It was a dark and stormy night.

Well, perhaps not so dark. Just overcast. And the storm was over within a half hour of it beginning. And night? It was evening at best.

In a sea of mud and campsite, the tents were grouped in a way that made the entire campground resemble a small village. Thatched roofs might have been missing, but the feeling that it was a magical village in an ancient European meadow persisted. That this was the twenty first century and the village was a temporary one in the Colorado Rockies did not change that.

Inside a small circle of tents surrounding a fire pit, a group of ragged looking people were performing tasks that would eventually result in dinner being ready. Two worked over a two-burner propane stove. One tended the fire in the pit. Three stood at a table, chopping and peeling ingredients. One sat in a folding chair, playing a guitar and humming. Four children ranging in age from seven to fifteen were engaging in a game that involved hiding behind the tents and calling out code words to one another. Two people were pacing back and forth, mumbling. It was a typical dinner at a Pagan festival camp site.