Which Witch is Which?
One witch is plotting misdeeds but which one is it?
I am not a Wiccan expert but there are some fascinating tales regarding Wiccan Lore that you might be interested in. My name suggests that I know something about lore so I am going to tell you a story from my own experience with witches, and you can decide if it is fact, fiction or Raine Lore. (Humour)!
For this story to unfold, I want you to imagine that you have wandered the meandering cobblestones in Salem, Massachusetts, and have somehow found yourself in the Old Burying Ground Cemetery where many people connected to the Salem witch trials in 1692 were buried, including some prominent and infamous witch trials’ magistrates. Convicted ‘witches’ were not buried in the cemetery but were tossed into shallow pits where family and friends later collected precious bodies for burial in private plots.
Close to the Old Burying Ground Cemetery stands the Salem Witch Trials Memorial; a tribute that pays respect to trial victims -their final words of protest inscribed on stone slabs. Imagine that you have read the inscriptions and feel connected and saddened by the plight of people who suffered at the hands of the ignorant, so long ago. You pray that things like that never happen again, but you know that they have and will continue to do so.
None of this has any particular bearing on my story except that I wanted to get you thinking about witches and the fact that people widely believed the occult existed within their community. Witches were held responsible for any negative event that occurred and that belief led to a series of investigations and the infamous Witch Trials of Salem.
My visits to the Old Burying Ground Cemetery and the Memorial had an oppressive effect on my mood as I strolled around Salem’s Town Centre. Suddenly, my reflections were disturbed by character actors running through the streets, declaring in loud, excited voices that there was to be a trial of Bridget Bishop. Tourists were invited to sit in the gallery to view the proceedings.
My visits to the local museums had informed me that Ms. Bishop was the first witch to be convicted in 1692, so I held no hope that she would now be found innocent of the charge. The trial would be rigged for the entertainment of Salem’s visitors and everyone would go home buoyed by the fact that a hapless girl had been condemned to death, for the umpteen hundredth time, all to boost tourism coffers.
“The story, get to the bleeding story!” I can hear you plead and as I can’t think of a suitable segue, I am just going to go for it.
A touch of melancholy had, as I previously mentioned, settled on my spirit as I dawdled through the main tourist shopping street. It seemed to me that Salem had managed to integrate the idea of a historical village, designed as an attraction for visitors, with something indefinably mysterious.
Rough, uneven, cobbled streets were lined with the usual places to buy souvenirs, coffee, and tee shirts printed with witch-inspired images, but what caught my attention, and my imagination, were the small, dusty shops indiscriminately tucked in between larger, tourist-trap retailers. The small shops seemed to be doing their best to appeal to whoever might have an active interest in Witchcraft or the Wiccan Lore.
Large, dusty tomes declaring themselves to be books of spells, incantations, and other enticing subject matter, lay behind windows that had not seen a squeegee for eons, maybe since 1692. Other items; dried herbs, silver goblets, and leather-bound daggers, (athame), nestled in boxes lined with faded purple velvet.
On impulse, I mounted the three steps of one quaint shop and pushed open the door. My entrance was announced by the small pinging of a bell, pleasantly welcoming; a nice contrast to the usual loud, nerve-shattering, electronic noise designed to alert the shopkeeper to a possible sale.
A young blonde assistant, seated behind the counter, languidly dragged her attention from the book she was reading to glance in my direction. She shrugged a greeting, then returned her attention to her novel.
Feeling self-conscious, I drifted around the shop, examining first one object, then another, finally stopping at a book display. On a large, central stand were several dog-eared books on many subjects that might entice a prospective witch to buy. Judging by the well-read appearance of the books, I deduced that potential witches were generally too skint to purchase, preferring to stand by and flick through the intriguing information. I noticed there was no signage prohibiting reading, so I also flicked through a few volumes that caught my eye.
The girl behind the counter, attempting to justify her wages, put down her read and ambled over to stand next to me.
