“The modern world has distorted the idea of a witch to black hats and broomsticks. It’s so much more than that. It’s deep within our roots. For centuries, the women in our family have all had the same dreams as you. All came to the age of knowing. Knowing who they truly are. We are at one with the nature around us, its roots wrapped within our bodies. We are capable of tuning in to thoughts and feelings of others. We understand how Mother Earth provides us with gifts to create potions toheal, help and comfort others. We respect the animals we meet who in turn respect us the same.
“Our souls are not damned like they tell you they are. Our ancestors, your ancestors, were persecuted for being different which led to the witch image you know today. It was born from power, greed and jealousy for our kind. Men were angry that they didn’t hold the same power. Women were jealous that they were not from our bloodline. Everything was done to try and wipe us out. But we hid in plain sight, as we still do now, with only a few trusted to know who we are and where we come from.”
“So, like spells and things like flying? That’s made up, right?”
“Flying, yes. We’re not birds, Harriet. Spells can be done with the right training and channelling your intentions. It’s not a wave of a magic wand as such. It’s more of a recipe and putting yourself into the universe to create the intention for the spell to work, and a little bit more. Think of it as energy. Your body has more energy than someone who isn’t from the bloodline of the coven, so that energy sometimes needs to expel itself, making things move, spells and so on.”
“And you guys are from the bloodline of witches?”I ask, trying to wrap my brain around this.
“Which means, so are you. And you, Harriet… well, you are special.”
I stare blankly at her, trying to let her words enter my brain without judgement and doubt. “I’m sorry, it’s a lot to take in, especially when all I think of is stories and films and books, you know? Especially because of my name. I mean, how ironic, right? A magic Harri? Never in my wildest dreams did I even imagine this is real life.”
She smiles softly, nodding at my scepticism. “The inspiration of stories always comes from real life, darling. Remember, I’m not asking you to believe me, just to trust me.”
“So, fairies and vampires are also real?” I really can’t tell whether this woman is kooky or full-on believes it all.
She laughs and sips her tea. “You have your mother’s fire, that’s for sure. Let’s just start with witches, shall we?”
I laugh nervously, not knowing if she’s being serious, but she sips her tea and smiles at me. I let myself sink into the information I’ve just been told. It explains a lot but it’s also way beyond my imagination that this would happen. To me especially. Last week I was living with my banker fiancé in our swanky London apartment and today I’m in a fairytale cottage being told for the second time in two days that I am indeed from an extensive line of witches.
After the week I’ve had maybe being a witch isn’t such a dreadful thing. I could turn Greg into a frog.
Six
We spend the rest of the evening looking through my grandmother’s many photo albums of her mother and her mother’s mother while Aradia teaches her yoga class at the village hall. Cerci shows me diaries of ancestors she has kept and they’re different accounts of being a witch and what that meant to them.
She shows me her painting studio in a summer house at the end of the garden. Turns out my grandmother has made quite a name for herself in the art world with her realism paintings of nature. She even has a piece on display in a gallery back in London. She gives me a tour of the rest of the house including a beautiful bedroom for me. Its iron-framed bed is dressed in cotton linen and the mismatched furniture looks perfectly at home in the countryside cottage.
We sit cosied in the front room with the open fire blaring its heat over us. Aradia comes home and opens a bottle of red wine which we both finish and open another. My grandmother and aunt tell story after story. We laugh and cry and dance on the living room rug to Aradia’s Fleetwood Mac vinyls while my grandmother sits in her chair laughing. It’s as if we have been here forever with no time apart at all, but all the time apartmeans there’s so much to catch up on. But the wine definitely helps me forget Greg and also accept my weird witchy family.
I quickly become tipsy so when the fire needs more logs adding to it I don’t know if it is the wine or witchcraft when my grandmother clicks her fingers and the fire roars once more.
I look at her through half-drunk squinted eyes. “I thought you said…”
“A little bit of magic here and there maybe.” She smiles a cheeky smile.
Anyone in their right mind would run. But I finally feel at home. And surely a bit of magic isn’t the craziest thing in the world?
We don’t delve more into any more of the fairytale stories of magic. I feel like I have had enough of that for the day and just want to get to know my family as people. Even if they are batshit, they are the kindest souls I have ever met.
I finally pass out around 2 am after a lot of wine.
I sleep through the night with no dreams which is welcome. My dreams are often so real I wake up more exhausted than when I went to sleep. But this sleep felt safe.
When I wake, the morning sun shines through the net curtains. I actually feel rested for the first time in forever it seems, even with a belly full of cheese and a head filled with whatever we ended up drinking.
I can hear the clatter of pans downstairs and the smell of cooking. It pulls my hungover head from my pillow. I creep down the creaky corridor and down the old oak steps to find my grandmother cooking on the Aga.
“How did you sleep, sweetie?” She smiles.
“Good, thank you!” I reply, as I rub my sleepy eyes and take in the wholesome scene of a warm family kitchen.
“I’m making you some breakfast. Something to soak up all that wine you drank last night.” She chuckles to herself andturns over the eggs in the iron skillet.
The table has been laid with plates and cutlery. Fresh juice and herbal teas sit in the middle. A toast rack holds six slices of buttery sourdough, and the fruit bowl is filled with plenty to choose from.
“Can I help?” I ask, still feeling a little awkward in a home that I know is family but is still new.
