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Jack's Fables

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The Witches of Dipstick

“How do we best heal the world?”

 

“Why don’t we trade on my name, after all I’m famous in these parts…”

 

“What we need is the new Messiah, and I just happen to have his number.”

 

“Won’t it all happen anyway?”

 

The four esteemed witches of Dipstick were arguing and debating how they could use their talents to heal the world. Fate had brought them together, and each had her own real agenda, which despite their best efforts of disguise, surfaced with alarming frequency.

 

And that agenda was to out do each other, in terms of fame, riches and status in the community. There could be only one winner. Or so they thought…

 

The witches all outwardly appeared to support and work for each other, but underneath lay seething resentment. And they all knew it. And they all knew that that they knew it…

 

Beta was the most famous of the four. She had become a legend in her own lunchtime. Working from a thicket in the forest, her powerful brews and perpetually boiling cauldron cast benign spells on the whole region. She could heal by the mere mention of her name.

 

Feta was jealous of Beta. Feta had her own hut on the outskirts of the forest which she shared with her cat, Tiding. She wanted all Beta had and more. She wracked her brain to discover why and how Beta was attracting more fame and interest. After all, Feta was brighter, cleverer, better looking and more skilled than her, so what was going wrong?

 

Getta worked closely with her partner Mooch, and was the only witch to do so. The others regarded themselves as strong, independent women, which indeed they were…

 

Getta was seen by Beta and Feta as a bit of a maverick. She sailed very close to the wind, and often her actions resulted in an unholy alliance between B & F. As her name suggests, Getta was highly motivated and determined. Mooch lived with her right in the heart of the forest, in a place impossible to miss. Getta invited other witches from far and wide to her cave, and out of the cave emerged some very strange potions indeed.

 

Last, but not least was Bruschetta, ‘the artistic one.’ Bruschetta wasn’t really interested in the intrigue and nonsense the other three got up to, and often wondered why she remained involved with them. It was her apparent indifference to the machinations of Beta, Feta and Getta that served only to wind them up more, as they projected their own insecurities and hang-ups on to her, wanting her to be as manipulative as them. Like Getta, she lived in a cave, but hers was on the south side of the forest.

 

“We are children of the fourth broom!” declared Beta at their annual gathering in the forest. “And we are known as such. Out of cave, hut and thicket we fly, high and above them all, casting forth our healing and wisdom. And it is good, though they see our dark side sisters as evil. I call upon the Great Toad to continue to send his blessings to us, and that one day, he will emerge as the Great Prince. Which one of us will he choose?”

 

A myth had emerged in Dipstick, that the Great Toad would pass his healing gifts on to the masses, once he had changed into the Great Prince.

 

His metamorphosis would be complete when ‘the chosen one’ kissed him.

 

However, like all myths, it had become distorted and open to wide interpretation over the years. The witches insisted only a genuine witch could trigger the transformation. The church at first ignored it, and then as the story spread had to act. It was blasphemy. Anyone found promoting the myth would be arrested, tortured and exiled to Earlestown or Aberystwyth, considered by many to be a fate worse than death.

 

Amongst the masses, several people had decided ahead of time that the Great Toad had chosen them. It was known in the towns and villages that those so minded included many men. The idea of a man kissing another man caused even more uproar in non-secular circles than mad witches, but because the whole idea was unspeakable, men who thought this way were deemed not to exist.

 

It was another rural and urban rumour that the king and church collaborated in secretly arresting toadstools [as men who harboured such thoughts were known] at night, or just physically taking them off the streets and paths and sending them to Norton Priory for ‘correction.’

 

What no-one had managed to do, including Beta, Feta, Getta and Bruschetta and other members of their international coven was describe convincingly how the Great Toad as the omnipresent, omniscient and omnipotent being would actually become manifest, and then create a situation in which the ‘chosen one’ would approach him and plant a kiss on his cheek.

 

And again, because of this, the myth had become even more distorted.

 

Getta was obviously not to be the chosen one, as she had already ‘chosen’ her mate, Mooch. Feta had an admirer, as did Beta, but they were only of the third broom and could never mix potions, spells and heal like the witches.

Ironically, Mooch could do all the witches could do but he knew he could never be recognised as a practitioner. Even if he bowled from the pavilion end, Feta’s cat Tiding had more chance of kissing the Great Toad than he.

 

The annual gathering was now in full swing. Even before Beta had shouted out her rhetorical question about the chosen one, Feta was puffing herself up like a male peacock, and sending out silent messages to other members of the coven that she was indeed the Great Toad’s suitor.

 

Despite the witches psychic powers, none of them could have fathomed what was emerging behind and all around them in the forest. Their focus was on things higher than medieval wannabees…

 

Hundreds of those self-declared ‘chosen ones’, including several very brave toadstools had gathered themselves, in bushes and in the undergrowth a few hundred yards from the inner circle of witches.

 

The coven was totally unaware that a national network of clandestine ‘chosen one’ contests had developed. All manner of soothsayers, false prophets, magicians, jugglers, card readers, trick cyclists, failed mortgage applicants, hemlock sniffers and broom wielders had been auditioned by a panel of three judges, and declared to be on the ‘chosen one’ shortlist.

