The Symmetry of a Dandelion

�Gentle is the land we live, thankful are we to be to give.�

She stopped rocking in her char. She started at me pointedly.

�You want to know about witches?� She leaned closer into me, her eyes glistening with knowledge and her lips curled upwards towards memory, �I�ll tell you about witches, but understand this little one, only an open heart and mind can truly understand.�

�Tell me grandma, tell me!� I was 12 when my grandmother told me about the witches. I sat on a cushion next to her on the veranda as she moved back and forth on her old rocking chair.

Her weathered face softened as if the years of toil and loss had dissipated at the prospect of revealing her true self.

�Listen, and I will tell you a truth that will make you forget all other truths.� She inhaled heavily, �Back then, being different was punishable by death, still is in some near parts. For years they vilified us.

Those deemed innocent would drown and the guilty would walk to the hang man�s noose. But let me tell you this my dear child� She paused momentarily to make sure I was listening. Content that I was, she continued, �But tell me who is the guilty in this charade? Fear of the other is fear of that which they do not understand.�

I nodded. Eagerly, drinking in the sentiment as if it were my life blood.

�We existed long, long before Phips and his ilk. And we would exist long after. The heart cannot be stifled by conformity, child. The voice may be silenced but the soul speaks. I don�t envy them. Not even one little bit. Fear does strange and cruel things to the heart of a rigid man. But it�s hard, child, to forgive what they did in the name of purity. Alas, it was a long time ago and I have lived many lives since then�

�Please, please Grandma� I begged, besides myself with anticipation.

�Very well� She sighed heavily, �I fell into the coven when I was first your own age. It was quite by accident, on the surface at least� She chuckled knowingly to herself, �I was a terrible sleeper and I would wake up on many an early morn and watch as a small group of townswomen would pass under my window, returning from the outer edge of the village.� She paused again, savouring the memory.

I stayed silent, knowing instinctively that any interruption could break her into reticence.

�On one particular eve, winter it was -the night before my 12th year, I stayed awake as long as my tired eyes would allow me. I followed them, intent on finding out what they were doing in the raven hours. I trailed a few steps behind, scared that the thumping of my heart against my childish chest would warn them of my presence. I needn’t have worried� She laughed softly, �They knew I was there�

�But why�� I started. She put a bony finger to her lips, shushing my childish impatience.

�As I reached the clearing, they were gathering, the woman I had been trekking closet, turned towards me, her hand outstretched. Her eyes were the kindest I had ever seen. Blue like the sky of a midsummer�s day and swirling with the hope of the stars on a mid-winter night. I remember them even now. A gentleness I have not seen before or since. I went to her instinctively. Impulsively. I don�t know. To this day, I can�t be sure. That night I stood on the edge of the circle of truth as the women held ritual and thanked the laws of nature for all that they had received.�

She stood up abruptly as if memory had taken over her senses.

�There was an evil my child! Certainly. But it was not we, but fellow man who walks afeared and ignorant to the world he inhibits� She sat back into her rocking chair as quickly as she had stood.

�We were witches, it is true. And there was magic, without a doubt� She looked at me intently. I dared not breathe.

�But not of that which you have read. The evil witch of fairy tales was never anything more than just that. A fairy-tale. A lie born out of insecure minds and ignorant hearts. We grew power from the land. From the beauty of the symmetry of a dandelion, the delicate scent of honeysuckle or the poignant touch of a breeze rippling through our hair – and in return the earth gave us the fruits of healing. Potions, concoctions, spells we cast with natures� own hand and in its good name� She began to whisper softly �Gentle is the land we live, thankful are we to be to give.� She stared at me with determination, �Had it not been for the misjudgement of man we could have helped. We could have healed together.”

As it was, we were banished like demon to the outer lands. Flung from a society that had made us their villain.� She sank into her rocking chair, her energy depleted. I slept at her feet that night. My mind alight with the lies of man.

I never could quite trust the truth after that.