age before ages, when the veil between the worlds was thin and the old gods still answered to their names, there lived a pagan sorcerer called Izzie. People knew him as the Sound-Weaver, because he could draw music out of silence and bind it into spells that moved both mortals and spirits.

He was a reader of the heavens as well. He knew the twelve houses of the zodiac, the seven wandering planets, and the hours each planet rules, the way he knew the notes of his own songs. He did not walk the world by sight. He walked it by sound and touch and the knowledge in his hands, and he held the whole wheel of the sky in his mind.

His hall stood where the farmland gave out and the longleaf pines began. They grew tall and straight and far apart, with no branches until high overhead, so that the wind moved through the crowns rather than the trunks. When it blew, the needles made a long, soft hush like the sea heard from a distance. The ground beneath them was pale sand, covered in a thick layer of fallen needles that gave a little underfoot and released the warm, sharp smell of resin whenever the sun was on them.

Between the pines grew wiregrass in tufts that brushed the ankles, and scrubby oaks whose leaves had begun to turn a deep, rusted red. Along the edge of the clearing stood a few sweetgums, their star-shaped leaves going gold and scarlet, and their spiky seed balls lay scattered in the needles where careless feet would find them. A dogwood near the door had already dropped most of its leaves and kept only its clusters of small, hard berries, bright red and favoured by the birds.

Izzie did not live alone there. With him lived his partner, the keeper of his heart, and two companions who had sworn to share his roof and hearth. The four of them were a fellowship. Others lived in the hall too, though no one saw them: the hearth spirit, the old guardian of every well-loved home, who received a dish of milk on the hearthstone each full moon, and the spirits of the pines, who had been there long before the hall and would remain long after it.

And at Izzie's heel went Gweeny, his familiar. Gweeny was a chiweeny, a small black dog born of two old bloodlines. From one side came the badger-hounds of the northern forests, long in the body and short in the leg, bred to go down into the earth after their quarry. From the other came the little temple dogs of the far south, with great ears that caught the whispers of spirits, and whose people believed such dogs guided the souls of the dead across the dark river.

Black dogs are sacred to Hecate, goddess of the crossroads and the keys. Some said Gweeny was one of hers, a spirit of the threshold that had chosen this small, long, big-eared shape so it could walk beside the Sound-Weaver. Izzie never said yes or no to that. He only smiled.

In the corner of the hall stood his most prized possession, the Ever-Patient Cauldron. It was made of moon-silver steel by smiths whose names had long been forgotten, and Izzie had dedicated it to Cerridwen, the goddess who brewed the draught of wisdom in her own cauldron for a year and a day. It could tend a feast for hours on its own and asked nothing of its master but trust.

Izzie kept the Wheel of the Year, as his people had since the first fires. Yule, the winter solstice, when the sun enters Capricorn and is reborn from the longest night. Imbolc, with the sun in Aquarius, when the ewes give milk and Brigid's fire stirs beneath the frost. Ostara, the spring equinox, when the sun crosses into Aries and Persephone climbs back up into her mother's arms.

Beltane, with the sun in Taurus, the great fire festival, when the Horned One and the Maiden join and the earth blooms. Litha, the summer solstice, when the sun enters Cancer at the height of its power. Lughnasadh, with the sun in Leo, the first harvest, when the grain is cut.

Mabon, the autumn equinox, when the sun crosses into Libra, the Scales, and light and dark stand equal one last time before the dark begins to win. Persephone goes down again to sit beside the lord of the dead, and her mother grieves, and the world begins to wither. And Samhain, with the sun deep in Scorpio, the final harvest and the witches' new year, when the Crone rules, the Horned One rides out with the Wild Hunt, the veil grows thin, and the dead walk close.

Mabon had come and gone. The sun now walked through Libra, the sign of balance and partnership, ruled by Venus, planet of love, beauty, and the good things of the table. Ahead lay Scorpio, and Samhain within it. The nights had grown longer than the days, the air carried woodsmoke and fallen leaves, and Izzie felt the veil thinning like cloth worn soft with age.

It was the Crone's season, a time for drawing inward and feeding the people gathered around the hearth. So Izzie decided his fellowship would feast, to honour the dark half of the year and bind themselves together before the cold.

II. The Reckoning of the Day

Izzie did not choose the day carelessly. He chose a Friday, because Friday is Venus's day, named for her in many tongues. A feast of love and fellowship on Venus's day, with the sun in Venus's own sign of Libra, would carry her blessing twice over.

