History of Witchcraft

It has been expected of me my entire life that one day, I would become a witch.

I didn’t doubt this. Most people in our small village became witches sooner or later, usually between the ages of fourteen and seventeen. Two of my good friends were already well on their way, and my entire family has a huge history of brilliance in witchcraft for the past one hundred years. I would become one someday - it was what I was born to be.

So with my sixteenth year nearly spent and rapidly drawing to a close, it was only natural that I began to worry. True, it has been known of people from here finding their magic after the age of seventeen, the very ever oldest recorded being at thirty seven. It may happen after seventeen. Yet…who wanted that?

Witchcraft, in a village composed almost entirely of witches, was viewed as one’s absolute and final step on their venture into adulthood. Once you found your magic and began learning how to utilize it, people regarded you differently, especially one’s peers. I in no way wanted to be that late bloomer of my group, (how embarrassing would that be?) yet I couldn’t shake the vague suspicion that I might just be that late bloomer. Only three of my five close friends, including me, had not yet found their magic, and one of them was starting to show the signs of finding it.

I pause now to go into a small bit of history regarding becoming a witch - finding your magic.

It is done somewhat differently in all areas of the world, so there are quite a few different ways. Though all similar and yet all entirely different, the basic aim is all steadfast throughout the world.

Some countries have actual schools which one attends and learns the craft in; these are almost certainly the most well-known of all witch-training facilities. Others have one or two young people begin apprenticeships, others have sort of adult-hood test…I can’t possibly remember them all. Who has the time for that?

In my village of Bramblethorn Brooke, set on the banks of Bramblethorn River which gradually leads to Bramblethorn Bay, we are perhaps the most traditional and yet also most controversial method of witchcraft training known in the globe. Yet there is no question among us, though others in the world may doubt our practices - it is the absolute best way to learn and we, though small, produce the absolute best witches in the entire world and have done so for three hundred years. Case closed.

In the village of Bramblethorn Brooke, one begins the training of witchcraft always after the age of fourteen, and rarely after the age of seventeen. (Hence my worry.) Younger than fourteen has never been recorded.

Between these ages, teenagers poised to be witches find their magic. Not on purpose, and certainly not by looking for it, for if you are expecting it it will not come. It always happens in the same way.

Roughly two weeks or so prior to the great event, one begins to show signs that their regular, non-magic days are drawing to a close and their new path of life will begin. Usually these include dizziness, klutziness or insane fits of giggling during a time which one must remain quiet. Shyness has been recorded, although boastfulness and unnatural bravery are more common. The youth will often feel as though no one matters except for someone he or she loves dearly, (usually a relative or close friend) and during the two weeks or so is very protective of this person. When my best friend Sherrilyn Baker found her magic two years ago, I could scarcely get away from her for all her love and affection. My mother told me I should feel honoured to be Sherrilyn’s Beloved One, so I tried to. But frankly, it really got quite annoying.

Sherrilyn was the first of my four friends and I to find her magic, so this next part is based partly on fact and partly upon what she reported to the other four of us.

Usually around the end of the two weeks, the youth will be walking by herself, without expecting anything. It doesn’t matter where - it could be the forest, it could be her backyard, it could even be her own kitchen. She will be walking with no purpose at all other than to transport herself from one area to another, but as she walks, something will catch her.

She’ll either trip over it, bang her head, catch her shirt, whatever. The important thing is, as she bends to move it away, she touches it with her fingers and a jolt of understanding and perfection whizzes though her entire body and everything is at once harmonious. She has discovered her broomstick - she has found her magic.

The broomstick may be a twig or branch that was outside and she has to then fashion it into a broom herself. Or it could be a broom that was already made - not a witch’s broom but one designed only for sweeping. If it happens to belong to her neighbour or someone of no relation to her, this presents very little problem - all she has to do is go up to his door and explain what has happened. He understands completely, for he remembers when he found his magic. A witch has only one broom - nothing else will ever work for her or him. It is unthinkable to suggest buying or finding her a different broom - it would not work. It would be an insult of the greatest magnitude even to think such a thing. The brooms, if they belong to someone else, are given away without fuss. And while it’s not essential that the new witch buy the neighbour a new broom, most people do out of simple politeness.

