Speaks Agatha.

Hope you’re never in here.

It’s to be an honour, his giving me this page. I told him I didn’t want it unless I could say whatever I like.

He then made the same offer to a few other witches, all of whom wrote whatever he wanted. Shall I give you a sample? No, I’ll spare you the words, the gist, then, where the lesson is that the devil is both charming and drop dead gorgeous, the finest lover they have ever had, and this includes each other. Lies. None of them are brave enough to brave the Devil under the sheets.

Satan has a mirror, many lovers, excellent equipment and valuable skills, he doesn’t need to be told he’s the best. He does, however, like to be reminded, physically, if you get my meaning. And while I wouldn’t say that all witches will fuck the devil, I certainly did. Repeatedly.

This leaves me free to write exactly what I want, what will that be?

Well, as a species you’re in dire need of education regarding witches, so I’ll enlighten you.

First thing I would have to say is that we’re not ugly, or old, no warts, no wrinkles, our hygiene is better than yours. We have power, do you think we’ll walk around any other way but gorgeous? Beauty opens doors, greases wheels, lightens reason, looks truth from under lush lashes, keeps its lips parted, reaches out and touches you.

We don’t age or die, but we can suffer, and we can be killed. I will never die of natural causes, time does not weaken my heart, but a god can kill me, or a mortal with the right knowledge. Another witch can kill me, I will die if I don’t maintain my spells, like all of us. 

We don’t eat babies, Christians, or corpses, we eat at the high table. Above the salt and close to the light, so it can fall on the perfect elegance of my bones, the sweep of my nape, the curve of my breasts.

We don’t sicken livestock, or poison wells, that’s all on you. Most witches love the earth better than we love mortals, I will save any animal over a human, we don’t kill them to read their entrails. Why you accuse us of this is quite beyond me, since we all know it’s the priests that do the sacrificing. They killed one of their own gods, then ate him, they re-eat him ritually into forever.

Do we embrace evil? It depends what it’s wearing. What colour are the eyes? What does it whisper into my ear?

I admit, I play with weather, I had a fling once with the god of Storms, he’ll come for me now, like a dog to its master. But ah- he can give the devil a run for his money. A completely different kind of hot.

So, yes, I mess with your weather, a little payback for factory farming and ranchers. But that’s just me, any other witch that tells you she can summon storms is lying.

Do I resent the centuries that painted us hideous, and worse, paltry? Do I have trouble with how you still use us in your literature and arts? In your religions? Do I think of the souls of helpless crones who were burned for the moles on their necks? For the length of their nose and the stench of their habitat? Do I feel for their being always the scapegoats?

No. You are responsible for what you destroy, not me.

You will know my destruction when it comes, but remember too, that a witch is about far more than witchcraft.

“Gudernes Vilje” by Myrkur