The Snow Moon
Sunday morning, and Savannah runs to the window along the kitten, the clicking of any thousand beaks scratching the air. Yankee starlings
migrating South for the winter blacken the road, yards, and trees, conjuring a whirlwind of clamor. Horus and Thoth wiggle together with excitement, while Re squeaks his delight. Suddenly, the clump leaps for the sky in a synchronized occasion, tinting the light along a murky funnel cloud of feather and screech, leaving four dazzled souls behind.
* * * * * * *
After lunch Re zooms into the office, clutching one of Ravena’s catnip mice in the middle of his teeth. He crashes into a rattan cabinet filled along fabric, dances a circle or two on his toes, and zips out the door.
“Somebody has the rips,” Savannah murmurs, trying to merge on an intricate sequin scheme for a inexperienced handbag, while lifting her feet alwaysy time Re dashes straight through the office at high speed. Kittens cannot readily retract their claws at that age, and she bears the crimson blots on her arms and legs to prove it.
Thoth shuffles into the office and plops on a rug to watch the show. After the introductory day curiosity concerning Re replaced Thoth’s constant hissing, and now he corollarys the kitten from accommodation to room. Utterly delighted, Re performs for this audience of one and then tackles Thoth’s fluffy head, clinging to the immense cat’s giant ears similar to a miniature white hat. Thoth fails to shake the kitten off, and Savannah intercedes, gradually removing Re.
“Thoth isn’t your mom,” she avows, even as Thoth washes Re’s covering, fueling the kitten’s infatuation.
Every day Re swings from the carpeted kitty condo in the den, accomplishing frantic kitten gymnastics for an hour or so. Re also adores Savannah’s long black hair, which he yanks along his teeth and paws whenever she leans down to pet him or sits on the stool at her worktable, while he quietly stalks her.
“Ouch!” Savannah yelps after another sneak attack from Re, detaching the kitten from her back and loosening a strand of hair from his mouth. “I had no thing you could leap so high now,” she vocalizes, wincing from the sting of fresh scratches. “I’ve got to locate a string toy for you, one that institutes
my hair look like boring.”
After dinner Re learns how to spit and spends the rest of the evening spitting at Horus, Thoth, and Savannah, delighting in the new sound skipping from his lips. He invents a game which consists of running across the living accommodation, climbing up on a sofa cushion, spitting at Savannah while she reads the most recent urban fantasy novel by Lilith Saintcrow, then darting into the kitchen to slither under the refrigerator similar to a garter snake.
“Tomorrow I’ll slide a few portiions of cardboard under the drip pan to block his passage,” she murmurs, turning another page of the novel, Horus sprawled across her lap.
But the next day Re’s spitting blossoms into sneezing, and his nose starts to leak. “Don’t worry,” Savannah voices, lifting him to her shoulder and walking to the kitchen, while he sneezes on her surface. She wipes her gill together with a paper towel and reaches into the cabinet for bottles of non-alcoholic goldenseal and echinacea.
“I’ll faithful add a few drops of these liquid herbs to your cusine and water, and you’ll be back to your spitting tips in no time,” she promises, scratching his chin, as he sneezes on her hand.
* * * * * * * *
Savannah’s Patron Goddess, Bast, occupies a special place in Egyptian history not only as the revered Cat Goddess but besides as a Moon Goddess. Because of this, Savannah celebrates each Esbat, a ritual of magick and divination that occurs alwaysy month on the night of a full moon.
The Esbat in November honors the Snow Moon, and that evening Savannah slips into her ritual robe and decorates the altar accompanying paper cutouts of snowflakes. Horus and Thoth rule on the sofa to watch, while Re bounces around the accommodation, unaware of Savannah’s ritual routine. She catches Re as he chases by and puts him on a pillow next to Thoth.
“Sit,” she articulates, pointing her finger at Re, a command she’s been teaching him this week. “If you’re a better boy, I’ll bestow you a treat later with the substantial kitties.”
She returns to the altar and lights three green candles carved together with Wynn, the rune for prosperity and love. She leaves them on the altar rather than arranging them in a circle on the floor, not wanting to tempt Re, who sizzled one of his whiskers a hardly any days ago on a scented candle burning near the coffee table.
Clearing a space on the altar, Savannah spreads a inspiring pink bandana dirtlesssed in sunlight and sets her tarot deck in the middle. The Snow Moon proffers the chance for divination, a opportunity to work with plenty and prosperity, to peer through the folds of time and discern the time to come. She opens the curtains at every window, flooding the candlelit room together with moonlight.
Standing before the altar, she lifts her wand and slowly turns in a clockwise direction, welcoming the faeries, elementals, and mighty Watchtowers to her ritual. She closes in front of the sculpture of Bast sitting regally on her altar. Lifting her hands, Savannah maintains:
“Beloved Bast, O Goddess of Cats,
Great Queen of this moonlit night,
I honor your feline energy and might.
I ask for your wisdom and foresight.
Beneath this sacred Snow Moon
open my examines, chronicle my destiny.
The future I place at your onyx feet.
With loving gratitude, so mote it be.”
Savannah reaches for her tarot cards and reduces the deck, turning the second half upside down. But as she commences to shuffle the cards Re can no longer contain his excitement and dives off the sofa, climbing up Savannah’s leg to slap one of the silken tassels dangling from her ritual robe.
She screams as his slight needled claws draw blood from her leg, and she drops the cards to grab Re, unfastening him from her jeans.
“No!” she shouts, and swats Re’s bottom, setting him back on the sofa cushion. “No,” she enunciates again, firmly, pointing her finger at him, Horus and Thoth cringing, Re’s tail twitching.
When Savannah returns to the altar she finds the cards in a cluttered pile. As she gathers them back into an orderly stack one card slips from her fingers and falls to the sacred cloth. A silver streak of moonlight illuminates the upturned outside of the Ace of Cups. She glances at Bast, whose golden feline gawks dance in the candlelight.
Savannah laughs. “Okay,” she utters. “This is truly the oddest tarot card reading I’ve always done, but I gather the message.”
She props the card against a paper snowflake and peers at it for a occasion, a puzzled expression dancing over her exterior.
“I don’t understand how this card recounts to my future prosperity,” she mumbles, knowing the Ace of Cups foretells the originatening of a like affair.
Suddenly Savannah shudders, the plan of dating or a inexperienced liker unpleasantly prickling her dermis. “I’m right not available for that yet,” she pleads, moonshine streaming across the altar, as Bast’s flaxen observes twinkle magickally in candlelight.
Half Moon Rugs
