The Cruelest Month

‘So let me get this straight,’ said Olivier.



‘He almost never says that,’ Gabri assured Clara then turned back to the platter of shrimp Olivier was trying to get him to pass round. Gabri took one.



‘Easter isn’t a Christian holiday?’ said Olivier.



‘Well, it is,’ said Jeanne. The little, nondescript woman had somehow managed to dominate the room full of strong personalities. She sat bunched into a corner of the sofa, squeezed between the arm and Myrna, and all eyes were on her. ‘But the early church didn’t know for sure when Christ was crucified so it chose a date, one that would fit into the pagan calendar of rituals as well.’



‘Why would they want to do that?’ asked Clara.



‘The early church needed converts to survive. It was a dangerous and fragile time. In order to win over the pagans it adopted some of their feasts and rituals.’



‘Church incense is like the smudging we do,’ agreed Myrna. ‘When we light dried herbs to cleanse a place.’ She turned to Clara, who nodded. But it was a comforting ritual full of joy, not the somber swinging of the church censer, glum and vaguely threatening. She’d never seen the two as similar and wondered how the priests would feel about the comparison. Or the witches.



‘That’s right,’ said Jeanne. ‘Same with the festivals. We sometimes call Christmas Yuletide.’



‘In some of the carols anyway,’ said Gabri.



‘And we have the Yule log,’ Olivier pointed out.



‘Yule is the ancient word for the winter solstice. The longest night of the year. Around December twenty-first. It’s a pagan festival. So that’s where the early Christian church decided to put Christmas.’



‘So that a bunch of witches would celebrate? Come on,’ said Ruth with a snort. ‘Aren’t you making yourselves out to be more important than you are?’



‘Now, absolutely. The church hasn’t been interested in us for hundreds of years, except maybe as firewood, as you know.’



‘What do you mean? As I know?’



‘You’ve written about the old beliefs. Many times. It runs through your poems.’



‘You’re reading too much into them, Joan of Arc,’ said Ruth.



‘I was hanged for living alone,



for having blue eyes and a sunburned skin,



and breasts.



Whenever there’s talk of demons



these come in handy.’



Jeanne quoted the poem, searching Ruth’s face.



‘Are you saying Ruth’s a witch?’ asked Gabri.



Jeanne tore her attention from the wizened old woman sitting bolt upright.



‘In the Wiccan beliefs most old women are the keepers of wisdom, of the medicines, of the stories. They’re the crones.’



‘Well, she does practice bitchcraft. Does that count?’ Gabri asked to roars of laughter and even Jeanne smiled.



‘There was a time when most people were pagans and celebrated the old ways. Yule and Eostar. The spring equinox. Easter. You do rituals?’ Jeanne asked Myrna.



‘Some. We celebrate the solstice and do some smudging. It’s a kind of hodgepodge of native and pagan beliefs.’



‘It’s a mess,’ said Ruth. ‘I went to a couple. Ended up stinking of sage smoke for two days. People in the pharmacy thought I’d smoked up.’



‘Sometimes the magic works,’ said Myrna to Clara with a laugh.



‘Dinner,’ Peter called from the kitchen. When they arrived he’d put the casseroles and stews and vegetables on the island along with plates. Clara and Beauvoir went around lighting the candles scattered throughout the kitchen so that by the time they’d taken their places it was like sitting in a darkened planetarium, filled with points of light.



Their plates piled high with lamb stew and shepherd’s pie and fresh bread and smooth, fluffy mashed potatoes and baby beans, they tucked in, talking about gardens and the storm, about the Anglican Church Women and the condition of the roads.



‘I called Hazel to see if they could come tonight, but she said no,’ said Clara.



‘She almost always says no,’ said Myrna.



‘Is that true?’ asked Olivier. ‘I never noticed that.’



‘Neither had I,’ said Clara, helping herself to another spoonful of potatoes. ‘But now that I think of it, we wanted to take over dinners after Madeleine died but she wouldn’t hear of it.’



‘Some people are like that,’ said Myrna. ‘Always happy to help others, but they have difficulty accepting it. Too bad really. She must be having a horrible time. Can’t imagine the pain she’s in.’