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.



Part 1:

On the cusp of pubescence it was not a mystery to Astrid and Franziska, to themselves, that they were sexual creatures. Nor, did they think, it was to others – although the apparent, half-hearted denial of this fact by some of those who classified themselves as “adults” – based on some abstract, legal threshold regarding the same which apparently demarcated the line between those capable of rational decision making and those not – made them laugh, in their sinister way. For both of these sisters knew, these twins, could tell, when, under the guise of paternal affection their father or grandfathers, uncles and other male relatives would touch them in an apparent innocent fashion, or glance at them that such lines would be blurred – if, indeed, they ever existed in the first place. They – these empathic twins – could readily feel the desire that radiated through such presumably innocent touches, such presumably innocent glances for in fact, in such cases, little empathy was needed because what was simply was – natural, apparent, readily ascertained. And the twins did not hold this desire, this longing by others for their smooth, taut flesh; their youth, their gaiety; against these older males. What they did find to be equally amusing but more often than not maddening was the contradictory stance that was so often taken by these, who were taught how to wield condescension even amidst their praise and who would rail, in a rote, societally-approved fashion, against forbidden love when they, themselves, knew that it was such a forbidden love with them, both, that these same men yearned for.

The sisters knew themselves to be sexual, feeling and capable of ecstasies when they, alone in their room in the deepest parts of the evening or the sleepy, mist-shrouded early pre-dawn would touch each other, sensually. Not always simply softly, with tenderness, as males would often be wont to superimpose as the default and base pacing of their sort but sometimes roughly, with an edge of violence tinging their lust, with that roughness that two sisters of a spirited nature – oft to play but oft to fight – would readily, naturally exhibit. The sisters knew themselves to be sexual, and calculating in their sexuality when they, on some occasions, would accost their brother, Martin, several years their junior and lead him, coach him – calculatingly – to touch their bodies, guiding his hands and placing them on secret places beneath their clothes and watch as he, his confusion, his embarrassment in his youthful naïveté led over time – via their prompting – to other vistas, other peregrinations of desire. The sisters knew themselves to be sexual, calculating and indeed predatory in their sexuality when they would at other times, with that roughness that siblings of a spirited nature – oft to play but oft to fight – molest him, bending his will to theirs, with a long feminine finger thrust penetrating, violating – orchestrating in him a distortion toward muliebral nature in the same way that a conductor would lead a symphony toward infernal heights at the crescendo of a Mussorgsky fantasy.

On a walk along a cobblestoned street one day in those cold days on the cusp of Spring when the air was still chill and the trees still barren of the green splendour to come, still marked by the Winter so recently passed, the sisters came upon a small bookshop tucked away along a narrow alleyway snaking out from the busy streets of the university town which they, along with their family, had come to visit in the concourse of accompanying their father on business. Their father, as appropriate, was in the midst of associated tasks on the campus itself and their mother was busy supervising their younger brother who was well preoccupied at a sweets-shop some blocks south leaving them together to wander at their leisure.

The bookshop caught their eye immediately upon passing not because of its rather worn, weathered and even somewhat decrepit wooden sign which hung above the green doorway nor by the lush foliage, well-trimmed and evergreen, which sprouted from the small garden boxes beneath either of its large windows. Peering through the windows however the sisters spied, with their grey-blue eyes glinting coldly but inquisitively in the midday sunlight, a curious cabinet marked “antiquities” upon which were placed figurines both large and small – some which appeared humanoid in appearance with others grotesqueries of a most inhuman shape and fashion.

Entering the shop through the battered green doorway, a ringing chime triggered, yet with no visible shopkeep making an appearance from amidst the cluttered shelves, the sisters proceeded to the cabinet which was located beside a narrow and winding staircase toward an upper floor of which they could glimpse a small portion from their current vantage point, apparently housing an even more cluttered assortment of printed items than apparent on the ground-level itself. The figurines in the cabinet were separated from the possibility of handling by customers by a thin layer of somewhat dusty commercial glass so Franziska raised her forearm to the surface, smearing off some of the dust with the sleeve of her denim jacket while Astrid glanced behind them to make sure that a surly owner or equally surly regular wasn’t coming around a corner as Franziska did so.

