I have assembled what tools and ingredients I require. My drum is placed within reach on the deerskin. In a jar to one side is an infusion of mosses and mint, which I will take to revive and soothe me upon my return. The plants and herbs within it, strengthened by a spell given for healing, will go some way to easing my pain after the vision, and to restoring my body and mind as it readjusts to the weight of the common world. In my black cooking pot, suspended over the fire, the concoction simmers. I have used mare’s milk this time, as it is sweeter than cow’s, and gentler. Into this I have crumbled the dried fairy toadstool I collected a few days ago under the glare of the full sun. The bright red of the caps has softened and turned the mixture to pink. It smells of the forest floor, of the earth, of something strange and dangerous. As indeed it is. Too little, and there will not be sufficient to aid my vision. Too much, and it will send me into a dark place of pain and fear from which I will not return. I have judged the measure with great care. I am of no use to my prince dead.

Before beginning, I stand firm and tall in front of the fire and raise my arms to the heavens. I offer up ancient words taught to me in secret, and held in my memory for safekeeping, to be used only with a good heart, for the benefit of those in need, without hope of gain for myself, my assistance freely given. The words have magic in them. Magic of the Celtic elders, who have studied the ways of man for centuries alongside the ways of the underworld. Magic of the shamans, who have traveled this path before me seeking answers and wisdom. Magic of the witches, who are born with the light of spell-casting in their bones. And as I speak I feel my own spirit stir, my own essence shift and change and tremble in anticipation of what is to come.

Next I pull the pot from the fire and place it on the ground. I take my cow’s horn cup and dip it deep, scooping a helping of the precious liquid as full of the bewitching toadstools as can be. Pungent steam rises from the cup as the cold night air cools it. I take my place, cross legged, upon the deerskin. I ask my spirit guides to join me, I offer thanks to the woodland that has given up its bounty for me to use, I form my question, clear and plain, speaking it aloud into the dancing flames of the fire.