VenCo(37)

“Are we having a formal circle?” Lettie asked. Back straight, legs crossed in lotus position, her beautiful face tipped up towards the moon.

“No, Lettie,” said Meena, taking a sip, then setting her wineglass down in front of her. “Not just yet.” She met Lucky’s eyes, and asked, “Why don’t you write?”

The question caught Lucky by surprise. “I . . . I am, I mean, I do.” She had asked herself this very question many, many times. “I need to make money, to have medical benefits. It’s just me and my grandma. I can’t afford to just write.”

“But why do you need a job you hate to be able to take care of your Elder?” Meena was gentle but straightforward.

“Because that’s the way it is.” That was the best Lucky could do.

“There, that right there.” Meena pointed at her as if the answer had become clear. “‘That’s the way it is.’ But why is it that way? Why are our Elders, especially women, pushed aside? Why are talented people—artists and thinkers—forced to work shitty jobs? Why are we a part of a broken system that leaves both struggling to keep their head above water?”

Lucky didn’t know what to say. It felt like familiar ranting—she’d heard it before. So she shrugged. “What can you really do about it, though?”

“Tell me what you know about witches.” Meena said it with an indulgent smile, rounding to a favoured topic.

“Well, I know there are Wiccans, right? Like a religion?” No one gave her any indication she was on the right path, so she kept talking. “And there are Halloween witches—like vampires and demons and all that. And I know about the bullshit witch trials. Thousands of women burned at the stake for being smart or queer or loud. I guess that’s about it.”

Meena nodded. “Each holds a small piece of a larger truth, in a way. But the larger truth is this—what we really are is a fire that can burn down the system that holds us, that holds you and Stella, that keeps you small and struggling.”

Lucky could see flames reflected in Meena’s dark eyes now.

“We have been told that people are above mere nature but also vulnerable. That we have no connection to the ground. At the same time, we’re told we alone cannot talk directly to God. That we need others—men—to speak for us, so we have no connection to the sky. Where does that leave us? No ground and no sky. Floating without roots or voice, in need of protection. Say, the protection of a larger system, of the church.”

Listening to Meena, Lucky couldn’t help but feel angry—every hour she’d spent working, every minute being anxious, so much effort to collect a small pay cheque. She imagined Stella whittling away in a depressing nursing-home living room, ignored by overworked nurses.

“Witches were never capitalists. We were the thing that stood in the way of capitalism, which is just the engine of the patriarchy, after all. Witches were not all killed by fire. We are the fire.”

Meena poured herself more wine and paused to listen to the water, crashing both wild and controlled on the other side of the fence, giving Lucky a chance to catch up before continuing.

“The men who took power, they took away access to healing and control over one’s own circumstances—they denounced anyone capable of magic or medicine. Because, if the people believed in magic, something that cannot—by its very nature—be commoditized, they couldn’t get people to buy in to their system.

“They started shutting down the communal lands, the places where people worked and harvested together and made sure everyone ate. Once those lands were all private, people became vulnerable, especially women. Especially people who didn’t have husbands—widows, queer women, nonbinary folks . . . They were ostracized, and many were reduced to begging for the charity of others, which is probably where the image of the old hag began.”

“So this all comes back to finances?” Lucky thought it might be too simple an answer, but Meena nodded.

Lettie piped up. “Baby, what doesn’t?”

Meena continued. “The women are largely the ones who carried stories. And stories are the collective remembering of the people. In a time when the state wanted people to change and leave behind their old ways, stories were poison. Every witch burned at the stake meant hundreds of stories in the smoke.

“During the Reformation, when the Catholic Church was challenged by new powers, witchcraft hysteria grew. They needed to prove themselves. Ironically, it was the very same Church that could provide the remedy, keep you safe, and have your back against the ultimate evil. It was the perfect PR stunt. It was the beginning of something truly horrible.”

“But I still don’t understand. What do the spoons have to do with all this?” Lucky interjected.

Meena smiled. “These spoons were imbedded with a kind of siren call, to bring us together. They were enchanted by a Salem witch named Sarah Mansford, who knew there would be a moment when a powerful coven could be brought together that could finally light the match after so many years of slumber. She saw us coming. And she found a way to reach out to us.”

“With spoons?” Lucky couldn’t keep the doubt out of her voice.

“With the very spoons made to celebrate our demise, created on the anniversary of the Salem witch trials.”

Just then, a faraway yell broke through the night.