Jen dismisses Pauline’s Yule invitation as not feasible. What excuse could she possibly give Wilkin?
After her exam she feels elated. “I really am getting to grips with this stuff,” she tells her beloved.
“Really?” he says. She takes it as sneering. “Can’t see the point of studying without a purpose, but I’m told women need hobbies,” he smiles indulgently, so he thinks. The spicy chicken casserole Jen is carrying thumps to the table, millimetres from spilling. Wilkin gives no reaction.
After dinner Jen buries herself in a magazine and sees an article headed Magic Midwinter. It comments on plants to which the Celts attributed spiritual qualities. ‘Hawthorn’ is mentioned. Jen would like to share it with Wilkin but there is so little she can now share with him. He would not be at all impressed to know his namesake tree is the ‘fairy bush of the Irish’ and used for making magic balls on Midwinter’s Day, into which the makers breathed their hopes and wishes for the coming year. Hawthorn is said to guard the hinges and to oversee crafts, not exactly high priorities in Wilkin’s world. As a medicine it is good for the heart. Is that a healthy heart or a romantic heart? She should try making a brew!
The truth is, she realises, the term break is drawing out interminably. With nothing to study she has too much time on her hands. She could slip into brooding. When Kat phones suggesting witching it up at Pauline’s could be fun, Jen realises she has been missing her friend’s youthful company. Wilkin is so enmeshed in his own concerns and so unwilling to share, there is little point in caring what he thinks. Why not have a fun-night out with the girls?
By Sunday afternoon Jen is doubly glad to be going out. She used to look forward to Sundays, they both did — a leisurely breakfast followed by going to church together, a relaxing shared ritual. Not today! The vicar mentioned Matariki in the service, expressing a personal preference that the Maori New Year be made a national holiday — tantamount to paganism in Wilkin’s view. Wilkin avoids shaking the vicar’s hand at the door and rants all the way home.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Pauline, ever the gracious hostess, accepts Jen’s offering of wild rice and walnut salad and Kat’s bought garlic bread with gentle pleasure and ushers the young women into her lounge. She formally announces their presence, asks Ginny and Marion to take care of them, and disappears. Ginny is the youngest in the coven, even so she must be in her mid-forties. It turns out that Marion is her mother and Ginny is an accountant. “That sounds dull and respectable,” remarks Kat.
Ginny gives a burst of laughter. “Most of us are dull and respectable, most of the time,” she grins, “Though I can’t vouch for Mum and Joy when they get into their Abba routines.” Marion doesn’t hear this as she is looking for extra chairs.
“I don’t understand the word Wicca,” says Jen to Ginny.
“Yeah, it’s a bit of a weird one, has to do with performing rites. Wiccan dance involves bending and turning, as in weaving — like in wicker baskets.”
The twinkle in Ginny’s eyes permits Kat to offload what she is bursting to say. “Wiccans are basket cases!”
“Maybe! But in Anglo-Saxon witan is the origin of wit, wise, and wisdom. Traditionally Wiccans are healers who help shape events to benefit humanity and the world.” Ginny’s dancing eyes sober. “Feminist Wiccans search within themselves for the female principle of the world. The intention is to relate as sisters and daughters of the Creatrix. There is a strong connection between spirituality and justice. This lot aren’t as politically active as I would like but they’re good women.”
Marion appears, edging her way through the room with a burden. She unpacks a pair of stacking stools. Jen and Kat murmur thanks and sit. “No black hats,” Kat whispers.
“It’s early yet,” cautions Jen.
Suddenly the chatter ceases and those standing take seats. Pauline and a well groomed woman have entered the room carrying a large bag, Jack and Jill style, between them. “Welcome, everyone,” says Pauline, “it is lovely to see you all.’ Her eyes sweep the room, lingering briefly on Jen and Kat. “I have a delightful announcement to make. You know what a competent seamstress our Shirley is. Well she has made a wonderful gift for the coven.”
“My gift was only time,” declares the woman on the other handle. “Pauline paid for the fabric.” She unzips the bag and Pauline draws out a long dark garment.
“Brown is the traditional colour but Shirley thought green better suited the antipodean clean-green image.” Pauline twirls the garment round her shoulders and pulls up a hood. “Thirteen hooded cloaks, so perfect for winter celebrations.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Cloaked and hooded to uniformity Jen and Kat feel less conspicuous than they had feared. Pauline has handed out ritual cue cards and Sarai appeared in time to give a brief run-down on what to expect. “Physical direction is important. Pauline’s garden lights are aligned to the compass. Wiccan altars are placed north. For Yule a Compass Witch is positioned at the four points. Just join the circle witches and follow their lead.”