He considered the Moon as well. She had passed her fullness some nights before and was waning now, growing thinner toward the dark. A waning moon is a time for releasing what is no longer needed. So the feast would have a second purpose: as the fellowship ate together, they would set down the burdens of the bright half of the year.

Some days earlier, the four of them had gathered around the Speaking Stone and sent word along the swift roads to the Far-Travelling Carters, the merchants who bring any provision to any door for a few coins. Together they chose what the working would need. When they came to drink, Izzie said, "Cider, for the season of apples," and they settled on four bottles of sparkling crisp apple from the House of Welch, one for each of them.

"Only apple?" one of the housemates asked. "Nothing for the dead?"

"The apple is enough," Izzie said. "It is Venus's fruit. It is also the fruit of Avalon, the Isle of Apples beyond the western sea, where the old heroes are carried when they die, to sleep under the orchard boughs. The apple belongs to the living and the dead both. When we drink it, we drink with our ancestors."

Two nights before the feast, Izzie went down into the Vault of Endless Winter beneath the hall. Gweeny followed him, his short legs working hard on each stone step and his long body bending over the edges, and sat at the bottom with his nose twitching at the cold. The badger-hound in him loved the places under the earth.

From the vault Izzie took the Pale Flesh of the Sky-Fowl, a bundle of boneless chicken frozen as hard as river ice. He laid a hand on it and thanked the spirit of the bird for its life. Then he carried it up to the Cold Sanctum and told it, "Surrender your frost, and be soft by morning." The elders had taught him the oldest law of the Cauldron: no frozen flesh enters the slow rite, or it lingers too long in the borderlands between cold and heat, where sickness breeds.

The Carters came as promised and left the provisions at his door. Izzie set the four bottles of cider straight into the Cold Sanctum beside the chicken. A sparkling draught must be served cold as a winter spring, or its sparkle goes flat.

On the morning of Venus's day, the sun rose at eleven minutes past seven. Izzie was waiting at his open door to meet it. The air was cool and damp and smelled of wet needles. Dew lay heavy on the wiregrass, and somewhere in the pines a little brown wren was singing loud enough for a bird three times its size. A pair of doves murmured low and soft from the branches, and Izzie smiled at that, for doves are Venus's own birds and it was her morning. Further off, the jays called harshly back and forth across the clearing, and a crow answered them from the treetops.

He felt the first thin warmth of the sun touch his face as it cleared the trees. "Hail, Sun, rising in the Scales," he said. "Hail, Venus, lady of this day, who takes its first hour as her own."

Then he went to the Cold Sanctum and pressed his fingers to the bundle. It gave all the way through, soft and supple, with no frozen heart left in the middle. Had he found one, he would have sealed it in a pouch and sunk it in cold water for an hour. He touched the four bottles beside it, felt their chill, and left them where they were. Their time would come.

Then he sat by the hearth with Gweeny in his lap and reckoned the hours, as the old astrologers did. The hours of the planets are not the hours of the clock. The daylight is cut into twelve equal parts from sunrise to sunset, and the night into twelve more, so the hours stretch in summer and shrink in winter. On this day, with the sun rising at eleven past seven and setting a minute before seven in the evening, each hour of daylight ran fifty-nine minutes, a little short of whole.

He pictured the seven planets as a procession of rulers, each taking the throne of the sky for one hour before handing the crown to the next, in the old order the Chaldean star-watchers fixed long ago. Venus had taken the throne at sunrise. Quick Mercury had snatched the crown from her, the Moon had drawn it gently from his fingers, and grey old Saturn now held it heavily in his lap.

At seven minutes past eleven, Saturn would yield it to Jupiter, king of the heavens, the great benefic, planet of abundance and of the open-handed host. That was when Izzie would begin. The procession would go on turning all afternoon, through red Mars and the golden Sun and back round, until Saturn held the crown again as evening drew on.

And at the sixth hour of evening exactly, Saturn would hand the crown back to Jupiter for the last hour of daylight. "So we begin in Jupiter's hour," Izzie told Gweeny, "and we feast in Jupiter's hour. Begun in plenty, ended in plenty." Gweeny thumped his tail against Izzie's knee, and Izzie asked the Speaking Stone to call him when Jupiter took the throne.

