" Have you heard of the Sorgitzak Child? " The small girl looked up at her grandmother and gave a small shake of her head. " The Sorgitzak are those of the blood, those that fell from the heavens and stayed out of love of man to guide and teach him. They are the Gods of the Old Ones, Witches of the Blood, who once lived in the Ancient Forests, the great haunted woodlands. The Sorgitzak exist to this day in the secret places, where the Ancient Woodlands give them shelter. Some have slept for countless generations, Others of them are awake, but almost forgotten by the People. They are based on the elements and the directions of the Circle. North, South, East, West, the Center, the Rim and so much more between." The old crone reached out and gently touched the head of the child. Her great great great Granddaughter. Now they speak to us once more, teach us of what has been lost, for we are their children and the children's children of those once known and beloved of Them. The wheel has turned and They, well They have returned to the People. "

The old crone paused and took a sip of wine before she continued not noticing that more of their Family had come to the hall and sat about on cushions listening to the old tale. " The Blood of a Witch is strong, stronger than many might think and stronger than some might wish. Through the generations it has come down to us. The old Blood, when awakened, shall then be the cause of Great Rememberance, both of the Old Ones, themselves, and of the ancient ways and powers that they once enjoyed. To wake the Blood is to remember who and what you once were and to remember what the Gods are. To remember is to be a Witch. "

" It is our task to be Shining Ones, beacons of light and hope and wisdom that carry to the lands and to those of the lands, the essential quality of the universe and it's one ultimate source, the essence of which is Love.

What is there if there not love?

Without love, there is nothing.

Without love, why breathe? Why Live?

It is for love's sake that the marrow burns, tears fall, songs rise in the joyous abandon.. It is love that brings peace in the evening, Love brings the stars and the morning sun.

Those that do not see or understand, their hearts are closed. And there are only two things in yoru wild universe that can open a closed heart. One is divine intervention, the bolt that you call Shaman. The second is Love. If a closed heart doesn't open to love, leave it for the bolt of the Gods.

Giadna, Goddess of the Center

The old woman finished the litany and smiled down at the little girl. A wrinkled hand touched the dark head and gently stroked the raven dark hair. " Magick is itself alive little one. It has always been alive. When the magick resides in the Blood, it is doubly alive. When the Spirit is invested in the Blood, in the magick, then is it triply alive. And when it comes into alignment at last with the body, with the physical vehicle through which it is meant to work in this world, then a Witch walks amongst us. When a Witch becomes the dynamic balance between their own bodies, spirits, Blood and the sparks of pure energy that live deep inside the, they will then become a being of the Earth, of the Air, of Fire and of Water. A Witches' true nature is of the Flames and always has been. The flames that are the self same fire that once was stolen from the heavens, that came down to the Earth in the form of a burning star too beautiful to bear. Watch for one of the White Light my daughter, for She is coming. "

From the Journal of Annwyl

Breathless

Her eyes burn

To be held by her is to hold the Flames

The lightning bolt of sadness turned to ecstatic rage.

Her arms rise up to catch the ferocious dark, To call the storms down

Not just one but a multitude.

Walk together into some mad future Storm Children all, dreams.

There is no going back, there is only going onward.

She is the lightning bolt of sudden change, the raised torch of enlightment which carries on through the Dark places. She is fire unquenched, the vision that burns, just as she is the heart that tears itself in two in a vain effort to touch that which it loves the most.

Hers is the song that becomes a scream if it is left too long, Her prayer is a plea.. Her footsteps are bloodier than many for the march is a prayer within itself, a song of passions left unfed, for the hungry know well the desires of the dead. She is the voice of those lost as well as of those yet living. She spans the gap, the bridge of pain, the ribbon of sorry and the blinding hope of perpetual desire.

Her peace is spilled water, as her crown is a cap. She is the overwhelming pain of the coming storm, of the flash of lightning, or the stinging rain-- all that which washes away before it what needed to be washed away and leaving a clean, fresh and fragile new world in it's wake. She is the necessary revolution, be it slow and gentle or quick and bloody.

She had awoken and now had left the shelter of the Mound. A True Witch of the Blood, an Ancient, once more among the People. She would teach, she would love, she was Sorgitzak. Hair of moonlight, skin kissed by the sun and eyes that mirrored the color of the sky and the forest. Pure magick, guided by the strongest of wills. Her Blood flowed in the veins of those that now lived in this place, the Blood of the Witches of old. Once more she took the physical form they would understand as she appeared and for a moment was enthralled with the scents that she could now taste, see with eyes that stirred the old memories. Fingertips touched the golden flesh that she found to be soft and smooth.

As she began to wander the paths of the forest, she was aware of those that followed her. Their caution, their disbelief. " I have waited, I have watched, Now I listen, I return. Do not fear me, do not fear my realm. You shall find comfort. You shall find the comfort that is your due. In the shadows of the night, do not fear them, do not shun the darkness, I know and remember the price of Love. Come to my pillared hall, catch the winds, four and one. Hear the tower sing. Made of crystal, blood and breath, I wait for those who pass the test and who, in knowing , daring come to be. To will themselves beyond themselves, Through the gates of ectasy and need, I wait. "

As she continued to walk, she remembered the old words. " Smoke and mirrors. Smoke rises up and takes on form. It is the sweet breath of the Witch. It opens the door to other worlds, other realms. To the ultimate and to truth. Mirrors are also doorways, worlds and realms reflecting into each other. Smoke is an inner door, mirrors are the outter one. I am a creature of many worlds. We are all mirrors, We are all smoke. "

She remembered the girl she had met on her travels and whispered to her. " That which loves lives. Love is the pearl which fills the cup, the cup which is eternal life. So long as one drop remains, it may be be filled again, for the pearl is the seed into which all things flow. The seed of infinite possibility. The pearl is a seed is a star is a light is a promise.. What was lost can ever be found again, what has died will live again. The only true death is to deny life, to crush the seed of self, to refuse to swallow the pearl. " The words would be an enigma to her, but eventually she would hear and awaken.

Long long ago, We who would become the Witches fell to this plane.

We were not Driven from the Stars,

We did not come tumbling down from grace in despair or in fear and agony most dreadful.

We came out of love and We stayed out of Love.

There is no greater pain and no greater Gift than that.

Anjeney