Dedication

This story is dedicated
To all the most beautiful souls
I've ever known
And all the ones
I never will

Content Warnings: This story deals directly with (a few specific expressions of) trauma from sexual assault and abuse cycles, othering, cultural appropriation, and many other topics that are likely to be triggering. It also involves demonology, the commercialization and Flanderization of modern witchcraft, and performative leftism. In short… there's so much here that might set someone off that it feels kind of dishonest to pretend I can present a comprehensive list and say "There! Everyone who's not on the list is safe."

I want to be very clear that no survivor owes anyone this explanation if they don't want to give it. I have very mixed feelings about including my own. But for my own part, I do want to give it, so… this story has helped me come to terms with my own recently (as of the time of writing in the first weeks of November 2021) internalized trauma as a CSA survivor.

Otherwise, Urhexen mentions past slut-shaming and it's something of an open question as to how much slut-shaming takes place in the story itself, so be aware of that going in. If you've ever been the outsider to a group of people you badly wanted to be "in" with, only to realize after they've hurt you that you were better off moving on alone… this one's probably going to sting pretty bad.

***

"Hey, Ride-along," Jenna says, nudging my shoulder. "You ever been to one before? A real old-school Sabbath?" She's red-headed, pixie-faced, done up in all-black makeup. I'm not used to seeing other girls sport a look so, well… goth. A little ruffled top, opaque leggings, a short skirt, belly bare to show off her piercings. She looks pretty witchy, no doubt about it!

"No," I admit, nervous as… gods, I want to compare it to so many things, but what can compare? My first day of college? The first time I left home? The first time I had sex?

I have a good feeling about tonight. A feeling like I'm going to see real, true, undeniable magic for the first time. I guess, if that's true… well, it'll be like all of those things at once.

"We don't normally wear anything that involved," Marta says. "Well," she amends, taking her eyes off the road for a moment to look back at me, "Moonsilver does, but she's, y'know." Dark brown hair, grey eyes. I've heard her compare herself to me a few times and say she's "plain", and I hope I can get her to see she's really not. I wish my hair had a sheen that rich, and all those orange-red undertones in the right light. For her, it's a leather jacket, fishnets on her arms and legs, and silver cobweb earrings.

"Coven leader, yeah," I say. There's me in the mirror: a milky oval face, dark red lips, nice blond hair. Big blue doll-eyes, but I'm a lot better at eyeshadow and shading my cheeks than I was in high school, so it doesn't spoil the look too much. Not that goth is just a look, but I do still want to look like what I am.

But, yeah… this is me. Carrie Rider. College Sophomore, public Lutheran, quasi-secret witch. And, um… the girl wearing the "involved" outfit in question. It's a custom order, black lace and frills, a very carefully fitted boob-cutaway that's mostly covered by the accompanying mantle, and a hood embroidered with jagged blood-red symbols I designed myself. Oh, and the hood has a black veil I can lift up and rest over the back or drop forward. I thought it would be neat if I hide my face for really big incantations--put the focus on the spell in my voice and gestures, and the scene of its casting, instead of on what I look like.

I guess it should be pretty involved. It cost me $1500. That's a lot of ice cream shop shifts-worth of savings. But I'm only going to wear it for major rituals, so I figure it should at least last me until I age and my figure starts to, well… go.

I try really hard to be at peace with that whenever I think of it. I don't want to be the vain blond girl. I hate knowing that every time I think thoughts like this, I'm feeding into a bunch of awful cultural crap about getting old, about being an older person--fat and wrinkles shouldn't be a point of shame for anyone. But… it's just hard not to fall into it when being curvy and darkly glam is the only thing I have going for me.

"I think your outfit is really lovely," Hannah says from the passenger seat. "It's very… witch-chic." Hannah's sort of like our local guide, except she's not actually local--an Air Force brat. Her parents are stationed in Germany, same as they have been for ten years, so she's been here with them. She's trans, a few years into HRT, and vibrating with this adorable excitement that I'm pretty sure translates to just the word "girls" over and over again.

Hannah's more tomboyish than anything--black hair, green eyes, just a touch of makeup in the right places. I like her clothes better than everyone else's: just some big shorts held up by a little black belt, and a white T-shirt with She-Hulk on it. I want to say her outfit feels more natural on her, but I'm pretty sure that's just my insecurity talking--I just like her better because she's not trying to dress like a witch or a goth, so I don't feel threatened. Guess I've still got to work on that.