III. The Casting

At seven minutes past eleven the Speaking Stone sang, and Izzie went to his hearth with Gweeny trotting after him, claws ticking on the stone and big ears turning to every sound.

He began at the altar beside the Cauldron. He set out three candles: green for Venus and the Earth, black for the Crone and the coming dark, and between them royal blue for Jupiter, who now held the sky. Before them went a bowl of water drawn at dawn, for Cerridwen, and a small dish of salt.

He laid down an apple, cut crosswise so the five-pointed star in its core lay open. That star is the shape of Venus's path across the heavens, the pentagram she traces once every eight years. Beside it he placed a sprig of rosemary for the ancestors, an iron key for Hecate, and an antler tip he had found in the pines, for the Horned One. Last came an empty chalice, waiting for the cider of Avalon. He lit the candles and stood a moment in their small warmth.

Then he cleansed the space. He lit a bundle of dried rosemary from the green candle and let its smoke drift over the counter and around the Cauldron, for rosemary belongs to the Sun and drives out stale air and old trouble. Gweeny sneezed, shook his ears hard enough to slap them against his head, and retreated under the table. Izzie dipped his fingers in Cerridwen's water and flicked it over the Cauldron, the counter, and the floor.

Then he grounded himself. He stood barefoot on the cool stone, breathed slowly, and felt roots grow from the soles of his feet down through the floor, the sand, and the deep places where the badger-hounds hunt and Persephone now sits on her throne. He drew the Great Mother's strength up through them, slow and warm. Then he felt branches rise from the crown of his head, up through the roof and the pines and the clouds to the seven wandering stars, and drew their light down.

So he stood as the World Tree stands, rooted in the underworld and reaching into heaven, with the world of the living in between. Only when he was full of both earth and stars did he go on.

He took a pinch of salt and walked a circle sunwise around his workspace, letting the grains fall to mark its edge. Salt belongs to Earth and to Saturn, planet of boundaries, and nothing unwelcome crosses it. He walked the circle three times, for the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone, saying, "Once to bind, twice to guard, thrice to hallow. This circle is a place between the worlds, a boundary and a shelter, where gods and mortals meet. The circle is cast."

Then he called the quarters, naming each one's signs and season, its colour, and how it feels to the body.

He turned east, toward the rising sun, and called on Air. Its colour is the pale yellow of first light, and its feel is the cool morning wind on the face and the breath filling the chest. It is the element of Gemini, Libra, and Aquarius, of spring and of dawn, guarded by the eagle and the hawk. "Libra walks with the sun today," he said. "Powers of the East, Powers of Air, I call you. Hail and welcome."

He turned south, toward the noonday sun, and called on Fire. Its colour is the red of flame and ember, and its feel is heat on the skin and the crackle of a hearth. It is the element of Aries, Leo, and Sagittarius, of summer and of midday, guarded by the stag and the salamander. "Powers of the South, Powers of Fire, warm my Cauldron and change the raw. Hail and welcome."

He turned west, toward the setting sun and Avalon beyond the sea, and called on Water. Its colour is the deep blue of the sea at dusk, and its feel is cool water over the hands and the slow sound of waves. It is the element of Cancer, Scorpio, and Pisces, of autumn and of twilight, guarded by the salmon of wisdom. "Scorpio waits beyond the sun, with Samhain inside it. Powers of the West, Powers of Water, I call you. Hail and welcome."

He turned north, toward midnight and the deep earth, and called on Earth. Its colour is the green of moss and pine, and its feel is cold stone underfoot and the weight of soil in the hand. It is the element of Taurus, Virgo, and Capricorn, of winter and of midnight, guarded by the bear and the badger. Gweeny's ears went up at that. "Powers of the North, Powers of Earth, from whom everything on my counter came. Hail and welcome."

Then he stood in the centre and called the powers he would work with that day.

"Cerridwen, Mother of the Cauldron, keeper of Awen, lend your power to this vessel, so what goes in raw comes out changed. Venus, Lady of the Evening Star, whose day this is, bless this feast with harmony, and let there be peace among all who share my table. Jupiter, king of the heavens, who holds the sky this hour and will hold it again at the feast, bring plenty to my hearth.

"Hecate, Lady of the Crossroads, keeper of the keys and the black dogs, watch over my familiar and guard this threshold. Persephone, Queen Below, we will drink to you tonight from the apples of Avalon. Horned One, Lord of the Forest, who will soon ride out with the Wild Hunt, bless the flesh that feeds us.

