Sometimes in the morning, the mist curled into the corners Of the house like a cat, and Grimalkin, she would cry, come to me, my Grimalkin. She would gather the mist to her, and stroke it, and it would settle in her lap, and lick itself.
Sometimes, she wove cobwebs and out of the cloth, thin, gray, luminescent, she would cut the pattern for a dress. But for what purpose? Where could she wear it? Where could she go, except to the pond, where she would kneel and dip her fingers into the water, and stir, and out would jump a trout, thick, silver, luminescent, and splashing water onto her dress, whose hem was already soaked and covered with mud.
She would make it speak, recite Shakespearean sonnets, sing old songs, before she put it into the pot. Witches are lonely, but also hungry, and practical in their impracticality. She had learned how from her mother, the old witch, now dead if witches are ever entirely dead, which is doubtful.
She never wondered who her father had been, a peasant gathering wood, perhaps a hunter, perhaps even a prince, on his way to the country where a princess had been promised for dispatching a dragon or something similar, and had seen a light through the trees, and found her mother waiting, and perhaps gone on the next morning, and perhaps not.
Her mother had built the house by the edge of the pond, out of gray stone and branches of white birch, birds’ nests and moss, and spit to hold it together. That is how witches build what they call houses. What they are not: sturdy, comfortable. What they are: cold.
There was still a row of bottles in the cupboard, holding martens’ eyes, dried frogs, robins' eggs, random feathers, balls of string, oak galls. She had forgotten what they were for. From the rafters hung a fox's skeleton.
Once, village girls had come to visit her mother for charms to attract the schoolmaster's attention, make their rivals' hair fall out, abortions.
Afterward, they would say, Did you see her? Standing by the door? In her ragged dress, with her tangled hair, I tell you, she creeps me out. But they stopped coming after the old witch disappeared and her daughter was left alone. Sometimes she would remember the smell of the bread in their pockets, the clink of coins, their dresses covered with embroidery, their whispering, and look at her reflection in the pond, floating on the water like a ghost.
Sometimes she made the frogs at the edge of the pond, calling to one another, speak to her. "Pretty one," they would say, "in your spider silk, in your birchbark shoes, like a princess lost in the woods, kiss us." But she knew that was not her story.
Sometimes she would make the birds perch on her fingers and sing to her: warblers, thrushes, chickadees, and sing to them out of tune, then break their necks and roast them.
Sometimes she would gather the stones that had fallen from her house, and think of making a dog, a stone dog. Then, she would forget. It was the forgetting that made her what she was, her mother's daughter. Witches never remember important things: that fire burns, and that bottles labeled poison are not to be drunk. Witches are always doing what they should not, dancing at midnight with the Gentleman, kicking their skirts over the tops of their stockings, kissing frogs they know perfectly well won't turn into princes.
She makes no magic. Although the stories won't tell you, witches are magic. They do not need the props of a magician, the costumes or the cards, the scarves, the rabbits. They came down from the moon originally, and it still calls to them, so they go out at night, when the moon is shining, and make no magic, but magic happens around them.
Sometimes at night she would look up at the moon and call Mother? Mother? but never got an answer.
I want you to imagine: her ragged dress, her hair like cobwebs, her luminescent eyes, mad as all witches are, stirring the pond like a cauldron (witches need no cauldrons, whatever the stories tell you) while above her the clouds are roiling and a storm is about to gather.
I'm a woman, a Witch, a mother, a grandmother, an eco-feminist, a gardener, a reader, a writer, and a priestess of the Great Mother Earth. Hecate appears in the
Homeric Ode to Demeter, which tells of Hades who caught Persophone
"up reluctant on his golden car and bare her away lamenting. . . . But no one, either of the deathless gods or of mortal men, heard her voice, nor yet the olive-trees bearing rich fruit: only tenderhearted Hecate, bright-coiffed, the daughter of Persaeus, heard the girl from her cave . . . ."