Brooms can be anything. They can, as I have said, be brooms that have already been made. That’s what happened to my friend Madeline - as I speak she is learning to soar like an eagle perched precariously on her mother’s old whisk broom. It’s not a whisk broom now though - it’s a witch’s broom. Beautiful and sacred as anything ever ought to be.

Sherrilyn was walking by Bramblethorn Brooke at the time, and consequently brushed against a willow tree when she found her magic. Her broom is fashioned from a strong willow branch for the handle and a tail of long, whispery willow twigs about two feet long. They still have their leaves on, and she didn’t trim any of the shoots, but that is what works for her. While impossible to sweep with, it is a thing of beauty and looks wonderful when she flies, with two feet of soft willow twigs fanning out behind her.

My mother’s broom is made of long grass that has been twisted and woven together into a broom shape. My father’s used to sweep the floor or the town barbershop. Whatever works. If it calls to you, you have no choice.

Upon finding your magic, you next order of business is choosing a teacher - a man or woman who will willingly teach you the craft. Witchcraft is best learned by experience and doesn’t really have a huge need for a teacher, but there will be things to ask and times you need help and other things you can’t pick up by yourself. That is what the teacher is for.

I already had someone in mind for my teacher - my grandfather Waldemarr who lives in the middle of the village. He’s not really my grandfather, but I have called him such since childhood. We are close, and he is one of the best witches I know. I think he would be honoured to teach me…but first, I have to find my magic.

Sherrilyn is using her mother, who is perfect for Sherrilyn to learn from but not for anyone else, (she’s a tad fussy, that woman…) and Madeline is using the woman who works in the coffee shop. I guess they have some special relationship…I am not personally acquainted with the woman.

A wand is not like a broom, where it calls to you and then you are stuck with it and have to learn to get along. A wand is something of your own choice, of your own creation. You make it magical by adding a certain number of things that mean the world to you, like a bit of your loved one’s hair or a flower you like a lot or whatever. The number of things you must put on comes to you in a dream.

Once again, wands are different. Mom’s is wooden, cut from an oak tree. Attached to it is a bit of my father’s hair, a lock of my hair from my babyhood, a hummingbird feather and a bright red ribbon that belonged to her mother, who is now dead. Things like that. Madeline’s is plastic, and Sherrilyn’s is a modified pencil. It’s your own choosing.

Then, once you have your broom, wand and teacher, you are free to learn at your own pace. You learn spells, charms, potions, (the potions are usually from your teacher) how to fly, varying other things. Once you’ve tried them all you find the thing you are best at, and then you are that sort of witch from then on. I don’t know anymore after that, as I haven’t yet found my magic.

Coming out of my reverie, I thought about not having yet found my magic.

Why hasn’t that happened yet? My family has found their magic at age fourteen for hundreds of years. I’m almost seventeen - what’s wrong with me? All I have to do is trip over a tree root or something…why can’t I find my magic?

I was interrupted worrying by a tap at my window. Looking up, I immediately recognized the mottled pigeon belonging to my friend Wandella. (She is the friend who’s beginning to show the signs of finding her magic.)

I opened the window and the bird flew in, and allowed me to remove the rolled up note from its leg. There were two others attached to it, and it flew off again straight away. I wish I had a pigeon. Mother and father say they might get me one for Christmas.

“Hey, it’s Wandella.” the note read. I smiled. I never have favourites with my friends, but Wandella is hilarious. She’s so much fun. So confident and approachable.

“What’s up? We’re all meeting at my house, so hurry over please. Love, Wandella.”

I stood without a word and pulled on my jacket. It’s been getting chillier lately, and the leaves are starting to turn.

Best to wear a jacket, just in case we wound up going outside.