We Are All Witches

I am chained in a tower, alone with my thoughts, huddled up against a stone wall conserving as much body heat as I can.  The air is cold as I watch my breath crystallize in the frigid air.

There is a wooden bowl nearby and ragged remnants of someone's clothing lying in a corner.    

It was late fall when I was forcefully brought here, the time of Mabon, Mabon being the Pagan celebration of the Autumnal Equinox.          

It's dark and dreadfully quiet here as I look up through the small clerestory window at the shimmering moon and clouds drifting by.  A solitary bird suddenly makes it appearance.  Colors are muted, bleak and gray.

I wonder to myself, "where is this bird off to" and back comes the reply, "never you mind, you tend to your business and I'll tend to mine."  

I rub my hands together to keep warm, gingerly reshaping the tattered pieces of cloth around my fingers and hand, asking myself, "how many know I am still here?"  Its been months since I was taken.  "Have they given up hope of ever seeing me again"?

I am here because I had a choice.  I would either give up my Pagan ways, conforming to the malefic political/religious hierarchy in power or disobey.  I chose disobedience as to do otherwise would be an act of cowardice not to mention heresy.

I lean my head back against the cold wall and lick my painfully dry, cracked lips.  It's difficult now to produce even enough saliva to do even this one small thing to comfort myself.
I faintly remember the broken shard of mirror a soldier shoved in front of my face as he grabbed me by my coarse, grey hair, twisting its long strands around his ugly fist, sequestering me for a moment in order for me to be able to observe the marks of the beating I had endured as I was kicked and stomped to the ground, rolling from one side to the other, and all the while he cackling and guffawing at me the whole time.

My clothes still carry the faint scent of manure, sweat and blood and I'm still removing the remnants of straw, dirt and mud embedded in my hair.  

There is an iron shackle around my wrist allowing me to stand but preventing me from walking very far.  I can walk far enough to do my business but the stench of my long captivity is now especially overpowering.

I am surprised as I am slowly deteriorating both in mind and body that I have not quickly succumbed to the many maladies afflicting others of the community like stepsis, scury or pneumonia. 
I now know they had been planning this attack for a long time and when the time was right, were able to take me by surprise.  

No amount of incantations or powerful potion could stop what was coming my way.

I now know, after sitting for months in prison, that it was meant to be.

I had become a danger to them.  A singular threat to their deranged and narrow minds of who would control and who would not.  They had grown arrogant and proud as they raided this kingdom and that kingdom, slaughtering wholesale villages, communities in their baneful quest to amass as much wealth and power as they could.

Resentful and proud they attacked those who didn't agree with their lust to make themselves gods on earth.  Except, of course, the real gods that had governed Mankind up till 10,000 years ago had long since vanished.

These so-called would be gods were nothing of the sort but unwashed, vile despots who were seduced by their own lies, greed and power.   Instead of ruling the people with fairness and compassion, they opted for violence and subjugation. 

Witches are Healers.  And we are all Witches.  As healers we are able to administer to and counsel those who seek us out.  We turn none away but embrace them all whether slave or soldier, young or old.    We are part of Them as They are a Part of We.

This is the Good News, Pass it On!

So Mote it Be!
      Blessings,
          Nightshade