I wave to the group and hope they see that I am extremely open-minded and don’t find any of this witch stuff weird. I mean, it is kind of weird, but I like it; there’s a difference.
A couple wave back, some nod their heads. Everyone’s in discussion as we’re waiting for a few more women to arrive. Erebuni introduces me to Mabel, a woman in her fifties with mostly gray hair who calls herself a garden witch, dealing in healing herbs, essences, and tonics. Such a different life than mine. It almost makes me want to cast all my primary-color dresses into the sea and restart my career as an herbal witch.
“Would you like some telepathy oil for our journey tonight?”
I spoke too soon. I have enough on my hands communing with the alive spirits right here on earth. “Thanks, I’m okay. Not sure I’d know what to do, anyway. I’m new to this.”
“It’s all about intention, openness,” she says. She whips out aroller-ball vial and dabs it on her forehead. “To open the third eye,” she instructs. “You’ll know about the third eye.”
“Of course,” I say, vaguely remembering something about chakras from watchingFight Clubwith Trevor and being completely obsessed with Helena Bonham Carter.
“I’m okay, too,” Erebuni says. “Not going to engage in psychic work tonight; I have more of a self-focus.”
Mabel digs into her cloak, and a small spray bottle appears. “Ylang-ylang and clove. To purify and reach your higher self.”
“That sounds perfect,” Erebuni says. She pushes up her sleeves and holds out her arms for Mabel—who seems delighted to help—then massages her wrists together.
“I love cloves,” I murmur.
Before I have to make a decision about whether or not I need some wrist oil, the circle of women begins to tighten and quiet, so I do the same.
A woman—their leader, I guess, who looks about forty with long curly dark hair—begins to speak with the voice of a reverent librarian. She tells us what I’m sure everyone here already knows, about the bounty of the Sun and the Earth, how the fire represents the Sun and is warding off evil spirits (my mom would literally die if she saw me here), and how as the Sun descends beyond the horizon we can pull out our objects.
Even though everyone is quiet, there’s enough ambient noise from the waves and other crowds that I breathe as silently as I can to Erebuni, “I have no idea what I’m doing.”
She brings her mouth toward my ear, and I shiver. “It’s all about focus. Think about what you want, tell yourself that, and that helps you make it happen.”
Huh, manifesting. That sounds doable enough. Everyone isreaching into their bags or capes and pulling out objects. I see folded-up letters, stones, fruit, and finally Erebuni gets her sacrifice out of her purse. She has a pamphlet of some kind, like you get at a community theater play or a funeral, which I’m dying to ask her about, but everyone is facing the fire now, so this doesn’t seem the time for chitchat with your neighbor.
At the head witch’s command, we raise our objects to the fire, and she begins to say a prayer of sorts. Okay, focus time.Marissa, aka Mischa Barton, I used to read gossip blogs and save photos of you in a folder titled “thinspo,” but that era is long past. I’m sorry I tore your poster off my wall and that I’m about to burn your face in a fire, but it’s time. Nothing personal. It’s just that I need to grow up, and I’m hoping this will help me. So thank you for all the good times. Hopefully this does something for me.
As I watch others toss their objects into the fire, I throw in Marissa’s face, holding my arm closer to the fire so she doesn’t fly back at me with the wind. The fire curls the edges and eats at her face until the poster turns black. Gone. I’m free of that now, I guess. Time to keep that promise to myself.
Erebuni flicks hers in and takes a deep breath. Her hand reaches over and squeezes mine. I sneak a smile at her, which she returns, even fuller. The way she’s looking at me, I have to wonder, do I have a girlfriend?But Trevor is texting you,a very annoying voice interjects.Who cares about Trevor, I insist to that voice,when I’ve got Erebuni?
Then the librarian-voiced leader starts singing this super-spooky song, like a female Gregorian chant, and all the women join in, Erebuni included, and I feel like I’m back in church on Easter Sunday, pretending to know the lyrics. It’s both chilling andbeautiful, and I feel like instead of on a beach I’m in a forest in Salem with wildflowers springing from the ground.
The song ends, and I’m doing my best to blend, like,Yeah, guys, we hit those notes good.
The head witch smiles. “Now we party.”
Was super not expecting that, but I’m down. She bends to mess with something I can’t see behind the firepit, but then EDM music starts playing, giving off a Burning Man vibe. Definitely serious about the partying.
Erebuni takes both of my hands and asks, “What’d you think of that?”
“Um, I loved it. I have to ask, though, what was your object?”
“I was actually meaning to ask about yours. Wasn’t that some actress’s face?”
I redden like I was caught doing something. “Mischa Barton, yeah, fromThe OC. I always wanted to be her, and it, uh, represents part of my life I want to leave behind.”
As soon as I say it, I pray that she won’t ask me what exactly it is about that life I’m trying to leave behind. Lucky for me, she seems to pick up on that. “That’s fair,” she says. “And to answer your question, that was a pamphlet from one of my mom’s art shows.”
Damn, that is brutal. I’m clearly not hiding my look of shock that well, because she adds, “No, not like I want my mom’s art to burn down. I went to that show and thought,I’ll never be as good as her, so what’s the point in trying?But that’s a counterproductive way of looking at the artistic process, at the point of art. I felt, for too long, like her success as an artist has been holding me back. So, into the fire. Don’t worry, we have plenty of copies at home.”
Huh, she mentioned in passing that her mother was an artist, but this is some interesting info. I can’t imagine being into math and competing with my mom at it. Or piano with Nene. I’m suddenly thankful that I disappointed the women in my family by failing miserably at their passions.
Erebuni starts to dance, and she isgood. So good that it turns me momentarily shy and I realize I’m just standing there watching her. It’s one thing to know the steps to Armenian shourchbar, it’s another to be intuitively talented at moving. I’m a conservative dancer—particularly while sober—relying on hip swaying more than any real moves. Erebuni grabs my hands and has me mirror some salsa-type moves, then twirls me around and pulls me tight. No one was watching before, but now there are a couple of whoops from the witchy women, and I’m totally embarrassed, except that Erebuni’s guiding is working for me.
