I have more books than time to read them

They told you that Lilith was banished from the Garden of Eden. But they lied.

Lilith is the most controversial of all Jewish figures — and for good reason.

For six years, Jewitches has held her as a no-go topic due to the death threats and bigotry that resulted upon speaking up…but no longer.

In honor of the return of spring, I’ve chosen to take a more creative path, weaving together folktales inspired by my journey of cunning and the land of the Appalachian Mountains I call home. This tale draws from the spirit of Old Mother Red Cap, who summons the red serpent to awaken the land and bring forth spring's renewal. Every day, new traditions and stories are born—so why not create your own? Dare to craft your own folklore and rituals, for who knows? Your creations may be the ones that echo through generations to come.

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In the mountains, where the winds weave through the trees and the stones hold memories of the past, there’s an ancient tale passed down in whispers, told in the quiet hours before the Spring Equinox. It speaks of Old Mother Red-Cap, the keeper of the first spark, and the Red Serpent who coils deep beneath the earth, the very fire that stirs the world into life.

Long ago, when winter had wrapped its cold fingers too tightly around the land, the rivers slowed to a crawl, and the trees slumbered so deep they forgot how to wake. The people felt the heaviness of the stillness, and they knew the sun’s warmth would not return unless they called for help. Old Mother Black-Cap had clutched the land too fiercely, her frost-bound grip lingering beyond its time, and the people suffered in the endless chill. Their fields lay barren, their animals weak, and their spirits dimmed like smothered embers.

So, they gathered in the first light of dawn, before the sun had fully risen on the day of the Equinox. They walked the land, their voices rising in unison, calling to Old Mother Red-Cap, the fiery spirit of Spring, to awaken and renew the earth.

"Red-Cap, Red-Cap, light the way, Bring the flame to stir the day."

They chanted, their words carried on the cold wind, winding through the valleys and over the ridges, reaching the heart of the mountain where fire sleeps.

From the depths of the earth, she came—Old Mother Red-Cap, wrapped in her cloak of crimson flame, with a lantern glowing bright like the first light of dawn. Her boots struck sparks upon the frozen ground as she walked, and with every step, the earth beneath her feet began to stir. She raised her lantern high, and from the flame, she summoned the Red Serpent, its glowing body uncoiling from the depths, ancient and wise.

"Wake up, old thing," she called to the Serpent, her voice crackling like the fire itself. "There’s work to do."

With a great hiss, the Red Serpent stretched and yawned, its fiery breath sending warmth through the frozen soil. As the serpent rose, the earth shuddered, and the ice cracked wide open, the land waking with the heat of transformation. Old Mother Black-Cap shrieked as the fire crept into the hollows where she hid, her frost retreating, her icy veil lifting from the mountains. She fled, her dark cape trailing winter’s last breath, slipping into the shadows where cold must rest until its time returns.

Old Mother Red-Cap plucked an ember from her lantern and pressed it to the Serpent’s forehead. The flame sank into its flesh, and the Serpent’s eyes blazed with new life. With each beat of its fiery heart, the land came back to life. Roots stretched and drank of the warmth, buds burst open in a fever of green, and the rivers, once sluggish and still, roared with the power of renewal. The people felt it too—the fire waking in their bones, the hunger to move, to grow, to become.

Old Mother Red-Cap looked upon the people of the land, her eyes gleaming with pride. "You have called forth the fire, not with fear, but with the strength of your own spirit. You stood firm in your power, your voices rising like embers in the wind, unyielding in the face of the cold. It is your own inner flame that has driven back the darkness, for true power lies in those who dare to wield it with purpose. Stand strong in your fire, let it burn bright, and know that you have the strength to shape the world around you. You are the keepers of the flame, the bearers of transformation, and in your hands, the land will always wake anew."

When Old Mother Red-Cap felt her work was done, she climbed to the mountain’s peak, standing tall against the dawn. She faced the Eastern Road, where the first light of the rising sun painted the sky in hues of fire, and she knew—Spring was born.

To this day, when the Spring Equinox arrives, the wise ones walk the land, calling upon the fire in the earth and in themselves. They gather the power of the stones, the streams, and the rising sun, lighting their candles and whispering their spells. And when they do, they know that Old Mother Red-Cap still walks among them, stirring the fire of transformation in all who dare to claim it.

"A Gwarch—Welsh for "What encloses or shuts up," andcpronounced like Quark, but with a G at the beginning, and a χ at the end—is a basic form of Spell, unique to the Wending Way. It shares similarities with a Sachet, and can be used for a variety of purposes, though it seems to serve best when it comes to acts of Healing, Blessing, and Protection.

