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By moonrise I’m back in my room at the Clairmont's quaint white picket fence house, drawing back the curtains as I unload my alter items from my wooden chest that I carry wherever I travel. Just in time to ready for tonight and all I need to prepare, despite being weary from walking around all day. I have to do this every month when the moon comes full circle again and I feel like this time is long overdue.

I move to cover the table by the window under the light of the moon with a black velvet cloth to absorb the rays. My carved wooden trinket box, engraved with a pentagram, filled with my healing stones and runes that have travelled with me for a lifetime are laid to the left. My crystal ball, more of a sentimental keepsake from a Roma witch I met some hundred years ago and holds a modicum of gypsy magic is laid to the right. A black candle and a white for balance, both steeped in rose water and oil before burning, are laid to the back, standing tallest. My moon stone is placed in the centre of the table, between everything I need to charge from the light and set the spell in motion. It’s my anchor piece.

My current Grimoire, a leather-bound spell book of my travels and rituals that I’m filling up, engraved with a matching pentagram for protection, from those who would take it, is laid near the front, closest to me. A bowl of rock salt for purification, a shallow rustic wooden bowl of soil for earth, for the elements of nature. The wind in the form of the breeze from the open window before me and now blowing the flickering flames gently. The goblet, pure silver, and tall, marked with the triple moon symbol is filled with water to dignify all of the oceans and rivers of the world, yet also as a weapon against a vast number of immortals. My own personal pendant is last to grace the table, fitted in the space between my grimoire and goblet.

The pendant is a Triskele, a triple swirl of my Celtic roots. The most powerful symbol of protection above all, and a heirloom left behind by the man who sired me so many moons ago. Lastly my opal pendulum, silver pointed, and long chained, with its ability to lead me on the right path in times of doubt. My own personal portable decision maker. I add it beside the moonstone and lay everything out as I always do in their own particular place which has been my ritual since I was old enough to do it. The moon ceremony is like charging a battery and will not only give me renewed energy but revive my talismans and items to better aid me on my path. A witch’s tools are like air and food. We cannot survive without them.

While I wait for the highest peak I sit and meditate before my alter, pulling my thoughts away and clearing my mind to get in the right mood. It isn't long before I sense the moon rising to its apex even behind closed eyes. The power surging through every cell and limb, filling me up like a glass holding water, and rushing forward towards my items. I know without looking that my stone will be glowing and flooding out its softest touch to the many things laid before me, creating a perfect tapestry of light and beauty and blessing them with strength and power. Connected together and enhancing their own specific gifts.

'Dolores inferni circumdederunt me deam talem die plenae lunae reversurus est lava me servum tuum et lux renasci.'

I recite it loudly, my spell cast chant taught at such a young age by the clan healer. Carefully, and clearly, as the light infiltrates my very soul, invoking my moon god to rejuvenate all my powers. Filling me up and bringing me back to feeling as though I have awoken from a satisfying sleep.

With the surge come the visions, flickers of meaningless images, and shadows, some unclear, yet some so sharp and in focus but hold no meaning. I’m used to these and long ago realised I had the gift of sight that many mortals long to have, but it’s strongest on a full moon. The images flit through my mind like a flick book on fast forward, until they settle on one dark form standing alone and it seems to falter to an almost stop. It’s not uncommon for the ritual to bring with it a clear message and something they want me to pay attention to.

I see a male, standing tall and strong, with his back to me, shrouded in shadow as he’s stood in front of a light source almost as bright as the sun. All he is, is a black dense figure in the shape of a tall and muscular man. He wears a hat much like Indiana Jones or a cowboy that’s not as shaped as a Stetson and I can see the form of his jacket, legs, and boots that suggest he’s a biker of some sort, or someone who favours that style. He emanates strength and vitality and even without a face I can tell he is youthful. From the back I sense no real danger, only a strong urge of purpose and duty and then he is gone. It’s only a moment but it stands out from all the other flashing scenes and images spinning in my mind’s eye.

Blinking my eyes open I note the moon has passed its apex and the ritual is almost over. Lacing my fingers together I mutter a blessing to my goddess, Cerridwen, and my god, Khonsu, before dipping my hands in the alter and cleansing myself carefully to wash away the impurities and bathe in the reenergising vitality. I lift my goblet and pour my moon water into a clean glass vial to save for important work. It’s only then I spot the addition to my table, glittering in the candlelight, and pause with a small inhale of breath.

A small silver sun charm surrounded by a circle is nestled in the salt before me. It was definitely not there before, and I cannot derive any meaning from its appearance now. Cradling it carefully in my palm, this small trinket that would befit a necklace, I close my eyes and try to source its reason for existence among my personal things.

The sun gods are not givers of power for witches, they rarely bother with any of the immortals except the ones they built with purpose. The sun’s a death sentence for many of the kinds who hide in the shadows so it’s odd to see a sun symbol given during a moon ritual, especially to a witch who is blessed by Luna. Everything I own carries the mark of Cerridwen or Khonsu in some form.

My mind returns involuntarily as I gaze upon the metal object, once more to the dark form of the man in the light, only this time the symbol I’m holding in my hand is burning in the space on his back between his shoulder blades. Glowing bright as though it’s being etched into him with a hot branding iron, yet he stands his ground, feeling no pain and seemingly unaffected by the flames on his body. I can smell the burning and taste the change in his aura.

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