O Dionysos Syndesmos,
we thank you for the blessings
you have stitched into our family
since bringing us together,
for life can be cold, and cruel, and lonely
without people to share it with.
We are grateful for the love and support
we find in one another, Dionysos Plektos,
and may we never take our family for granted,
or fail to cherish the moments we have together.

O Dionysos Lyaios,
I am impure and broken,
imperfect and yet full
of an ardent longing for you.
I have sullied my mind
with improper thoughts,
and behaved in a manner
that was beneath me,
contrary to the laws and norms
that you have given your people
so that we may live the good life
forever with you on Mount Nysa.
Forgive me,
open me up,
release me,
Lord, I pray!
Let your ecstatic madness engulf me
like the heavenly fire that birthed you,
so that I may rise up shining
and pure as the nocturnal stars once more,
and bellow in the hunt
as one of your Furious Host.
And let these words of yours always
be emblazoned upon my heart:
“you can serve your weakness,
or you can fulfill your purpose.”
I implore you to amputate whatever impedes,
and strengthen that which connects me to you,
O master of my wild heart.

What the hell? Y’all know that I have no love for Andrew Carlson, the alcoholic, misogynistic, animal-abusing, megalomaniac who larped as a social justice warrior and authority on all things Thracian, but it has been nine days since his fiery demise and there hasn’t been a single mention on the Wild Hunt. I readily admit my opinion is a minority one, and a lot of folks who didn’t know him as well as I did held him in high esteem and lauded his contributions to the contemporary polytheist movement, so these would-be journos’ complete silence is quite striking. Apparently they have given up all pretense of covering community news unless there is some way to turn it into an anti-Trump screed. I should be shocked and disappointed, and yet somehow I am not.

Edited to add: looks like they finally got one up. ‘Bout fucking time. 

The core of the tradition can be found at the Bakcheion. Regardless of one’s involvement one should familiarize oneself with the material there. 

Guests and all others are Xenoi, “strangers, outsiders.”

Laity are Philoi, “friends of the tradition.”

Students are Akousmatikoi, “listeners, one who is receiving the tradition.”

Those who have undergone the general initiation are Mystai. Each Way has its own additional initiation or series of initiations. 

We have two grades of religious specialists: Boukoloi, “cowherders” and Orpheotelestai “experts in Orphic rites.”

The Boukolos has a general proficiency in the tradition, can lead communal rites and assist their Orpheotelest but cannot teach classes or perform initiations.

To become a Boukolos one must undergo specialized training by an Orpheotelest, receive the general initiation, and take classes on the following texts:

• Revelry: A Journey Through the Dionysian Year
• Tending the Bull: A tradition of Dionysian devotion 
• Hunting Wisdom: A Bacchic Orphic Diviner’s Manual
• Masks of Dionysos: Getting to Know the God Through His Heroes and Heroines
• Spirits of Initiation: A Study of the Toys of Dionysos

One does not need to have completed Boukolos training to become a Mystes, although it is recommended.

The Orpheotelest is a general religious specialist, community leader, instructor in the tradition, initiator, and has mastered one or more of the Ways of the tradition. Each Orpheotelest is independent and autonomous in how they oversee their strain of the tradition, though they have lineage obligations to the Orpheotelest who trained them, as their Akousmatikoi, Mystai and Boukoloi do to them.

Although one must master at least one of the Ways to become an Orpheotelest, one does not have to be either a Boukolos or Orpheotelest to undergo this specialized training. Training in more than one Way is permitted, though not required. Each Way has its own title which one earns upon completion of training. 

