I was alone, standing near the little brick church round the corner, when the policeman approached.

“Is everything all right here?” he asked, officious but not uncordial.

“Yes,” I said, “just looking at a big spider.”

He stepped closer to me to have a gander at the spider weaving its web in the shady alcove of the church’s back entrance. I was his better in height by perhaps an inch or two, but he more than compensated with a generous dousing of cologne. “Oh, looks like a black widow. Better not get too close.”

“I don’t think it’s a black widow,” I said. “And I wasn’t playing with it, just looking.”

He leaned in, squeaking forward on the toes of his shining black shoes. An immaculate one he was, uniform pristine, tucked-in and tidy, his frame smallish and compact, hands and cheeks well-scrubbed, could not have been much above thirty. After a good squint, he straightened and puffed out his sturdy little chest like a bantam cock to say, “Ah! That’s what we in this area call a common wolf spider.”

I peered sidelong at him. “Hmm!” I went, all curious-like, as if accepting his superior wisdom, though I haven’t seen the wolf spider yet who spins a web. During his arachnid inspection, I noticed the hand resting upon his hip bore no wedding ring, and I wondered if he was divorced, or if, as I am sure he would have put it, he simply “hadn’t met the right girl yet.” I wondered if he was lonely, or if he had a girlfriend. Most of all I wondered just why he’d gone out of his way to strut over to the frumpy girl in the oversized sweater standing perfectly legally if somewhat strangely by the old church. There was a silent moment as we watched the lovely shining creature go about her work in the shadows, and then the cop reached over and plucked a string, sending the spider scuttling away.

“You didn’t have to scare it off!” I said, mingling chastisement with flirtation. The officer colored slightly, confronted with my face turned straight upon his, the twinkle of girlish indignation in my eyes. I could tell in that instant that I had the upper hand, and so I playfully tapped his shoulder with my fist, pouted, “You big bully!” and could see by the dumb, happy expression on his face that I had him utterly disarmed.


Sweet John, I would come to call him, My John. My mother would likely have known whose son he was, may have even dandled him on her knee when he was a babe. As most families in the town, ours has been here for generations, and all the same old names are familiar with one another. But I am more akin to cancer than offspring, cohabiting within the body of the town, the body of my family, alongside the healthy, functioning parts, but malignant, silent. I did not care what his name was, but he insisted on telling it to me, and I learned how he liked the sound of it whispered in his ear, the sound of his own name, that’s what a base thing he was.

It wasn’t long before I got the confession from him that he had an ulterior, though not wholly dishonorable, interest when he stepped over to the girl with the pretty hair by the church. I made sure the interest was dishonorable the first time I visited his house. He was very close, a block away, in a little house I could easily sneak to, just a whisper for me over our backyard, through a bend in the fence, like a rabbit, and over the empty lot behind, through the sleepy garden of an elderly lady, across the street and there I was. The first time I went to him was late in the afternoon, when there’s still some golden light before dusk, that suspended time when a girl can go missing for an hour or two and no one will notice. Our town is ostensibly a friendly one, old-fashioned, as many will insist, so although my visit was not expected, his having told me where he lived that first day we met was enough of an implicit invitation for me to play it off. I found his home predictably tidy, warm, and lonesome. I was surprised he didn’t have a dog. I sat on his couch and in the course of the many things we spoke of told him I was a virgin, another implicit invitation. I wondered how many firearms he had in the house.


I told him he need not be gentle with me. I took to sneaking out nights, scurrying to his house in the dark. His eyes and mine grew shadowed with lost sleep. Our encounters became little tableaux of violence. I urged him to forcibly move me as he wanted, to toss me around, to trap my arms, legs, hips roughly in his grasp, to strike and bruise and manipulate my flesh with full authority. Together we shed him of the facade of his good nature. He learned that he liked to wrap his hands round my neck and squeeze to the point of danger, that he liked to flip me over and take his belt to me, fuck me harshly, pull my hair till I hissed, and he learned he liked it as well when I clawed at his flesh, gouging in till there was skin under my nails and vivid bleeding stripes over his body, he liked it when I bit at the straining tendons of his neck, when I writhed beneath or above or against him like something not quite human. I begged him to kiss harder, to bite and chew at my lips till they bled, and he would do it, the fool, he did it and he tasted my blood. It could not be undone; I was within him, I would be there forever, a taint.