Their ability to view increased by Franzi’s cursory cleaning, the two sisters pressed their faces up against the glass, peering at the curious statues which hearkened as it were to another time, another place – both more numinous in nature than the doldrums of modernity yet also numinous in their extremity, as certain of the figures depicted in these sculptures seemed to be engaged in orgiastic rites of excess, blasphemy. Others exuded an air of unmistakable violence, intimidation, threat. As sexual creatures themselves, self-aware, yet christened as forbidden fruit by the laws of the state – such informed as the case may be by the laws of society and economic commodity; these depicted allusions toward such bygone orgiastic rites of excess and blasphemy, of beings possessed of such a violence, intimidation and threat, pleased them and provoked within them a lust and a yearning, not strange, but rather, familiar. Hands clasped together in one another’s sisterly hands they looked, soaking in the scenes and entities in miniature so depicted, seeking to remember them, to recall so that they, themselves, might bring about some similar spirit in their secret pastimes later, alone, together.

The sisters’ reverie was interrupted by a sound to their left near the stairwell and they both simultaneously managed to peel their faces away from the glass of the cabinet just in time to see the tail end of a trench-coat disappear around the corner with an appreciable swoosh, followed by what sounded like a male voice humming to himself. Astrid and Franzi glanced at one another, facing each other and communicating a quizzical suggestion through their eyes without any verbal follow-through, as twin sisters frequently do, and then, with a simultaneous shrug, they too mounted the stairwell to see what awaited on the second floor.


Part 2:

The second floor of the bookshop was very similar to the first except that it felt somehow more cloistered, a bit more stuffy and a bit more crowded than on the ground floor. The first perhaps because there were no open windows or passageways to the outside, though a faded stream of light from a closed, upper window shone down in a zig-zagging angle through its rather dirty pane, highlighting the swirling dust of the place within its lazy beams. The second, as to crowding, was no doubt due to the fact that even as the sisters had ascertained earlier from the most cursory of glances, this part of the shop was indeed even more cluttered than the rest.

Their quarry in the trench-coat had eluded them somehow or other as he was no longer in sight (they had lost visuals as he crested the top of the stairs), however from back amidst many sagging shelves and large tables laden with withering newspapers of the right-wing tabloid variety (Franzi noticed this first, her nose crinkling with some distaste at the discovery) they could hear that unmistakable humming and as such they proceeded to follow the sound to investigate further.

Near the very end of the far shelves the sound of the humming grew more pronounced, and rounding the corner in their zest, the sisters nearly toppled into the man in the trench-coat, who was crouched right on the other side examining the volumes on the lowermost shelf. Astrid and Franzi let out an involuntary cry as they ground themselves to a halt and the man in the trench-coat latched himself to the wooden-frame of the bookshelf, bracing himself for what would have inevitably been an American football-style pileup. Franzi cursed under her breath, drawing a reprimanding look from her older sister who muttered a more conservative peinlich in response to her sister’s untoward comment and the situation in general. Seeing the man still crouched to the floor and muttering to himself as well, the sisters reached down together, an arm from both grasping either of his shoulders and pulling him up, much to his protestations that he was quite all right.

Raised up to his full-height, which was, all in all, not that much taller than the two sisters, the man presented a somewhat curious figure, though not one that would be incongruous in a book shop of this sort, that is to say, an old, more classical bookshop, sans the brightly-lit interiors and elaborate cappuccino bars so beloved to inhabit and quaff (in regard to the latter) by the metropolitan smart-set. The first thing the girls noticed was a strikingly bushy, ginger beard and greenish-eyes bearing somewhat of a thousand-yard stare (no doubt due to the recent and sudden interruption) peering out from behind his round spectacles which met their own, glinty, grey-blue eyes in turn. The man very politely apologised and it seemed only appropriate for the girls to insist in fact that the near collision was their fault entirely (they did not, however, admit to stalking him – though he himself could probably well enough recognise that fact by his own recognisance).

