Miss Julianne watched in dismay as Miss Helena, the Justice Minister, came such a cropper following the Dublin riots that Thursday night. As far as Julianne was concerned, it was a mistake to entrust such an inexperienced politician with such a sensitive Ministry, and alarm bells should have been ringing when the rank and file Gardai  voted no confidence in the Police Commissioner. And as for the Minister’s  hate crime legislation, what a gift to the next Government- of which she is so unlikely  to be a part-no great loss, of course. As she watched on T.V. Julianne shook her head in disbelief when she heard the minister describing her fellow citizens as “scumbags” and “thugs”, as if that would do anything other than alienate more people. At that Miss Julianne decided  that an emergency coven meeting was in order and scheduled one for the following Wednesday night.

Agatha opened the meeting, which incidentally was very well attended, with a call to action. “Ladies, we need to do something, the Justice Minister is floundering and our Leader seems to have lost all interest in trying to keep the show on the road and it looks like he will just throw in the towel and let the Opposition take over at the next election. Why, we even have public representatives calling for intifada in Gaza. If only we could have an intifada against wokeness here! Has anyone got any ideas?” Miss Agatha looked  around the table to see if there was anyone anxious to speak. There was absolutely not a murmur from anyone around the table.Julianne piped up, “Come now, anyone got any ideas? Agatha surely you’ve seen situations like this before, have you anything to suggest?” But Agatha just shrugged her shoulders and in a weary voice said, “Julianne, we live in strange times and I really have nothing to say to the unfolding chasm opening up before us. When our dear leader peopled his cabinet with inexperienced sycophants we should have known that this situation was inevitable. No, I can’t think of anything to avert the situation where Mary Louise will become the first female Leader of our country.”

There was a collective gasp around the table, with everyone trying to speak at the same time. “No no no, we haven’t prepared for this eventually, Sinn Fein, appointing the Justice Minister, and Garda Commissioner and Judges with access to all the files in the various departments AND the power to redact whatever they wanted AND with the help of the new hate crime legislation allowing the Garda to access homes without a warrant to size computers and phones on the foot of a complaint from anybody, why the situation would be unbearable,” said Julianna, “we really do need to do something, think of our own records, if the wrong people got hold of them.” 

A shudder went around the table.

         “Hm, I see what you mean, I certainly wouldn’t like the minutes of every meeting we’ve had be scrutinised by the thought police. How long have we got, do you think?” 

        “About a year, I reckon.”

        “ Well, for starters we’d better find a safe home for our records, and all new communication between ourselves must to be in person, or else hand written notes delivered by carrier pigeon, which reminds me, we need to recruit a new carrier pigeon trainer, can I leave that with you, Julianna, and I’ll see about finding a new home for our records.” And with that Agatha, lost that air of despondency which characterised her demeanour at the start of the meeting, and her bearing was a lot more resolute looking.

           But when Agatha got home that evening the cold chill of insecurity coiled her innards. Brexit was just in the tuppenney halfpenny place compared to the thought of a Nationalist party full of left leaning and tax raising spenders some of whom had links to organised crime. And in a country so dependent on corporation tax… all those years nurturing foreign direct investment… to think it might all slip away … and not even having the comfort of free speech to warn the public … without the risk of thought police checking one’s musings. Agatha had a blinding headache at the thought of it all. She tossed and tuned all night, but by morning she came to the conclusion that the most urgent item on the agenda was finding a secure place for the records of the coven. She saw a documentary once about people who when faced with persecution and with precious records they wanted to preserve simply divided the records among themselves and each memorised a section, then they destroyed the written word and when times were safe again, as usually happened, they got together and restored the records.

           But when Agatha got home that evening the cold chill of insecurity coiled her innards. Brexit was just in the tuppenney halfpenny place compared to the thought of a Nationalist party full of left leaning and tax raising spenders some of whom had links to organised crime. And in a country so dependent on corporation tax… all those years nurturing foreign direct investment… to think it might all slip away … and not even having the comfort of free speech to warn the public … without the risk of thought police checking one’s musings. Agatha had a blinding headache at the thought of it all. She tossed and tuned all night, but by morning she came to the conclusion that the most urgent item on the agenda was finding a secure place for the records of the coven. She saw a documentary once about people who when faced with persecution and with precious records they wanted to preserve simply divided the records among themselves and each memorised a section, then they destroyed the written word and when times were safe again, as usually happened, they got together and restored the records.

But Agatha knew that the demographic was against them, the age profile was unfavourable. Why, half the coven members had trouble remembering where they parked their brooms when they went shopping! 