“Where will you be?” asks Kat.
Sarai adjusts the girdle of her brown robe. “I’m simply an observer these days. I keep outside the magic circle.”
In the chill June air the women appreciate their hooded cloaks. The night is dark. The moon has deserted them. The garden lights define the paved pentacle with a pale gleam. Jen eyes the Wiccan altar and wonders vaguely if she could be committing a sin. As a Presbyterian, sin wasn’t much of an issue, but Anglican liturgy is disturbingly sin-focused. The contents of the Wiccan altar appear benign enough: a candle burning in a woodturned holder, a small bundle of unlit candles, a couple of small bowls, and a plate of … iceblock sticks? But behind the bowls: a rather nasty-looking knife.
Everyone in the circle holds an unlit candle and a cue card except the woman next to Jen who holds a hand-drum. Kat wonders if the cauldron perched on three stocky legs in the centre of the pentacle holds soup — but there is no fire keeping it warm. She can’t see exactly what the four witches facing outward are holding but each appears to have something different. Fat lot of good having cue cards, it’s too dark too read. Pauline begins to speak, reading from a liturgy book by the light of the large altar candle,
From the Norse word for ‘Wheel’ comes the blessed word ‘Yule’
The ‘Winter Sabbat’ we honour by sacred Wiccan Rule;
Our winter solstice brings the longest night,
But dark’s triumph always yields to light;
This dark marks the womb-time preceding a birth,
The great Sun reborn will soon rewarm the earth.
“Blessed be,” respond the coven solemnly.
“Eastern Witch,” orders Priestess Pauline. “Present your incense.”
By leaning back a little Kat can see the Wiccan standing on the eastern point hold high a stick of burning incense. She then recites, presumably by heart,
Guardians of the East, now you we invite.
Come to our circle and protect our rite;
Keepers of wind and breath of the new,
Bring here your blessing special and true.
“Blessed be,” respond the Wiccans as one.
“Southern Witch, present your light,” the priestess cues. A new voice contributes a little hesitantly,
Guardians of the South, now you we invite.
Come to our circle and protect our rite;
Keepers of fire light desires anew,
Bring here your blessing special and true.
“Blessed be,” intone the witches.
“Western Witch, present your chalice of water.” The unwicked witch of the west rushes through,
Guardians of the West, now you we invite
Come to our circle and protect our rite;
Keepers of water cleanse and sustain,
Bring to us health and wash away pain.
“Blessed be,” Jen and Kat murmur with the rest.
“Northern Witch, present your salt.” A stagey voice intones,
Guardians of the North, now you we invite.
Come to our circle and protect our rite;
Keepers of harvests from all of the earth,
Bring wisdom’s blessing to this new rebirth.
What a drama queen, thinks Kat, joining in the Blessed be with more fervour than intended, as she watches the four compass witches face the centre. Led by the drama queen they say together,
Air, and Fire, and Earth, and Waters,
United we stand within your Quarters.
Combining the present with the past,
Here, and now, our Circle is cast.
Priestess Pauline replies,
Death happens before rebirth.
This is the cycle of our earth;
The wheel is turning, the wheel is turning …
What is your yearning? What is your yearning?
The witch with the hand-drum begins to beat. Jen jumps. The Wiccans chant, “Turn, turn — the wheel this night, return, return — return the light.”
Priestess Pauline takes one of the small bowls and holds it high. “Taste death by its symbol of bitterness,” she says, and takes a pinch to her lips. She passes the bowl to the woman on her right, who follows suit. Common salt, analyses Jen as the powder touches her tongue. When the bowl returns to Pauline she replaces it on the altar and reads from her liturgy book,
Though dark the night I hold a light for what is true,
Change is constant, ever renewing but never new;
Open us to enlightenment as the days lengthen,
Illuminate dull lives and weak souls strengthen.
Bless us Great Power,
In this darkest hour,
May what we feel
Help turn the wheel.
The drummer starts beating and as before, on the fourth beat, the coven taken up their chant: Turn, turn — the wheel this night, return, return — return the light. Pauline responds with, “As the Goddess Mother gave birth to the Sun we hold vigil with light, knowing dark must pass.”
The four Compass Witches place their tokens on the altar, except for the one with the lit candle. She presents it to Pauline before joining the other three lighting ordinary candles from the altar candle. From these they ignite the candles held by the circle witches. When all are glowing Pauline directs the presentation candle into the cauldron. There is a flash. Magnesium powder? wonders Jen. The drumming rises then stops.
