THE WITCHING CHAIR, a fairy tale for enlightenment

While others sleep by crackling fire, the crone flees comfort to see what happens in the frozen wood when no one is looking. She doesn’t care for the same-old. No, she much prefers to lose her mind’s footing, for it is what’s wild and magic she finds reassuring. And how she finds true stories to tell, so wake up! Wipe the sleep from your eyes and listen to the crone’s tale. Remember—

It’s up to you to find what meaning you will.

 

 

There once was a village in which twelve women donned coats each night to walk hilly streets between row houses. Holding lanterns near their faces, they became known as glowing flowers which seemed to have lost their root.

When asked, the twelve women would say they were seeking they-knew-not-what. The confession came with shame. For though their lives were good, they wished for everything to change.

The men of the village didn’t know what to make of this shady lantern business. They huddled over simmering pepperpot and watched through frosted windows as the women roamed all on their own.

One evening at dusk, a thirteenth woman surrendered to her own mysterious longing which she’d been denying. She bashfully joined the others. Collectively and without discussion, they set out with their lanterns as was the new normal. I must emphasize again how these wandering women had no idea what they were seeking.

On this night a crone was waiting for them, blocking their way on the street.

“This seeking without finding isn’t meant to be endless,” announced the crone with an impatient air. “You must go to the witching chair and sit. It’s the only way to satisfy a woman’s longing. You shouldn’t need to be told this. You should have already known.”

“Where do we find this witching chair?” asked the thirteen women, goodly chastised.

“You must go to where the full moon is made two—one above and one below.”

The thirteen women marched in a trembling line to follow the moon as apparently they should have done already. Once outside the village, they grabbed one another’s hands for reassurance. They entered the creaking winter wood.

The moon slipped in and out of bare branches as they trekked with anxious eyes that stared out from fur-trimmed hoods. There were murmurs of confusion and giving up. But at last, they came upon freshwater and believed they understood.

There, the moon floated not only in the heavens, but also on the waters of a round lake—two moons.

In the center of the lake, suspended over the glittering water, was a throne of velvet, blooms, and bones. The women marveled at this fearsome sight. They traipsed in a circle along the gently lapping shore, but there was neither bridge nor helpful stepping stones.

Six of the women waded into the water, but their clothing was heavy and weighed them down. I’m sorry to tell you they noisily drowned.

Six more noticed where the others had gone wrong. They stripped naked before beginning to swim, but the icy cold water stole their breath. Now it was the fate of these six to sink into the deep.

Whether you like it or not, that is where they now belonged.

When the splashing settled, silence fell over the lake and the last woman, the thirteenth, wept in grief and despair. She knew not how to swim, yet grew weak in her knees at the thought of returning home unchanged.

Needing help, a simple prayer she spoke.

Or…perhaps…what wished to happen next the prayer provoked.   

The waters of the lake parted and lifted to either side. The thirteenth woman’s eyes beheld the way made clear. She bolted along the sandy lake bottom to the witching chair—and was trapped, because as soon as she sat the waters came back.

After this there was nothing to do but wait as she gripped the arms of the witching chair, rubbing her palms in its velvet and breathing in its sweet blooms. Still she fretted over her predicament and, wishing to pretend the witching chair had no skull bones, her gaze turned to the reflection of the moon quivering on the water.

To her surprise, the fluid moon began to swing back and forth like a pendulum. Her eyes followed the motion until she became so relaxed that she may as well have been dead.

Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a white blur. She sat up straight. There! A rabbit. And another! Soon rabbits darted every which way over the surface of the lake. The pawprints left behind glowed in a lovely pattern, and the thirteenth woman laughed, forgetting the closeness of the watery cavern.

A lumbering bear out of the mist did appear, and she drew up her legs in terror when its huffing breath passed so very near. The bear seemed to pay her no mind and went on its way walking on the waters.

Next wolves arrived; the pack sat on their haunches to howl like lovesick marauders. After pawing at the moon’s rippling image, they ran off of a sudden.

The thirteenth woman watched as deer picked their way across the lake in the wolves’ wake. They nibbled at tufts of water. And peeped at her with doe eyes, for her enchantment’s sake.

It was all so impossible. The thirteenth woman assumed these must be visions. “I’ll test it and see,” she said. She scooted forward on the witching chair and tapped a timid boot upon the fairy shimmer of the lake.

“As solid as the ground!”

She stood on two trembling legs, took three careful steps, and kicked off her boots. This is when her soul pried any shyness loose. Flinging out her arms, the thirteenth woman rose up onto her toes. Divine abandon possessed her.

And she commenced a dance.

All manner of creatures tweaked their noses, for they smelled the telltale waft of goddess fragrance. The consequence was a furry frenzy. The animals joined the ballet, snapping at the twirling woman’s dress until she bled freely from their love bites—

The Wild’s Caress.