I encouraged these appetites, telling him to abuse me, and his hunger to do so grew. Abuse me, I said, and he thought it was to bring me pleasure, but it was to see the changes wrought in him that pleased me. My body was a training ground for cruelty. I wanted him to develop the taste for causing pain. My body grew beyond the pain, or the pleasure, or any sensation, it grew like a gathering swarm of locusts descending. I called him Sweet John, Sweet John whose eyes grew hard, as he changed, as his capacity for savagery was wrought and honed. He carried a terrible weapon, that badge, a weapon I became eager to teach him to use.

I taught him early on to accept that nothing he could do to my body would bring me to orgasm. But one night I strung a new thread. “John,” I said, as we were limb-splayed on the sheets he would not wash, to spite his usual meticulousness, “John,” the appellation drawled into a sound stripped of association with that good Biblical name, “I want to tell you something I haven’t told you yet.” A vaguely interested murmur was the response, but it was early enough in the night I knew he was still interested. “It’s something nasty.”

He lazily twined a length of my hair round his fingers, and tugged just enough to jerk out a small gasp. “How nasty?”

“Sometimes,” I said, “I go in the bathroom, when we’re done, or even when we aren’t done, and I think about things, and I get myself off where you cannot see.”

That got him. Up he sat. “Why do you do that, why not with me?”

“Because it’s bad things that I think about.”

“What things?”

“You. I think of you. I think of you on duty, in your uniform. I think of you, well, I think of you arresting someone, having to be really hard, really rough with them, rougher than necessary.” My body’s swindle provided him a blush, a lick of the lips, a hand rubbing absently over my thigh, for his watchful eye. Within the half hour, I had his blunt hand fondling me in slick accordance with my own, as we murmured and growled terrible fantasies of the brutality he could carry out in his capacity as the strong arm of the law.


The street was on fire, a patrol vehicle burning in front of the station, warming my cheeks and lighting joyously in my eyes. There is an unspeakable sweetness in dreams made manifest. Most of the crowd had dispersed from the area soon after the fire was merrily ablaze, the cue to move on to the next target. I supposed my own contacts from out of town would have ensured the stage was set so the final denouement could play on without a hitch, and I knew they could be counted on to be artful enough to make the spectacle seem a spontaneous one. The night air was filled with smoke and shouting in the distance, and my elation was calm, poised, electric as I walked the familiar streets leading to the house where the riot had taken its natural progression.

They had him out on his lawn when I got there; the walk to anywhere is not long in a small town. They were screaming indictments, screaming the names of the two young men, the one he had beaten and broken and the other he had shot and killed. I saw many faces I knew in the crowd, though I still cared nothing for what their names were; familiar, meaningless faces. Many more were strangers. I climbed atop the car of the elderly lady whose garden I had sneaked through so many times. Someone had set the garbage bins on fire. My John saw me in his frenzy as they held him and were bringing the makeshift noose over his head. He called my name, the false one I had given him when he asked for one. I stood there, elevated as a priestess, undisturbed by the mass, and watched the people pull the rope and dangle the disgraced officer from the branch, the jerking of his limbs sending froths of screaming ecstasy spilling from the throng. I felt suddenly languid, my eyes, body, and mind pleasantly tranquil and relaxed, as in a haze following an excellent meal, or coitus. I waited until the night’s villain was, after a few teasing drops and renewed hoistings, finally spent of his last twitches, and the little house touched with flame, before lowering from my perch and slipping through the old route back to my house and into bed for a delicious sleep.

Olwen Thrush, ONA / Dec. 2014

Woodshed Rounwytha informal meet-and-greet in the South Carolina Backcountry – September 2014


Woodshed Rounwytha will be hosting an informal-meet-and-greet in attendance at “Living History Day” at the Logan Log House/Black Swan Tavern in the South Carolina Backcountry at Ninety Six National Historic Site on September 20th, 2014 from 10:00 A.M. until 2:00 P.M. – interested parties will be met near the picnic area in the morning hour near Logan Log House/Black Swan Tavern or contact for further specifics prior to date.

For site and area location please visit: Ninety Six National Historic Site event details

Photograph: Logan Log House/Black Swan Tavern

Woodshed Rounwytha informal meet-and-greet in the South Carolina Backcountry


Woodshed Rounwytha will be hosting an informal-meet-and-greet in attendance at “Living History Day” at the Logan Log House/Black Swan Tavern in the South Carolina Backcountry at Ninety Six National Historic Site on August 16th, 2014 from 10:00 A.M. until 2:00 P.M. – interested parties will be met near the picnic area in the morning hour near Logan Log House/Black Swan Tavern or contact for further specifics prior to date. 