Finding a way to extract himself from their company – albeit politely so – the man looked down at his wrist-watch and made a slight tsk tsk noise and noting that he had somewhere important to be almost immediately. Thus he left them, but not before shaking their hands, politely, in turn, and then proceeding out from betwixt the narrow bookshelves and back toward the stairwell (the sisters at this juncture stood well to the side giving him an ample berth for a successful departure without any undue bumping, though Astrid did feel the slightest touch of the man’s coat brush her hand as he began his departure).

The stranger having thus been roundly hunted, cornered and loosed by the sisters, they turned their intention instead to the lowermost bookshelf which he had only briefly before been perusing and then they too crouched down among the well-worn, second-hand tomes to see if they themselves might find something of interest and perhaps even an indicator of the character of the rather elusive figure who had so recently departed.


Part 3:

The sisters had been surprised, after searching through the volumes previously being examined by the man in the trench-coat, to see that the section itself dealt with what would be termed in usual parlance as concerning itself with “Black Magick” – thus perhaps its rather tucked-away placement in respect to the rest of the shop and also, perhaps, a contributing factor to the rather alarmed reaction of the man when found there by the sisters (the possibility of physical collision notwithstanding, however).

A few of the volumes in particular, with the purported authorship of a certain Order labelling itself as “Traditional Satanist” in general orientation yet claiming roots in an alleged aural tradition stemming from Ancient Albion in the British Isles took their especial fancy. However, with no excess of pocket-money and their rucksacks having been stowed in the boot of their father’s automobile (the absence of such luggage on their persons’ disallowing the remote possibility of any undetected theft, despite the relative quiet of the place), they settled for second-best – taking note of the name of the organisation in question and promising each other to research further – via the medium of the internet – once out from the university town and back home in their own room, in their own house.

The ride home was uneventful, though their brother Martin, having been well fortified by an extended luncheon at the sweets-shop followed by a formal family dinner at the hotel restaurant on Beaumont St. (during which there was also an ample dessert following the meal itself) was very lively, somewhat disconcertingly so, especially since he was seated between them on the rather small backseat of the family sedan as it speeded along the dark thoroughfare northward to their home, still some hours away. Remembering between themselves the scenes depicted in the design of the statues they had observed earlier at the bookshop and seemingly communicating, non-verbally, as twin sisters are oft to do, Astrid and Franziska stretched a hand both outward, settling them on either thigh of their younger brother and began rubbing, softly, but with intent. Initially Martin’s reaction seemed somewhat startled, but then, as they began rubbing with more enthusiasm, albeit gently, he met their own sly glances with a sly glance of his own and soon enough closed his eyes in pleasure, lost in his own private reverie – prompted to no small degree by his older sisters’ intentful ministrations.

Their mother and father glanced backward at them, surreptitiously, through the rear-view mirror and smiled to themselves, pleased, as parents are oft to do when seeing that their children are meeting their expectations of behaviour and then, after, began to engage themselves in low conversation, politely so for their son, whose eyes were closed (apparently in rest) and for their twin daughters whose attention lay upon the churning, dark forests visible through the back windows of the sedan on either side respectively, their breaths steaming against the cold windows of that early Spring and their fingers, those which were not resting upon the body of their sibling, those twin fingers sometimes drawing, from memory, certain sigils and insignias which they had viewed – albeit briefly – in those tomes housed in the bookshop along Sheep Street amidst the waning afternoon in that southerly campus town.

Eventually the family arrived safely at their destination, that house on the outskirts of a somewhat rural farm which marked the principal landmark of the area, the sedan slowly grinding upon the packed rocks rendered from perhaps far-off quarries and the lights of the headlights casting their incandescent glow upon the front of that old house which had been their domicile now for some years. The sisters, gently, roused their younger sibling from his reverie, snaking their knowing hands up from his thighs across his youthful stomach and chest and resting them, much as they had done (yet more gingerly) upon the man in the trench-coat earlier in that coolfull, early Spring afternoon, shaking him, politely so, awake, before proceeding together, as a family, into the house – their arrival greeted with a marked meowling from the twins’ favourite tom-cat, who had somehow or other ensconced himself within the interior of their domicile prior to their departure earlier the day before.


