A simple hymn echoes through the sanctuary. Neck-hairs rise with joy underneath sand-colored collars. The cleric’s story tucks itself into now-empty pockets in burlap pants. A baby coin for a traveler’s fortune; an arid city salvaged at a higher price. The elect youth rises to the left, and lifts his sandals one by one up stilted stairs. He brings long sprigs of great Oak, and waxen leaves of Mistletoe. Wooden beams stand arranged, piled with hay; he steps through the doorway, man becoming one within the shape of man. “The Gods will favor your city,” barks the Druid. A spark brings forth new flames and promises bright fortune. “Rains will be heavy this year!” call out elated farmers’ sons.

The Young Wicker Man

Has a Heart Filled with Honor:

He Dare Not Call Out.



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