For site and area location please visit: Ninety Six National Historic Site event details

Photograph: Island Ford Road at Ninety Six National Historic Site, Ninety Six, South Carolina – one of the many Colonial road beds that cross various trails throughout the park.

” But the conditions of her life—the scenery of sombre terror which surrounded her—only touched and affected the outward colour and rhythm of her unique style. In her deepest soul, in the courage of her tremendous vision, she possessed something that was not bounded by Yorkshire hills, or any other hills; something that was inhuman, eternal and universal, something that was outside the power of both time and space.”

Who can put into words the secret of this extraordinary girl? Who can define, in the suave and plausible language of academic culture, the flitting shadows thrown from deep to deep in the unfathomable genius of her vision?

Perhaps not since Sappho has there been such a person. Certainly she makes the ghosts of de Staël and Georges Sand, of Eliot and Mrs. Browning, look singularly homely and sentimental.

I am inclined to think that the huge mystery of Emily Brontë’s power lies in the fact that she expresses in her work—just as the Lesbian, did—the very soul of womanhood. It is not an easy thing to achieve, this. Women writers, clever and lively and subtle, abound in our time, as they have abounded in times past; but for some inscrutable reason they lack the demonic energy, the occult spiritual force, the instinctive fire, wherewith to give expression to the ultimate mystery of their own sex.

I am inclined to think that, of all poets, Walt Whitman is the only one who has drawn his reckless and chaotic inspiration straight from the uttermost spiritual depths of the sex-instincts of the male animal; and Emily Brontë has done for her sex what Walt Whitman did for his.

It is a strange and startling commentary upon the real significance of our sexual impulses that, when it comes to the final issue, it is not the beautiful ruffianism of a Byron, full of normal sex-instinct though that may be, or the eloquent sentiment of a Georges Sand, penetrated with passionate sensuality as that is, which really touch the indefinable secret. Emily Brontë, like Walt Whitman, sweeps us, by sheer force of inspired genius, into a realm where the mere animalism of sexuality, its voluptuousness, its lust, its lechery, are absolutely merged, lost, forgotten; fused by that burning flame of spiritual passion into something which is beyond all earthly desire.

Emily Brontë—and this is indicative of the difference between woman and man—goes even further than Walt Whitman in the spiritualising of this flame. In Whitman there is, as we all know, a vast mass of work, wherein, true and magical though it is, the earthly and bodily elements of the great passion are given enormous emphasis. It is only at rare moments—as happens with ordinary men in the normal experience of the world—that he is swept away beyond the reach of lust and voluptuousness. But Emily Brontë seems to dwell by natural predilection upon these high summits and in these unsounded depths. The flame of the passion in her burns at such quivering vibrant pressure that the fuel of it—the debris and rubble of our earth-instincts—is entirely absorbed and devoured. In her work the fire of life licks up, with its consuming tongue, every vestige of materiality in the thing upon which it feeds, and the lofty tremulous spires of its radiant burning ascend into the illimitable void.

It is of extraordinary interest, as a mere psychological phenomenon, to note the fact that when the passion of sex is driven forward by the flame of its conquering impulse beyond a certain point it becomes itself transmuted and loses the earthy texture of its original character.

Sex-passion when carried to a certain pitch of intensity loses its sexuality. It becomes pure flame; immaterial, unearthly, and with no sensual dross left in it.

It may even be said, by an enormous paradox, to become sexless. And this is precisely what one feels about the work of Emily Brontë. Sex-passion in her has been driven so far that it has come round “full circle” and has become sexless passion. It has become passion disembodied, passion absolute, passion divested of all human weakness. The “muddy vesture of decay” which “grossly closes in” our diviner principle has been burnt up and absorbed. It has been reduced to nothing; and in its place quivers up to heaven the clear white flame of the secret fountain of life.