Hannah's a really sweet girl, so I make sure to be extra sunny when I say, "Aww, Hannah! Thank you! That really means a lot to me. I've had this thing folded up the whole time we've been here. I was starting to think I'd never get a chance to wear it, which would be a shame since--"

"So, Ride-along," Jenna says, drowning out the tail end of my words to Hannah. I guess her mind was elsewhere and she started speaking before she realized that I was. It's okay. It happens to me a lot. "Penny for your thoughts?"

"I mean," I say, grinning, "where do I even start? I'm amazed Amaranth--I mean, Moonsilver--was able to get us access to this site. It was just unearthed, right?" That'd be a new archaeological dig in the woods of the Westhavelland Nature Park, in Germany.

I spent all this morning salivating over the photos. A really elaborate stone enclosure carved into a rock formation underneath a hill that probably grew out of debris falling on it over the course of centuries, complete with descending stairs to the central altar and wall engravings, really invested stuff for a standalone site, that they think dates back to a pre-Christian era--maybe even proto-Germanic.

That's… okay, maybe that's more exciting for a certain vain blond who's majoring in Religion, emphasis Ancient Religions. But for me it is exciting, so I babble a bit. "Like… this was just in the news a few days ago. We're already getting in there, before a lot of actual archaeologists, even, and just the raw good luck of this site going public while we're studying abroad up in Greifswald…" I shake my head. "It feels like fate."

Jenna gives me a weird look. "Fate is an outdated superstition."

"Oh, well, yeah," I say. "I agree. I was just being a little colloquial. It just feels like fate. That's all I meant."

"We can work on teaching you ways to put that which aren't so loaded with uncomfortable connotations," Marta says. "We must be very mindful of our words, Carrie. Words have power."

"Yeah, sorry, I know," I say, fighting down spikes of panic. Great. I've already made a bad impression. I only just found out that UM has a witch's coven after I met Amaranth and the others in our Pagan Religions course. That's how I wound up as a fledgling member of the Sisters of the Boundless Cycle of Body, Sun, and Moon. "It's just… given how remote the site is, I wonder if maybe this might be some kind of gathering site for… like… early witches?"

"Well, pagan priestesses, certainly," Marta says. She clears her throat. "Most of those who have come to be called witches in popular culture were nothing of the sort. It is very important that we don't go looking for kinship with historical figures at the expense of obscuring who they actually were."

"Right, right, like the women of Salem," I say. God, Carrie, shut up! Why don't you ever just fucking shut up before you say something else you regret?!

And I do regret it--really, really fast. "Whether or not the women of Salem were witches," Jenna says, "they did rebel against Patriarchy. They're martyrs for women's rights, Carrie--some of the only historical women we should look to see ourselves in."

"Yeah, I… I'm sorry," I mumble. "I understand."

It gets quiet for a few seconds. Then Marta starts complaining to Jenna about some other class they're in together. I just sit there and listen quietly, hoping to pick up some of their wisdom. But I guess right now they're just dealing with the emotions from all the insights they've had in the past. It's just a lot of frustration and anger. Based on the things I've gone through, and I'm pretty sure I've had it pretty easy--no one ever talks about me as someone who had it especially hard--I have to assume they have all too much reason to be so mad.

But eventually, we come off the main road onto a temporary dirt one enclosed by the nocturne forest on all sides. There's a cheery campfire in the middle of three other rental cars, a huddle of black-clad figures on benches around it, and beyond? At the far end of the clearing, the northern end under a full summer moon, there's the dark omen of a hill. The faint rectangular jutting of the excavated entrance to the ancient shrine.

I'm as jittery with a new surge of excitement as with nerves. Hopefully I've got my screw-ups out of the way for the night. Though… I kind of feel like Jenna and Marta have already decided I'm not a great person. I guess it's not subtle. I deserve it, I know that.

It still doesn't feel very nice, though.

Anyway, they must be better women than me, because they still let me tag along once we pile out of the car. We all collect our coven bags from the trunk: custom-printed with the logo designed by a friend of Moonsilver's. A crescent moon crowning a sun with an orchid flower underneath to represent feminine body. It's a really simple design. I can't wait to hear about the layers of meaning I've missed.

When we get to the fire I'm confronted with six more beautifully witchy visions--all in blacks and purples with occasional green. Bangles, charms, wands and staves. I'm not even sure how these girls got some of this stuff in-country. I guess witches have their ways, right?