How on earth could they memorise book loads of spells, recipes and campaign plans? It just wasn’t practical. Mindful of her advice to her colleagues about maintaining a low profile, she took a broom trip over the hill to Julianne’s cottage to discuss the situation.

     Julianne was delighted to see her, she too had been racking her brains to think of a place to stow the records with no joy.

     “Where will we store those records, Agatha, I’m at my wits end.”

      “Two minds with but a single thought, dear, I wondered if we could manage memorising them and then burning them, what do you think?”

Julianne looked aghast at the prospect, 

      “You must be joking! There has to be another solution!” 

       ‘Burying them, perhaps? Where though?”

Julianne put down her mug of coffee, “Mh, the only place I can think of is the old vault in the old church, I don’t suppose the ghosts there will talk about what they read!”

Agatha gasped in surprise, she hadn’t thought of that. Well, there was hope for the coven yet with bright sparks like Julianne  in their midst.

        “How will we get them in without being noticed?”

        “Could we restart having our monthly meetings up in Dysart, Its hardly likely anyone would notice our bringing the odd book up with us”

        “Far too cold up there for monthly meetings, lets just make it, Winter and Summer solstice and Spring and Autumn equinox. We have a year,  remember, four trips should do it.”

        Having decided on their strategy, their immediate concerns  were making sure the vault was in a proper state to store those records and letting the others know their plans. Now the vault was underneath the chancel of the Old Church ruin and accessed through a hole in the ground. Agatha well  remembered how she used to shimmy up and down that hole in her youth, but wasn’t too confident of her ability to do so any longer. “How ironic” she thought to herself, “this same location was used as a hideout for the old IRA and here we are now using the same location to hide records from the people who consider themselves heirs to those same people.”

She and Julianna took a broom trip to the old church and Young Julianna, a born shimmier if ever there was one, had no difficulty accessing the vault and she reported that the location was ideal, dry with  plenty of room. A few shelves, a desk and a chair and it would make the perfect library. With the plan in place, they left the vault and headed home and made arrangements to let the others know. 

     “This is a wonderful opportunity for us to sort out and archive all our records, Agatha, I’d enjoy that job.”

     “Bless you, dear, I’d hoped you’d volunteer for it.”

     “ Do you think the souls of the folk resting in the vault will mind us using their home for this?”

     “Oh I doubt it very much, I often heard that the rebels who used the vault to hide out during the troubles never feared the people lying next to them just the live people walking over the field.”

Neither of them noticed the solitary figure on the Derry road watching their movements. And after they had left, there was another soul shimmying down into the vault. It was the Warlock John/Witch Joan, who having been turned down for membership of the Dysart coven continued to frequent the place, a bit like Enoch Burke and Wilson’s Hospital, he/she just couldn’t let go! He/she was determined to fight that Coven membership refusal, he/she just wasn’t certain whether he /she wanted to just draw attention to the injustice of the refusal- after all trans witches were real witches, or if he/she wanted to get revenge on Agatha who had written that letter of refusal. He didn’t notice anything amiss in the vault, not the sudden draught that seemed to come from nowhere, but when he left that cold breeze seemed to coalesce around some bones on the second shelf to the left of the opening. 

      As John/Joan walked back to the road with a lighter step, he resolved to keep a close eye on the the ladies and maybe he/she could kill two birds

with the one stone depending on what they were up to and was completely unaware of the forces he/she had awakened in the vault with his/her malevolent intentions.

      As the Winter solstice was fast approaching the ladies had very little time to gather their books and records for storage in the vault. Agatha went round to each member of her little group and told them of her plans and arranged for them to hold their meeting in the old church on the night of the 21st and to bring their Book of Shadows and any any other records with them.It caused quite a stir as they hadn’t held a meeting there for years. Earnestina volunteered to make the mulled wine and Dorothy the mince pies. From a distance, John/Joan watched the activities, envy etched on his/her every feature, he/she longed to be part of that group. He/she was on the lookout that night of the 21st suspecting that that was the most likely time they would make their move and watching as each light was quenched in  all the cottages and he/she could just make out witches on brooms streaming through the clear night air. Living closest to the church he/she was able to get there first and positioned him/herself on top of the bell tower for a good view of the site.

You know, Warlock/Witch John/Joan had been going through quite a difficult time in the previous couple of years. After a moderately successful career as a Warlock in Dublin where he even rose to the position of Deputy Treasurer he relocated to Co. Laois because of its more favourable housing costs, but what he didn’t realize was that whatever Laois’s sporting prowess or lack thereof, when it came to Magick the wizards of Laois played Senior Hurling! He hadn’t a hope of getting on a team of Warlocks here, hence his decision to transition, as he felt that surely the Witches would welcome him. When his/her application was rejected by Agatha he/she was devastated and he/she made it his/her life’s mission to make people accept that trans witches were real witches. The difficulty with this position was that he/she found this mission so all consuming that he/she took little notice of anything else taking place in the world. The consequences of a change of government which so exercised the witches had no place in his/her consciousness.