But there is more in the matter than that. Emily Brontë’s genius, by its abandonment to the passion of which I have been speaking, does not only burn up and destroy all the elements of clay in what, so to speak, is above the earth and on its surface; but it also, burning downwards, destroys and annihilates all dubious and obscure materials which surround the original and primordial human will. Round and about this lonely and inalienable will it makes a scorched and blackened plain of ashes and cinders. Ambiguous feelings are turned to ashes there; and so are doubts, hesitations, timidities, trepidations, cowardices. The aboriginal will of man, of the unconquerable individual, stands alone there in the twilight, under the grey desolate rain of the outer spaces. Four-square it stands, upon adamantine foundations, and nothing in heaven or earth is able to shake it or disquiet it.

It is this isolation, in desolate and forlorn integrity, of the individual human will, which is the deepest element in Emily Brontë’s genius. Upon this all depends, and to this all returns. Between the will and the spirit deep and strange nuptials are celebrated; and from the immortality of the spirit a certain breath of life passes over into the mortality of the will, drawing it up into the celestial and invisible region which is beyond chance and change.

From this abysmal fusion of the “creator spiritus” with the human will rises that adamantine courage with which Emily Brontë was able to face the jagged edges of that crushing wheel of destiny which the malign powers of nature drive remorselessly over our poor flesh and blood. The uttermost spirit of the universe became in this manner her spirit, and the integral identity of the soul within her breast hardened into an undying resistance to all that would undermine it.

Thus she was able to endure tragedy upon tragedy without flinching. Thus she was able to assert herself against the power of pain as one wrestling invincibly with an exhausted giant.

Calamity after calamity fell upon her house, and the stark desolation of those melancholy Yorkshire hills became a suitable and congruous background for the loneliness of her strange life; but against all the pain which came upon her, against all the aching pangs of remorseless fate, this indomitable girl held grimly to her supreme vision.

No poet, no novelist who has ever lived has been so profoundly affected by the conditions of his life as was this invincible woman. But the conditions of her life—the scenery of sombre terror which surrounded her—only touched and affected the outward colour and rhythm of her unique style. In her deepest soul, in the courage of her tremendous vision, she possessed something that was not bounded by Yorkshire hills, or any other hills; something that was inhuman, eternal and universal, something that was outside the power of both time and space.

By that singular and forlorn scenery—the scenery of the Yorkshire moors round about her home—she was, however, in the more flexible portion of her curious nature inveterately influenced. She does not precisely describe this scenery—not at any rate at any length—either in her poems or in “Wuthering Heights”; but it sank so deeply into her that whatever she wrote was affected by it and bears its desolate and imaginative imprint.

It is impossible to read Emily Brontë anywhere without being transported to those Yorkshire moors. One smells the smell of burning furze, one tastes the resinous breath of pine-trees, one feels beneath one’s feet the tough fibrous stalks of the ling and the resistant stems and crumpled leaves of the bracken.

Dark against that pallid greenish light of a dead sunset, which is more than anything else characteristic of those unharvested fells, one can perceive always, as one reads her, the sombre form of some gigantic Scotch-fir stretching out its arms across the sky; while a flight of rooks, like enormous black leaves drifting on the wind, sail away into the sunset at our approach.

One is conscious, as one reads her, of lonely marsh-pools turning empty faces towards a grey heaven, while drop by drop upon their murky waters the autumn rain falls, sadly, wearily, without aim or purpose.

And most of all is one made aware of the terrible desolation—desolation only rendered more desolate by the presence of humanity—of those half-ruined farm-houses, approached by windy paths or deep-cut lanes, which seem to rise, like huge fungoid things, here and there over that sad land.

It is difficult to conceive they have not sprung—these dwellings of these Earnshaws and Lintons—actually out of the very soil, in slow organic growth leading to slow organic decay. One cannot conceive the human hands which built them; any more than one can conceive the human hands which planted those sombre hedges which have now become so completely part of the scenery that one thinks of them as quite as aboriginal to the place as the pine-trees or the gorse-bushes.

Of all shapes of all trees I think the shape of an old and twisted thorn-tree harmonises best with one’s impression of the “milieu” of Emily Brontë’s single tragic story; a thorn-tree distorted by the wind blowing from one particular quarter, and with its trunk blackened and hollowed; and in the hollow of it a little pool of rain-water and a few dead soaked leaves.

The extraordinary thing is that she can produce these impressions incidentally, and, as it were, unconsciously. They are so blent with her spirit, these things, that they convey themselves to one’s mind indirectly and through a medium far more subtle than any eloquent description.