Part 4:

With their brother now in bed and their parents enjoying a glass of wine in the downstairs den, the sisters had the rest of the evening to themselves to do with as they wished. With little ado other than throwing their rucksacks upon their respective single beds, which sat to either side of a large plush rug and letting in their favourite tom-cat, who indicated his desire to enter with a furtive scratching at their door, the sisters pulled up a chair on either side of their shared desktop computer and began searching for information concerning that certain Order which they had read about, earlier.

As the girls read they began to ascertain somewhat of the nature of the books that they had encountered as much of the writings associated with that Order and its associated subject matter seemed to be readily available and much talked about online. The discussions concerning the alleged origins in antiquity of the group in question and the practices related to the same they found to be non-plussing in the extreme, with little to catch their imagination and with some of the more base argumentative threads regarding the same seeming somewhat familiar to the sorts of controversies they observed among their own schoolmates, yet somewhat less adept in general.

The visual artwork, allegedly depicting or attempting to depict the energies associated with the pantheon of the group, known as the “Dark Gods” they found much more interesting, although few except the most extreme of such depictions seemed to match the sort of sinister energy and posture which had been exhibited so starkly in the designs they had seen on the figurines in the antiquities cabinet that afternoon, though certain of the sigils and symbols seemed to possess in themselves a dread potency, indicative of some potentially disastrous dark forces that waited, patiently, just beyond the boundaries of their three-dimensional world.

The few polemical articles that they found concerning the status of their own demographic, that of youth, in connection to the group in question made them laugh, in their sinister way, though somewhat derisively so. One in particular dealing with the subject of “Satanic child abuse” and disavowing the same (while stating that those of their own age bracket were in fact not possessed of the cognitive abilities to make decisions on whether or whether not to participate in certain activities) amused them particularly. On the one hand the sisters could understand that the group was, at the time of writing perhaps, that time of the great Satanic child-abuse scares, tactically exempting themselves from such activities, yet they were also amused because they knew, from even cursory research, that at the end of that decade such scares were in fact farcical – and even contrived by children, themselves, mischievous children who relished in creating scandal in the world of “adults” – those thinking, decisive, rational creatures that they supposedly were. One case in particular came to mind, that of Edenton, which was not dissimilar in many ways to the way that the girls of a long-ago Massachusetts town had also created a much more pronounced and eventually deadly scandal with a similar stratagem, the sly smiles of the children betwixt themselves unseen by those adults who positioned themselves so very far above them and who believed them to be their protectors.

Soon they tired of scrolling through those countless articles which, although purporting to be the work of a mostly-female organisation, they felt, instinctively, was probably more than likely the work of men – perhaps not dissimilar to the man in the trench-coat that they had encountered in that bookshop along Sheep Street earlier on that afternoon of early Spring. They did however come across certain stories, purportedly exhibiting certain “occult” lessons in narrative format (thus the “occult” aspect of the lessons’ transmission) which they found to be provocative – for their atmosphere, their sexuality, their violence seemed to exhibit that same atmosphere, that sexuality, that violence which they, themselves, knew themselves to possess and understood – intrinsically – that they were capable of wielding.

Astrid left Franzi alone at the keyboard and stole downstairs to prepare them both a cup of tea, passing quietly their father, Sepp, who lay in a contented yet somewhat drunken state in his chair in the den, a freshly opened bottle of Glenfiddich sitting beside two empty wine-glasses, their mother having apparently long since retired for the evening. The water boiled and the tea now steeping in the Brown Betty, Astrid left the kitchen along with two mugs and passed quietly by their sleeping father (but not before pouring a dollop of the single-malt to fortify her and her older sister’s beverage) before mounting the stairwell to their shared room at the top.

For the next few hours the two sisters took turns reading to one another from the stories that they had found, stories full of a myriad of characters involved in various circumstances – often sinister in nature – all of which seemed to be set in various locales within that land where the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough which they, themselves, now inhabited, albeit for a time.