"And Grandmother Crone, Lady of Samhain and the waning moon, bless this working. Let what I make here nourish those I love, let us set down what we no longer need, and let no one at my table go hungry through the cold to come. Spirit of this hearth, and spirits of the pines, be welcome too."

Under the table, Gweeny's tail thumped once against the floor, a familiar's blessing of his own.

IV. The Working

Izzie laid his reagents along the stone counter in a row, so none could hide from his hands, and as he set each one down he named the planet that ruled it, the way the old herbals teach.

The Pale Flesh of the Sky-Fowl came first, the thawed chicken, a creature of Air and of Mercury the messenger, who would carry the feast's blessing to everyone who ate. Beside it went the Moon-Curd, a flat, squared block of cream cheese in its silver wrapping, cool and firm as an altar slab, ruled by the Moon for its whiteness and its milk. Then the Vessel of Sour Milk, a tub of sour cream from the White Kine of the northern valleys, belonging to the Moon and to Venus, who rules the cow through Taurus.

Next came the Sack of Frost-Gold Tubers, the frozen diced hash browns, roots from under the earth ruled by Saturn and the Moon together. Then the Shavings of Cheddar Stone, golden as the setting sun and ruled by the Sun itself. Then the Embers of the Swine, the bacon bits, smoked over sacred fires and ruled by Mars, for the boar is a beast of courage sacred to the Horned One. Last came the Phial of Canola Breath, the cooking spray, mist of the golden fields, ruled by the Sun that ripens grain.

And there were two Pouches of Ranchlands Dust, the ranch seasoning, the strongest reagent of all. Each held a whole witch's garden ground to powder by a forgotten order of plains-witches. Izzie knew every herb in it by smell. Buttermilk of the White Kine, of the Moon and Venus. Garlic and onion, both of fierce Mars, the great protectors, which ward off spirits and draw in health. Dill and parsley, both of quick Mercury, one for luck over doorways and cradles, the other woven into crowns for the honoured dead. Chives and black pepper of Mars, to strengthen and to banish. And salt of Saturn, older than any spell, binding all the rest.

Izzie sat back and smiled. The Moon, Venus, Mercury, Mars, Saturn, and the Sun were all present on his counter. Only Jupiter was missing, and Jupiter held the sky at this very hour. He would enter the feast itself when it was shared with an open hand.

He set the rest of the cheddar and all the bacon aside, for those belonged to the end of the rite. Beside them he laid his mixing bowl, his rowan spoon, and his iron shears. Rowan is the witch's tree and turns away ill working. Iron is Mars's metal, which no malicious spirit will cross.

First came the warding. He lifted the inner vessel out of the Cauldron and held the Phial of Canola Breath six inches above it. He sprayed in one slow sunwise circle, coating the bottom and then the walls a few inches up, and listened to the hiss change pitch as it moved up the curve of the steel. He ran a fingertip across the bottom, sprayed again wherever it felt dry, then traced a pentagram through the slick film: Earth, Air, Fire, Water, and Spirit. Then he set the vessel back in the Cauldron, flat and true.

Then came the foundation. When he opened the bundle of chicken, Gweeny's nose rose from the shadows under the table. The little dog crept out and sat at his feet with his whole long body trembling with hope.

"Not this one, little one," Izzie said gently. "The Ranchlands Dust that guards us would poison you. Garlic and onion are no friends to your kind." Hecate would never forgive him if her black dog came to harm.

He laid the chicken pieces flat across the bottom of the vessel in a single layer, side by side, like stones in a standing circle, so the heat would reach them all alike. He threw the wrapping into the midden, well out of Gweeny's reach, and washed his hands well, for raw flesh carries its own small curse.

With the iron shears he cut the first pouch of Ranchlands Dust. The smell of the plains-witches' garden rose up, sharp with garlic and green with dill. He scattered it over the chicken, sweeping his hand across the whole surface so every piece got its share, and murmured, "Garlic to guard, onion to bless, dill for luck, parsley for the dead, pepper to banish, salt to bind."

Then he unwrapped the Moon-Curd and laid it in the very centre, flat and squared, like an altar slab at the heart of a stone circle. He ran his fingers along its straight edges and corners to be sure it sat level. Over the long hours it would soften and sink and spread, as the waning moon dissolves night by night into the dark, and become the sauce.

