by Anne Moore
'And your group consists solely of women?'
'It does, though I know of other groups and other traditions which involve men. In my case I have a book in which is recorded everything that was passed down to me, together with such wisdom and knowledge as I have been able to accumulate in my own lifetime. Every witch has one, copied from her predecessors. It is known as the book of shadows, perhaps because what we know as the truth is elusive, and as hard to pin down as a shadow. Furthermore, it has a habit of shifting and changing with time.'
'And you keep your ceremonies secret, I understand.'
'We do. Not because there is anything disgraceful or wicked about them, but because we could, in theory, be prosecuted under the witchcraft act of 1736. The penalty for conviction is one year in prison, and most of us can think of better ways of spending a year.'
'And what, if it is not impertinent to ask, what exactly do you worship?'
The widow frowned. ‘Worship is not a word that I like, Mr Scrooge. And to set your mind at rest, let me say that we certainly have nothing to do with the worship of the devil. The devil is a creature in whom I do not believe. He was invented by the early Christians as a means of damaging the reputation of the old religion. But if we worship at all, we do so by acknowledging the existence of an intelligence behind nature—some ultimate creative force.'
'And is that force a god?'
'Some would say so. Some would personify it in that way. But the old religion, at any rate as handed down to me, does not believe in one god, or even in the trinity of father, son and holy ghost. We speak instead of the goddess, a female creative force. And the goddess, being female, has three aspects. Virgin, mother, and crone. Birth, motherhood, death, if you will. And the goddess, in her triple form, was spoken of and worshipped in these parts long before the Christians came. Some believe that she will still be here when the new religion has faded and died.'
'And do you believe in this goddess?’ Scrooge was nervous about asking this question, but fortunately it seemed to amuse his companion.
'I am inclined to think that there are many gods, in the sense that many places have their own spirit or atmosphere.'
Scrooge walked on for a while, seeking to absorb what he was hearing and trying to relate it to what he saw around him. Then he continued.
'On that night when you held a meeting of your circle, and I was upstairs in my bedroom, I heard you singing and chanting. Was that—and I may not be using the right words here—but were you practicing magic?'
The widow pondered. ‘Hmm. Well, magic is a fair word for it, I suppose. In any event, it is the equivalent of Christian prayer. We meet once a month, usually on the night of the full moon, and we perform rituals which are very ancient in form, and which have survived because they have been proved to be efficacious. They are designed to draw down power, and we seek to use that power for the good of others.'
'And can you tell me, without breaking confidences, something of what you do to draw down that power? It sounds very intriguing.'
The widow smiled again. ‘Men always want to know our secrets! But there isn't much to tell. We may dance in a circle, perhaps, and in the summer we would do it out of doors, around a fire. And as we dance, we chant. We use a form of words which attempts to mobilize and focus the goodwill of all those present to bring about some beneficial ends. For instance, since we are very much an agricultural community, we seek to preserve and enhance the fertility of the land—for without that we all perish and die. More specifically, we try to make the sick well, and to make the weak stronger. We worked hard, when you were ill, for you to get well again. And we do this in addition, of course, to using more mundane methods such as good nursing and the right choice of medicine.'
'Well it certainly seemed to work in my case,’ said Scrooge. ‘Without your care and attention, and the efforts of your friends, I think I would probably have died.'
'I think you would too. And that is the point. What we do is not so much worship a goddess, Mr Scrooge, as undertake work of a practical nature. We try to mobilize and apply our collective will-power. Which is, I believe, witchcraft in the sense of it being the craft of the wise.'
'But you are, nevertheless, pagans,’ Scrooge suggested.
'Are we?'
'I think so. If memory serves, pagus in Latin means the countryside. So a pagan is one from a country area, is it not?'
'Yes, I suppose so.'
'And does that definition disturb you?
'Not in the slightest,’ said the widow good-humoredly.
Scrooge paused in his questions while they approached a stile and climbed over it.
'And yet despite your beliefs,’ he continued, ‘you still go to church on Sunday?'
'Occasionally. A great deal more often than you, I notice.'
'Oh well,’ said Scrooge, ‘I think I am one of nature's skeptics. A doubter. But in your case, if I follow you correctly, you see no incompatibility between what you have been brought up to believe, and attendance at church?'
'None whatever. Even within the Christian church there are many strands of belief, and there is no need for them to fight unless they are determined to do so. We all grope towards the light as best we can.'
The widow came to a halt and indicated the great circle of Avebury.
'Look around you, Mr Scrooge. What you see here is a ruined cathedral, perhaps three or four thousand years old. And the churches which you now find in villages such as Tanway are simply the latest version of the circles and henges of the past. Each of the churches that we have today is the focus of life in a village community. It is the place where the rhythms of life—birth, marriage, death—and marked with due ceremonial. The ceremonies inevitably change over the centuries, but the circumstances of human life do not.'
Scrooge felt quite privileged and honored that the widow had spoken to him so frankly, and towards the end of the day, as they were heading for home, he thanked her handsomely for her kindness.