As the night wore on and the subject matter of their reading, the exertions of the day and that small, stolen portion of life’s waters from their father’s bottle all conspired to draw them to their evening’s rest they found that this satisfied, lazy fatigue created in them a burgeoning, rising lust. Not only a lust as was usual between them, for sisters of their sort, but a lust to do the sort of deeds they read about in those stories – a fanatic desire to become like those entities which they had seen depicted in the bookshop and which certain individuals – sometimes acting in concert but more often acting alone, in secret – sought to bring to physical manifestation on the earth, loosening them from whatever foul corner of deepest space where they were now imprisoned. With these thoughts and others churning within their minds the sisters rose and tenderly, yet intently, stripped one another of their garments before they stood before each other naked, the shadow of their tom-cat sitting upon the open window-ledge and the cool lunar rays of the an early Spring moon, nearly full, cast upon their youthful bodies.

Kissing each other, mouth pressed to sisterly mouth and tongue probing sisterly tongue, they embraced, lowering themselves onto the plush rug which lay between their beds. As their passion became more inflamed Franzi reached her hand downward and began slowly massaging her younger sister as her younger sister, in turn, brought her own hand around behind her older sister, cradling her posterior and then inserting one finger and then another to that forbidden place between, the arousal through such means being Astrid’s particular proclivity. Through their shared love, though it had been shared many times before and would many times after, on this night in particular their act seemed to them – within their apprehension -yet not verbally relayed to one another – to mark the sealing of a pact – a pact between two devils, the likes of which even purported servants of the same were apt to fear.

To the far side of the room a shadow was cast and Astrid and Franzi turned their heads to see their father standing in the doorway to their room, the door cracked open and his face bearing a look of incredulity, yet in the pools of his eyes, deeper down, something more. With eyes deep with affection and deep with calculating intent the sisters extended each a hand toward him, and their father, closing the door behind him, walked towards his daughters and lowered himself down between them, surrendering to their embrace.

R. Merrick



1.) “Children have not always been perceived as a protected commodity in a puritanical society, as they are now. Current morality seeks to protect children not so much due to their inherent innocence (which is arguable), but so they can be carefully moulded by mundane standards in order to play their part in the economical structure, going through each stage of the same motions, same development, from childhood to teen years, to early adulthood onward, limited by their adherence to seeking base material success. Sex is one more commodity in this equation, and when its acceptable standards are bent, its stranglehold is threatened. Children have been economic pawns throughout history, and really there is more precedence for young children being married off and breeding early than there is for the current model of their “protection” — which has more to do with protecting and extending their interest in the schema of mundane society. Some may see certain imagery of children on the above blog as exploitative. Welcome to the world; it is an exploitative place. If something as simple as a child being sexualized is enough to cause squirming, disgust, and fear, then perhaps it’s time to ask why, and where these morals come from, and what their worth really is.”

2.) “(δ) that there is no conformity to conventional social/moral rôles but rather certain accepted practices.”

(δ) “means that women often tend to run/govern/provide for the family/farm; that relationships between two women – and between siblings and cousins – are not unusual, and if and when they occur are not condemned and are not even remarked upon; and that there was/is no distinction of social class between those ‘of the gift’.’ – The Rounwytha Way in History and Modern Context



“Come with me,” I ordered, and grabbed a candelabra from the dining table. Harry exclaimed, looking around for rescue and, seeing none, followed me. In the hall we could see the parlour door ajar and hear Mama’s and Celia’s gentle voices as they sewed the altar cloth. I ignored them and turned to the great sweep of shallow stairs, Harry following, bemused but obedient. I led him up the first, then the second flight, then up the narrow stairs where my candles were the only dipping, flickering light.

We reached the locked door to the west-wing storeroom.

“Now wait,” I said and unlocked the door with the key from my pocket and left him standing outside without even a light. I quickly changed from my evening gown into the green riding habit I had worn as a girl when Harry had first come home from school and caught me, on that hot afternoon, naked on the floor of the old mill. The long line of buttons down the close-fitting jacket I left open from throat to navel. I was naked underneath. In my hand I held Papa’s old hunting whip – a long black thong of leather coiled wickedly and efficiently, the handle black ebony with silver inlay.

“Come in,” I said in a voice Harry would not dare to disobey.

He pushed open the door and gasped as he saw me, tall and angry in the flickering light of the candles. He gasped again when he took in the deep shadow down the front of my gown, and the saddle rack, and the hooks on the wall, and the sensuously cushioned divan and the scatter of thick sheepskin rugs.