• Green Way = alchemy, plant lore, and entheogens. (Rhizotomoi, “Root-cutters”)
• Purple Way = sacred theater, ritual construction, organizing festivals. (Technitai, “Artists”)
• White Way = recitation of hymns, prayers, and incantations. (Hymnodai, “Hymn-singers”)
• Red Way = mastery of a range of ecstatic rites. (Bakchoi, “Frenzied Ones”)
• Black Way = everything pertaining to the Black Sun mysteries. (Nyktipoloi, “Night-roamers”)
• Gold Way = eschatology, funerary rites, hero cultus. (Choephoroi, “Libation-bearers”)

I woke up this morning to very good news. One of the folks I had in mind with my confessions of a gadfly post can now be scratched off the list. If you knew even a fraction of the damage that Theanos Thrax had done to both individuals and groups within the polytheist movement you would understand why his death is something that our household is celebrating. (Especially since most of his victims were vulnerable women who fell for his “male feminist” and “female empowerment” shtick, which he used to sexually, financially and otherwise abuse them.) The rest of y’all on that list better make amends while you can. Just saying.  

There has been a lot of ethical discourse here since my return, but what are your values, O readers? Give us at least five virtues and vices to reflect upon, be they your own personal ones or those shaped by your religion and ancestral traditions (if there’s even a difference.) And while we have this conversation, do not behave disrespectfully toward your fellow guests or I will escort you out of the House of Vines.

I realize that the positions I am advocating may seem a little severe, and if it was just a case of some idiots dabbling in magic they do not comprehend, spouting off on political matters they do not comprehend, or giving their opinions rather than making proclamations on behalf of Gods they do not comprehend, I would not care. But all of these things have consequences, especially when they are coming from people who want to be seen as leaders within our communities.

If you want the respect, power, authority, and other benefits that come with such positions then you must hold yourself to a higher standard, and if your behavior fails to meet that standard expect that you will be met with criticism and forced accountability. If you are not willing to submit to that from the people you would presume to lead, let me assure you that you will answer to the Gods for your shortcomings, and if the myths tell us anything, it is that such chastisement rarely stops with the wrongdoers themselves, but spreads to everyone who accepts that authority, or who recognized what was happening and did nothing to stop it.

Harsh, perhaps, but divinities, magic, and the like hold to an older law, a truer law, than anything you will find in our modern, progressive representative democracies. (Yet another reason why I am a tribalist and traditionalist, and not some pathetic right-winger or leftist.) I speak from experience here, which is why I am remaining an outsider (Orpheotelestai have always been marginalized religious specialists moving from community to community as needed) and not hesitating to speak out when I see such behavior and attitudes taking root and spreading through modern polytheism.

I am not here to be liked or to make friends or found groups and lead them. I attempted all of that, failed, and manfully met the correction doled out by our divinities.

Because of the task given me I have to clean up the esoteric messes these bumblers are creating through negligence, stupidity, greed, arrogance and impiety. They are just useful idiots, not the true enemies I fight against, which are the powers allied with the unmaker. But I am going to be a gadfly on these people’s asses until they stop making my job harder.

I remember my ancestors, who belonged to the Blackfoot Confederacy, who waged a war against the encroachment of the United States into their ancestral lands for over 80 years. And waged wars against all of the neighboring tribes from Alberta to New Mexico. And random fur trappers, prospectors, mountain men, and any other interlopers. We were the greatest warriors on the plains, wild and free, so long as we had our land and our traditions. 

And I remember my father, who lied about his age so that he could enlist in the Marines, to escape the reservation and boarding school. He spent the remainder of his life chasing freedom, though he lacked land or his traditions.

Though the song is not about the Blackfoot it is fucking badass. 

On this day when we honor the martyrs of freedom, let us not forget the great Vlad Țepeș Drăculea, Voivode of Wallachia, a courageous liberator and defender of his people. May he never thirst!

For all those who died, or will die, in the defense of liberty and the other values which make it possible for us to live lives of true worth. Remember their sacrifices on this day.

As a tribalist and traditionalist my political beliefs have never really mapped well onto the Right-Left dichotomy of the American (and more broadly European) system, leaving me without a party or an interest in participating in this country’s institutions since I began thinking seriously about such matters. (Longer even, as I haven’t voted since I was a teenager. I did it once, didn’t like it, and decided never again for me.)