However bloody, the thirteenth woman could not stop the dance. Her throat filled with a wild, predestined cadence.

She threw back her head to howl to the moon. Quite naturally she shifted into the shape of a wolf. She tried on the form of a rabbit and a deer as well, finding herself as comfortable in one as the next.  

If she were here, she would tell you it was indescribable—much more intimate than being bodily fixed.

The moon expanded in the sky and glowed so bright that its silvery light reached deep into the fathoms of the lake. The thirteenth woman was reminded of danger and froze.

She gulped at the sight of the underworld below her bare feet. Countless souls peered up at her with earnest expression and hands that begged, most with strange clothing from long ago.

The twelve women she knew were there, too, with hair afloat.

“What is it you want of me?” asked the thirteenth woman. The mouths of the dead moved, but she couldn’t hear a word. Compassion overcame her fear. She beckoned for them to join her above the surface of the lake, so as to be heard.

A man in a frilly nightgown did so, taking her proffered hand. As they waltzed, he whispered most urgent in her ear before shoving her in the direction of a newly risen other. The thirteenth woman switched partners in quick succession. For in case you do not know, the feet of the dead drag in water to make them sink. Still there were many wet and eager for however brief a spin, and of course a chance to speak.

The dead asked that she be their messenger. “What is ancient longs to be reborn into this world,” they told her. “You are not hemmed in by the edge of your skin,” they insisted. And more.

Their urgent and whispered words were both joy and burden to her. For to be their messenger she would lose her life as she had known it. But in exchange?

Old Magic.

The dance went on all night long. At dawn, she noticed the witching chair was gone. Quite content and exhausted, she walked toward shore with her last steps sinking beneath the surface of the weird pond. That got her moving! Forgive my cackling.

The skirt of her dress dried by the time she got home.

“Did you find what you were seeking?” asked her husband the moment she got through the door.

She was so dazed she could not answer. The dancing dead and animals had been so very real that this ordinary world of a village, row house, and husband appeared impossible to her. And because it was impossible, a dazzling smile lit her face.

For this is when she knew the ordinary must be Magic, too.

“Wife, why do you look at me so amazed?” asked her husband, taking her hand. “Whatever happened that you were gone all the night long?”

He screamed to wake the village when she showed him. Quickly, she changed from a bear to a harmless and soft white rabbit, but this did not stop the screams. Forgive my cackling.

You can imagine how the villagers took to this impossible state of affairs when they arrived to see what was the matter. They demanded that the woman stop her devil’s shapeshifting. But the thirteenth woman cried out like a mad prophet,

“This is Old Magic, nothing new. There is no reason to fear. I have no true outline, nor does God, and neither do you.”

Let us pause here. If you imagine this is a mere fanciful tale and the woman’s words are nonsense or insane, I will ask you to return with me to the two moons at the lake:

What I forgot to mention before is how the moon looked down to watch the dance. And when she saw her reflection wavering on the water, she wasn’t confused. The moon knew that no matter how many images of herself might appear, there remains only her, the One moon.

Don’t be a fool. No matter the appearance of things, the moon can never be two.

Herein lies Ancient Magic. It is how the thirteenth woman could appear in the image of many beings—she always and already had, as have you, whether or not you wish to ignore this forgotten Truth.

I’d much rather you find this out for yourself than believe. Why not have a thrill? There’s no end to the wonder Old Magic will bring.

As for the villagers, they were having none of it. Most ran shrieking for their homes. Others turned pink-cheeked at the impropriety of it all, the husband packed his bags, and a few plotted violence against the thirteenth woman.

But as it happened, they couldn’t catch her to kill her. Forgive my cackling.

In the years after, our thirteenth woman could be caught shifting her shape with small children in endless pursuit. When they begged her to give them some of her magic, she would turn ever so slowly and teach with a mother’s rebuke—

“Do not ask for what you always and already are!”

Then she’d jump at them with a witch’s fingers. For she never missed a chance to tickle the little monsters, to make them squeal and whoop.

Old and gray, she was known to dance like a love-struck fool upon a far-off hill at night—with the long feet of a rabbit. This is known to be true because proper adults would sneak off to watch. They just couldn’t help it.

Secretly…there were those who felt an inexplicable kinship with the woman and wished to join her wild, sacred dance. But few did, for they had yet to give in to their desire for a holy, hot romance.  

Secretly…they made pilgrimage to the witching chair and longed to take a seat. But few did, for the tragedy that is the worry of what others might think.

And so, the many suffer. Needlessly.

Knowing this, to this present day the thirteenth woman cradles her heart and howls for the coming of the One moon.

Is she you?

 

 

 

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*Featured image of woman with lantern by Enrique Meseguer

*Image of chair by fefito

*image of wolf by hanifauk

(credit for rabbit image is unknown)