'And what of that small ring of stones in my grounds?’ he asked. ‘The Maidenscore, I believe it's called. It's a decidedly modest construction, when compared with the great stones of Avebury, but I would guess that it was built at much the same time, by much the same people. And with much the same intent. Has your group ever made use of it?'
'Indeed we have. Only in the summer, of course. But the previous owner of the Manor, Lady Brown, was for many years the leader of our circle. I only took over from her when she became infirm.'
'I see,’ said Scrooge. ‘Well perhaps, if it is of any help or interest, perhaps I might say here and now that you may feel free to use the circle in my grounds whenever you wish.'
The widow, who had the horse's reins in her hands, took her eyes off the road for a moment and looked at him.
'Why thank you, Mr Scrooge,’ she said. And then she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
Scrooge experienced a sudden surge of excitement at the mere touch of her mouth on his face. His heart beat faster and he felt as if he were a young man again.
Hmm, he thought. I wouldn't mind a bit more of that.
CHAPTER 29
During the summer, while work on the Manor was continuing, Scrooge again went to London whenever a meeting of the sewing circle was scheduled. The widow insisted that this was not necessary, but Scrooge told her that he was obliged to go to London from time to time in any case.
One reason why it was not necessary for him to be absent was, of course, that in the summer the sewing circle held its meetings out of doors, rather than in the widow's house. And, since the new owner of the Manor had proved co-operative, the summer meetings were held in the stone circle known as the Maidenscore.
No one told Scrooge formally, but he could tell that Sasha had now been admitted as a full member of the widow's circle. He could tell because there was a distinct change in her attitude.
During all the time Scrooge had known her, Sasha had never been lacking in confidence, but because of her backgroun
d she had clearly considered herself a second-class citizen. A second-class citizen who could stand up for herself, poke you in the eye and call you a bastard and worse, but second-class none the less. She had considered herself inferior, and in some ways, Scrooge suspected, she had despised herself. She had considered herself weak and foolish.
Now, however, there was something different about her. Scrooge wasn't sure that he could put into words quite what it was. But somewhere along the line Sasha had been made to understand that she was as good as anyone; that she had every reason to be proud of herself; and that she could determine for herself the direction of her future life.
One afternoon in early June, Scrooge unexpectedly came upon Sasha in the widow's kitchen. She was sitting at the table, writing in a leather-bound notebook. In front of her, propped up against a jar of flour, was a similar but older and much-handled volume. And Scrooge didn't need to be told what that was.
Sasha was concentrating hard, for reading and writing did not come easily to her. Her tongue, poked out of one corner of her mouth, made her almost a caricature of the earnest student, and she was so bound up in what she was doing that she didn't notice Scrooge at first.
Scrooge paused only long enough to take in the scene, and then he withdrew immediately, with an apology. But as he walked away he found himself curiously moved. If he had done nothing else in life, he thought, he could take satisfaction from the fact that he had brought Sasha to a place where she was loved and trusted and cherished; a place where she could build a future for herself.
When Scrooge returned from London he inquired, politely, whether all had gone well at the recent meeting of the circle.
'Very well, thank you,’ said the widow.
'The stones have not been damaged in any way by the change of ownership?'
'Not in the slightest.'
'Good. And who have you bent to your will this time?'
'None of your business, Mr Scrooge.'
'Probably not,’ he admitted. ‘However, although it may be coincidence, I must say that on my return to Tanway I have found myself possessed of an overpowering urge to ask you once again—would you do me the great honor of consenting to become my wife?'
The widow was flattered, he could see that, but she raised her eyebrow in a mild reproof.
'Mr Scrooge, I thought we had agreed that you would wait until you had been living in your new house for a while before you raised that matter again.'
'Well yes, we did sort of say that. But it will be another month at least before the Manor is ready, and a fellow can't help feeling frisky you know.'
'Frisky indeed.’ The widow almost snorted. ‘A little self-control would not go amiss. But since you have brought the subject up, Mr Scrooge, perhaps I should point out that we have no knowledge of each other physically. And while I cannot testify as to what the current practice is in London, I can tell you that out here in the country the normal arrangement is for a man and woman to make love together on a number of occasions before they decide whether or not they should marry.'
'Well, I have no objection to that,’ said Scrooge.
'Possibly not, but today is not the day for it.... Perhaps,’ said the widow, moving away to attend to some business elsewhere, ‘perhaps we might consider it before long.'
Midsummer's Eve fell a few days later, when the moon was still bright, and it so happened that late in the evening Scrooge came upon the widow as she looked out of a window into the gathering dusk.
She seemed so extraordinarily beautiful, in that soft half-light, that he put his arm around her waist and kissed her cheek. It was not by any means a chaste kiss, but the lady did not resist. She turned to face him, a smile on her face.
'Why Mr Scrooge, I sense that you are feeling frisky again.'
'Yes, somewhat, I must confess.'
'Well, if that is the way you feel, there is only one place to be on a night such as this.'
Scrooge's pulse-rate began to increase. ‘You mean ... upstairs?'
The widow laughed. ‘No! Outside, of course. And some distance from here, at that. Are you game?'
'Game for anything,’ replied Scrooge.
They set off, the widow leading the way.