This is why it has amused me when people persist in calling me a Nazi, despite the numerous posts I’ve written breaking down all my criticisms of the ideology (for instance, my rejection of the nation-state; of socialism; and of industrialization and modernism, all of which were such foundational principles that they’re in the fucking name itself), that my ancestors fought and died fighting fascism, and I even quit using all representations of the Sonnenrad Heinrich Himmler designed for Wewelsburg castle (even though the symbol was ultimately unpopular and actively opposed by the Nazis themselves and my decision to use it had nothing to do with its origin) lest there be any confusion.

So it’s not that I believe that one’s polytheism should be politics-free (I’m not even sure that that is possible, although I’ve attempted to create apolitical space in the past so that we could come together despite our differences to worship and discuss sacred things for it to inevitably get hijacked) it’s just that I’m really uncomfortable with the ways in which people go about combining them, especially when they attempt to ascribe political and party affiliation to our Gods, as John Beckett, Tess Dawson, Sarenth Odinsson, the r/hellenism and r/dionysus forums on Reddit, and so many others have. Now, keep in mind, these people are not making inferences based on the principles of a given religious tradition, speculatively engaging with myths and sacred texts, or other perfectly acceptable (if incorrectly applied) types of exegesis.

No.

They are presuming to act as the mouthpieces for the Gods (as if our Mighty Ones were not capable of communicating their wills and desires on their own) and what’s worse (and inevitable with such individuals) they are claiming this as their own sole prerogative, and damning any who would dare to follow their example, especially if they happen to arrive at differing conclusions and sloganeering.

It’s all so tedious and predictable, and would be laughable if history wasn’t littered with uncountable examples of the atrocities that all too often follow such talk. Actually, scratch that. There’s precious little that’s funny about blasphemy and hubris (excluding the punishment this brings down which can be a laugh riot, provided you’re a safe distance away when it happens.)

This, to bring it back around, is why I am a traditionalist and tribalist. Our traditions have safety mechanisms built in to protect against such impiety and the countless evils that this vice unleashes into a community. Probably the most important being: let’s take it to the diviners and oracles. You think Zeus supports your “No Kings” riot? Fucking prove it. And accept the consequences if it turns out mantikē has a different story to tell.

For instance, one of my strongest detractors, who has jumped in every time my name’s come up in various fora to shout about how evil I am and how horribly I’m misrepresenting things whether people want to hear it or not for years and years, finally had the good sense to take it to the mat and, much to her surprise, discovered that Dionysos affirmed the positions I have been advocating this whole time. (Though she’s still mistaken about my alleged fascism.) And you know, respect to her for not only checking but having the moral courage to admit it publicly. That certainly puts her ahead of the folks I’ve been discussing.

And that’s not only why I embrace the tribalist identity (or rather it’s one of numerous reasons) but have no interest in the pan-polytheist movement which reached its nadir circa 2010-2014 or the endless communal brouhahas. I can say, “Those people simply ain’t my people; why would I care what they think?” and instead focus on those who are, and the wonderful things we are doing together for our Gods and spirits. 

End of April, 1741. A son was recently born to Empress Maria Theresa, and the Jewish community in Prague is celebrating, parading in the streets. The blaring of trumpets, the pounding of drums, and the swell of joyous melodies fill the air. Leading the procession is the Jewish postman, wearing a wig with a long braid, topped by a luxurious hat. After him, accompanied by two trumpeters, rides Simon Wolff Frankel — the ‘primator’ — the mayor of the Jewish city, so says the inscription in German that describes the detailed drawing of the procession of the Jews through the streets of the city. From the medieval to the early modern era, the city was the political unit of the greatest importance. Thus, early modern urban processions are understood in the research literature to represent the different parts of society and the internal relations between them. Edward Muir has suggested that they can be seen as a kind of unwritten ‘civic constitution’, where the processions did more than showcase social order; they symbolically reinforced the city’s identity as a cohesive political unit. It is therefore unsurprising to see the head of the community, Simon Wolff, leading the procession of the Jewish city of Prague, in the first row. The presence of scholars and rabbis, representatives of the religious–traditional leadership in the second row, is also not unexpected. The Jewish guilds (butchers, tailors, and bookbinders) asserted their prominence within the community by their flags hanging from huge poles. Yet what most catches the eye is the enormous image of Bacchus. Six Jews lead his carriage, and he himself is riding on a giant wine barrel. Behind him, a Jewish reveller dances while brandishing a bottle of beer. Not far from him is a giant platform carried by eight people, on which the god Pan is depicted as he plays his long shepherd’s flute. Forest animals are also carried on the platform, peeping from between the trees, enchanted by his melody. Why are Bacchus and Pan marching in the Jewish street? What was their role in the cultural composition of Jewish communities in Europe in the eighteenth century? This question should naturally be directed to the rabbi — the representative of religious authority in the traditional Jewish community in the early modern period. Let us turn to the row of bearded rabbis in the second row of the procession. One of them, Rabbi Jonathan Eybeschütz (1690–1764) served at that time as the senior rabbinical authority in the city’s Jewish community. Three years after marching alongside Bacchus and Pan in a parade, Rabbi Eybeschütz surprisingly described the importance of Greco-Roman mythology for Jewish culture.