During the central corpus of the rite, the working space is cleansed and aligned, pertinent powers are invoked, and the caster's intention is encapsulated using a Sigil or composite-sigil on a small slip of sained paper. After the petition has been completed, it is folded into a tight strip that can be inserted into the opening of an ethically sourced Snail Shell, before stuffing the remainder of the shell’s interior with materials bearing virtues pertinent to the context of the pertinent Gwarch. Thereafter, the talisman is physically sealed by melting wax from a Hallowed Candle over the opening of the shell to properly secure its contents, before rousing, aligning, and fixing the arrayed virtues in ritual of consecration.

I currently offer three kinds of Gwarch, intended as talismans that help to promote Protection, Luck, and Healing, respectively (though custom Gwarch's may be available upon request). Upon receiving it, the recipient is instructed to carry the Gwarch with them for Nine Days and Nights, before burying it at a crossing of ways in order to bring the magic worked to fruition.

Be advised: Gwarchs are best used target mild to moderate tasks, but not particularly complex or dire situations. Additionally, since every shell is wild-gathered in a ritual context, no two shells look just alike. However, if you have a particular preference of some kind, please feel free to inquire about it by contacting me."

That’s a good, if complex, question. You’ve essentially stumbled into a category problem, because “Draconic magic” isn’t really a single tradition, or even a single current of traditions.

Modern occultism treats dragons as a discrete magical stream, but historically they are a symbolic convergence point—a meeting place of several much older strands:

• chthonic serpent cults

• stellar / celestial worship

• sovereignty & kingship myths

• storm-god vs serpent cosmology (the Indo-European Chaoskampf)

• witch-flight / sabbatic spirit familiars

• land-spirits and treasure guardians

Chumbley tried to synthesize these into a workable initiatory system—but he didn’t invent the current; he mythopoetically compressed a great deal of older material into a Sabbatic grammar. That’s why The Dragon Book of Essex feels both profound and oddly ungrounded: it’s initiatory literature, not documentation. If you want sources, you actually have to read sideways across folklore rather than inside occult publishing.

Going back far enough, the ancient Indo-European world did not treat dragons as fantastical creatures. Instead, they were understood as a cosmic principle. The myth repeats in a stable pattern:

A sky/thunder/fire power confronts a chthonic serpent that hoards waters, cattle, light, or fate

(Indra vs. Vṛtra, Thor vs. Jörmungandr, Tarḫunz vs. Illuyanka, Vahagn the dragon-slayer, Drangue vs. Kulshedra, etc.)

This isn’t good versus evil—it is cosmos versus undifferentiated power: order extracting usable reality from primordial potency.

The serpent/dragon therefore represents the deep earth current, the dead, hidden treasure, the primordial well, fate-weaving, and the nocturnal sky of coiling stars. The storm/fire god represents consciousness, law, speech, kingship, and ritual order. In magical terms, dragon = raw power / witch-force, and slayer = magician / directing awareness. That tension itself is the draconic current.

Andrew Chumbley’s work belongs to a branch of Sabbatic Traditional Craft, and he encodes three older ideas especially relevant to Draconian magic:

• the witch as one who allies with the chthonic current

• the dragon as the body of magical power itself

• initiation as learning to ride rather than slay the serpent

The grimoires read poetically because the original material was oral and experiential. They appear opaque because they describe altered states using mythic grammar.

Across traditions, working with the dragon rarely meant summoning a creature. It meant entering a specific relationship with power: descent, ordeal, binding, gaining sight, and returning with authority. The magician either slays the dragon (heroic model), barters with it (sorcerous model), or becomes it (initiatic model). Chumbley’s gnosis largely represents the third—but there is also a fourth, preserved most clearly in Slavic magical traditions: being chosen by the dragon (relational model).

In Slavic folklore the dragon (zmaj / zmey / żmij) does something striking—it stops being the adversary and becomes intimate. It visits a person at night as a fiery being, whirlwind, serpent, or beautiful stranger, forming a relationship very similar to the fairy-lover traditions of western Europe. The person may weaken physically yet gain sight, poetic speech, prophetic dreams, or unusual capacities, and children born of such unions are believed to be storm-touched or fate-marked.

Here the dragon is no longer chaos to be slain or mastered, but overwhelming vitality localized into relationship—essentially the same force the hero battles, now experienced as a familiar or spirit spouse. The heroic myth externalizes the power; witch-lore internalizes and personalizes it. Instead of conquest, there is courtship. This provides the experiential side of the same current Chumbley encodes symbolically.

In the end, there isn’t a clean dragon tradition to study, because dragons are the mythic language used to describe contact with primordial power. Modern books treat the symbol literally; the older world treated it cosmologically. If you want “reputable draconic magic,” it is less about reading dragon grimoires and more about reconstructing the current from comparative lore—and rediscovering it through direct experience.

