"The way I heard the story is this," Alyce said, and it was as if her voice were coming to me from a distance. "Maeve Riordan was a blood witch, from one of the Seven Great Clans, but we aren't sure which one. Her local coven was called Belwicket, and she was from Ballynigel, Ireland."

I nodded. I had seen the words Belwicket and Ballynigel on Maeve's genealogy site, the one that had shut down.

"Belwicket was very insular and didn't interact with other clans or covens much," Alyce continued. "They were quite secretive, and maybe they had cause to be. Anyway, back in the late seventies, early eighties, as I understand it, Belwicket was persecuted. The members were taunted in the streets by the townspeople; their children were ostracized at school. Ballynigel was a small town, mind you, small and close to the coast of western Ireland. The people there were mainly farmers or fishermen. Not worldly, not overly educated. Very conservative," Alyce explained. She paused, thinking.

In my mind I saw rolling hills as deep a green as a peridot. Salt air seemed to kiss my skin. I smelted tangy, brackish seaweed, fish, and an almost unpleasant yet comfortable odor my brain identified as peat, whatever that was.

"The villagers had probably always lived among witches in peace, but for some reason, every so often, a town gets stirred up; people get scared. After months of persecution a local witch was murdered, burned to death and thrown from a cliff."

I swallowed hard. I knew from my reading that burning was the traditional method of killing witches.

"There was some talk that it had been another witch, not a human, who had done it," continued Alyce.

"What about Maeve Riordan?" I asked.

"She was the daughter of the local high priestess, a woman named Mackenna Riordan. At fourteen Maeve joined Belwicket under the name Bradhadair: fire starter. Apparently she was very powerful, very, very powerful."

My mother.

"Anyway, things in Ballynigel grew more and more intolerable for the witches. They had to shop in other towns, leases expired and weren't renewed, but they could deal with all that somehow."

"Why didn't they leave?" I asked.

"Ballynigel was a place of power," Alyce explained. "At least it was for that coven. There was something about that area, perhaps just because magick had been worked there for centuries—but it was a very good place to be for a witch. Most of Belwicket had roots in the land going back more generations than they could count. Their people had always lived there. I imagine it was hard to fathom living anywhere else."

It was hard for an American, with family roots going back only a hundred years or so, to comprehend. Taking a deep breath, I looked around for Robbie. I could hear him still talking to the girl on the other side of the store. I glanced at my watch. Five-thirty. I had to get home soon. But I was finally learning about my past, my history, and I couldn't pull myself away.

"How do you know all this?" I asked.

"People have talked of it over the years," Alyce said. "You see, it could so easily happen to any of us."

A chill went through me, and I stared at her. To me, magick was beautiful and joyful. She was reminding me that countless women and men had died because of it.

"Maeve Riordan finally did leave," Alyce went on, her face sad. "One night there was a huge decimation, for want of a better word."

I shivered, feeling an icy breeze float over me, settling at my feet.

"The Belwicket coven was virtually destroyed," Alyce continued, sounding like the words were hard to say. "It's unclear whether it was the townspeople or a dark, powerful, magickal source that swept through the coven, but that night homes were burned to the ground, cars were set on fire, fields of crops were laid to waste, boats were sunk…and twenty-three men, women, and children were killed."

I realized I was panting, my stomach in knots. I felt ill and dizzy and panicky. I couldn't bear hearing about this.

"But not Maeve," Alyce whispered, looking off at some faraway sight. "Maeve escaped that night, and so did young Angus Bramson, her lover. Maeve was twenty, Angus twenty-two, and together they fled, caught a bus to Dublin and a plane to England. From there they landed in New York, and from New York City they made their way to Meshomah Falls."

"Did they get married?" I said hoarsely.

"There's no record of it," Alyce replied. "They settled in Meshomah Falls, got jobs, and renounced witchcraft entirely. Apparently for two years they practiced no Wicca, called upon no power, created no magick." She shook her head sadly. "It must have been like living in a straitjacket. Like smothering inside a box. And then they had a baby in the local hospital. We think the persecution began right after that."

My throat felt like it was closing. I pulled my sweater sway from my neck because it was choking me.

"It was little things at first—finding runes of danger and threat painted on the side of their little house. Evil sigils, runes bespelled for some magickal purpose, scratched into their car doors. One day a dead cat hanging from their porch. If they had come to the local coven, they could have been helped. But they wanted nothing to do with witchcraft. After Belwicket had been destroyed, Maeve wanted nothing more to do with it. Though, of course, it was in her blood. There's no point in denying what you are."

Terror threatened to overwhelm me. I wanted to run screaming from the store.

Alyce looked at me. "Maeve's Book of Shadows was found after the fire. People read it and passed on the stories of what was written there."

"Where is it now?" I demanded, and Alyce shook her head.

"I don't know," she said gently. "Maeve's story ends with her and Angus burned in a barn."

Tears ran slowly down my cheeks.

"What happened to the baby?" I choked out.

Alyce gazed at me sympathetically, years of wisdom written on her face. She reached up one soft, flower-scented hand and touched my cheek. "I don't know that, either, my dear," she said so quietly, I could barely hear her. "What did happen to the baby?"

A mist swam over my eyes, and I needed to lie down or fall over or run screaming down the street

"Hey, Morgan!" Robbie's voice broke in. "Are you ready? I should get home."

"Good-bye," I whispered. I turned and raced out the door, with Robbie following me, concern radiating from him in waves.

Behind me I felt rather than heard Alyce's words: "Not good-bye, my dear. You'll be back."

November 1, 1980

What a glorious Samhain we had last night! After a powerful circle that Ma let me lead, we danced, played music, watched the stars, and hoped for better times ahead. It was a night full of cider, laughter, and hope. Things have been so quite lately—has the evil moved on? Has it found another home? Goddess, I pray not, for I don't wish others to suffer as we have. But I'm thankful that we no longer have to jump at every noise.

Angus gave me a darling kitten—a tiny white tom I've named Dagda. He has a lot to live up to with that name! He's a wee thing and sweet. I love him, and it was just like Angus to come up with the idea. Today my world is blessed and full of peace.

Praise be to the Goddess for keeping us safe another year.

Praise be to Mother Earth for sharing her bounty far and near.

Praise be to magick, from which all blessings flow.

Praise be to my heart' I follow where it goes.

Blessed be.

— Bradhadair

Now Dagda is meowing to go out!

"What's wrong?" Robbie demanded in the car.

I sniffled and wiped my hand over my face. "Oh, Alyce was telling me a sad story about some witches who died."