       So when John/Joan noticed that the witches were all carrying books and notes into that vault he/she was at a complete loss as to what was afoot. He/she was so absorbed in watching the operation of shadow book transfer that he/she leaned forward and darn it! He/she slid off his/her perch and came tumbling down into the body of the church with such an almighty clatter that the roof of the vault shook.

What was that?” Said Agatha

No one volunteered to go and find out. So with her customary resolution and courage, Agatha went outside and walking around the perimeter of the church she called: “Hello, anyone there, anybody needing help?”

 John/Joan crouched in the corner of the old church hoping to escape detection but the moonlight betrayed him and Agatha spied him as she came through the tower entrance.

     “Good heavens John, what on earth are you doing here?”

     “I saw lights up here from my kitchen window so I thought I’d better investigate.”

Agatha thought quickly, now that John was here the coven would have to change their plans, but she still had a trick up her sleeve.

      “ Do you want to know what the coven are doing up here on this Winter solstice eve, John.?”

     “Well, if you choose to tell me that’s your business, but I’m not committed to secrecy of course, not being a coven member,” John/Joan replied with a smirk.

     “Come with me then, and I’ll fill you in,” said Agatha, as she lighted the way back towards the vault for them.

And when the rest of the coven saw John/Joan slither into the vault behind Agatha, they were so shocked that they completely failed to notice the sudden drop in temperature and cold draught that came from the second shelf to the left of the opening.While the ladies were recovering their sangfroid, Agatha grabbed John/Joan’s left hand and placed it on that shelf, the scream he/she  let out of him/her rattled the vault, but Agatha held it firm.

      “ I don’t know if you were aware, John,  but we arranged the internment of the bones of baby John, the son of our founderess , Miss Sophia, here during the summer solstice when the tower repair was complete, and goodness knows they have acted like a guardian to the site since,” Agatha said with a bright smile, “only those who swear fealty to the group have left this place intact.”

 

John/Joan was on his knees whimpering with the pain at this stage,       “Anything, anything, Agatha, please release me,” he said, failing to notice that Agatha had already released him but his hand was still clutching that shelf as though it had a life of its own.

     “Well, ladies, this does present us with a bit of a dilemma, what are we to do?” 

     Earnestina was the first to recover from the shock of what had just transpired. 

    “You know, we have had Warlocks as honorary members, consulting for the group, in the past, but clearly a transitioning Warlock just doesn’t fit the bill, we can’t have someone who is confused about their identity. Pity!”

    “WAIT, WAIT,” screamed john/Joan, “ I’m only questioning!”

    “ Well, you’ll need to find the answers within yourself before that shelf will release your hand, John,” said Agatha.

“Please, please listen, I only wanted to transition because there was no place for me in the Warlocks coven, and I heard you had a vacancy, it’s just been a social transition I’ve taken no potions nor had any surgery, I swear it! I could be that honorary member to you, the most loyal you ever imagined!”

     “But what if someone teases you about being a member of a witches coven, will you be tempted to go on with your transitioning then? Can we trust you to remember your place, we could do with a warlock to consult, not a make believe witch trying to compete.”

      “Ladies, please, please, take me as your warlock consultant, I’ll do all that’s expected from one in such a role,” and John could feel the pain in his hand easing ever so slightly as he spoke the words.

       “”Better have him in than out, I suppose,” said Earnestina, “after all, an honorary male member worked fine for The Derry Girls, it could be the answer, and we do have that second shelf to the left, if things don’t work out!”

And so the ladies got some help moving those records, I’ll let you know how things evolve.

 

