The Dance of the Witches

There’s something peculiar in the air today, though it’s not a sensation that one could easily explain to just anyone. I find myself thinking about that subtle dance, the one we old witches do when we cross paths with another of our kind. It’s much like the way dogs interact, isn’t it? They don’t need to speak, yet they know one another. There’s no actual scent in the air, but still, we can sense each other, and it's never quite the same as the mere hobbyist witches—those modern ones who worship idols and fuss about with their rituals, oblivious to the deep current of tradition they merely skim the surface of.

No, I’m thinking about the true witches. The old ones, like me. There aren’t many of us left, which makes these encounters even more rare, more charged. It’s not always a comfortable sensation either, brushing up against someone who knows the old ways. It’s like catching the whiff of another’s work in the woods—real work, mind you, not the garish plastic ribbons tied around trees or poorly placed trinkets meant to mimic tradition. You know it when you come across it. The air seems to hum a little differently when someone has been working magic in a way that connects to something deeper, something older.

It’s a feeling that makes me reflect on just why there are so few of us left. And of course, I always come back to the same thing—central heating.

Oh, it’s not really the heating itself, naturally. But what it symbolizes, the comfort, the ease. I’m sure you remember the aches from past lives, the harshness of the world before we softened it with modern conveniences. Our craft, our magic, our traditions were once necessary just to survive. There was no luxury in it, no hobbyist approach. It was a matter of life or death, and those who couldn’t survive the path fell away. Only the strongest, the most resilient, endured.

Now? The necessity is gone, and with it, the drive. So few have the will to learn anymore. We’ve lost so many traditions because of this. I’ve seen it with my own eyes, and yes, it’s sad, but the worst thing we could do is water it all down in a desperate attempt to pass it on to someone who isn’t ready or worthy. It’s sacrilege, really. The spirits, the forces we work with—they never accept those who are unacceptable, no matter how much we might want them to. You can leave gifts, say parting words, but there’s no tricking them. The magic knows.

I see the temptation in others, though. There’s a pull to pass the reins, the contracts, the legacy to someone, anyone, before time runs out. But so often it’s left too long. The blood ages out, the ties weaken, and there’s no time to train the next generation properly. Then, some try to find alternatives—those younger practitioners with grit but not the right blood for the path.

I used to think the keepers—those outsiders with a fascination for our craft—could help. The magical groupies, if you will. They protected what we couldn’t, or so we thought, until the time came when someone worthy would emerge. But now I wonder. The museums we once entrusted with our relics and artifacts, like Boscastle… how terrible it has all become. What was once a place of preservation has turned into something else entirely. Perhaps it’s better to send our items off to the charity shop, or better still, take them to the grave with us.

There is dignity in letting a tradition die, like a plant wilting, its beauty spent but still remembered for what it was. There is also, of course, the Egyptian method—taking everything with you into the beyond. I see the allure of that, too. But then again, I wonder, does magic ever really die? Or does it simply change form, waiting, biding its time until the world is hard enough again for it to be needed?

For now, I’ll continue on, knowing that the dance between us—those of us who still practice, still live the old ways—is rare and strange. But in that strangeness, there is a sense of connection, a knowing. Even if the world around us forgets, we still remember. And that’s enough. For now.