“Anything take your fancy?” she asked, looking over the top of large, gold-rimmed glasses.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I blurted, hurriedly replacing a battered paperback. “I assumed it was okay to read.”
“It is okay,” she replied with a small smile. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
The girl seemed receptive so I asked a question, “I notice that there are several references in these books about ‘types’ of witches.”
The girl nodded, a slight flicker of interest showing in her green eyes. “Sure,” she replied.
“Why is that?” I continued. “Isn’t a witch a witch?”
“Grief no,” she answered with enthusiasm. We were obviously on a subject close to her heart. “There are heaps of witches; Cosmic witches, Green witches, Hedge witches, Sea witches, Elemental witches, just to name a few.”
“What’s the difference between a Green Witch and a Hedge Witch,” I asked with a touch of superiority, “Aren’t they the same thing?”
“I know where you might get that idea,” replied Hazel, (her name badge), “but they are completely different. A Green Witch draws upon the earth’s energy. You know, the power that can be harnessed through plants and herbs and stuff?”
“Yes, like a greenie,” I interjected.
Hazel grimaced. I had somehow offended.
“I guess you could say that,” she continued, “A Hedge Witch uses astral projection to move between this world and the spirit world. It’s known as ‘jumping the hedge’- nothing to do with being a ‘greenie’,” she said, snorting at my ignorance.
“Well, it’s all very interesting. Who would have thought there are so many kinds? So, today’s witches take themselves seriously? It all seems a bit far-fetched or maybe even delusional.” I stared Hazel down for a moment. “I mean,” I continued, “there is no such thing as a real witch!”
Hazel’s eyes narrowed as she played, ‘the first one to blink is a rotten egg’. “You think?” she muttered mysteriously. “Perhaps you would like to visit with some of my friends.”
Feeling a touch of nervousness trickle up my spine, I broke from our mutual eye-lock and replied, “Oh no, I couldn’t put you to any bother.”
“No bother,” she answered, forcefully cupping my elbow and propelling me to the back door of the shop. “My friends are waiting under the tree.”
The sunlight dazzled as I stepped onto a small, open back porch. Shielding my eyes with a hand, I stood saluting, contemplating my sudden transference from shop to outdoors. Having been expelled without preamble, I decided to find my way back to the front of the shop to have a further conversation with Hazel.
I made it to the bottom step and discovered a figure that was not Hazel, waiting for me. A tall boy dressed in a cloth cap with a black cape over a white shirt and blue velvet shorts grasped my already smarting elbow and invited, “This way!”
“I suppose you’re a warlock.” I grimaced at the youth’s clothing choice, sharply withdrawing my elbow.
The boy raised his eyebrows as he began herding me further beyond the back of the shop and out into a pasture. “Witch,” he corrected.
“You look daft,” I announced against my better judgment.
“So do you, in your old lady skirt and twinset.”
I could hardly argue with the truth. “I’ll try to do better in future,” I promised insincerely.
“Should be easy for you,” smart-mouth pointed out. “Here you are, then.”
I looked up from perusing my hosiery, which had pooled at my ankles, beginning to slip uncomfortably into my sensible brogues.
“Where …?” I began but stopped before I could make further conversation.
In front of me was a motionless tableau. Beneath a giant tree were five female figures, all dressed in black, all striking various poses. Three of the women were ‘arranged’ around large, protrusive tree roots, whilst the other two were seemingly rigid in-vogue statues.
Surprised and not just a little stunned, I clapped my dangling mouth shut, then turned my attention back to weirdo boy. It might have been an optional move had the boy still been there.
“Whaaat …?” I expressed my surprise.
All at once, the tableau became mobile. The tallest of the five women motioned me to move closer. “Ah, Raine, thank you for joining us.”
“Let me guess,” I replied, “Hazel called ahead.” Then the penny dropped!
I looked at the woman, squinting into the half-shade. “Witch Hazel!” I declared with a sneer. “Let me guess, a Green Witch? Guaranteed to cure anything from vaginal itch to varicose veins.”
