A Lionheart's Feast

She was magical. Powerful. Mystifying. 

My grandmother was the brightest light in our home. More welcoming than the sun after a thunderstorm. Warmer than a mug of hot cocoa and a freshly lit fire. The reason I wanted to learn witchcraft myself. Her vigor inspired me regardless of the dangers ahead. 

I remember the way I felt when her exuberant spirit shriveled into something lesser. A normality of sorts. I felt the shift for only a moment before the strength transferred to me. It was the same feeling as a moth begging for warmth then being greeted with flame.

Now as I sit, watching my niece attempt to resurrect a wilting petunia, I contemplate if it is time to make the same sacrifice. Legend says every other generation has a cursed witch. The curse is to hold the most magic in the coven. The more we cast our spells the more energy we absorb. Energy we take from the witches around us is imprisoned within.  

Being extremely powerful doesn’t seem like a curse when the initial surge of power enters every inch of your soul. At first you can heal your coven’s broken bones and shattered hearts. Food sources are replenished with the snap of your fingers. Then, as the years pass, your friends cannot create strong potions. Once they were able to talk to their familiars and now they can only communicate with gestures. You’ll sit at the head of the table watching them wither away with lugubrious expressions. That is when we cursed ones are faced with the decision to forgo our powers in order to save our loved ones.

I set down my teacup on the small table next to the rocking chair I am occupying. The crisp autumn air soothes my nerves as I walk through the garden towards the mansion. The mansion was built in 1670 as a sacred ground for witches to join as their covens were being hunted. A witch hunter by the name of William Webb fell in love with a witch. When she became pregnant he decided to build a large house to protect his family. When the witch hunting did not stop William decided he would help abandoned witches. In secret he was housing them while his comrades thought he was the most skilled hunter. 

I find my grandmother sitting in the library writing in a journal. Mahogany shelves hold hundreds of books dating back centuries. Every coven’s photograph is framed and hung on the cozy beige walls. A red damask patterned rug lays on the original wood floors. My heels clicking against the floors alert my grandmother. She gives me a warm smile and sets her pen down. 

She beams, “Martha! Welcome, my dear.” 

I take a seat next to her, leaning over to read what she’s working on. She closes the journal and shoots me a playful glare. I throw my hands up defensively. 

“Sorry, sorry.” I laugh.

“You know you should not read another witch’s private journal.” 

“I am sorry Grandmother,” I snicker. “I just wanted to know all of your secrets.” 

“I do not keep secrets from you, Martha. You know that.” She sets her glasses down. “What is it you are really searching for?” 

My Grandmother Agatha has always had a strong intuition. I think the intuition grew stronger after she relinquished her powers. 

I sigh, “I think it is time I make the sacrifice.” 

She nods and turns to me. Her cold, bony hands lay atop mine with a gentle squeeze. Her warm brown eyes peer into my soft blue ones.

“I had a feeling it would be time sooner than later. When my magic transferred to the coven, I knew you absorbed most of it. You were already such a strong and powerful witch. The flame was destined to snuff itself out quicker than it caught fire.” I breathe in her words, letting them settle into my bones. “I am so sorry, dear. You are so young. You may be the youngest witch to make the family sacrifice.” 

“Can you tell me more about the curse?” I ask softly, longing for a comforting story.

“Of course,” She nods. “We should start at the beginning before Webb Manor was built. The manor was built after the witch trials in the 1660’s. Witch hunting became illegal but they did not rest. William Webb met Agnes and they fell deeply in love. The love was so strong that when William found out about Agnes’ witchcraft he decided to forgo hunting witches. Agnes showed him that they were not so different and that magic was aimed to be helpful. There were few witches who were petty and used their abilities for bad such as Agnes’ mother. 

When her mother discovered she fell in love with a hunter, she forbade Agnes from leaving the house. Of course she snuck out and ignored her mother’s warnings. What Agnes didn’t know is that her mother knew she was sneaking out and one night she cursed her. It was a curse that did not seem harmful at the time but when Agnes’ friends could not defend themselves against the hunters, she knew something was wrong. Her mother told her what she did and there was no turning back.” My grandmother paused to take a sip of her tea.

“I can’t believe Agnes’ mother would have done that.” I sigh. “What did William do? Is this why he built the manor?” 

She nods, “Yes. William built the manor for Agnes to move in. The last of her magic was used to build strong protections around the house and garden. After that she sacrificed her magic back to the Goddess that let her have it. As the witch hunting went on, William and Agnes housed witches who lost their friends and family. It was a silent war; everyone knew what was happening but they never confirmed it. The only ones that truly knew were the predators and prey.” She purses her lips in deep contemplation. “Agnes was a hero. She gave up her magic for love and sanctuary. We are all here today because of her, and of course Mr. Webb. Without either of them we wouldn’t be here to tell the tale. She was a hero.” 

I whisper, “I want to be a hero. I don’t want to let the girls down.” I take a deep breath in and nod. “Let us prepare for the ritual. I want a big party. A lionheart’s feast.”

I, Martha Webb, relinquish my full ability to practice magic for the rest of this life.