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The Snow Moon
by Laura Stamp

Sunday morning, and Savannah
runs to the window with the
kitten, the clicking of several
thousand beaks scratching
the air.  Yankee starlings
migrating South for the winter
blacken the street, yards, and
trees, conjuring a whirlwind
of clamor.  Horus and Thoth
wiggle with excitement,
while Re squeaks his pleasure.
Suddenly, the mass leaps
for the sky in a synchronized
moment, tinting the light
with a murky funnel cloud of
feather and screech, leaving
four dazzled souls behind.

After lunch Re zooms into the
office, clutching one of Ravena’s
catnip mice between his teeth. 
He crashes into a rattan cabinet
filled with fabric, dances a circle
or two on his toes, and zips out
the door.  “Somebody has the
rips,” Savannah murmurs, trying
to concentrate on an intricate
sequin design for a new handbag,
while lifting her feet every time
Re dashes through the office
at high speed.  Kittens cannot
easily retract their claws at that
age, and she bears the crimson
marks on her arms and legs
to prove it.  Thoth shuffles into
the office and plops on a rug
to watch the show.  After
the first day, curiosity about
Re replaced Thoth’s constant
hissing, and now he follows
the kitten from room to room. 
Utterly delighted, Re not only
performs for this audience of
one but also tackles Thoth’s
fluffy head every chance he
receives, clinging to the big
cat’s giant ears like a tiny white
hat.  When Thoth tires of this
he tries to shake the kitten off,
not always succeeding.  Then
Savannah must intercede,
gently removing Re.  “Thoth
isn’t your mother,” she says,
even as Thoth washes Re’s
face, only fueling the kitten’s
infatuation.  Every day Re
swings from the carpeted kitty
condo in the den, performing
frantic kitten gymnastics for
an hour or so.  Re also adores
Savannah’s long black hair,
which he yanks with his teeth
and paws whenever she leans
down to pet him or sits on the
stool at her worktable, unaware
he might be quietly stalking her. 
“Ouch!” Savannah yelps after
another sneak attack from Re,
as she detaches the kitten from
her back, loosening a strand
of hair from his mouth.  “I had
no idea you could leap so high
now,” she says, wincing from
the sting of fresh scratches. 
“I should create a fun string
toy for you, one that makes
my hair seem boring.”  That
evening Re learns how to spit
and spends the rest of the
night spitting at toys, his tail,
furniture, Horus, Savannah,
Thoth, and anything that moves,
delighting in the new sound
skipping from his lips.  He also
invents a game which consists
of running across the living
room, climbing up on a sofa
cushion, spitting at Savannah
while she reads the latest
urban fantasy novel by Lilith
Saintcrow, then darting into
the kitchen to slither under
the refrigerator like a garter
snake.  “Tomorrow I’ll slide
a few pieces of cardboard
under the drip pan to block
his entrance,” she murmurs,
turning another page of the
novel, Horus sprawled across
her lap.  But the next day
Re’s spitting blossoms into
sneezing, and his nose begins
to leak.  “Don’t worry,” she
says, lifting him to her shoulder
and walking into the kitchen,
while he sneezes on her face. 
She wipes her cheek with
a paper towel and reaches
in the cabinet for bottles of
non-alcoholic goldenseal and
echinacea.  “I’ll just add
a few drops of these liquid
herbs to your food and water,
and you’ll be back to your
spitting tricks in no time,” she
promises, scratching his chin,
as he sneezes on her hand.

*     *     *     *     *

Savannah’s Patron Goddess,
Bast, occupies a special place
in Egyptian history not only
as the revered Cat Goddess
but also as a Moon Goddess. 
Because of this, Savannah
celebrates each Esbat, a ritual
of magick and divination that
occurs every month on the
night of a full moon.  The
Esbat in November honors
the Snow Moon, and that
evening Savannah slips into
her ritual robe and decorates
the altar with paper cutouts
of snowflakes.  Horus and
Thoth settle on the sofa to
watch, while Re bounces
around the room, unaware
of Savannah’s ritual routine. 
She catches Re as he races
by and puts him on a pillow
next to Thoth.  “Sit,” she
says, pointing her finger at
Re, a command she’s been
teaching him this week.  “If
you’re a good boy, I’ll give
you a treat later with the big
kitties.”  She returns to the
altar and lights three green
candles carved with Wynn,
the rune for prosperity and
love.  She leaves them on
the altar rather than arranging
them in a circle on the floor,
not wanting to tempt Re, who
sizzled one of his whiskers
a few days ago on a scented
candle burning near the coffee
table.  Clearing a space on
the altar, Savannah spreads
a bright pink bandana cleansed
in sunlight and sets her tarot
deck in the middle.  The
Snow Moon signals a time
for divination, a time to work
with abundance and prosperity,
to peer through the folds of
time and discern the future. 
She turns off all the lamps
and opens the curtains
at every window, flooding
the room with moonlight. 
Standing before the altar
again, she lifts her wand
and slowly turns in a clock-
wise direction, welcoming
the faeries, elementals,
and mighty Watchtowers to
her ritual.  She stops in front
of a statue of Bast sitting
regally on her altar.  Lifting
her hands, Savannah says:

“Beloved Bast, O Goddess of Cats,
Great Queen of this moonlit night,
I honor your feline power and might.
I ask for your wisdom and foresight.
Beneath this sacred Snow Moon
open my eyes, reveal my destiny.
The future I place at your onyx feet.
With loving gratitude, so mote it be.”


Savannah lifts the tarot cards
and cuts the deck, turning
the second half upside down. 
But as she begins to shuffle
the cards Re can no longer
contain his excitement and
dives off the sofa, climbing
up Savannah’s leg to slap one
of the silken tassels dangling
from her ritual robe.  She
screams as his tiny needled
claws draw blood from her
leg, and she drops the cards
to grab Re, unfastening him
from her jeans.  “No!” she
shouts, and swats Re’s bottom,
setting him back on the sofa
cushion.  “No,” she says
again, firmly, pointing her
finger at him, Horus and
Thoth cringing, Re’s tail
twitching.  When Savannah
returns to the altar she finds
the cards in a cluttered pile. 
As she gathers them back
into an orderly stack one
card slips from her fingers
and falls to the sacred cloth. 
A silver streak of moonlight
illuminates the upturned face
of the card, the Ace of Cups. 
She glances at Bast, whose
golden feline eyes dance in
the candlelight.  Savannah
laughs.  “Okay,” she says. 
“This is certainly the oddest
tarot card reading I’ve ever
done, but I get the message.” 
She props the card against a
paper snowflake.  The Ace of
Cups foretells the beginning
of a love affair.  “But what
could this card possibly mean
to my future prosperity?” she
mumbles, shuddering at the
thought of a new lover or the
stress of dating again.  “I’m
just not ready for that yet,”
she pleads, as moonshine
streams across the altar,
Bast’s flaxen eyes twinkling
magickally in candlelight.
 


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