At the first Spring meeting of the Ratheniska Coven, Myrtle, whose application for membership had just been accepted the previous Autumn brought up the issue of two-tier Coven membership. She noticed the different coloured name badges on the members. Her own was green for example whereas Miss Agatha’s was a gleaming gold. All members of the Coven paid the same membership dues. “Chairman, I was curious about the fact that some of our members wear gold coloured name badges and others wear green. Surely, we are a small enough group that we don’t need name badges at all unless we attend convention or invite in outsiders,” she said when invited to speak. Miss Agatha cleared her throat, “Well, Myrtle, some of us are native to this place and we know better what is best for the community than more recent arrivals, so naturally our opinion is more valuable and carries greater weight in decisions making regarding Coven activities” said Agatha with a tight little smile as she looked at Myrtle over the rim of her glasses.
Myrtle was stunned, “surely proposals are accepted on merit regardless of the source?” “Of course, it’s just that proposals from the native born usually have greater merit. And the next item on the agenda is a fundraiser for earthquake refugees. Ideas anyone?” Myrtle was slack-jawed and speechless at that reply, but anyone who knew Myrtle knew that she wouldn’t be for long, the way she flicked her pencil back and forth indicating a tension that would lead to action, but she said nothing further that night. After the usual tea and biscuits that closed their meeting, Myrtle made her way back to the 1.5-million-euro mansion she had built locally and looked up a list of all the recent arrivals to the locality and their numbers. She certainly wasn’t going to allow the old brigade to dictate policy on community affairs to her!
Agatha watched her leave the meeting that evening and something about the way Myrtle walked told her that there was trouble afoot and she called after Beatrice, “just wait a minute, dear, there is something I’d love to discuss with you,” as Beatrice was donning her cloak and preparing to leave. Beatrice cocked her head, raised her eyebrows but put her broom aside and sat down again. “What?” “It’s that woman, Myrtle, who does she think she is? Questioning the way we do business here? That’s some nerve for a newcomer! Who proposed her for membership, I’d like to know!”
‘Well, I did warn you dear, that those coloured name tags were provocative, after all, those blow-ins pay the same subscription as ourselves.”
“Never mind that now, what are we going to do to clip that one’s wings!” Said Agatha. Beatrice just raised her eyebrows, picked up her broom and left.
In the meantime, Myrtle was busy contacting every other newcomer and canvassing them regarding the injustice of the two-tier membership system and asking for their vote for the position of Coven Chair in the upcoming elections, promising that the first thing she would change was that insulting two-tier system. They all seemed enthusiastic for the change and Myrtle went to bed happy, encouraged by the support and confident that she had enough votes to carry the day. The next meeting wasn’t due for four weeks and she thought she had the matter sorted.
But Agatha was busy also, meeting up with the old native daughters of Ratheniska outside the chapel on Sunday, she reminded them that there was very little work from the newcomers for the community efforts that mattered, such as the youth club volunteering, community hall maintenance, graveyard upkeep, chapel cleaning, and yet they were in charge of most committees in the locality. By the time she finished speaking, most were in agreement that it would be a shame if the last bastion of native influence, the Local Coven were to fall to the control of a newcomer. So, Agatha called a meeting for the following Wednesday night, and somehow forgot to inform Myrtle. She proposed a change of constitution for the Ratheniska Coven. She proposed that only members in good standing for over ten years were eligible for the offices of Chair, Secretary or Treasurer and as it happened, it was passed unanimously. Needless to say, Myrtle heard about the matter within the hour, such was the efficiency of the bush telegraph in Ratheniska.
Agatha was delighted but surprised at the ease with which this motion passed and wondered was there something going on that she was unaware of. The answer was presented to her when she went to collect her grandchild at the school gate some days later. She overheard one of the mothers discussing the local news. The woman was just saying that there was a new group starting in the parish which she proposed joining – the Ratheniska Womanly Witches Society as the Ratheniska Coven was too much of an old hags’ group for her! And guess who had started that group? Yes, you’re right, none other than Miss Myrtle. Agatha just shook her head — outwitted by a blow-in, oh, the shame of it!
Myrtle was delighted with the attendance at her inaugural meeting of the Ratheniska Womanly Witches Society, which was held during the Under Elevens football training on Sunday morning, a welcome excuse to come in from the cold on the sidelines of the football pitch and help themselves to a hot drink in the community hall kitchen. “Welcome, ladies, to the first meeting of our society,” said Myrtle as she passed around the clipboard for signatures, “as you know we are here to form another and more up to date and relevant witches’ group than the Ratheniska Coven, not replace them, mind you, age still has its value, of course, but that group just doesn’t meet the needs of the younger community members and their families. So, without further ado let us proceed to the election of officers.”