Then came the upper realm. Izzie tipped the frozen tubers into his bowl and they did not clatter as they should. They landed with one heavy thud. Winter had fused them into frozen boulders, and Gweeny bolted back under the table with his claws skittering on the stone.

A lesser cook might have despaired. Izzie knew frost is only another of Saturn's spells, and every spell can be broken. He took the boulders one at a time and wrung them in his hands like a wet cloth until they cracked apart, gripping the coldest through a towel. The stubborn ones he pressed against the side of the bowl with the back of the rowan spoon until they gave way. Little clusters of two or three he left alone, since the sour cream and the heat would part them.

He scooped in the whole tub of sour cream and scraped its sides clean. He cut the second pouch of Ranchlands Dust and shook it in. He poured in cheddar until the bag felt half as heavy as before, then folded it shut and set it back with the bacon. Then he stirred sunwise, following the path the sun and planets travel through the sky, and chanted low and steady in time with the spoon.

Earth below and stars above,

stir in plenty, stir in love.

Moon to nourish, Mars to ward,

Venus, grace our common board.

Saturn's salt to hold it fast,

Mercury's luck from first to last.

Golden Sun to warm the hall,

Jupiter's plenty, shared by all.

Cerridwen, your cauldron's might,

turn the raw to rich tonight.

Sunwise round the spoon shall go.

As it is above, below.

He chanted it three times. The mixture was stiff and cold as a frozen marsh at first, but it fought him less with each round, until no dry cube remained, no white clot of sour cream hid in the corners, and every last cluster had come apart.

He tipped the bowl over the Cauldron and spread the potatoes across the chicken and its altar slab, pressing them gently to the edges in an even blanket. He did not stir the two layers together. The rite needed its realms kept apart, the flesh and Moon-Curd below and the tubers above, as the underworld and the living world are kept apart by the veil until Samhain.

Then came the sealing, at twenty minutes past eleven, with Jupiter still firmly on the throne. Izzie set the lid on the Cauldron and turned it until it locked with a single bright chime. He found the Breath Valve on top and turned it to venting, for a Cauldron sealed tight on a slow rite chokes on its own breath. He pressed the rune of Slow Cook, set the heat to Normal, and gave it six hours and thirty minutes. The Cauldron sounded its note and began its quiet labour, and he asked the Speaking Stone to keep the same count.

He laid both palms on the warming lid and spoke the binding. "By the earth that grew you, the fire that changes you, the water that softens you, and the air that carries your scent, by the seven wandering stars that rule you, by the sun in the Scales and the waning moon, and by Cerridwen whose cauldron this echoes, be nourishment for all who gather at my table. As above, so below. As within, so without. So mote it be."

Then he breathed deep and sang the word of Cerridwen's cauldron three times, long and low: Awen, Awen, Awen. The sound filled the hall and sank into the steel, and the Cauldron hummed under his hands.

He released the quarters in reverse, north, west, south, and east, with "Go if you must, stay if you will. Hail and farewell," and thanked every power he had called. He walked the circle once widdershins to open it. "The circle is open, but unbroken. Merry meet, merry part, and merry meet again." The three candles he left burning, to keep watch over the work.

V. The Trial of Patience

Then came the test that has broken more cooks than any curse. Izzie did not lift the lid. Not once. Every peek lets warmth escape and steals a quarter hour from the feast.

So he went about his day, and all through it he felt the procession of the planets moving overhead, each ruler climbing to the throne of the sky and stepping down again.

A little after noon, Jupiter rose from the throne and red Mars strode up to seize the crown. Izzie felt the change like a drumbeat quickening. He took his music outside to the step, where the sun had warmed the needles and the air smelled thickly of resin. There he wove melodies out of the silence for the coming dark, fierce and driving, with Mars's iron in their rhythm, while a woodpecker hammered at a dead pine somewhere off in the trees as though keeping time.

Just after the first hour of afternoon, Mars handed the crown to the Sun, and the day reached its warmest. The breeze dropped. The pines stood quiet but for the tick of cones opening in the heat and the dry rattle of scrub oak leaves. Izzie's songs turned bright and open, and he sang them full-throated into the clearing.

A little past the second hour, the Sun bowed and gave the crown back to Venus, her second turn on her own day. A wind came up from the west and set the pine crowns hushing again, and a few sweetgum leaves came spinning down onto the step beside him, dry and five-pointed, like small stars of her own. He softened the music into something sweet and warm, a song for the fellowship.