“There is no need to be crude,” declared one of the seated Wiccans. Another giggled behind an open palm.
“So why did Hazel send me here?” I inquired impatiently.
“To clear up the mystery of different witch types,” answered yet another seated woman.
“I wasn’t that interested,” I grumbled.
“Hazel thought you were very interested,” interjected seated Wiccan number one, “Besides, she thought you needed a lesson in the existence of witches.”
“Guess I thought there were only two types,” I acquiesced, “White and Black.”
The second standing witch spoke up, “My name is Eartha and this is Siren,” she indicated the other upright witch. “You have a layperson’s idea of witchcraft,” she sniggered. “Good and Evil.”
“Yes, thanks for clearing that up,” I replied morosely. “So, what are you two, Good and Evil?”
“Of course not!” Eartha appeared to be growing impatient, stamping her black shoe into the dusty earth beneath the massive tree. “I am an Elemental Witch and Siren is a Sea Witch.”
“I won’t pretend to know what you are talking about, but as I don’t have much time, I’ll take your word for it. So, bye for now.” I turned, attempting to walk back to the building that housed the shop. Nothing happened. I mean, literally, nothing happened! Something or someone had me frozen in my tracks. Then just as suddenly, I was spun on my own axis to face the tree and its inhabitants.
“How rude,” announced Siren, “you should at least wait for the rest of the introductions.”
I attempted to shrug. It worked- my shoulders smacked into my ears. “Crap,” I spluttered. “Thanks for undoing whatever it was you did to me so suddenly. I seem to have developed a lot more flexibility than I had before.”
Eartha grinned, “We always get a laugh out of that one!”
“Hilarious,” I snarled. “Get on with it, then. Who are your three buddies posing ridiculously on tree roots?”
Siren was showing her impatience. Pointing to one of the witches she announced, “Seraphina, Elemental Witch,” then to another, “Star, Cosmic Witch,” and finally, “Asenath, Hereditary Witch. She is my daughter.”
“Ah,” I nodded, “the giggly one. Asenath means ‘daughter’, I believe.”
Siren appeared surprised. “You know a lot for an ignorant old lady.”
“I know a lot because I am an old lady,” I countered. “So,” I continued while I still had the floor, “I take it that you are practicing Wiccans and this is your coven?”
The five glamorous gals nodded.
“Can I go now?” I implored.
“Not yet!” screeched Siren, surprising me with her vehemence. The other witches turned surprised faces toward their leader.
“Mother,” interjected Asenath, “calm down. What is wrong with you?” Asenath glanced at the other coven members, anxiety etched in her features.
“I don’t like this hag,” Siren ranted. “Why did Hazel send her here?” Siren’s countenance was turning red with rage. Lashing out with a booted foot, she struck Asenath across her forehead, sending her toppling off her log.
“Steady on!” I yelled.
Eartha leapt to put a barrier between mother and daughter. An athame had suddenly materialised in the Elemental Witch’s hand, which she pointed meaningfully at Siren. “Stay back, Siren!” warned Eartha.
I thought the threat lacked conviction.
Struggling to regain her feet, Asenath made it to her knees, whereupon her mother struck her again.
“You stay in the dirt where you belong!” Siren warned the girl. Turning her attention to Eartha, Siren cackled, “What do you think you can do with that puny thing?”
Eartha muttered a few useless words, which seemed to fall soundlessly to the dust. She lowered her arm in despair.
Siren raised her hand and with venom in her voice, appeared to direct a spell toward her daughter.
The dust upon which Asenath lay began to swirl, a dirty brown maelstrom surrounding the hapless daughter, coating her once crisp, black dress in a thick layer of dust.
I looked at the three other witches, now all huddled together in terror. It appeared it was all up to me!