Business attended to, Myrtle went off home after the meeting, pleased as punch with herself, only to find a letter on the mat inside her door. It was addressed to Ms. Myrtle, Chair of the Ratheniska, Womanly Witches Society. Myrtle felt a frisson of excitement at being so addressed and tore open the envelope. It was from the CEO of the DAA, and it read:

Dear Ms. Myrtle,
I got your details from Ms. Agatha of the Ratheniska Coven as the person most likely to be able to help us in our present dilemma. Dublin Airport has been shut down repeatedly in the last few months with unauthorised drones flying in the vicinity of the airport. The transport minister doesn’t seem to be able to deal with the matter in the short term, he’s too busy dealing with pileups in the cycle lanes. Could you and your ladies come to our aid?
Yours faithfully,
CEO of DAA

Myrtle was aghast, the group had an offer of employment which they were in no position to respond to, none of her group had as yet taken even a preliminary course in broom flying, she had hoped that their first assignment might be something simple like making honey and lavender drinks for the elderly, but here they were, being asked to save the nation from the embarrassment of being the only country in Europe who hadn’t made plans to tackle this menace. Myrtle made herself a cup of tea while she considered her options, eventually her patriotic spirit won the day and she swallowed her pride and brought the letter to Agatha’s house.
“Agatha, something has come up and I’d value your help,” she said as soon as she accepted Agatha’s offer of a seat while she made the tea.

“Oh, I doubt if I’d have anything useful to offer, so old-fashioned as I am,” said Agatha with a smirk.

“It’s the DAA, they’re looking for help dealing with the drone menace,” said Myrtle.
“Ah a nice modern problem, just up your alley I’d imagine.”

“Well actually, no, none of our ladies have got their broom flying licenses yet. And I was hoping you could help us,”
“How exactly?” Agatha asked.
“Well, come with us and intercept those drones, of course,” said Myrtle,
“And what exactly will your ladies be doing while we do all the work?” Asked Agatha.
“Well, we could report the successful conclusion of the operation to the DAA, couldn’t we?” Said Myrtle.
“Only if you can actually conclude the work, I’d say”
“So, you won’t help us then?”
“Well, I certainly won’t do your work and leave you take the credit, Myrtle.”
“I was sure you would be more public spirited about this.”
“I believe you would be best to contact the DAA and let them know that you are unable to help on this occasion, and you are handing the matter over to more experienced practitioners.”
Myrtle gritted her teeth, she didn’t think Agatha would be quite so bloody minded as to rub her nose in it like this, she seemed like such a sweet little lady when she first met her. But she knew she had to put the country’s interest before her ego.
Her shoulders sagged as she whispered “right so.”
Agatha hid an evil little smile behind her tea cup as she thought, “ah yes, age and cunning beats youth and enthusiasm every time.”

The Witches of Dysart Parish 

           If you take the Timahoe road out of Portlaoise, after about three miles you come to a turn where the road rises, and just there if you glance upwards and to the left you may see the majestic tower of the ruin of Old Dysart Church. And if you decide to explore that ruin, and stand beneath the tower, and look out at the stunning vista before you, take a deep breath of the pure air scented by the wild flowers in the meadow, and you will wonder why people could ever have abandoned this site.

           Miss Sophia is one of the few people who could tell you that story. Sophia was a petite, anxious, elderly little Witch who lives a cottage nearby and every time she looks up at that ruin her heart breaks a little, because all Witches carry their foremothers’ memories in their hearts so she knows about Dysart’s  glory days when it was the hub of the local community’s commerce and social life. And she knows what happened there.

          So on that bright September morning, as she sipped her morning coffee and caught sight of that ruin again she felt she had to do something about that sad derelict looking site, but couldn’t think what, so she decided to pay her old friend, Miss Beatrice, the Chair of the local Coven a visit, as she rarely acted without the blessing of her friend. So, after breakfast, she reversed her  broom out the door of her cottage and flew over the hill to Ratheniska.

          Sophia parked her broom against the holly bush in Beatrice’s garden, brushed up against the lavender growing near the back door and with a light tap on the back door she entered with a cheery “it’s only me.” She smiled as she drank in the smell of baking. Tall, stately Beatrice, was a gifted baker, and usually made her scones at this hour. With a warm smile the hospitable Beatrice, invited her to sit down while she boiled the kettle for tea and scones. “Thank you,  Beatrice, that would be lovely,” said Sophia and she took a seat at the kitchen table, and  while Beatrice made the tea,  she took a deep breath and started, “You know, I woke up this morning, thinking about Dysart and wondered what we might do …”. 

          “Oh, for goodness sake, Sophia, just let it go, there is nothing that can be done to restore that place!” interrupted  Beatrice, putting the tea pot down with a thump, annoyed that Sophia was spoiling her lovely morning by harping on about Dysart yet again.

