Okay, where did I leave off? Oh yes, planning to run away… Well, my whole life my parents and grandparents read to me and told me stories of witches and magic. But not the normal stories. The witches were not evil. In fact, they devoted their lives to helping animals and the forest and people in need. They would conjure up dams for the beavers and make it rain during a drought. They were not green, and they never cackled, though they loved to laugh and frolic in the grass with their shoes off in pretty summer dresses. These witches had all of the power, but what made them most special is that they used their powers for good. But eventually these wonderful people were viewed as threats. They had too much power, and even worse, they were women with too much power. And then we humans did what we do best. We hunted beauty down, captured it, and forced it back inside the heart and soul and closed it off with an impenetrable iron curtain. According to my books, no one really used that kind of magic anymore, but there were places all over, like Scotland and Iceland and Greece and Norway and Ireland and ruins that were once castles, that still contained patches of grass or a rock that were said to be sacred. I think of them as little, sort of invisible, wells of magic that you could go to and harness and unlock the doors in ourselves that we had kept closed for centuries.
Anyways, you’re a clever little girl, so you’ve probably already predicted a problem that was arising. My books never talked about sacred spaces in the United States, and there was no way, at 14, that I was going to be able to get to Iceland or Norway, and since I only had books that talked about European witches and nymphs, I had to do what any other normal 14-year-old aspiring witch would do in 2020. I went to the library.
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“But, Grandma Ivy, didn’t you have the in-in-internest?”
“The internet? Why, yes, but I liked to touch the pages of books. I liked the way they smell.”
“I thought you were going to school, too.”
“Ah. Enough interruptions”
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Anyway, I went to the library, and I found out about the Salem witch trials, right here in good old Massachusetts. Apparently, all of these women and teenage girls were being accused of doing evil witchcraft and worshipping the devil, and lots of them were banished and killed. I also found out that one of the families, our family, the Proctors, were accused of satan worship and witchcraft. Unfortunately, our great-something grandfather was killed, but his wife and daughters escaped. And even though last names were and are supposed to be passed down from the father’s side of the family, the women of The Proctor Family (who were the best at magic) decided to only marry their husbands if they agreed to let them keep their names. That way the history of magic would stay in the arms of the next little Proctor who decided to take up spells. Unfortunately, the Proctor women had to stop doing magic because people were too afraid of it, and it put our great-grandmothers at risk, but their brilliant plan worked because about 330 years later, a little Proctor girl did discover her family’s rich history, and she learned how to harness her strength.
Now, I know what you are thinking. No, I did not go to Salem. Frankly, I don’t think I will ever set foot near that place. Too many dark things have happened there, and there wouldn’t be any untainted sacred spots there. Also, it gives me the heebie-jeebies.
I started researching Native American sacred spaces. Apparently, there were places set up with circles of huge rocks on the side of the road between Plymouth and Sandwich, Massachusetts. These places were called hobbomak and were said to hold particularly strong spiritual power. In these places seekers could obtain spiritual power directly from the spirit world.
I shouldn’t have to do much to convince you that as soon as I read that I packed up my pink hiking backpack with bedding and clothes and toiletries and, as I would later realize, way too little food and way too little shelter and way too little money and set off to Plymouth or Sandwich (I didn’t have a very good address), leaving a note for my mom that read only this: “Going for a hike. Call me if you or dad need me. See you soon.”
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“Mia, do not ever, under any circumstance, leave a note like that. Ever.”