An Interview with a Witch.

Pip was always specific about her coffee. Caramel latte, decaf, oat milk. It wasn’t hard or ridiculous, unlike other people’s orders. She had gone to her favourite coffee spot, Beanie Buns, just off the high street, tucked in between a fine arts shop and an Oxfam. From the outside, it looked like any other ordinary coffee shop that took over a historic Grade II building. Inside was a different story. It was as if time had stood still: oak panelling, rustic seating, a cosy fireplace in the corner, and a single candle chandelier hanging just above the coffee station — the only modern part to be seen. But even the coffee station was like something out of the 1930s. There was also an abundance of herbs, which left the room smelling like an apothecary’s garden mixed with the roasting of the coffee beans. It was Pip’s favourite smell. She used this place as her writing spot. Each day, Pip would take the 75 bus, go straight to the café, and write for hours.

There were other cafés in other towns, but Pip always felt drawn to this particular one. She worked as a freelance writer for an online magazine, so she could write wherever she chose. She had tried writing in other places, but in Beanie Buns, her writing felt more alive. Her articles would get more views, and she had almost finished her novel. It was like magic.

But it was all nonsense, wasn’t it?   

Pip never believed in magic or fairy tales. When her parents tried to make her believe in Father Christmas, she sat up all night to catch her dad placing presents under the tree. She shouted, “See!” then went to bed, pleased with herself.

Pip, nevertheless, found the style, or the little amulets with pagan symbols that were dotted around the café, charming. This was the quirkiest town in England, where the smell of incense and people playing country songs on their five-stringed guitars was normal. Pip loved this town but always thought the idea of mystic and supernatural folktales was a load of hocus pocus. There was no such thing as witches or fairies; they were made up long ago, because the world was confusing.  

Then why, against all logic, was Pip given an assignment to interview a real witch? There was apparently a higher percentage of people across England identifying as pagan, some even going as far as to out themselves as witches. The magazine wanted to get in on the trend and so asked Pip to find someone in the local area to meet.

~ 1 ~

That’s where she found Ms Cassandra Wildes, a witch who uses her craft to heal with crystal therapy, which she performs in person or uploads as videos to her Instagram. She also holds tarot readings in her home and charges twenty pounds on each read. 

A quick email exchange and phone call resulted in Pip having a coffee with a witch.

Pip had just sat down with her drink and pulled out her laptop when Cassandra arrived. She waved her over. 

“Cassandra, right? I’m Pippin from the magazine.”

“Nice to meet you,” Cassandra said, then looked over at the barista, “I’ll just order, and then we can get started.” 

Pip thought a witch would drink tea. Herbal tea with a stick of thyme in it. Perhaps this was a rebranding effort to seem normal in front of mundane people. After Cassandra ordered her coffee, she took some sugar sachets and stirred them into her coffee with a teaspoon. Pip half expected the spoon to stir by itself. Cassandra left the spoon in the cup and looked up at Pip. 

“So, what would you like to know?”

Pip was watching her to see if there was anything overtly magical about her. Wait, did the spoon move on its own? No, impossible. It was a trick of light.

“Yes, well… are you a witch?” A fairly obvious question given the circumstances, but Pip was hoping to catch Cassandra out in a lie.   

“Well, we don’t go around cursing people, fly broomsticks, or wave wands in the air like Harry Potter,” Cassandra laughed. “We go back to the old traditions of this country. Going back to the roots, the dirt, and feeling Gaia’s connection to everything.”  

“And this Gaia is the goddess of Earth, right?” Pip said, feeling a light flutter in her chest, as if what Cassandra was saying resonated with her. But she soon squashed the idea with what she thought was logic. Magical beings don’t exist. 

“Yes, we all come from her. She is the earth and life itself.” Cassandra took a sip of her coffee. “I love talking about her as if she’s my own mother. She comforts me and teaches me how to deal with life.”  

“So, it’s like a spiritual connection, like Christians have with God.” Pip was in no way religious and found it as mentally exhausting as believing in the boogeyman or Father Christmas. 

“I think it’s much more than what Christians believe. They worry about God’s wrath instead of focusing on his love. Gaia isn’t malicious; she doesn’t care if you’ve done wrong.”    

They spoke more on Gaia and her overall cultural presence in the modern day, along with the history of witches and how they were just women who were demonised for not conforming to patriarchal ideas. People came and went throughout the coffee shop. There were those with their laptops, writing away the time, while others were reading or chatting with friends. It was cosy and warm. This was Pip’s home away from home.

~ 2 ~

Pip drained her coffee and went to order another. She looked over her shoulder to watch Cassandra. She pulled out a few playing cards (or was it tarot?) and placed them on the table. As Pip watched, Cassandra’s eyes lit up. What had she seen? Their eyes met, and Pip felt a blush cross her face and looked away. She felt silly she’d been caught. 