         Sophia, was a natural people pleaser, but her feeling about Dysart were such that she just couldn’t let things rest there, but she gave a pained smile and took a sip of her tea, and waited for Beatrice to take the scones out of the oven before she continued, “but we’ve got to do something, Beatrice, we haven’t had a day’s good luck since that Church was abandoned and the Sisterhood scattered. The strange goings on in the world today could all be related to that—Brexit, Trump, Boris, Climate change, the Hadron Collider…” 

           “Oh for heavens sake, Sophia, I never heard anything so ridiculous! Where on earth did you come by such a notion?” Beatrice  interrupted again, sharp enough this time. Sophia was hurt by Beatrice’s attitude, but didn’t argue with her old friend. She had always assumed that Beatrice felt the same as she did about making Dysart great again. Well, she would have to revise her opinion about that! Still she saw no point in arguing about it this early in the morning! She would just have to change her plans and look for other allies to restore the fortunes of that old ruin. So in her usual honeyed voice she changed the topic and said, “Just think, it’s that time of year again, the local music festival is in town. Are you going to the Electric Picnic, by any chance?”  No sooner were the words out of her mouth than the thought occurred to her: “of course, the Electric Picnic, that’s  where I might find descendants of the original Dysart Coven!”

         A frisson of excitement washed through Sophia as she drank her tea, a plan was evolving in her head, but she maintained a gentle flow of local gossip while as she and Beatrice enjoyed their morning tea and scones. Afterwards she waved Beatrice goodbye and  let herself out the way she came in, helping herself to a few lavender flowers before getting on her broom and flying back to her cottage. 

        This was Sophia’s plan: she would go to the Music festival, seek out descendants of the original Dysart coven and rally them in a campaign to restore that old Dysart. How she would recognise them or how she would rally them to her cause she had no plan for that. She was sure something would occur to her. Anyway, she prepared for an evening of music and fun and headed over to Stradbally that evening.

          Sophia tingled with excitement as she alighted from her broom at the Festival, in the cool breeze that Friday evening. The beat of the music, the laughter of the revellers with their brightly painted faces and scanty clothes, swaying to the music, all added to the alcohol- fuelled festival atmosphere. She almost glided along on an air of euphoria soaking up the atmosphere when suddenly her attention was caught by the sight of a Witches Wagon in the field. “Bingo” she thought “I’ve hit the jackpot” but as she got closer, and read the billboard outside this wagon, she stopped in her tracks. It read; “Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble etc…”  A typical 17th century Witches spell, in short!  Nowadays, of course, Witches took the Wiccan equivalent of the Hippocratic oath, all spells were for good and they ended them with the words “…and this be done that it harm no one,” so seeing something as malevolent sounding as this was quite a surprise.

          Sophia’s curiosity got the better of her and she entered the wagon. She gasped when she saw who was inside, a Witch with the Blanche Deformity! The very image of Blanche of Loughteague with the mark of the stocks on her feet! Witches never forget what happened to their foremothers. It’s imprinted on their hearts, and all local Witches knew the story of Blanche of Loughteague. Sophia clutched at her neck with fright and felt weak and dizzy as  the events of that awful day in 1769 started playing out in her head as though it was happening in the present. Holding on to a bar in the wagon, she managed to stop herself from falling as  in her mind’s eye she could see Blanche of Loughteague as she had been on that frightful day, imprisoned in the stocks outside Dysart church!  And the look on the faces of all the Sisterhood, terrified of opening their mouths, no one stepping forward to support Blanche! 

          

         Sophia could feel the  eyes of the witch in front of her boring through her skull, her knees jellied and she could no longer support herself as she sank to the ground of the wagon and she felt herself transported back in time to 1769. “Do you remember it, Sophia, remember it all, everything that happened to Blanche” said the witch and tears came to Sophia’s eyes at the memory of all Blanche’s suffering, and her cheeks burned with shame. How could the sisterhood have allowed it to happen without as much as a protest? She tried to open her mouth to protest “but they were different times, and who are you anyway?” But no sound came, it was as though she was trapped back in the eighteenth century and the trauma of the events around young Blanche of Loughteague was happening right here and right now. As she lay on the floor of the caravan, her surroundings changed and she could see only Dysart with its cottages and hovels and the Church standing proud on the hill. She could see Blanche, her hair wild and the sound of her wailing piercing the air, being dragged to the stocks outside the church.

        And what was Blanche’s crime?- she had buried her dead baby in the Dysart Church grounds without paying the £5 fee to the vicar! How shameful not to have supported a Sister in those circumstances.

                Pretty, vivacious Blanche was widowed when her husband died following a fall from a horse, leaving his wife and baby son almost destitute. The Sisterhood of the Parish sympathized and supported as best they could and Blanche managed fairly well until her little boy John, contracted Typhoid fever. Doctoring back then was done by Sophia’s foremother, another Sophia, a stout, elderly lady who was skilled with herbs and healing and Blanche turned to her for help. Sophia came and did her best, but baby John passed away to his mother’s inexpressible grief.

