Coven v. Coven

“Please tell me we’re getting closer. The witching hour is upon us, we shouldn’t waste this precious time wandering aimlessly.”

“We’re almost there. Just trust me.”

Margareta headed the group of women as they ventured down the thick forested path leading to the clearing in the heart of the woods, lanterns in hands. Branches poked the procession left and right, testing many a practitioner’s patience. The most outspoken amongst the pagans was Isolde, one of their oldest members. Needless to say, she disliked when younger witches tried to take the coven into new directions.

“This is completely unnecessary,” she insisted. “We have always celebrated Samhain in Lana Walker’s wheat field, I don’t see why this year should be any different.”

“Lana’s farm is too close to town,” replied Margareta. “You won’t get as much of a connection with the elements there.”

“How can you guarantee this supposed altar of mystical powers will be better? None of us have ever seen it.”

“I did see it before.”

“You never practiced there.”

“It’s not rocket science, Isolde. The altar is at the foot of the tallest sequoia you’ll find in Yosemite, the roots go so deep they pull energy from all over the land.”

“Wicca isn’t about rocket science either, nor is it about pulling energy from all over. It’s about finding energy within ourselves. You newcomers could learn a lesson or two about—”

She stopped mid-sentence. Trees were getting taller and sparse. Between trunks, the Wiccan practitioners glimpsed the dancing glow of burning torches in the distance. They were not alone. The argument faded to a whisper out of concern for the disclosure of their whereabouts, all the while growing in heat.

“We must go back,” claimed Isolde. “Clearly Margareta led us into the sanctuary of another coven. Samhain is no time to fight.”

“Fight?” exclaimed Margareta. “Who said we needed to fight? These are probably other witches just like us. We should join them and rejoice!”

“Nonsense! We know nothing of them, rival covens are not reputed to get along.”

“We practice a spirituality of peace. What’s the point if we spread fearmongering among our ranks?

“Perhaps you need to be reminded you are not High Priestess of this coven, Margareta.”

“That’s because we all agreed not to have a High Priestess, Isolde. The same could be said about you.”

There was no doubt Isolde took offence with the defiant statement. Turning to her fellow witches with scandal in her eyes, she raised her hands in a solemn gesture of rallying.

“All those in favor of going back.”

A handful of witches raised their hands, but the majority remained silent. Margareta jumped on the opportunity.

“All those in favor of approaching them.”

Nearly all of them sided with the young witch. Isolde’s face turned a deep shade of red, and she spoke not a word as they cautiously got closer to the clearing. Hiding behind trunks, the witchcraft they witness was not what they expected to see.

A great sequoia of unbelievable magnificence stood tall in the center of the area, its branches reaching for the heavens and its roots sinking deep into the unknown layers of the earth. At the heart of its hollowed base was a stone altar on which an enigmatic figure of worship had been assembled. It consisted of a skull on a bust draped in countless garments and colorful shrouds. Crowns, headdresses and flowers adorned the top of the figure’s head. The remaining space on the altar was covered in marigold blossoms and photographs.

Around the sequoia were congregated many women of all ages, circled by torches planted into the ground. They danced and waves their long skirts to the sound of a guitar by the foot of the altar that seemed to play by itself.

“They’re Santa Muerte devotees,” whispered Isolde to the rest of the group. “This is a Día de los Muertos ceremony, we don’t belong here. We must leave, now.”

“Why can’t we take part in it?” asked Margareta. “The rites are for sure different, but we all came here to honor the Dead.”

“Are you really intent on raining destruction upon us? Going in there would be nothing less than a declaration of war.”

“Really? Let’s see about that.”

Margareta took steps forward.

“Go no further, silly girl!” said Isolde. “Your foolishness will bring the death of us all, if you join them don’t bother coming back to us.”

The threats only invigorated Margareta’s spirit. She steadily walked in the altar’s direction. The devotees quickly noticed her presence and stopped midway through their dance as the guitar kept playing. A tall woman draped in a ceremonial red dress stepped in front of the altar, asserting herself as the de facto Priestess of her clan.

“Look what we have here,” she said. “There’s a newcomer in our ranks. Who are you?”

The young woman swallowed nervously, betraying the anxiety she had tried to hide in front of her peers.

“My name is Margareta, and I’m a Wiccan practitioner.”

“A Wiccan!” she exclaimed, her voice tainted with sarcasm. The other devotees erupted in laughter. “Have you come to pray Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte?”

Before Margareta could answer, a deafening scream coming from the trees behind took her by surprise.

“We have come to pray the great goddess of the craft Hecate, and no one else!”

Isolde had decided to take over, and she stepped forward with the rest of the coven, belligerent as ever. Margareta observed in silence, horrified. This was the real declaration of war. The Santa Muerte devotees gathered behind their Priestess.

“How dare you intrude on our sanctuary to claim it for your goddess?” the Priestess yelled with fury. “This is land isn’t yours, we have prayed for our Dead in this forest for years.”

“The afterlife is guarded by the great Maiden, Mother and Crone,” replied Isolde, clearly in the midst of the greatest delusion of grandeur in history. “This place rejects your worship with all of its might, you don’t belong here.”

To think she was preaching peace minutes ago, thought Margareta. War for sure comes when one looks for it. The aggression triggered the Priestess, and her eyes glowed white. The Santa Muerte devotees chanted in unison, and great balls of fire rose from the torches, raining inferno upon the Wiccans.

Guardians of the Watchtowers

From East to West and South to North

Shield us from these fires

May your protection come forth

Margareta uttered the prayer under her breath, and Hecate seemed to be in her favor. The fireballs deflected towards the surrounding trees in the blink of an eye. As Isolde and the Priestess argued with escalating vehemence, the young witch spun on the spot, glancing at the surrounding woods. The confrontation had caused a blaze. Hellish flames were taking over the vegetation, consuming every leaf and vine with devastating speed.

“Stop it!”

The witches and devotees all turned to stare at Margareta.

“I knew the devotees would be here tonight, my only intention was for our cultures to come together. This conflict was never meant to happen. Look around you!”

One by one, the women turned and witnessed with shame the agony they had caused.

“It’s not too late,” declared Margareta. “We have entered the witching hour. Let’s come together and fix this. We have the power. You said it Isolde: it's about finding power inside of us.”

She led the chant, and soon all pagans repeated the words in unison, hand in hand.

Deadly fruits of rage and anger

You are no longer welcome

Heed the call of every sister

For healing rains to come

After three iterations, the first droplets fell from the heavens. Soon, a monsoon covered the forest with arcane water, reducing the raging fires to mere embers and ashes. The threat had passed, but the thrill of the communion had not, for both witches and devotees felt electrifying power running through their veins. Their hands remained locked in a steadfast grip under the rain, and Margareta smiled: although none of them could see it, she knew Hecate and Santa Muerte held hands too.

Around them danced the spirit of the Dead. They contemplated the scene with bittersweet glee. Many of them had found serenity in Death, but yearned to have known such peace in their living years.