The body is the first threshold, and the skin the oldest door. Before the world can reach you, it must reach this, so let the skin be dressed for the crossing.
Salt remembers the sea that drowns all curses; bay was the crown laid on those the old gods would not let fall. Bathed together at the failing of the light, they lay an unseen mail across you, not to hide what you are, but to keep it whole against whatever the night intends.
The Working
- At dusk, when the sun rests on the sill of the world, draw a bath as warm as you can bear.
- Between your palms, crush a handful of salt with three bay leaves until the scent rises green and sharp.
- Ring a bell once over the water and let its sound settle before you scatter the salt and bay across the surface.
- Step in slowly, and with cupped hands pour the water over your shoulders, your crown, the nape of your neck, the places you cannot see and cannot guard.
- Sit in the stillness until the water begins to cool, naming under your breath each eye and each word you would turn aside.
- Rise without rinsing and let yourself dry in the last of the light, the salt drawing tight and bright against your skin.
- Speak the incantation as you dress, and carry one dried bay leaf in your pocket until the next dusk.
The Incantation
Salt on my shoulders, bay on my brow,
close over me, be my armor now.
Unkind eye and colder will,
find no seam and work no ill.
Dusk to dusk I walk unharmed,
skin like water, skin like arms.
By the sinking, warding sun,
what would wound me comes undone.
When you meet the crowded world tomorrow, remember the water still holds you; the armor lies quiet, and it does not lift until you wash it away yourself.