When Pip got her coffee, she walked back to the table and continued the interview. Soon, Pip felt like she was talking to a friend, even though Cassandra was just this strange woman who claimed she was a real-life witch. The conversation meandered to different subjects, so Pip had to steer it back to witchcraft.     

“But can you actually cast spells, is magic real?” Pip said, as she looked down at her notepad and realised she hadn’t written much of anything. There were scraps of what they were talking about, but nothing to really use.  

“Yes, I write spells and speak them into being,” Cassandra said. “You have to write them with meaning and intention. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.” 

“Like poetry.”

“Yes, exactly like poetry. I think the written word can be a powerful tool. Almost spell-binding.” 

Pip suddenly realised it made sense. When she wrote poetry, she’d always feel a sense of released energy, and then whoever read it would reflect that same emotion. A similar thought from earlier came back into her mind: the feeling that she was familiar with Cassandra. Pip tried to brush it off as, oh, they must have bumped into each other years ago and forgotten. 

“You know, I think you might be a witch.” 

This caught Pip off guard.

“What?” 

“The cards told me.”

Cassandra pulled six tarot cards and placed them in front of Pip. She didn’t recognise most of them, but there was one that caught her eye. It was the card of a man with an infinity symbol over his head, one hand pointed towards the sky and the other down to the earth. There was a table before him with a wand, a pentacle, a sword, and a cup. The Magician.

“You’re connected to this card, aren’t you,” Cassandra said, pointing to The Magician card. “This card only comes up with those with magic in their veins.”  

All of this was ridiculous, there was no way Pip could be a witch. She didn’t believe in magic. She must have seen this card’s image around town. 

~ 3 ~

“No, I don’t think so,” Pip said, trying to laugh it off. She waved away the cards. “I’m just writing an article on witches. I don’t believe in that stuff.”

“That is strange,” Cassandra said, leaning back in her chair.

“What is?”

 “The cards have never lied to me before.” Cassandra took back the tarot cards but left The Magician. “Have there ever been any strange occurrences, stuff you just couldn’t explain?”

Pip wanted to dismiss the idea. There was logic and a scientific explanation for everything, from how it rains to how the heart pumps blood around the body. This was just like her parents trying to trick her with Father Christmas again. 

But as Cassandra’s words repeated themselves over and over again in Pip’s mind, she started remembering those odd occurrences that not even her logical brain could deny. Black cats seemed to follow her everywhere, the way her moods would affect her writing, and how her plants never died even when she forgot to water them for months. 

She could remember something her grandmother would sometimes tell her: ‘We Leah women have that spark that makes wildflowers grow among thorns.’ Leah was her mother’s maternal surname. 

Pip looked back at The Magician card. The figure was standing amongst flowers. They were growing out from a bed of thorns at the bottom of the card. 

“He speaks to you, doesn’t he?” Cassandra’s voice pulled Pip back to reality.   

Pip got up. “I’ve had enough of this. This is just some stupid scam.”

There was a rumble outside, and rain began to hiss down. A few of the customers in the café turned to see what was happening. 

“I’m not scamming you.” Cassandra smiled and it was warm. It almost made Pip relax. “I’m just as surprised as you are. Discovering you’re a witch can be quite scary.”

“But I’m not a witch.” Pip raised her voice, but then noticed people staring and soon sank back into her chair. She could have left and told her editor she wasn’t taking the story. But something in Pip’s heart told her to stay. 

“The weather outside seems to disagree with you.” 

“You can’t expect me to believe I’m making it rain.”

“Maybe not, but I think there’s something stopping you from seeing the truth.” Cassandra pulled out a crystal from her pocket. “This thing has been buzzing ever since I sat down with you. It’s a witch-finder crystal. If those witch hunter generals had one of these back in the day, they would’ve killed a lot more witches than they did.”

Pip couldn’t believe any of it and scoffed. 

~ 4 ~

Cassandra held out the crystal to Pip, but she refused to take it. “Please, it’ll help everything make sense. I swear on Gaia.”   

Something compelled Pip to take the crystal. 

As soon as she touched it, memories of her ancestors flashed in her mind. They were all witches. Some died during the witch hunts. Others survived and passed on their traditions to their daughters. Magic flowed in her blood. 

“I am a witch,” Pip whispered. She saw how her mother had tried to teach her after her grandmother died, but the grief had placed a wall up. There was nothing magical about death.

The weather outside calmed, and the sun came out from behind some clouds, forming a rainbow.

“It can be hard to accept if you’ve ignored it all these years. But just remember, you’re not alone in this.” Cassandra took Pip’s hand. 

Pip felt tears trickle down her cheeks and smiled back at Cassandra. There was a sense of belonging Pip hadn’t felt before. She closed her eyes and took a breath. When she opened them, she looked at the cup with the spoon in it. The spoon started to rattle and soon moved around the cup completely on its own.