It was a warm, close evening; the air was still and heavy, and the darkness was already beginning to close about them. But the widow told Scrooge not to worry. Even if the moon disappeared entirely, she said, she could still find the way.
After they had been walking for a while, Scrooge posed a question: ‘May I ask where, exactly, we are going?'
'About a mile, all told. You have, I believe, visited Home Farm?'
'Several times. Third biggest of my farms, with Mr Marlby in charge.'
'Yes indeed. And did you notice, on the bottom field, in the valley, a single standing stone?'
'Er, no,’ said Scrooge. ‘Can't say I was shown that.'
'Well, it's there. It's a single stone, rather like those we saw at Avebury, perhaps twice as tall as a man.'
'And that's where we're headed?'
'It is.'
'And it's, er, worth a visit is it?'
'Oh, very much so, Mr Scrooge. Very much so.'
After perhaps half an hour they came to a stile, and there the widow paused.
'Look,’ she said.
Scrooge looked, and there, a hundred yards ahead of him, he saw the stone he had been told about. In the moonlight it seemed to give off a curious glow, as if it were luminous.
'My word,’ he murmured.
'Oh yes,’ said the widow. ‘It is at its most powerful tonight.'
'Why tonight?'
'Midsummer's Eve, sir!'
'Oh, yes. And powerful, you say?'
'Very.'
'In what respect?'
'The stone, Mr Scrooge, is known as Adam's Pillar, or sometimes by a more vulgar name.'
'Well yes,’ said Scrooge. ‘It has a sort of ...'
'Phallic appearance.'
'Quite.'
'And it is said by local people that men who make love to a woman who is standing with her back to that stone will find themselves possessed of a stamina and power which they have not hitherto experienced. But both parties have to be naked, of course.'
'Of course,’ said Scrooge. ‘Of course.'
And when they reached the stone he was in such a hurry to comply with this last condition that he popped two buttons off his shirt.
Later, when Scrooge found himself with his forehead pressed hard against the cold stone of Adam's Pillar, and his cheek side by side with the widow's, he moved himself gently and luxuriously within her. He pressed her harder against the rock.
'My word,’ he said. ‘I do believe this works.'
'Of course it works, you old fool,’ murmured the widow. ‘It's witchcraft.'
CHAPTER 30
The work on the Manor house took longer to complete than Scrooge had hoped. But then, building work always does take longer to complete than was originally hoped; it is an immutable law of the universe. In the end, however, by late July, the house was sufficiently repaired, renovated, and refurnished for Scrooge to be able to move in.
Long before that, for he was an impatient fellow, he had asked the widow, for a third time, to marry him. And at last she had agreed.
The wedding was held in late September, at about the time of the autumn equinox. Scrooge often became depressed and bad-tempered in the autumn, when he noticed the days perceptibly shortening, but this year, because of the change in his circumstances, he was in fine form.
Among all the obvious wedding guests were a significant number of Scrooge's business acquaintances. They could hardly be called friends, for in financial circles Scrooge had not gone in for friends. Some of them freely admitted that they had come only because, had they not witnessed the ceremony with their own eyes, they would never have believed that old Scrooge had got wed.
These businessmen were naturally anxious to see what sort of a withered old maid would have him; and when, in
due course, they discovered what a fine figure of a woman the future Mrs Scrooge was, their astonishment was redoubled. Indeed there was, regrettably, a good deal of ribald comment as to what it was, precisely, that the lady saw in him.
The bride and groom took a short honeymoon in Torquay, where the weather was still mild. And on their return they took up residence together in Tanway Manor.
Thereafter, as was only proper, the widow acquired a new name: Mrs Scrooge. To Mr Scrooge she was Charlotte, and to her he was Ebenezer.
Of the baronet from Bath, who had allegedly been courting the widow and might reasonably have been expected to be a serious rival to Mr Scrooge, nothing was ever heard. For his part, Scrooge had a strong suspicion that the titled gentleman had been nothing more than a figment of Mrs Bannister's imagination. But he didn't really mind.
By Christmas, Mr and Mrs Scrooge had just about succeeded in organizing their affairs as they wanted them, and they were therefore able to celebrate that season in the style for which they later became famous throughout the district.
Each year at this time, in Charlotte's mythology, the goddess had to become the great mother, and give birth to the sun once again. This was an event which called for great festivity, for if the light faded and was not reborn, all life would die with it.
That first Christmas, as in all subsequent years, pretty well everyone who was known to the couple was offered hospitality at about the turn of the year. ‘Everyone’ therefore included all Scrooge's London friends: Mr Cratchit and family (quite a lot of them); Mr and Mrs Bannister; Mrs Molloy; Scrooge's nephew Fred and his wife; Fred's wife's sisters; Mr Larking; and even Mr Topper, who was before long to be married to the plumper of Fred's sisters-in-law.
Local guests included Sasha's beau, young Bradley; all seven of the tenant farmers and their families; the Vicar of Tanway (who seemed either oblivious of, or complaisant with, all ancient and pagan customs); Mr Nesbitt and his simpering wife; various luminaries from Pewsey; and the whole of the sewing circle, together with their assorted husbands, children, mothers, aunts, cousins and companions. In other words, very nearly the whole village.