"Ah, and now our numbers are complete!" Moonsilver says, in her beautiful ringing voice. In the waking world she's Amaranth Dawson. Here, with mirror-polished bracers of latticed silver bands on her arms, with a low-cut black gown to show off the amethyst pendant on her neck and a complimentary circlet holding an honest-to-God emerald on her forehead, she looks every inch the head witch in charge. She has absolutely gorgeous, glistening, silky black hair, and her eyes are already a really unusual shade of ice blue, but tonight she has blood-red contacts in for added presence.

At least, I think they're contacts. Fuck, it would be so exciting if it turns out she can actually change her eye color with magic, and she's only letting me think those are contacts!

I feel gaudy and overdressed in comparison. What the fuck was I thinking with this outrageous period piece? But… that's my insecurity to deal with. Quietly.

"Please have a seat, sisters," Moonsilver says to the three of us, then to Hannah, "dear guest." I feel like even though Hannah's not a witch, it would still have been good to call her "sister" since she's a woman too, and trans girls need to hear that twice as often to balance all the hate they get. Moonsilver just moves on with the agenda. Maybe I'm worrying over nothing? We pick a bench. Hannah sits down on one side of me, with Jenna and Marta on the other.

"As we have a new sister in the coven tonight," Moonsilver says, "let us all share our witch-names with her before we proceed to some preliminaries, and then, of course," she claps her hands together, red contacts glittering in her eyes, "the ritual."

Oh, yeah. I guess witch-names would be a common idea, right? I knew I wouldn't be the only person to dream the idea up, but I was hoping maybe Moonsilver was the only other witch in this group who had thought of it. That was silly. Maybe arrogant--wanting to think I was already at the same level as a full-blown coven leader, so only she would be able to match my witchcraft.

Yeah, that's definitely arrogant.

"Carrie?" Moonsilver prompts. "It's good not to have too much going on in your head before a ritual, but do remember to maintain some presence of mind, hm?"

Oh. I guess it felt like I was thinking a lot to me, but… wasn't, really. "Sorry, Moonsilver," I say. "Um… what was the question again?"

There's a general roll of laughter, including some really good cackles. I try to laugh along. It doesn't feel funny to me, but I've always been oversensitive. With a sigh of saintly patience, Moonsilver shakes her head. "This girl," she groans, grinning. She clears her throat. Looks at me again. "Your witch-name, Carrie?"

"Oh," I say. "Oh. Um…" I twiddle my thumbs and pull my club bag off my shoulder to play for time. "I, uh… I haven't chosen one yet." There's an awkward silence. I start explaining instead of waiting, or, you know, asking if anyone wants an explanation. "It's just that I wanted to go on a journey to earn it. I figured I should do that before I decided on what the name was, since, you know, whoever I become at the journey's end is who the name should really be for…" I'm getting a lot of blank looks, so I trail off.

I don't understand. I really thought I had a good idea this time.

"None of that is necessary just to claim your own name," Moonsilver says. "A true witch takes her name whenever she likes, Carrie." She smiles gently. "You don't need to worry about having deeds to justify it. The notion that a woman must justify her self-expression through her experiences is just Patriarchal propaganda."

The others nod. Morticia snaps her fingers a few times for extra emphasis.

"I mean," Moonsilver adds, waving a hand to Hannah, "Imagine if Hannah had to go on a journey to embrace herself as a trans woman before anyone would acknowledge the name she chose for herself."

That's… I think that's tone-deaf, at the very least? I don't think she should've just used Hannah as a prop to make a point about something totally unrelated to trans identity. I don't think she should be using Hannah's personhood as a rhetorical tool at all, actually. And being a witch is a choice. Still not something we should be persecuted for, but we can put it aside for a little while. Hannah is always a trans girl, so this just seems really…

But I'm also a shut-in and a recluse, and Hannah's not saying anything… maybe I'm just out of the loop. University of Michigan is a really progressive school. They wouldn't have just let Moonsilver start a club--I mean, coven! God, I'm awful. I'm just hiding in my own mind and sniping at her. What, am I going to say anyone who does stuff I don't like isn't a real witch? Anyway, UM wouldn't have let her start this coven if she was going to mistreat and exploit people from marginalized groups, right?

I'm sure there's all kinds of vetting stuff I don't even know about. Better just let the system do its job and not try to stick my nose into things my bimbo-brain can't handle.

Nobody else says anything. My instincts are all warped, anyway. I used to be friends with a bunch of really shitty conservative people who conditioned me to get angry at liberals, filled my head with lots of bad-faith caricatures. I'm programmed to assume the worst. To think every leftist I meet is a hypocrite. That's my fault for falling in with those people, right? Yeah… yeah, I think this is just another me problem I have to deal with.