Venus did not keep the throne long. Just after the third hour, quick-footed Mercury slipped the crown away from her, and with Mercury, lord of the mind, came the urge to read the stars. Izzie went back inside and cast the chart for the moment the Cauldron was sealed, holding the whole wheel of the heavens in his mind.

He found the sun in Libra and followed its coming road into Scorpio, the sign of death and hidden things, ruled by fierce Mars, and the season when Pluto, lord of the underworld and Persephone's husband, holds his court below. He found the sign that had been rising in the east at the moment of sealing and weighed what it promised. He followed Jupiter on its slow twelve-year walk around the zodiac, and Saturn on its longer one. Then he thought of his partner and his housemates in turn, their sun signs and moon signs and rising signs, and asked the heavens what each of them would need in the dark half of the year.

A little after the fourth hour, Mercury surrendered the crown to the Moon, silver and quiet and waning, and in her hour Izzie turned to the mysteries. He cast his runes on a square of black cloth and read the carved staves with his fingertips one by one. He drew Gebo, the rune of gifts and partnership, fitting for Venus's day. Beside it lay Jera, the harvest and the turning year, promising that what had been sown would be reaped. A little apart lay Othala, the rune of the ancestral home, the hall and the hearth and those who built them. Izzie nodded. The runes and the stars agreed.

Just after the fifth hour of evening, the Moon passed the crown to Saturn, grey and slow and heavy, the old lord of time and waiting. The light outside had turned low and long and amber, the air had begun to cool, and the crickets were starting up in the wiregrass. Izzie felt the hall settle into the stillness that always comes in Saturn's hour.

So he rested by the hearth with Gweeny curled against his leg, the dog's long body pressed along his thigh and his breath slow and even. Every so often Gweeny's ears twitched as he dreamed of whatever it is the guides of souls dream of. It seemed right to Izzie that the last stretch of the waiting should belong to Saturn, who governs all patience.

All the while, the Cauldron had been working. By the second hour, anyone who put an ear close could hear a low burbling deep inside, like a spring rising through stone, as the Moon-Curd softened and spread and the juices of the flesh rose and simmered around the edges. With the sound came the smell, drifting through the hall: warm cheese, garlic, and dill.

The housemates came out of their rooms one by one, sniffing the air and asking what working was afoot. Gweeny woke, planted himself directly in front of the Cauldron with his ears straight up, and would not be moved. By the fifth hour the burbling had deepened into a steady, contented murmur, and the smell filled every corner of the hall, so rich that all four bellies rumbled like a far-off storm.

The housemates hovered. His partner circled the Cauldron twice. Gweeny whined at it, once. Still Izzie did not lift the lid, and he forbade anyone else to.

VI. The Crowning

At ten minutes before the sixth hour of evening, with Saturn's reign nearly spent, the Speaking Stone cried out and the Cauldron sounded its last note before slipping, on its own, into the Rite of Keep Warm.

Izzie pulled a thick cloth gauntlet over one hand, checked that the Breath Valve was still on venting, and turned the lid. He lifted it away from his body so the steam would roll off and not into his face. A great cloud of it rose and filled the hall, curling around the three candles. With the lid gone, the bubbling sang out clearly: a soft, thick blip and pop all around the edges, where the sauce simmered against the moon-silver walls. Cerridwen had done her work. The raw had been changed.

Then came the rending. With his gloved hand he held the vessel by its rim so it wouldn't spin. With the other he took two iron forks and pushed down through the soft potatoes until he found the firmer flesh beneath. He pinned each piece against the side of the vessel and pulled, and it fell apart at a touch. He worked his way all around, feeling for any solid piece, until there were none left.

Then he took the rowan spoon and stirred everything together sunwise, scraping the bottom where the Moon-Curd had melted, until the two realms were one, creamy and whole, with chicken in every spoonful. As above, so below. The upper world and the lower were joined, as they would be joined at Samhain.

And as the last stroke of the spoon went round, at the sixth hour of evening exactly, as if the heavens kept time with the Cauldron, old Saturn rose from the throne and set the crown once more on the head of Jupiter, for the last hour of daylight. Izzie felt it like a door swinging open onto a feast hall.

Outside, the sun had sunk low in the west, toward Avalon. Its light came long and level through the trunks of the pines and lay across the floor of the hall in warm bars, and the needles outside the door gave off the last of the day's heat and resin.