— Maoz Kahana, The return of the gods: Greco-Roman mythology in eighteenth-century rabbinic lore

I hail the Dionysian Dead on this final night of Katachthonia. May they never thirst!

Against the Mevakkaltas I

By the glorious name, and authority and power
of Dionysos Agrios I command you to open your mouth
and accept your adjuration and ban, O Mevakkalta-demon,
whatever your name happens to be; it is irrelevant in the end,
for all of you daughters of Mevakkalta, daughter of Zarnay the Lilith,
are alike in your desire to inflict torments on your chosen victims,
and feed off of the pain and misery, the doubt and confusion,
and the spiritual gifts you twist, and stunt, or snuff out entirely.
Although you once outnumbered the Lilim and Mazzikim,
and were more powerful than the Ruḥot and Šedim,
today there are fewer of you than the Nephilim
who survived the great deluge, or the Rephaim
who were slaughtered by King Chedorlaomer and his allies
at the battle of Ašteroṯ Qarnayim. You slink about at night,
attended by the host of evil dreams who are enslaved to you,
and attempt to seduce youths into copulating with you in the hope
of having children of your own. And when you are unsuccessful
in your endeavor because of the curse
laid upon you by Yahō’s wife Ašerah
which made you as ugly on the outside as you are within,
and barren as the stones that once comprised
the impregnable walls of Jericho
until the blast of Joshua’s shofar brought them tumbling down,
you vent your rage on the daughters in the house,
especially if they happen to be the firstborn of the family,
and blessed with beauty, charm, wisdom, piety
and all of the other things your vile race is lacking.
If, by chance, the boy’s seed puts a girl-child in your belly
(for you Mevakkaltas have not produced
male offspring since the days of Balaam)
it will be as feeble and grotesque as its mother.
And so I say to you, Mevakkalta most wretched of demonkind,
remove your tendrils from the minds and bodies
of everyone beneath this roof,
and go far away from this place;
do not bother these fine people,
or anyone of their bloodline again,
or Dionysos, āšipu of the Gods,
will place his seal upon your forehead,
using a spike of iron to keep it in place,
rendering you powerless and breaking your hold
over the evil dreams and other spirits that you command;
he will bind you with iron chains, and with iron shackles, and with iron fetters;
he will sew up the lips of your mouth and of your vagina with iron thread,
so that you can neither curse nor copulate;
he will beat you with iron rods,
and pierce you seventeen times with an iron knife.
Then he will cast you into the deepest depths of Tartaros
to become the plaything of the spirits of the dead Giants,
the wrathful Titans, and the other terrible denizens of Hell’s Hell
who excel even him in the arts of torment,
and no one on Earth or in Heaven
will ever think of you again,
O Mevakkalta-demon whose name,
and desires, and accomplishments
do not matter.