And Moonsilver's been talking in the background this whole time, and I haven't listened to any of it. Great. Awesome job, Carrie, you self-infatuated bitch. I'm sure, whatever it is, it's helping Hannah come to terms with how much I hurt her with that stupid comment I made about names, because she's just staring quietly at the fire and avoiding eye contact.

"Now then," Moonsilver says, "for now, we will simply call you Carrie, or sister. Everyone else, let's go around the circle. Starting from the left--"

So, everyone introduces themselves, but I'm tired from studying. I know that's no excuse, and just saying "I'm terrible with names" doesn't feel great either, but I'm afraid I just am. I remember that Jenna's witch-name is Jenuthra and Marta's is Morticia because I already know them, so new facts about them have something to stick to in my giant melting goo-pile of a brain. As for everyone else… I'll just do my usual and wait for each of them to start speaking, then respond when I want to talk to them, so I don't have to call on them by name until I pick their names up.

I know I should just ask. I'm too scared of them thinking I'm a bitch, though.

"With that concluded," Moonsilver says, "let's take a moment to celebrate our coven-members for their successes in the waking world. Firstly, as many of you already know, Jenuthra is being consulted for a doctoral thesis on modern witchcraft." Jenna preens under a well-earned round of clapping.

"Let's all lend our spells to strengthen her spirit as she tears down a lot of the dusty old ideas about what it means to be a witch," our leader continues. She's so fervent. So alight with energy and conviction. I bet there's nothing left in the world that can hurt or scare or diminish a girl who's that sure of herself. I want to be like her so badly.

"And of course," Moonsilver says, gesturing to a pale blond witch with a neat diamond face and a runner's build, "Morrigu is lending her expertise in North African tribal magic to my own mother," and she drops her voice to a comically dramatic pitch, like a society matron of the Roaring '20s, "the esteemed owner of Dawson's Emporium of the Strange and Wondrous." She grins, basks in the laughter of the coven, then continues in her normal voice, "We'll be unveiling a new line of items for the discerning witch, paying homage to the rich traditions of magic and spirit-worship from our cousins in North Africa."

She clears her throat as though to move on. Then, starting, she says, "Oh! And of course, 50% of all profits from the first month of sales will go to the NAACP." There's a little round of applause from this.

It feels a little weird since there are no black women in our coven--or witches of color in general, now that I look carefully--but I guess part of dealing with white guilt is just putting our weird white-girl uncertainty where people of color don't have to see it.

"Oh, wow," I say to Morrigu, unable to contain my awe of her. "You even know witches from North Africa?" That must be why she has her hair in dreadlocks. I'd wondered about that. It must be something she only does because of her very close relationship with them. That might be okay? It's not really for me to speak on that one way or the other.

"Oh, no, not yet," Morrigu says, laughing. "But I've done plenty of research, and of course, Mrs. Dawson and I will be hiring sensitivity consultants to make sure that all of our products show full respect to the cultures we're taking inspiration from."

Oh. Okay. I'm actually not okay with this.

"Shouldn't you, um… do that before designing them?" Hannah asks quietly. "I'm sorry. I know you mean well. This just seems really… like it runs a risk of being really appropriative. Unless your lived experience is black, I mean. I can't speak to that."

"It's not," Morrigu says, a little briskly, "but I assure you, I'm an eager student."

"I actually have to agree with Hannah on this," I say. "I know your heart is in the right place, but you're still making commercial products out of someone else's culture, and--"

"There will be ample opportunity to discuss this in the future," Moonsilver says, sharp, calm, and cold, "so let's not get lost in the woods on this one, okay, Carrie? I understand your concerns, and I do thank you for speaking. But in the future, let your sister witches have their moment first. This ritual space is our refuge from the world. We can sort out the nitty-gritty of the things we do in that world when we go back into it."

I want to say that talking about business, about profits and sales and material things, is pretty much trampling over everything I most want to escape from when I'm practicing witchcraft. And this time I know it's not just an excuse to get the last word in. But Moonsilver's face is so hard and flat all of sudden. I'm afraid of what will happen if I push her any further. She has connections in the university, connections enough to get this trip for us. For all I know, she could ruin my academic career.

I'm sure she wouldn't do that just to punish me for challenging her. I'm sure I'm just catastrophizing. But it's still a scary thought.