So in Jupiter's own hour came the crowning. Izzie scattered the rest of the Shavings of Cheddar Stone across the surface, golden as the Sun, and laid every last one of the Embers of the Swine over them, the fire of Mars and the boar of the Horned One. He did not stir them in. They rested on top like a crown, the Sun and Mars together as the final seal.

He closed the lid again and asked the Speaking Stone to count twenty to thirty minutes, and the Cauldron's lingering warmth went to work on the cheese. Beneath the lid it softened and sank and began to bubble in small, slow blisters, melting into a golden mantle with the bacon settling just slightly into its surface.

While it melted, Izzie went to the Cold Sanctum for the four bottles of the Star-Kissed Cider of Avalon. They were so cold the glass bit at his fingertips, and dew beaded on them the moment they met the warm air of the hall. He set them on the table beside four cups and the empty chalice from the altar.

VII. The Feast

When the stone sang for the last time, Izzie lifted the lid. The feast was ready, still bubbling gently, with Jupiter on the throne of the sky just as he had planned. He called the fellowship to the table, and four bowls were set before him.

But the gods and the dead eat before the living. He filled a small dish first and set it at an empty place at the table with the sprig of rosemary beside it, and lit a white candle there. With Samhain so near, the dead walk close, and it is right to make room for them and light their way. He spoke the names of those he knew, and for the rest he said, "And all who came before us, whose names are lost but whose blood still sings in us. You are welcome here." A second small portion went on the hearthstone, for the spirit of the hearth.

Gweeny, who had been sitting at Izzie's feet in a state of perfect, quivering patience, got up and walked once around the empty chair. His nose worked. His big ears swung toward something none of the others could hear. Then he sat down beside the chair, calm as a sentinel. The table went quiet. Izzie only nodded. A guide of souls knows his work.

Then Gweeny got a bowl of his own, plain food meant for hounds with no Ranchlands Dust anywhere near it, and a treat for good behaviour during the long wait. Izzie set a second treat on the altar in Hecate's name, in thanks for watching over her black dog. The familiar is part of the fellowship too.

Then Izzie plunged the ladle all the way to the bottom of the Cauldron, so every bowl would hold melted cheese and bacon on top and creamy chicken and potatoes underneath. The first bowl went to his partner, as was right on Venus's day. The second and third went to his housemates. The fourth was his own. And in that moment, feeding others before himself with an open hand in Jupiter's own hour, Jupiter entered the feast, and all seven planets sat at the table.

Then Izzie handed a bottle to each of them, one for every member of the fellowship, and kept the fourth for himself. They twisted the caps together, and four sharp, bright hisses went round the table at once, and the smell of crisp apple rose over the feast. One by one, each of them poured the first splash from their own bottle into the empty chalice, and Izzie could hear it fizz and crackle against the glass, a thousand tiny stars rising through clear gold.

When the last of the four had poured, Izzie lifted the chalice. "For Persephone," he said, "Queen Below, who went down into the dark at Mabon and will rise again at Ostara. And for all our honoured dead, who sleep beneath the apple boughs of Avalon. Drink with us tonight." He set the chalice in the middle of the table beside the ancestors' candle.

Then each of them filled their own cup from their own bottle, and the four cups hissed and sparkled in the candlelight.

They raised them together, and Izzie spoke the blessing. "To the earth that grew it, the stars that ruled it, the Cauldron that changed it, and the hands that made it. To the gods who blessed it, the ancestors who came before, the hearth that holds us, the familiar who guards our door, and the fellowship gathered here. May we never hunger."

"May you never hunger," they answered.

"And may we never thirst."

"May you never thirst."

They drank. The cider was cold and bright and crisp, and it cut through the richness of the feast like a clear stream through a meadow.

Before they ate, Izzie spoke once more. "The moon is waning, and the bright half of the year is ending. Whatever we've carried through the summer, let's set it down now and leave it with the old year." Each of them, silently, named something they wanted to let go.

Then they ate, with Gweeny curled at their feet. Between bites they drank the cold, sparkling cider, and it made every mouthful taste new. They ate until they could eat no more, and some went back for seconds anyway, and they all but emptied their bottles, each of them saving one last measure, which Izzie gathered and set aside for the gods.

