Some banishings need no jar and no fire, only a voice steady enough to mean it and an hour dark enough to carry.
This is a spoken working, plainest of all and hardest to fake — you name what must leave and you tell it to go, once and finally. The waning moon takes the words and thins them out of your life the way it thins itself out of the sky.
The Working
- Under a waning moon, stand at the center of the room where the thing troubles you most.
- Ring a bell once at each quarter — before you, behind you, to your left and to your right — to wake the corners and clear the air.
- Light a little incense and let the smoke rise between you and the thing you would send off.
- Cast a line of salt across the doorway, a border it may leave by but never return across.
- Speak the incantation aloud and firmly, facing the door, and do not soften your voice on the last line.
- Ring the bell a final time toward the open door, and hold the silence after it until it settles.
- Sweep the salt out over the step and shut the door on the quiet.
The Incantation
I have named you and I know your weight,
and I will not keep you past this date.
Take your shadow, take your sound,
lift your foot from this my ground.
The moon grows thin and so does your stay —
go with it, waning, out and away.
The bell has rung, the line is drawn;
by the time it fades, you will be gone.
The last ring dies and the room breathes easier, holding only what you meant to keep. Spoken once and meant once is enough.