I cannot think of Emily Brontë’s work without thinking of a certain tree I once saw against a pallid sky. A long way from Yorkshire it was where I saw this tree, and there were no limestone boulders scattered at its feet; but something in the impression it produced upon me—an impression I shall not lightly forget—weaves itself strangely in with all I feel about her, so that the peculiar look of wintry boughs, sad and silent against a fading west, accompanied by that natural human longing of people who are tired to be safely buried under the friendly earth and “free among the dead,” has come to be most indelibly and deeply associated with her tragic figure.

Those who know those Yorkshire moors know the mysterious way in which the quiet country lanes suddenly emerge upon wide and desolate expanses; know how they lead us on, past ruined factories and deserted quarries, up the barren slopes of forlorn hills; know how, as one sees in front of one the long white road vanishing over the hill-top and losing itself in the grey sky, there comes across one’s mind a strange, sad, exquisite feeling unlike any other feeling in the world; and we who love Emily Brontë know that this is the feeling, the mood, the atmosphere of the soul, into which her writings throw us.

Source: Suspended Judgments: Essays on Books and Sensations by John Cowper Powys



I knew something would happen that night. I could feel it in my throat, in my belly, deep in my loins. It was an unusual circumstance for me to be in town after dark, and the streets were still and quiet, devoid of pedestrians at this hour. I was strolling by the railroad tracks when I was grabbed from around the corner of an abandoned building. I did not have time to react physically before being clumsily pushed along the few paces to the damp wall, my arms held at my sides by the sudden grip around my waist. I did not squirm or struggle, but moved with the driving force and the sharp rustle of nylon material that accompanied it. The man pressed his body against mine to keep me in place as he moved his arm to wield a hunting knife in my direction.

He looked me in the face and said in a low, agitated voice, “Don’t move or scream, or I’ll slit your throat.” He looked away and began to anxiously unbutton my blouse with one jittery hand. I held back a smirk at his not having the sense to simply cut away the fabric. I settled myself under his pressure, steadied my breath and observed him.

His head was shaved, and his face was tense with concentration as he fumbled with my clothing. He breathed quick and heavy, all anxiety and nerves. I surveyed his countenance by the glow of the solitary street lamp above us: broad, rough face, arched brows, a wry mouth, slightly too full. He was young, and his fingers shook as he undertook his crime. When my blouse was loosened, he buried his head in my shoulder, his breath warm in my hair, and began to roughly move his free hand up and down my exposed flesh. I arched myself subtly at his touch, and he lifted his face to look at me, and leant forward in tentative, skittish jerks, as if to kiss me. I caught his eyes and welcomed him, but he turned his head down in confusion, and pulled his body from mine to work at the button of my trousers. He hissed in frustration — the garment was too much for his single, awkward hand — and I moved slowly forward, cautious of the blade, slinking myself away from the wall and into him. He stiffened as my cheek came to rest against his, and my hips pressed toward him, and I whispered, “You don’t have to force me.” I fluttered the barest of kisses by his ear, and placed my hand upon the arm which bore the knife, and gently brought it down. I kissed along his jaw, and took his empty hand, and pressed it to my bare belly, and guided his touch along, to my breast, and held my hand over his as it rested there. “I want to take you home with me.”

* * *

My head thrummed like a smooth, heated machine as we walked. He was dumbfounded, speechless, as I led him along, but willing enough to answer any question I put to him. “Do you have a car parked nearby? Do you live in town? Do you live alone?” No, he was walking. Yes, he did. No, he lived with his mother. I did not ask about the patches on his jacket, the garishly emblazoned swastika, the badges of subversive ideology; his political bent was neither here nor there to me. His gait bespoke of a confidence, whether natural or contrived, that must have bordered on the cocky in ordinary circumstances, but he entered my car willingly nonetheless, docile as a tamed animal. I smiled at him and squeezed his thigh before turning the key. We spoke little on the drive deeper and deeper into the country, as the street lamps grew fewer and the darkness richer and fuller. I would from time to time glance over at him with a loving, hungry glimpse, to assuage his doubts, to increase his confusion. His knee nervously fidgeted up and down at the start, but I stilled it with a caress, supplanting the nerves to instead course throughout his tightly wound body for the duration of the ride.