Some solid sources grounded in academic mythology, folklore, and witch-lore include:

• Drakōn: Dragon Myth and Serpent Cult in the Greek and Roman Worlds — Daniel Ogden

• How to Kill a Dragon: Aspects of Indo-European Poetics — Calvert Watkins

• Indo-European Poetry and Myth — Martin West

• Ecstasies: Deciphering the Witch’s Journey — Carlo Ginzburg

• Demons and Spirits of the Land — Claude Lecouteux

• Cunning Folk and Familiar Spirits — Emma Wilby

• Shamanism: Archaic Techniques of Ecstasy — Mircea Eliade

• Gods and Myths of Northern Europe — Hilda Ellis Davidson

• Russian Folk Belief — Linda J. Ivanits

• Slavic Folklore: A Handbook — Natalie Kononenko

A ceremonial Fan I was commissioned to craft as a tool of ritual purification.

This fan was constructed using a scavenged Quail's Wing from the client's homestead, set atop a Maple wood handle that I wrapped in upcycled Bison leather, and appended with a small hagstone.

I have a long way to go, but I’m nearly done with the major arcana.

Here are some of my favorites:

I set myself a design challenge (as I often do). I wanted to limit the color palette and the brush styles to create a very consistent look.

And since each card focuses on black cats, it forces me to think deeply about symbolism and design to make sure the meaning of each card is clear and each design is unique.

But there’s still a lot of variety coming through. It’s not all class, or all silliness - just like cats

I have a forearm tattoo of the cats in this one ☝️

I’m so happy with how both of these two managed to feel dark, but adorable at the same time.

And then there’s this one absolute diva:

Most of these used my own feline friends for reference.

How lovely!

To foster a relationship with the spirits of your wooden house and the garden about it, you should approach them as you would any living presence: with recognition, respect, and reciprocity. In the magical practice I grew up steeped in, home and land are not inert settings but inhabited, ensouled places—each with its own Genius Loci (spirit of place) and, within the home, a Genius Domi (spirit of the dwelling).

I will attempt to share some concise points that help outline the ways one might try and foster these spiritual interactions.

Meeting the Genius Domi

• Acknowledgment: Begin by speaking aloud to the house as you move through it. A simple greeting upon entering and thanks when leaving sets a rhythm of recognition. Likewise, learning/creating a name for the home is another simple but powerful way to strengthen your rapport with the Genius Domi.

• Hearth or Nidus: Establish a hearthside focus—your “nest”—whether that is an actual fire, a candle flame, or a dedicated corner. Offer small libations of drink, crumbs of bread, or smoke from incense, adjusting these offerings seasonally to mirror the life of the land that sustains your home.

• Care & Repair: Keeping the house clean, mended, and tended is not just physical maintenance but ritual devotion. Within my tradition, repair is itself an offering that helps to strengthen the Genius Domi.

• Feeding the Heart: Share a portion of meals—especially on holy days or family occasions—with the hearth or Nidus, acknowledging the spirit as a guardian and comrade who shelters you and your loved ones.

Meeting the Garden Spirits

• Observation First: Spend time outdoors without agenda, learning the character of each corner of the garden. In traditional magic, “listening with the skin” is key—feeling how different spots settle your body or stir your nerves.

• Offerings to the Land: Milk, honey, or clean water poured at the roots of boundary trees or at crossroads within your garden are old, trusted ways of calling out to the wights of that place and endearing yourself to them.

• Seasonal Marking: Mark the turning of the year with small rites of propitiation and maintenance involving important agricultural actions such sowing, tending, and reaping. Doing this helps you to harmonizes your life and patterms with those of your garden.

• Names & Tokens: Building unique and personal relationships with specific plant spirits can be a very meaningful to build broader rapport with the Genius Loci. In that vein, if a place or tree reveals its name to you (through dream, omen, or intuition), honor it and acknowledge it by name. Likewise, one might create a specific amulet or other token of significance to hang discreetly upon, or place in the earth at the base of, a given plant spirit you are building a relationship with.

The Work of Relationship

What binds all this is consistency. Spirits, whether of house or hedge, come to trust those who show up with regularity. Over time, the Genius Domi will begin to reflect your regard, offering a sense of safety, clarity, and subtle companionship. Likewise, the wights of the garden will become peers, and may eveb become allies—sometimes protective, sometimes playful, and sometimes instructive.

Then a couple years later I got a fortune-telling kit that included a pendulum. You hold the pendulum over a piece of paper that says "yes" and "no" and ask a question, and whichever way the pendulum moves is the answer.