“Come here,” I said. My tone cut him like a knife. In a trance he followed me to the hooks in the wall and when I tapped his legs with the crop he straddled so I could tie both ankles with the leather thongs. Speechless, he spread his arms out while I tied him by the wrists – tightly and painfully – to the hooks.

One hard pull and his fine linen shirt was ripped to the waist and he flinched and stood half-naked before me. With my bare hand I double-slapped him across the face; left-right-left-right and then, like a stable cat, I scratched his chest from his throat to the belt of his breeches with the sharp fingernails of both claw-like hands. He slumped on his bindings and groaned. It sounded as if he were really hurt. I was filled with deep gladness.

I took Papa’s old hunting knife and slit the seams of Harry’s fine embroidered evening breeches so they hung in tatters from his waist. The blade had nicked his skin on one thigh and when I saw the welling drop of blood I kneeled and sucked it as hungrily as any vampire. If I could have bled every ounce of his male pride and his folly and his power from him, I would have done so. He groaned, then straightened up again, straining against the ties as if he wanted to be free. I stepped backwards and with one expert flick uncoiled the whip so the thong squirmed on the floor towards him like a snake ready to strike. Then I raised it.

“Understand this, Harry,” I said, and my voice was clear with hatred. “I am never, in all my life, leaving Wideacre. I am never, in all my life, leaving you. We are together forever. While you are the Squire of Wideacre you have me as surely as you have the land. You forgot that, and that is why I am going to punish you. I shall punish you in such a way you will never forget, and it will be a drug and a longing to you which you will never rid yourself of.”

Harry gasped as if to speak, to beg against his sentence, or to beg for it. I neither knew nor cared. I raised my arm and cracked the whip.

Papa had taught me how to handle a whip in the stableyard when I was ten. With skill and practice you can pick a strawberry without bruising it, or break the hide of a bull. I used Papa’s whip to slap Harry hard on the tender skin under the arms and down the flanks of his sweaty, trembling body, and then to tease and caress him around the throat, down the panting chest and to barely graze him between his straddled legs.

“Go to the rack,” I ordered. I untied him and he fell in a heap at my feet as soon as I loosened his wrists. I kicked his ribs without hesitation in one abrupt uncaring move. “Go to the saddle rack, I said,” I repeated.

He fell on it as if it was his schoolboy bed, and laid his cheek on the smooth polished wood while I tied each wrist and ankle to each of the legs. Then I played the whip over his back and his buttocks and his thighs, so each touch was the lightest sting, but the repetition added to discomfort, then pain, and then to pink, stinging grazes.

I untied him again and he slid from the rack into a crumpled heap on the floor and put out one imploring hand to the hem of my skirt.

I loosened the skirt of the riding habit at the waist and dropped it beside him. His hand closed convulsively on the soft velvet and he buried his face in it with a half-sob. But I left on the short tailored jacket and my soft leather riding boots.

“On your back,” I said mercilessly.

Harry lay like a stranded whale, beached on a shingle spit of unnatural desire. Out of element, out of place, helpless and heaving. I dropped like a scavenging eagle on the burstingly hard shaft of his body and as he entered me he screamed one hoarse shriek of pleasure. His back arched as he pushed up to greet me, and the sore spots on his shoulders and ribs scraped against the bare floorboards and rubbed on the fleece rug. I stayed cool and detached in my mind, but somewhere in the depth of my body some unimportant private crisis of pleasure mounted and was satisfied. The clenching of my muscles as I had my way tipped Harry over the border of his ecstasy of pain and I felt his whole body shudder. His wriggles underneath my hard control became faster and more frenzied, then I saw his eyelashes close on his tear-stained cheeks, and his mouth opened to give a great groan of release and pleasure.

At that exact second I abruptly straightened up and lifted myself off him. And I slapped his rigid manhood with an open palm as if I was slamming an ill-trained dog to the floor. Harry gave a shriek of incredulous pain at the blow, and I saw that one of my rings had cut the delicate, bursting skin. A fountain of seed and blood, unwanted, rejected, spilled over his scratched, whipped belly, and he gave three great choking sobs of release and loss. I watched him bleed like a hurt virgin. My face was as kindly as frozen marble. – Wideacre, Philippa Gregory