We were met at the end of the long, unpaved, heavily wooded drive to my abode with the glare of a single motion sensor light cutting the black night, and the hounds in position, anticipating my return. I told the young man to wait in the car as I led the dogs to a fenced-in area where they would not be underfoot, or treat my guest with aggression. I opened the passenger side door, and silently beckoned him out. I pierced him with my eyes as he stood in the harsh beam of light, and kissed him brutally, pushing him against the vehicle. He took a moment to respond, but his enthusiasm soon escalated, as did my own, and we clutched one another roughly for a time. I pulled away, and stripped to my waist, and demanded he do the same. I bit into his shoulder, the flesh young and strong, and enjoyed his gasps as I reached down and deftly unzipped and reached my hand into his fly. I eased him onto the ground, and stood, and told him to remove his boots and remaining clothing, as I did likewise.

He lay naked before me, propped on his elbows, and I stood naked above him. I could smell myself, the blood of menses, rich and redolent with life, the rot of death close on its heels. I gingerly pulled the tampon from myself, saturated with blood and the fluids of arousal, and tossed it aside. I dipped my hand into my own wetness, and smeared my breasts. The boy watched. I told him to stand. I covered my fingers once more with blood, and anointed his brow. His eyes were wide, and I placed his hand between my legs. We continued; I had my way with him, and he had no shortage of pleasure of me, without the culmination of coitus. We nourished one the other, he upon my blood, myself upon his seed.

With languid shyness, we collected our clothing and I unlocked the door. I debated whether I ought to ask if his mother would be worrying, but held off; boys will, after all, be boys. We playfully conversed over a light supper, which he ate in his jeans and naught else, his face still encrusted with my blood. I took him to my bed, where we talked in low voices for a long time, and I worked him once with my hand before drifting to sleep. I eased from his arms in the night, and stepped into the night, and my own meditations there.

I woke him before dawn, and bathed with him, cleansing him of my marks. I led him outside by the hand, nude and fresh, and the rising sun illumined us as we fed one another the last small, sweet blueberries of the season. We lay at the foot of the field where the plum and cherry trees grow, and enacted the play of nature’s design. I tasted the dew on his skin, and saw the golden light upon his lashes. He held my hips as I straddled atop him; I leant forward, my breasts pressing to his face as I reached into the low-growing shrubbery and retrieved his knife from where I had hidden it the night before. I picked up the pace and drew him to completion, and with his groan I slashed the knife forcefully over his taut belly. His body shuddered with climax and shock, and he gulped at the air like a fish as I breathed in the stench of his bowels. I finished him off, and touched his lifeless cheek before heading inside and putting on some work clothes. I took the tiller to the area by his body, and loosened the soil before digging the hole. It was well on in the day, and I was quite tired and sweaty as I dragged his body into its resting place, leaving a trail of blood to soak into the earth. I shovelled in half the dirt and headed to the dog pen where the animals paced anxiously, instinctively aware of the energies in the air. I called to one of the young hounds, hardly more than a pup. He was a promising beast, but over-eager, prone to rashness and excitement, and overstepping my discipline. He followed me to the field and I held him firmly, and with a reassuring whisper ran the knife into his throat as efficiently as I could. I placed him atop the lad, and filled in the hole. The day was waning early; summer was at its end. I stripped of my filthy clothes and burned them by the grave as dusk set in, and when they were ashes I had a shower, dressed, ate a well-deserved meal, fell into bed, and slept deep into the next day.

Olwen Thrush, ONA


The Rounwytha Way


Some Notes On The Rounwytha Way

The Rounwytha Way – one of the three O9A praxises {1} – is the most neglected part of the Order of Nine Angles (O9A/ONA) weltanschauung, with such neglect contributing to the basal misunderstanding of the O9A itself that exists not only among self-professed modern occultists and satanists but also among academics interested in or researching what is often termed modern esotericism.

The Rounwytha Way – also known as ‘the rouning’ – is an aural pagan esoteric tradition, indigenous to a particular rural area of the British isles, of a few empaths (most of whom were and are women) for whom there are no teachings, no dogma, no rituals, no spells, no conjurations, no incantations, no abstract determinate seasons {2} and no unnatural division between ‘us’, as mortals, and Nature and ‘the heavens’ beyond; evident as such an unnatural division is in positing, and then naming, separate divinities and supernatural beings. There are therefore no gods, no god, and no goddess; no ‘demons’ or named ‘familiars’. Instead, there is a very individual and always wordless awareness, an intuitive apprehension, arising from a natural gift (a natural talent) or from that faculty of empathy that can be cultivated – according to tradition – by a person undertaking to live alone in the wilderness for around six months and then, some years later, undertaking to live alone for a lunar month in a darkened cave or some subterranean location {3}.

