Column: Masks of the Gods

It’s the last night of Heartland, and the gods are dancing around the fire. Drums pound out a rhythm for their revel. Masks hide their eyes in wells of shadow as they ambulate, a counter-widdershins curve of bodies spinning, twirling, cycling in and out from the red glow of the flame and the blue dark of the field. Some of their bodies I recognize: friends caught up in the trance. They have answered the high priest’s challenge, donned masks inscribed with sigils that contain the breath of gods, and surrendered themselves to the whims of the powers beyond.