Against the Mevakkaltas II

Guilty of crimes beyond numbering
and full of jealousy and hate,
grim daughter of Mevakkalta,
bringing torment and misery
into the life of the eldest daughter, and the
next and the next down the line, as each is
drained of their vitality, strength, luck and the
surety of the Gods, and spirits, and their dead;
everything you’re scheming will come to naught,
venal creature, for you have made bitter
enemies out of Sabaōth, protector of life,
raging and rampaging Dionysos,
and ʾAšmedai the bringer of death;
not only do they possess awesome power
and cleverness like nothing you have seen before,
but these three individuals have joined together
to stop you from harming NN,
or harming any others after her.
Burning worse than the touch of iron,
like lightning are these charms they’ve handed
over to us to cripple you, Mevakkalta, and
crush you, so that you become prey
to demonic kin far worse than you.
The mighty voces magicae are:
Asarē, Asarou, Achthanou, Saranarchou, Arountē;
and Arara, Charara, Hax, Pax, Adimax;
Asca, Basca, Rastaia, Serc, Cercer, Recercel, Acereba;
and Abachour, Thouchar, Ōsouchar, Sabachar.
IŌ ERBĒTH
IŌ PHARBĒTH
IŌ PAKERBĒTH
IŌ APOMPS
Shin. Shin. Shin.

Against the Mevakkaltas III

O daughters of Mevakkalta, descendants of Zarnay
the dancing-girl and Samaēl the venom of God,
who sit at the crossroads combing out your hair,
who dance on the rooftops, and ride the whirlwinds,
you who revile the male and female Liliths almost as much
as you do Michaēl the Prince of the Heavenly Host;
like a tick gorged on the blood of its victim,
Mevakkalta-demons, you attach yourselves
to family lines, and drain all of the luck, vitality,
and joy that you can from them, targeting especially
the firstborn daughters for whom you have reserved
greater torment than all the others. You bombard
such a girl with whispered deceits and barbed cruelties
until she takes your voice for her own, and internalizes
your messages of smallness, inferiority, disgust
with herself and hatred for all of womankind.
You sexually assault her in her sleep,
and show her far worse things in her dreams,
until she is willing to agree to
or do anything, just to make it stop.
You dangle opportunities in front of her,
only to dash them to the ground
and laugh as they shatter like pottery,
and you sabotage the things she works hardest at
so that she never receives the recognition she deserves,
and has to watch the less worthy surpass her.
You destroy everything she cares for,
and take from her all those whom she loves,
and I won’t even mention what you do
to defenseless infants, and the aged and infirm.
But you will not succeed this time, against
NN, her bloodline, and everyone in her household,
O malice-filled children of Mevakkalta, for your
whole ignoble race are bound, and inscribed,
and banned, and condemned, and excommunicated,
by the Great God Dionysos who fills demonkind
with terror and trembling and a desire to flee
lest they be destroyed by his awful power and fury
whenever he is near. All agreements are dissolved,
any claim you have made on NN is shattered,
and she is set free of your influence, never to be
troubled, or tormented by your wicked kind again.
No Mevakkalta may harm the mind, the soul, the luck,
the flesh, the bones, or the blood of NN, her family,
or her household due to the unbreakable seal
which Dionysos the son of Zeus has placed upon her,
and all of hrr descendants, from now until
the Sun, the Moon, the Planets, and all of the Stars
have fallen from Heaven.
So long as they remain in place, so shall NN
and those related to her have nothing to fear
from you daughters of Mevakkalta.