                Now, in 1768, the year prior to the baby’s death the Parish Vestry Committee agreed to the vicar’s request that a 5£ fee be levied on anyone wanting burial for their loved ones in Dysart.

 Poor folk couldn’t afford this but naturally wanted their loved ones to rest in hollowed ground so they buried their dead at night under cover of darkness, but the anger and humiliation at having to resort to this was keenly felt.  Local women, who thought that the fee was unjust, helped the mourners as much as they could, by providing food and  lookout for the church warden. They also helped dig the grave, and these ladies also came to help Blanche in her grief. 

            And so the women of Dysart Parish accompanied Blanche up Dysart hill, softly chanting their ancient lament as  they carried  the corpse of little John wrapped in an old cloak on a cold dark night. Blanche carried with her thirteen crocus bulbs which she intended planting on her baby’s  grave.

          They dug the grave close to the tower and John’s little body, wrapped in the cloak was gently laid in the cold earth, the women covered it with the freshly dug clay and Blanche, pale and grieving,  thrust her cold hands into the earth and  planted those bulbs, on that cold moonlit night.

The group silently dispersed, old Sophia accompanied Blanche back to her cottage, a witness to the young woman’s distress and devastation.

           Next morning, the Church Warden opened the Church as usual and saw the freshly dug  grave, and thought, “Here’s another one avoiding the  5£ charge!” and filled with righteous indignation  he resolved to sort out the matter once and for all.  So he set off to the vicarage to report the matter. 

           The vicar was a greedy man, his big red nose spoke to his love of good food and brandy. It was he who had insisted on the 5£ charge as a necessary fund-raiser to support his lifestyle. He was disgusted at the Warden’s tale. “Well, this time we’ll catch them and this time they’ll pay”, he said to the Warden through clenched teeth and he instructed the Warden to erect the old stocks outside the tower of the Church. This old fashioned instrument of punishment and public humiliation had long been discontinued by the Parish as cruel and unjustified.

             As they entered the church the following Sunday the congregation were surprised to see the stocks outside, but took their places in the pews never the less. The service commenced but when it came time for the vicar to deliver his sermon he took his place behind the lectern, and instead of the usual commentary on the Gospel, he thundered, “Someone in this congregation has cheated me of my 5£ fee, and others have colluded with that person! I believe the women of the Parish with their misguided soft-heartedness have allowed my authority to be flouted in this disgraceful manner. Proceed Warden and dig up that grave,” and he pointed to the freshly dug grave beside the wall of the tower.

          And with that Blanche, who had come to church that morning seeking solace for her aching heart, shot out of her seat and flung herself on the grave of her baby, screaming “no, no don’t touch him, leave him be.” She was grabbed by two members of the parish council, and dragged out of the Church and put in the stocks still begging the warden to stop and leave her baby alone. And the women of the parish, to their eternal shame, kept silent and uttered not a word of protest. Not so much as a murmur.

           These memories flooded poor Sophia as she lay helpless on the caravan floor at the Musical Festival in 2019 and she  had no control over the intensity of the images of that awful day in 1769.  She pressed her hands to her temples to try and suppress them, but the memories  heat coming. She tried to shout stop as she the sound of the shovels pummelled the ears as the grave was dug up until the corpse of the baby was exposed and grasped with big rough hands and flung out to land near the stocks but just out of Blanche’s reach.

           And Sophia could hear Blanche’s  screams as she writhed, locked in those stocks in a desperate attempt to reach her child’s body, while the preacher sneered at her and snarled, “there will be no resting place here for your little  bastard!” and with that he made ready to leave the church,  mounting his horse which was tethered to a nearby hazel tree  and he rode away. The congregation slinked away in silence, leaving Blanche alone.

          And then the scene changed to starry night in Sophia’s mind’s eye and she could see several Dysart women return to the scene and release Blanche. They found her demented and disoriented with grief and hatred. Babbling, Blanche picked up the body of her child, and gently cradled him and then she  hobbled away,  down the hill towards the Derry road, the stocks having distorted her feet enough to leave her with a slight limp, a deformity. But as she limped away she screamed at the women huddled under their shawls and cursed their cowardice.

          It was at the threshold of the cold season that Blanche left Dysart, carrying her belongings, and the corpse of he baby, and as she left, she vowed trouble and strife on the women of the Parish and on Dysart itself until those  women learned courage.