A minute before the seventh hour of evening, while they were still at the table, the sun slipped below the western edge of the world toward Avalon, and Jupiter stepped down from the throne of the day. In the dark that followed, red Mars took the crown of the first hour of night, to stand guard over the hall like a warrior at the gate. Outside, the pines went from gold to grey to black against the sky, and the first stars came out over them.

VIII. The Crossroads

When the feast was done and the candles had burned low, Izzie gathered the offerings: the ancestors' portion, the hearth spirit's portion, the rosemary, Hecate's treat, the chalice, and the last of the cider. He carried them out past his threshold into the night.

Gweeny went with him, short legs quick and long body low to the ground, ears pricked toward the trees. The air had turned cold and damp. The sand of the path was cool through Izzie's soles, and the fallen needles were soft and slightly springy, muffling their footsteps. The crickets had taken over the wiregrass entirely, a steady, layered trill on every side, and somewhere back in the pines a little owl gave its long, shivering call. Above them the pine crowns moved in the night wind with that same far-off sound of the sea.

They walked to the place where the path from the door met the road. Hecate is honoured at the crossroads, and there they laid the offerings on the earth. Izzie poured the chalice into the sand so it would sink down to Persephone in the dark, and then the last of the cider after it, so the land would get back what the land had given. It fizzed softly as it soaked away.

He lifted his face to the night sky, to the stars he had read that afternoon and the planets that had blessed his feast. The waning moon was still below the eastern trees, not yet risen. Far off, perhaps, came the first distant horns of the Wild Hunt, gathering for Samhain. He whispered his thanks to the Crone, to Cerridwen, to Venus, to Jupiter, to Hecate, to Persephone, to the Horned One, and to the spirits of the pines.

Then, as the old custom demands for offerings left at a crossroads, he turned and walked home without looking back. Gweeny, being a dog, looked back twice. Izzie let it go. A guide of souls is allowed.

Inside, he snuffed the altar candles with thanks, the blue for Jupiter, the green for Venus, and last the black for the Crone. Once the leftovers had cooled a little, he sealed them in vessels and put them in the Cold Sanctum within two hours, where they would keep for three or four days.

Last of all, he wiped the inside of the Cauldron clean with cloths, gathering up the cheese and grease so none would go down the drain beneath the hall. Down there lived the Grinding Beast, ancient, grumpy, and half-broken, which growled and grumbled and sulked whenever anyone dared to wake it. It had once refused to stir at all, until his partner's father came down upon it and beat it into submission, and everyone in the hall agreed it would not survive another battle.

And Izzie the Sound-Weaver, his fellowship, and Gweeny the small black chiweeny feasted well that night and for many nights after. The moon waned toward the dark, the sun walked on through Libra toward Scorpio, Persephone sat on her throne below, the heroes slept under the apple trees of Avalon, and the Wheel turned toward Samhain and the dark half of the year.

Blessed be.

The Recipe: Slow Cooker Crack Chicken and Potatoes

Serves four, with leftovers. Made in an Instant Pot on the Slow Cook setting; any 6-quart slow cooker works the same way.

Ingredients

• About 2 lb boneless chicken, fully thawed
• 1 block (8 oz) cream cheese
• 1 tub (16 oz) sour cream
• 2 packets ranch seasoning
• 1 bag (32 oz) frozen Southern-style diced hash browns
• 1 bag (16 oz) shredded cheddar, divided
• 1 bag or jar real bacon bits
• Cooking spray
• To drink: 4 bottles (25.4 oz) sparkling apple cider, one per person, chilled

Method

1. Thaw the chicken in the fridge for about 24 hours. Never slow cook it from frozen.
2. Coat the inside of the pot with cooking spray, bottom and a few inches up the sides.
3. Lay the chicken flat in a single layer. Sprinkle one ranch packet over it and set the cream cheese block in the centre.
4. In a bowl, break up any frozen clumps of hash browns. Mix in all the sour cream, the second ranch packet, and half the cheddar.
5. Spread the potato mixture over the chicken. Do not stir the layers together.
6. Lid on, valve set to venting. Slow Cook on Normal for 6½ hours. Don't lift the lid.
7. Shred the chicken in the pot with two forks and stir everything together, scraping the bottom.
8. Top with the remaining cheddar and all the bacon. Lid on for 20 to 30 minutes until melted.
9. Serve. Refrigerate leftovers within two hours; they keep 3 to 4 days.

The ranch seasoning contains garlic and onion, which are toxic to dogs, so keep it away from any four-legged familiars.