“Reveal yourselves,” commands Pauline. The witches cast back their hoods. “Come bareheaded and open minded,” she invites. Jen and Kat are herded forward with the morphing coven to form a tight circle. Pauline takes another bowl from the altar. “I taste life by its symbol of sweetness,” she says, dipping and twisting an ice-block stick from bowl to mouth. The honey bowl follows the pattern of the salt bowl, though this time the right-hand witch tracks its progress, offering tasting sticks and receiving the used ones. With hoods back Jen notices the competent assistant is Shirley the seamstress.
Pauline’s concluding words are,
We have tasted sweetness together this night
And united we welcome the coming of light.
Followed by the predictable, “Blessed be!” the drummer does a brief intro and ups the tempo,
Turn, turn — the wheel this night,
Return, return — return the light.
Turn, turn — the wheel this night,
Return, return — return the light.
The united voices rise to a crescendo that ends with a shouted, “Blessed be!”
Pauline extinguishes the altar candle, takes up the knife, and leads the procession of flickering lights into the house. Divested of witchy garments an ordinary group of friendly women settle to drinking sherry and doing last-minute meal preparations. “Can we help with anything?” Jen asks Ginny.
“Let’s find out,” replies Ginny, leading them to the kitchen. The drummer Wiccan is wielding a carving knife with the same energy and expertise she gave her drum beats.
“Willing helpers at your service, Glenda.”
Glenda pauses, pushes slipping spectacles up her nose, and beams. “Thanks girls.” Short dark hair frames cheeks pink with exertion. “This meat is ready for the table and there’s more in the oven.”
The ‘girls’ relay the hot food to Pauline’s formal dining room. From the large sideboard to the long table the room exudes elegance. Sparkling silver defines 14 place settings, each augmented with lavish serviettes and crackers. Real holly, ivy and mistletoe form the decorations.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
“Hilarious.” “Delicious.” “Howling at the moon insane.” Jen and Kat vie for adjectives on the short ride to Kat’s flat, finally agreeing that jolly best sums up what they both deem to be a rather English experience.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Sarai returns to her flat also buoyed by conviviality, too high to consider sleep. Face reality, she tells herself. This can’t last, won’t last. You haven’t time for frivolity. You must anoint a successor. However, getting stressed won’t help. Relax. She places a fresh sheet of paper on her desk pad and picks up her gold and purple fountain pen. Only when the essence of her thought is committed to paper will she transfer words to her computer. A machine is not a suitable vehicle for the soul …
A Psalm of Sarai — Souls Made Flesh
In the beginning was Sophia,
and Sophia was in the embrace of the Ultimate One …
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Jen tries to sound relaxed. “I hope you didn’t mind me phoning you, Sarai?”
“Of course not, Jen. I’m always happy to have a chat. And trust you to suggest one of my favourite streets for a cream tea,” she adds, taking in the charming New Regent Street surrounds. “What is it you want to talk about, Jen?”
“It’s Wilkin … I’m worried about him, Sarai. He’s changed.”
Sarai takes a spoon of strawberry jam from its little china pot and spreads it on her scone. “How has he changed?”
“He’s become distant. I know he has work worries. He won’t share them with me, but it’s more than that.”
“Things are not exactly smooth sailing with the University Council either, but I don’t think that’s what you mean. Remember though, Jen, stress is a cumulative thing, all worries add to the sum.”
“He has become a different person this year. I thought it was because he suddenly decided he wanted a child and expected it to happen immediately. I can understand his disappointment. I’m disappointed too, but I’m still hopeful. But he has given up. I can’t understand it. He’s talking about adoption. I don’t know what to think.”
“Adoption? That isn’t what I would have expected of Wilkin.”
“No, its not. I’ve considered adoption and I’m sure I could love a baby that wasn’t genetically mine, but I didn’t think Wilkin could. You said the bloodline is important to men but now I’m thinking genetics are important to me too.” She falters, looking distressed.
“Motherhood isn’t restricted to birth mothers, Jen. And there are connections as strong as those forged in the womb. Some birth mothers simply can’t keep their babies, for whatever reason. And some women that can’t give birth still can be mothers. But I am surprised your Wilkin is talking of adoption.” A tram load of tourists rumbles past. Jen notices Sarai is making a spiral pattern in the cream she is absent-mindedly layering over her jammed scone. “It doesn’t ring true to my understanding of Wilkin.”