Against the Mevakkaltas IV

Dionysos was traveling to visit his famed shrine at Tel Šor
near the river of Kišon, when he heard wailing and terrible
shrieks coming from a house on the outskirts of the village
of Šūnēm. He sent his Se’irim, and dancing women, and
the rest of the festive company on ahead to wait for him,
then Dionysos changed his appearance, putting on the
attire of a vagabond āšipu, and approached the house
where he was greeted by a little girl who was playing
with a stick in the dirt, too poor to have any toys of her own.
“Your clothes are funny,” she remarked, “like the clothes
an Aluzinnū.” And Dionysos smiled and said,
“Indeed they are, but they make the Šedim
and Mazzikim afraid, so I like them.”
She nodded and said, “I like them too.”
Dionysos reached into one of the pouches tied to his belt
and retrieved a ball of many colors, a tuft of wool, and a doll
with beautiful black eyes and hair like her own, which he
handed over to her. The girl began to cry, and Dionysos
leaned down, kissed the top of her head, and said, “Where
do these tears come from?” And she answered him, “Your
gifts are so beautiful, and yet ever since my sister and I dug
that jar up out of the earth, our family has known only suffering
and want. First, my father was injured and has not been able to
work. Then my mother was struck down by a quartan fever which
neither the doctors nor the village healing-women could cure,
and she died. My sister’s fiancé was stung by scorpions, and died too.
And now the evil spirit that we released from the jar has taken possession
of my sister, and our father is spending the last of the family’s money on
quacks who are just making things worse. The Gods have abandoned us,
and I am afraid of what further evils lie in store for us.”
Dionysos held her tight, and then stood and entered the accursed house.
Moments later the sham exorcists were tripping over themselves as they fled,
and the shrieks of her sister went silent,
nor did her father make any sounds from his bed.
When the silence had gone on long enough for her curiosity
to get the better of her, the girl crept to the door and peered in,
and she gasped at what she saw. Her sister and father were
cradling each other, both fully recovered, and watching
with horror the scene before them.
The evil spirit was out of her sister, and being held in place by four women
who glowed as bright as the Sun, as the stranger swung a hammer, pounding
iron nail after iron nail into the thing’s pitch-black body.
Nails like a diadem circled her brow;
nails had been driven into her eyes,
and ears, and used to shut her curse-speaking mouth;
there were nails in her breast, and in her stomach,
in her hands, and her knees and her feet. So many nails
that the girl could not count them all.
The stranger set the hammer down and smiled at the girl,
“Do not worry, little one, this Mevakkalta and her sisters
will not trouble your family again. The bonds connecting
this Mevakkalta to your family, NN,
were shattered and cannot be reforged.
Each of these nails is punishment for the wickedness she
has done to you NN, or to someone you love,
and each burns like the fires of Gē-Hīnnōm,
and will continue to do so even if she manages to pluck them out.
This Mevakkalta is going to be cast into the outer darkness,
never to find her way back, and with her will go
all of the pain, and illness, and poverty, and grief that she has loosed
upon your family, NN. Should you ever find yourself in need,
call upon the four Ladies who stand here assisting me, the Ancestral Mothers
who are the iron rods with which ʾĒl Šaddai and Ašerah Queen of Heaven
chastise those who do evil to their people. Never forget: even in the midst
of your suffering you are loved by your Gods and by your dead.
There is no place where they are not. Trust in them, and you will be saved.
Now, enough with sorrows, enough with tears; go and embrace your
sister and your father, who have been restored to you this day.”
First the Mevakkalta and then the stranger disappeared, though the toys
he had gifted the little girl remained, and she carried his message with her
the rest of her days.

When ʾAšmedai the King of the Šedim finishes
his daily studies at the Celestial Yeshiva he retires
to his mountain of solitude deep in the desert
where he drinks wine and hymns Yahō Elōaie Sabaōth
until evening turns into night; from night until
morning he is on the prowl with his hostile host.

Although the mountain is difficult to find and difficult
to traverse, one day in the month of Tishrei ʾAšmedai
returned to find Dionysos Lord of the Se’irim waiting
for him in a tent of greenery he had constructed for shelter
against the brutal heat of the Sun.

To forestall any angry outbursts Dionysos Sabai offered
his fiery host an amphora of wine, and not just any wine
but some made from the vineyards of Eškōl, the finest
in the region. ʾAšmedai was drunk before he drained
his first cup, and cup upon cup followed until the demon
was dancing, and singing, and discussing aggadah with his guest.

Then ʾAšmedai went silent and somber, until Dionysos Eubouleos
was able to carefully draw the cause from him. “My mother.
All of our kind are evil, but she excels everyone since hatred of sad
Mevakkalta has turned her heart harder than a stone. I fear that this
will bring her into conflict with you, because of this crusade
you are waging.”