In essence, the Rounwytha Way is a manifestation – a presencing – of the muliebral, especially the ‘acausal knowing’ that arises from empathy with Nature and ‘the heavens’. As Myatt has explained in respect of the muliebral:

“What is muliebral cannot be embodied in some organization or movement, or in some -ism, or in any causal form – and certainly cannot be expressed via the medium of words, whether spoken or written – without changing it, distorting it, from what it is into some-thing else. For the muliebral by its very φύσις is personal, individual, in nature and only presenced in the immediacy-of-the-moment, and thus cannot be the object of a supra-personal aspiration and thus should not be ‘idealized’ or even be the subject of an endeavour to express it in some principles or principles (political or otherwise), or by some axiom or axioms, or by some dogma. For all such things – forms and words included – are manifestations, a presencing, of what is, in φύσις, masculous and temporal. Or, expressed more simply, the muliebral presences and manifests what is a-causal – what, in the past, has often inclined us to appreciate the numinous – while the masculous presences and manifests what is causal, temporal, and what in the past has often inclined us toward hubris and being egoistic.” {4}

The Rounwytha Way also re-presents that personal perceiveration that an individual pursuing a life-long mystical quest, such as The Seven Fold Way, may discover beyond The Abyss:

“The wisdom acquired, the finding of lapis philosophicus during the penultimate stage of the Way – means two particular things, and always has done. (i) living in propria persona, in a private manner and sans all posing, all rhetoric, all pomposity, all ideations; and (ii) having an appreciation, an awareness (sans words, ritual, thought) of what is now sometimes known as the acausal – of Nature, the Cosmos, of the connexions that bind life and thus of the illusion that is the individual will, and which illusion sillily causes a person to believe ‘they’ are or can be ‘in control’. These two things form the basis of a particular and reclusive way of life of a particular type of person: the type known, in one locality, as the rounerer of The Rouning.” {5}

This personal perceiveration is of the nameless, wordless, unity beyond our mortal, abstract, ideations of ‘sinister’ and ‘numinous’, of Left Hand Path and Right Hand Path, and also – and importantly – of ‘time’. For it is our ideation of ‘time’ – with its assumption of a possible temporal progression, via various temporary causal forms, toward something ‘better’ or more ‘advanced’ or more ‘perfect’ (in personal or supra-personal terms) – that underlies the magian/patriarchal/masculous approach that has dominated, and still dominates, Western occultism and esotericism in general, fundamental to which is a hubriatic egoism: “the illusion that is the individual will”.

Aspects of the abyssal perceiveration – of the apprehension discovered by someone reborn beyond The Abyss – are (i) the need to balance the masculous with the muliebral; (ii) ‘the aeonic perspective’; (iii) the importance of esoteric languages (manifest, by the O9A, in Esoteric Chant and The Star Game); and (iv) aeonic sorcery.

The aeonic perspective, for instance, provides an understanding of aeonic sorcery:

(i) Of the limitation – and the ‘mortality’ – of all causal forms and why, in respect of certain aeonic goals, it is (α) the cumulative decades and centuries long alchemical (inner) change of individuals individually (via pathei-mathos), and (β) mythoi, and (γ) ‘numinous symbols’, which are of primary importance. For it is such things which presence, over long durations of causal ‘time’, that acausal energy which is the genesis of a genuine evolution, of those change that endure beyond each mortal and beyond all collocations of mortals (corralled, for example, via ‘empires’, States, nations, ideologies, or by some leader or by some cause or political party).

(ii) Of why and how each human being – each mortal – is but a nexion and thus can, via esoteric mimesis, restore or alter (in particular ways) what others may have, through causal forms or via their living, temporarily changed.