         The ghastly scene faded from Sophia’s mind, her breathing slowed and gradually she reorientated herself to the surroundings in the wagon. But she knew what happened in Dysart subsequent to Blanche’s departure. Her grandmother had told her. How the women had gathered up the crocus bulbs, given them to Sophia who planted them in her gardens in memory of Blanche, how they never bloomed. And she knew that for years after the traumatic event, the women involved : Aurora, Abigail, Amelia, Charlotte, Clarissa, Clementine, Dorothy, Edith, Georgette, Harriet, Marjorie, and Beatrice used to gather in the parlour of her fore-mother’s cottage for a “sewing circle” afternoon to discuss what happened.

          As they sat around the table with their needlework, they each spoke of their sorrow and shame  at being unable to stand up for young  Blanche, how they felt oppressed by the Vicar’s influence and authority. “Look at us, we all know why we are here really but we pretend to be having a ‘sewing circle’, instead of just calling a meeting like men would do!” exclaimed Sophia.

 “Will we ever be able to take our rightful place in affairs of Church and State I wonder?!”  And with that Old Sophia produced the crocus bulbs and gave one to each of them. She told them that she had planted them yearly to no avail, that she believed that Blanche had put a spell on them so that they would only grow for women who put the Sisterhood above the Patriarchy. 

They each vowed to pass on the story to their daughters and continue to plant their bulb until someone could get it to grow. 

           Time passed, and one by one the daughters of this group left the district for work or marriage or adventure, but each carried their foremother’s memory with them together with the special bulbs. Few descendants of the original thirteen Coven members live in Dysart nowadays but Sophia was one of them and all this passed like a flash through her  mind as she stood in that Witches Wagon at the Electric Picnic in 2019, two hundred and fifty years after the original trauma. 

            Sophia pulled herself upright in the wagon and stared stupefied at the Witch who was apparently the reincarnation of Blanche of Loughteague! 

             She could only think to say, “Why have you returned, Blanche?” and the Witch replied; “Of course I’m not Blanche, she was my three times great grandmother and I’m here to lay down her burden and bury the bones”.  Sophia gasped, tottered from the wagon and fled to where she had left her broom and flew back to Ratheniska as fast as it could carry her. 

            Jumping off her broom, she rattled at Beatrice’s kitchen window and shouted for her to open the door.  Beatrice was still up, she couldn’t sleep from the sound of the music coming from Stradbally and she hardly had the door unlocked before Sophia started to pour out her story, leaving out no detail of her distressful encounter with the Witch at the music festival.

          Of course Beatrice knew about Blanche of Loughteague, she was also a descendant of the original thirteen and she too carried her foremothers’ memories, and indeed had one of the magic crocus bulbs, which had never bloomed for her! 

          The two women sat at the kitchen table and considered what to do. They thought that perhaps the two of them should accompany this Witch and help her to bury the bones in the grounds of the ruins of old Dysart, but that just didn’t seem right. The path their foremothers had tread all those years ago was gone, part of someone’s farm now. They knew they needed to organize something special.  “ You know, she is probably here to check if we have learnt our lesson and if we have developed sufficient courage to stand with the Sisterhood,” said Beatrice slowly.

 “Well we personally haven’t done much to progress the affairs of the Sisterhood, but maybe some of the other descendants have!” cried Sophie. “But how on earth can we find them at this stretch of time?” 

 “Maybe we should try and follow the trail of the bulbs rather than the trail of the women”, said Beatrice, as she stirred her tea, “I’ll bet those those bulbs only bloom for women who have found their voice and made a stand for something. I’ll bet they bloom for them out of season. We’ll look for out of season blooming crocuses. At least it’s somewhere to start!”

             “Or, it could be just global warming”, said Sophia. 

             “Please, Sophia, if you haven’t a better idea I suggest we follow this line. We can bring back some of those flowers and invite the Witch to meet us in Dysart where she can bury the bones and lay down her burden of anger and hate and we can ask her forgiveness on behalf of our foremothers and show her that things  have changed”.

         “But you and I haven’t changed, Beatrice”, said Sophia.

  “Embarking on this pilgrimage will certainly be a change inducing experience for us, I’d imagine!” replied Beatrice.

 And with that Beatrice put away the supper things and went through a mental list of all the things she needed to do before she went crocus hunting. 

          Of course, Sophia accompanied her, as she didn’t want to face the anger and hatred of Blanche’s descendant alone. She left a note on her kitchen table for the Witch, inviting her to make herself at home until she returned, as she suspected the Witch would make her way there after the music festival.

 

          It did occur to Beatrice that some of the descendants of the original thirteen might have emigrated and some of these flowers might be blooming far from Ireland, let alone Dysart. She wondered if she should put out a call to The United Witches Federation Worldwide (Horticultural Division) asking for information concerning crocuses growing out of season, but she was already airborne when this thought occurred to her so she decided to leave that for the present, and settled for doing a thorough search of the island of Ireland for those flowers.