“I war not against evil, but something far worse; that which
would unmake all that exists. As long as she gives me no cause,
I will not consider Agrat daughter of Maḥalat an enemy.
This I swear to you, ʾAšmedai son of David.”

“And I swear to you, Dionysos son of Zeus, that I will come
to the aid of any of your Bakchai who inscribe a letter shin
and call upon my secret name, which is Šamdon. Especially
if they are being harassed by one of the Mevakkalta-demons;
against her I will send the entire nation of Šedim.”

And to solemnize their oath the two drank more
of the harvest of Eškōl, and have returned
to the mountain each year on Sukkoṯ
to renew it. Amen and amen. Selah!

O Agrat bat Maḥalat, spirit of fornication,
Yahō banished you from his heavenly kingdom
when proud Hēlēl ben Šāḥar raised his sword of flame
against Michaēl, Archistrategos of the Angelic Armies,
and you slew the Seraphim Asyā and Bēlusia
using a red snake and a black snake for arrows.

O Agrat bat Maḥalat, filthy thing that lives to corrupt,
you and your thousand and eight hundred followers
were driven from fiery Sheol when your husband Samaēl
challenged Abaddōn for rule of that wretched place, and lost.

O Agrat bat Maḥalat, queen of the demons along with
Eišeth Zēnunīm, Naamah, and your hated rival Lilith,
the inhabited parts of the upper world are denied you
except on Wednesdays and Shabbos eve, leaving you
the desert wastes where the onager and scorpion
have their dwelling, and that only because
the righteous Ḥanina ben Dosa changed his prayer
at the last moment, granting you those small mercies.
Don’t expect similar treatment this time;
wipe the fake tears from your cheeks,
and quit your vain plaints, for though I am
accomplished in sacred rites as he was
I am not that man, blessed be his memory,
and I worship a very different sort of God.

O Agrat bat Maḥalat, who preys upon our weaknesses,
if you persist in sending visions of every kind of lewdness
and attempt to twist my natural desires into something perverse;
if you fill my mind with innumerable distractions and plant seeds of doubt
and indifference that will grow into a thorny bush difficult to uproot;
if you stir up petty grievances, undeserved annoyance, and corrosive
jealousy to weaken and shatter the bonds of marriage, and friendship,
and duty to my divinities and community, you will regret it, fiend!
There will be no place left for you to flee, no day on which you are free
to trouble mankind, and even Mår and Meŝtag will turn their backs
and pretend not to know you, for fear of the wrath you have provoked
in the God who is my protector, and my refuge, the one
whom I constantly pray to and make offerings to, Dionysos of Beit She’an.
He hunts in the mountains of Gilbōa, and stalks the Jezreēl valley in search
of your kind. He catches a hundred demons in his net and beheads them
with his terrible double axe by night, and during the day he chases down
a hundred more, until he catches them and drowns them in the river Jordan.

Do you doubt his ferocity and power? Then ask Beliar the next time
you go secretly to his bed to commit your whoredoms, or look at the scars
that valiant warrior of the Abyss bears upon his body. Once the whole region
belonged to him, and he had a dark tower reaching to the heavens there.
But he challenged wide-traveling Dionysos as he was passing through,
your lover in the shape of a wolf and the stranger in the likeness of a bull.
The battle was fierce but decisive, and after the battered Beliar
tucked tail and ran, the son of Zeus tore the dark tower down
and built his city, the jewel of the Decapolis, upon its ruins.
And lest you forget, it was to the arms of Mevakkalta
that Beliar fled, not to your own.

So depart from this place while you still can; forget our names
and temptations, and trouble this pious household no more,
Agrat bat Maḥalat, or we will remember yours.