Rounwytha and O9A – Difference and Similarities

The ‘acausal knowing’ of the Rounwytha – of the particular type of sorceress that the Rounwytha is – wordlessly, and in a pagan way, encompasses the esoteric knowing that the O9A describe by the term aeonic perspective. But instead of the ‘aeonic sorcery’ of the O9A (and thus in place of a sinister/aeonic dialectic and a particular esoteric strategy and certain tactics) there is only a concern with what is familial and local or communal, so that for the Rounwytha

“there is no interest in, no concern with, matters beyond one’s family, one’s local area of dwelling, and beyond such problems of one’s neighbours that they personally bring to one’s attention because they may require some help or assistance.” {6}

Furthermore, there may have been in the past an act – as according to some aural accounts there may have been a rare recent incident – whereby it was considered necessary to restore the balance that some particular person, or some deed or deeds, or some natural occurrence, had in their local area upset, and thus why occasionally and in respect of some rotten person,

“why their removal – by exile or by cull – would end (cure) the sickness, restore the balance their rotten deeds and they themselves had caused to be upset, restoring thus the natural flow, and gifts, of Life: of health, fecundity, happiness, good fortune.” {6}

For the Rounwytha Way is a very individual one rooted in a particular rural area, and one which occasions certain natural and necessary responsibilities and duties to certain others in the same locality. A Way which continues, and manifests, what the pagan weltanschauung – at least in Europe – anciently embodied: an intuitive/empathic understanding of ourselves and of our local rural community as an affective and effective connexion to Life {7} and a connexion that needed no god, no named gods or goddess, no ‘prayers’, and no rites or rituals: only those wordlessly left personal offerings to the (always un-named) gods/divinities, and the natural ability of an empathic sorceress (or, more rarely, a sorcerer) to foresee/foreknow and to intuitively/empathically (and thus wordlessly) know how to restore (often via memesis) the natural balance that some mortal, or some natural occurrence, had temporarily upset. This is the understanding of personal, and communal, fortune and misfortune being a gift: a manifestation, to we mortals, of how Nature and ‘the heavens’ work and of who and what and why we mortals are, as beings temporarily presenced on this planet we call Earth.

However, in essence it is this ancient paganus understanding and knowing – with its empathic awareness of a possible ‘afterlife’ beyond our temporarily presencing as an often egoistic individual – which suffuses the O9A, and indeed which re-presents the O9A weltanschauung, beyond the polemics, beyond the propaganda, the incitement; beyond the causal form of ‘satanism’, beyond (and the genesis of) its japes and Labyrinthos Mythologicus and mythos and sinister dialectic. And an understanding and knowing re-presented, most obviously, in its hermetic Seven Fold Way and its apprehension of the sinisterly-numinous, for the O9A, via its praxises, requires

“the individual to develop a perception, an understanding, a knowledge – acquired from a personal experience – beyond causal abstractions/forms and thus beyond denotatum; that is, and for example, beyond the illusion of conflicting/ideated opposites, beyond naming/denoting/words, beyond abstract morality, beyond dogma/ideology, beyond the simple principle of causation, and beyond the simplicity of a posited dialectical process.” {8}

R. Parker


{1} qv. R. Parker, Some Advice For Neophytes Regarding The Order of Nine Angles. e-ext 2013.

{2} qv. the Esoteric Dating and Aural Traditions section of the essay Denotatum – The Esoteric Problem With Names.

{3} qv. the Camlad Rite of The Abyss. Aural tradition relates that, centuries ago, a certain place near what is now the town of Bridgnorth was occasionally used. Another such place once existed near Little Wenlock, while old mine workings near the Stiperstones were also sometimes used.

{4} Some Questions For DWM. e-text, 2014.

{5} Anton Long, The Enigmatic Truth. e-text, December 2011 CE. As I mentioned in my essay Myatt, The Septenary Anados, And The Quest For Lapis Philosophicus:

“The term in propria persona […] has a long literary and scholarly usage beyond its more recent legal connotations (legal connotations which someone searching the internet will find and assume describe the meaning of the term). The literary and scholarly usage includes the sense of someone speaking ‘in propria persona’, as opposed (for example) to ‘the passive voice’. Thus, someone living ‘in propria persona’ would suggest something to the intelligentsia, as the above quotation would.”

{6} The Rounwytha Way In History and Modern Context, n.d. but c. 2011

{7} As mentioned elsewhere, the O9A – et al – make a distinction between affective and effective change(s). Symbolically understood, affective change is an acausal – an a-temporal – change, and one whose genesis is or can be sorcery: i.e. a presencing of acausal energy via a nexion, be that nexion an individual, or some manufactured form (such as an archetype or mythos) or some esoteric technique (such as Esoteric Chant or The Star Game).

{8} R. Parker, The Sinisterly-Numinous O9A. e-text, 2013.

Source: The Rounwytha Way.