 

The scam [in the middle ages there no such things as ‘scams’ just God’s will and acts of the Devil] worked because even though there could only be one ‘chosen one’ gullible people had bought into the idea that there was a celestial grooming process. And because no-one could ever know who it was, myth and magic dictated it could be anybody.

 

Applicants for the Chosen One Nomination were ‘vetted’ by two jesters, Rant and Cheque, using a system which everyone thought fair. In truth the whole scheme was set up by the king and church. Rant, Cheque and the three ‘judges’ Pants, Wants and Plants were paid silly amounts of money to keep quiet. It was a vehicle to flush out heretics, convince thousands they could be ‘someone’ in the grim and gruesome world that was 15^th century England, and to smash the witches’ coven.

 

The king and church knew the witches were a massive force for good, and they had healed thousands of people and animals. If their powers grew, they would become  credible, and no amount of anti-witch propaganda would counter the real experiences ‘commoners’ were having. They had to be destroyed.

 

Feta was beaming out her ‘I’m the chosen one’ thoughts to all those present, as of course was Beta. Getta, despite her ‘alien’ status as Mooch’s partner, secretly knew it was really her the Great Toad had his eye on, so she was at it too.

 

Other members of the coven began to feel overwhelmed. Most of the rag bag of secretly hidden aspirants had remembered their own psychic powers, and were bombarding them with ‘it’s really me’ thoughts themselves.

 

The forest was so electrified with psychic activity, if the Great Toad did want to reveal himself, he couldn’t have chosen a better moment.

 

Amongst the toadstools were agent provocateurs. Their role was to get enough of the deluded ‘chosen ones’ to witness first hand the coven in action, and then to denounce them for calling forth the Great Toad. The warped but compelling logic was that by getting the witches out of the way, the field would be clear for successful C.O.N finalists.

 

Amnesty would be given to all, as the establishment’s prize was the destruction of the witches.

 

Feta was determined to make her final move to cement her place in history, and become an even greater legend than Beta. She jumped up, dressed in finest bracken. Resplendent in laurel leaves, cuckoo spit and oregano, she hopped on her broom, and flew in a figure of 8 over the forest. Screaming “I am the chosen one, the rest of you can go to hell” as she looped the coven.

 

However, in her act of proclamation, and despite her self-obsession, even she couldn’t help notice the circle of toadstools and what appeared to be witch clones around the coven camp. Further out still, there were soldiers on horseback, along with the local abbot and sheriff.

 

The spell of the coven’s pre-occupation with doing each other down was shattered. Feta’s party piece had drawn their attention from themselves, and when she noticed the impending threat, the other witches all tuned into her thoughts. The game was up.

 

The coven, as if one being, mounted their brooms and flew up into the sky like a flock of starlings. Before the soldiers could fire their arrows, the wannabees could chant ‘Do you wannabee my Lover’ and the bent toadstools could hatch their plot, the witches were gone.

 

All but Feta. She continued recklessly in her figure of 8 loop, screaming even louder, given she had now encountered nearly 100 more rivals for the wicker crown. The spectacle of this banshee didn’t go unnoticed. As some sort of consolation, the archers let loose volleys of arrows, to see if she could be hit. At least five arrows caught her as she was screaming Hell at the top of her voice.

 

She fell out of the sky like a stone, and landed in a pool surrounded by very thick shrubs and large rocks. Some local commoners had witnessed every moment of the drama, and guessed that if she wasn’t removed from the pool pronto, the army would have her burned at the stake before you could say ‘Witch Burger.’

She was dragged out of the pool and rushed to a distant cave. Weak, barely alive, she saw her whole life flash before her. It made for very grim viewing.

 

Then Feta got her miracle. Unable to contain her joy, surrounded by white pearlescent light, a long-haired, bearded figure appeared in flowing white robes, and spoke quietly in a Scottish accent.

 

“Feta my child, do wish to stay here in paradise, or go back to earth and continue your healing?”

 

“Oh Great Toad, I am your chosen one, let me kiss your cheek,” wailed Feta, convulsed with expectation.

 

“I am sorry,” said the figure in white, “The Great Toad does not exist, at least not as you know it. Nor will anyone here turn into the Great Prince. Your world is wracked by pain, jealousy, strife, wars and greed, and you and your sisters are my light workers. Every one of you is part of the whole, so every one of you is the Great Toad, the Great Prince and the Chosen One.

 

You chose to follow a life of healing. You may choose again to stay here or go back. I suspect if you do go back, you might act a little differently. But you may not. Whatever you do is up to you, there is no judgement here.

 

You see the idea that mankind is subject to the forces of good and evil, and witches, lager, large sunglasses and designer neck braces offer a shelter from the rain allows your false myths to develop.

 

The irony of your ‘final’ performance as the screaming banshee may not be lost on you.

 

Life always conspires in your best interests.”

 

And with that, the robed figure left. Feta was left, open mouthed, reflecting. During this time, the witches had landed on an island in the North Sea. A new witch called Lambretta had joined the coven. At her first address to the coven council she stood up and said:

 

“We are all the chosen ones. Every one of us. And so are those we would heal. And in fact so is all of life. Let us come together and help our friends awaken. And if we are all the chosen ones, we are all the Great Toad and the Great Prince. So how about us metaphorically kissing the cheeks of those we heal? What would life be like if we all were sacred?”

 

JS, July 2008.

 

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