Where stone was stacked upon stone
the demon queen Eišeth Zēnunīm
was sitting on a stone.
Then came her son
the ugly dwarf Nemesōth,
who had just been blasting
the fields and wasting the cattle
of their neighbor, the poor
but hard-working Georgikos.
“Oh, audacious mother,
are you sleeping there,
or just resting on those rocks?”
“Oh, my envy-inducing son,
I neither sleep or rest.
While you were out troubling
the neighbors, I had a short sleep
and dreamt a terrible dream.
In the dream you were damaging
the vineyards of NN, the servant
of the Lord Dionysos.
They prayed to him for assistance
and immediately he appeared,
the mighty son of Zeus
who is a terror to us wicked spirits.
You ran, but were caught by the cruel God,
and his even crueler companions.
They tortured you worse
than you torture your victims.
They burned you with fire,
and cut you with steel,
and ripped your arms and legs off,
and cut your screaming head from your body.
While the companions of Dionysos
carried the pieces of you far and wide,
so that they could never be joined together again,
Dinysos reached down with his healing hands
and crushed your evil eyes, my son.
Then the fingers of each hand became
a Lion, a Scorpion, a Snake, a Wasp, and a Spider
which crawled into your empty sockets and caused
tremendous torment to your pitiful head.”
The dwarf Nemesōth cried, “Oh no! Mother, your dream
frightens me so.” As he stood there trembling by the rocks,
Eišeth Zēnunīm said, “Now listen to me, boy, you leave NN
and everything that belongs to NN alone; don’t provoke
that one’s God against us, or not only you, but our entire
family will regret it.” And Nemesōth solemnly agreed.

I banish you Nemesōth, son of perdition,
and bind you, unclean spirit, to stay away
from this shrine-filled home
and from these amulet-protected people.
O jealous-hearted one with eyes of evil,
who carries sickness and ill luck
in your misshapen hands, Nemesōth
whose presence causes food to spoil,
things to fall and break, babies to cry,
and animals to act erratically.
O Nemesōth, living abortion of Eišeth Zēnunīm,
hated even by the Dēvs, the Ŝēdu, and the Lilīm;
by the thyrsos, the cup overflowing with wine,
and the double-axe of Dionysos the Deliverer
I command you to go as far from this place and these people
as the Earth is separated from Heaven.
And should you ever think to set your evil eyes
upon them again, you shall have to contend with
Askion, Kataskion, Lix, Tetrax, Damnameneus, and Aision.

In the name of Dionysos of Tel Šor, the Deliverer,
I rebuke you, and command that you depart, shatterer
of hearts, beguiler of minds, corrupter of souls, defiler
of bodies, O beast of Masṭēmā, who is both one and many;
you tremble at the terrible name of the Furious One,
for you remember that time when you met him on the road,
midway between Beit She’an and Tarichaia. At his approach
you made the netmaker you were possessing shriek, and spit,
and maim her own flesh, until the son of Zeus gently placed
his hand upon the woman’s head and ordered you out.
His touch was like fire from Heaven and tormented you
more than when your master, the King of the dead Giants,
stitched you together in grotesque mockery of the beautiful
things that Yahō Sabaōth made atop Mount Sinai
and loosed to fill the world. Unable to bear it,
you exited her body as a dog vomits up its foulness,
and presented your misshapen form to the Masked God.
Your hindquarters are those of a scorpion,
while your torso is that of a man with the heads of seven monsters.
There is Zemzem the lion, who induces fear and despondency;
Abalō the bull, who brings death and mourning;
Zaōth the serpent, cause of countless infirmities;
Yaōth the eagle, potentate of the proud;
Ōnothaios the donkey, who gives forth false prophecies;
Oraios the dog, spirit of bondage and addiction;
and Elōgaios the boar, who revels in harlotry and every kind of filth.
Freed of the the netmaker you were exposed to the fullness of his wrath,
for you choose as your victims the feeble-minded, the insane, the drunkard,
the prostitute, the poor, the lonely, the grieving, the outcast and anyone else
you think weak and easily broken down —
but all these are under the protection of Dionysos and his Furious Host,
and he reminded you of what that means on that day,
as he has numerous times since.
So flee far from this person and this place,
and don’t you dare consider coming back, or I will invoke
the myriads that surround his throne in Nysa,
and only when they are through with you
will I call upon Dionysos, your tormentor.