Grabbing a stick from the depths of my frumpy skirt, I raised my hand and pointed my wooden weapon at the ranting Siren. From memory, I spewed forth a tirade, holding Siren’s narrowed eyes with my glare.
Siren stopped her diatribe in mid-sentence. At first, her baleful glare reflected contempt, then slowly, understanding registered surprise. One at a time, her arms flopped to her sides, her back grew rigid, her chin pushed out, her face and body turned to stone.
The maelstrom around Asenath abated; earthy dust quickly resettled in its place.
I became aware of gasps of shock and horror as the other witches began to register what had happened. I smiled at them, letting them know that all was well, then bent to assist Asenath from the ground. She cast stunned eyes at her mother, still a rigid statue beneath an imposing tree.
“How long …?” she asked with a tremulous voice.
“It’s permanent,” I responded, gently patting the girl’s shoulder, afraid of the forthcoming response.
“Ahh,” Asenath whispered, “She looks good as a statue. It will never be questioned in Salem. There are monuments everywhere.”
“Exactly,” I agreed. “Ding dong, the witch is dead!”
Asenath’s companions were slowly finding their words.
“Who are you?” whispered Seraphina, apparently in awe.
Asenath jumped in. “Raine came to assist me at my request. My mother …”
“We’ve noticed how, um, dangerous your mother seemed to be growing,” Star sympathized.
“I got sick of being knocked around. She’s been doing it all the time lately and she’s been going on and on about taking control of other witch covens. Crazy stuff!” Asenath sniffled. “It was all going to end badly. That’s why I sought help.”
“But,” interjected Seraphina, “how did you find Raine?”
I decided to lend a hand. “Asenath isn’t just a Hereditary Witch- she’s a Hedge Witch. I don’t pretend to understand it, but she somehow contacted a friend of mine who thought I might be able to help.”
“You came from Australia?” Eartha was incredulous.
“Not a problem,” I laughed.
“What’s your specialty?” inquired Star?
“I’m a Traditional Witch,” I admitted. “Solitary. I don’t follow Wiccan Lore or yield to any set beliefs. Just do my own thing.” I shrugged, trying to appear humble.
“She doesn’t follow Wicca or anything else for that matter,” smirked a male voice at my shoulder.
We all jumped.
“Grandma,” announced my vision in blue satin shorts, “does her own thing, in her own way.”
“Well,” I admonished, “I rather wish you wouldn’t do your thing when I least expect it. One of these days I’ll have a heart attack.”
Robbie laughed. “Are we ready to go?” He was already dragging on my elbow, trying to execute a hasty exit.
“You okay?” I asked Asenath.
She nodded, busily trying to brush the dirt from her dress. I imagined she was trying to spruce up for Robbie.
“Goodbye, then. Say goodbye to Witch Hazel for me.” I grinned at Asenath and waved perfunctorily at the other ladies.
Robbie was still dragging at my arm. I allowed him to guide me back toward the cobbled street.
“Can you get rid of this god horrible outfit you have me in? he asked.
I laughed and waved my hand. “Better?”
He ran his eyes over his cream-colored jeans and a blue chambray shirt.
“Better!” he agreed. “What about you? You look bloody awful.”
I laughed again. “What do you expect? I had to look my under-cover best.”
My clothes suddenly morphed from elderly lady shabby to mutton-dressed-as lamb chic.
Robbie shuddered. “Yeah, well at least that is how I am used to you dressing. You must have held a big grudge to put me in that ghastly outfit.”
“You ate my last dunking gingernut at morning tea.”
“Crap!” declared my grandson. “Remind me to never seriously upset you in the future.”
“You already have. I don’t forgive purloined bikkies easily.” I teetered on my silver heels as they caught between uneven cobblestones.
Robbie grabbed my bruised elbow. “Steady on, Grandma. There, that’s better!”
I glanced down to see that my silver heels had been replaced with sensible wedges.
“Hah, I’m getting better at this!” declared my boy.
“Conjure up a full packet of gingernuts, then,” I suggested.