“I’m wondering …” Jen twists a paper serviette between her hands. “He’s stopped wearing his wedding ring. I didn’t notice exactly when he stopped wearing it but he hasn’t worn it for months. I can’t ask why. I feel it could be symbolic. I’m wondering if he doesn’t want to make love to me any more — if he’s gone off me.”
Sarai clasps Jen’s hand across the table. “Oh Jen, my poor dear. I can’t see how that could be. You are a wonderful person. I’m sure you are a wonderful wife. You mustn’t think like that. Business worries do dreadful things to men. Keep on being the loving woman you are. Being patient is a strength not a weakness.”
Jen dabs her eyes with the serviette. Feeling sustained by comfort food and doubts shared, she can face moving to another topic.
“Why is it that you attend Pauline’s Sabbats, but don’t join in?” The question has bothered her for the past three weeks, since the Yule celebration.
“It’s usually Kat who asks the direct questions.” A soft smile sweeps across Sarai’s face, as she holds Jen’s eyes with hers. “I think you two are good for each other. She is helping you penetrate your reserve and you are helping her find depth.”
Jen wonders if Sarai is avoiding her question. “You must have a reason,” she persists.
“Pauline is a very close friend. Did you enjoy the Yule ritual?”
“Well, yes, I think I did, it was nice sharing a ritual with a group of women who care about the seasons. It felt right really, quite spiritual.”
“Yes, there is something very right about honouring nature and feeling the connection with the earthly and the divine. You will remember that I was born in Avebury, in the belly of the serpent — one of the most goddess-sacred places on Earth. From just a tot I felt pulled to understand the ancient symbols. The serpent avenues that enter and exit from Avebury represent a dual symbol, the body being phallus and the open mouth vulva. Avebury village is in the place of conception, the bridal Goddess. The West Kennet Avenue has a pattern of thin stones facing fat stones symbolising the Goddess as virgin and pregnant woman. Silbury is the Harvest Goddess giving birth, and the West Kennet Long Barrow is the Goddess as crone. The equinoctial alignment of Avebury’s holy sites suggests the ancients felt drawn to celebrations of spring and Lammastide.
“Lammastide?”
“Harvest … being Wiccan fitted well with these concepts. But the whole system is flawed. Though Wicca has its roots in the pre-Christian religions of Europe its ultimate origins are undocumented and the subject of debate. Modern Wiccan traditions were largely shaped by Gerald Gardner, who brought the Craft to public notice in the 1950s.”
“A man created the concept of Wicca?”
“But of course.” Sarai’s eyes twinkle with mischief, or possibly irony. “A modern-age Englishman. Wicca may have its origins in witches but it isn’t confined to females, it just has more appeal for women.”
“There’s something rather uncomfortable about a man designing rituals for women.”
“True enough, men are seldom able to escape being exclusively male. The male psyche promotes striving, hierarchy, and control. Such things filtrate even the best-intentioned covens. Control is imposed by either a single high priest/priestess or a paired priest and priestess. Like fundamentalism, for some Wicca has the answers, for others it is a process to be worked through. For the most part I enjoyed the journey but I can no longer be part of it.”
“What do Wiccans actually worship?”
“Wiccans are nature-based and honour many gods. Some orthodox Wiccans name their Ultimate One Prime Mover — terribly male. The feminists prefer Creatrix.”
“So, what is considered sacred?”
“Sacred to Wicca are the four elements: Earth, Fire, Air, and Water. In this Wicca bestows a healthy balance. Air and Fire are seen as masculine, and Earth and Water are perceived as feminine. But the most important fifth element is often forgotten.”
“Well, what is the fifth element?”
“Spirit - the sacred mystery that some Wiccans name Akasha and others Aether. Akasha operates through vibration, harmonising the other elements and is essential to our sense of connectedness and well being. Akasha invades all space, is the spectrum of colours, the very (added) breath of God. Akasha is neither male nor female, Akasha just is.”
Jen and Sarai hold each others gaze with easy intimacy, recognising their sharing is undefended and warm. Sarai continues. “As you know, Christianity has been an important part of my journey, I teach the Bible, for goodness sake! But, I have also enjoyed the Sufi wisdom stream and the Tao, and sampled others. I consider myself blessed by each tradition that embraced me, all have enhanced my life. However, the ways of religion and faith are no longer a home for me. We are nearing a time when I can explain these things to you in fullness, Jen. There are forces that transcend all of this with absolute completeness. I look forward to sharing this knowledge with you.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~