Of Three Faces

“Three-fold battle Goddess / Hear our plaintive rhyme /Guide us to your wisdom /In these dark and evil times…"

"Guys, no, we shouldn't be doing it like this."

"Speak to us, your chosen / Guide our hands in might / Speak to us, our sisters / For now the time is right"

“Hold on…Hold on…No…no, that isn’t right, that won’t do.”

“Oh, what now?”

“Shitballs, who wrote that spell?”

“Sorry guys…sorry folks…I mean, sorry, my sacred friends…I just need to fine-tune it. The ending is fine, but I'm just not sure about that stuff at the start, before the chant, y'know about ‘prosperity despite the howl of winter’. I think that was the mimosas talking hahahahaha Keeley, pointing at you! I’m just going to re-jig it.”

"Please, guys, if you would just re-think how we're going about this..."

The problem with writing spells was that they were tricky things. It would be such a waste of time if they had gone to all that effort, hours and hours of work, the entire coven, just to have the whole vibe ruined by the chant getting all screwy at the last minute. How embarrassing if it was posted on the profile, gained a bit of momentum amongst the Tri-City witchy community, maybe caught the moment and went viral... only then to find out that there was a silly mistake somewhere. In the carpark, behind the tree-line, someone’s sports sedan was choosing the relative softness of the evening to proudly display its new anti-theft alarm. The High Priestess was getting stressed.

Everyone knew she was getting stressed and feeling taken for granted because she added the 'five-ha-laugh' (known behind the High Priestess' back as the FHL or the 'Effing Hell'). Each sentence ending with a machine-gun burst of fives laughs Ha-Ha-Ha-Ha-Ha. The louder the ‘ha’s, the deeper and more profound the sense of hard-done-by-edness.

“Ugh, that my sisters should be so remiss on Samhain hahahahaha” (She promounced it Sye-Win, for no other reason than she heard someone say it like that in O’Tooles once at the Thursday evening folk session, and it appealed to her in its exoticism. When she travelled to the Lisdoonvarna festival once, a local had corrected her pronunciation, one would imagine in good faith, Irish speakers being a chummy breed. The High Priestess had written an op-ed in Wicca Witness about Post-Colonial Gatekeeping). Her laugh flurried like a bantamweight’s fists, or a wind-chime made of shin-bones.

“Uh…excuse me? Is that the term we landed at after the sensitivity weekend, High Priestess?”

“Sorry, sorry, yes Flahwn, quite right… that my fellow Covenanters should be so remiss as to leave everything til the last…”

She allowed her words to sputter out into the FHL, which, thankfully died out. The High Priestess' good humour, like the anaemic fire in the heart, did not seem to want to stay lit.

Judging by the sheen on the face of Aoghaireaicce, the High Priestess, the speed with which midnight approached, with plans failing to materialize, would have to be paid for; the level of delay would be in direct proportion to the severity of her later passive aggression. She was really named ‘Erica’, but she had already paid $869 dollars on the cloak (after arriving home sozzled from the Imbolc Box Social and feeling aggrieved that no-one had tried any of her low-fat Curd Bombs) before realising that the Irish translation app she had downloaded might not have been too accurate. In spite of the problem of pronunciation, spelling or meaning of the words she was trying to use as a name; the High Priestess had doubled-down on ‘Aoghaireaicce’ for the rest of her social life with the Three Faces Coven.

Everyone hated Aoghaireaicce. Her nesting-partner, Siv, owned the cabin.

So, of course...

“Guys…I’m telling you. I don’t think we should be doing this. Not like this”

“And were in the name of the F_____s are you all doing on your phones?” Aoghaireaicce had attended a conference in Manitoba on ‘Celtic Good Neighbours, Local Gods and the F____ Folk.’ That was just before she got the tattoo on her hip of a little fat man in a velvet green coat with a ginger neck beard. She called it her ‘lepper-con’.

There was a brief staccato of nails on phone screens as people turned on airplane mode and made sure the ringer volume was done. It was inconceivable that anyone’s phone might actually go off, that would be dreadful, a desecration… but then again, think of the content for social media, the flare effect of the nascent fire (once it got going), the FILTERS…and everyone looked so good!

Over by the refreshment table, Allie cleared her throat and made rather a show of finding her words. More eyes lingered on the shimmering apple-cider brew than the plenipotential speaker, if truth be told.

“Oh cheer up Allie, you’re spoiling the buzz." A tinkling voice, eager, dreamy, giggly. "This is an evening of fun and frolic. Embrace the magic, sister. The F______ are afoot. The Morrigan awaits.”

“And can you stop using that word please? Don't call them by their name. And be careful when talking about the three sisters. Naming calls.”

There was a shocked silence. As a group, they were not really accustomed to listening to each other, unless someone had a complaint that could gain traction on TikTok, and start risking page interactions. The term ‘that word’, therefore, cut through the Autumnal blanket of the night and the self-comfort that the group had created for themselves. The word ‘cancelled’ hovered like the vape from Jessica’s smelly THC pen. Hell, even Jessica had stopped applying the transfer cobwebs around her eyes to listen, snapping her gaze up from the handheld mirror to where there might have been a problematic statement she could pounce on.

To Allie, the sudden focus of the group at a possible mis-statement; eager and reptilian, felt like a cloth of damp chamois-leather being dragged across her gut. It was cold, rough, like some giant dead tongue licking her fears. Or was that sensation from outside the group?

“What…F____? The little folk?”

“Yes! We never named them when we grew up. Nor the three-faces. Especially not the three faces. Maybe we could treat this with a bit more respect please? This isn’t a joke.”

Muttering started like the rain on dry leaves.

“Drama Queen.”

“Oh puh-lease.”

“Something’s wrong…this is wrong.”

"Actually 'Drama Queen' is really reductive."

"Who does she even actually think she literally is."

"Oh, this'll be good."

The High Priestess had hitched a reassuring smile to her face. “It’s okay Allie, there’s nothing to be frightened of. The gods and spirits know us. They love us. Know we're friends. They welcome us.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure...”

"Typical." spat a voice.

Marcus and Topaz, the insta eco-witches, sat stony eyed, staring at the fire, seething with oppression. One of them had spoken last. Allie hadn’t really met them yet, other than a vague head jerk from both as they glanced up from their phones, but she knew they were often being oppressed. When she had given them her contact details – big mistake – she had immediately been swaddled up in the sticky cloak of their Crusade. Just what their Crusade was, or what form it took, was still rather a mystery to Allie. It definitely had something to do with asking followers to venmo money, but she couldn't exactly pin down their beliefs. All she could confirm was that they were queer, were witches, and were queer witches. And that they were very pretty. She assumed their podcast would give more of an indication of their beliefs and practices, but to be honest, she had been distracted by the ‘Sizzling Fall Smoke Eyes’ tutorial that had directly followed their last ‘educational’ reel. Now her eyes looked like passionate flakes of obsidian, sure, and they captured the unique mixture of excitement of melancholy and passion that was Fall, no doubt, but she was still rather clueless as to what they…did.

“Privilege speaking.” Said Topaz, before turning back to Marcus, who had been talking about their dentist. “Is it so much to go to a clinician who can give me oral autonomy? People don’t know what invasion is if they’ve never had braces.”

A natural silence fell in the conversation, and the High Priestess rose. She tried to summon the dignity that the cloak restored to her, but a final admin niggle gave her pause,

“Before we start the Ceremony, please could I say a few words about fees for the next Celtic year. As ever, we have a few members of this Coven...who shall remain nameless... failing to submit their-“

“What is this?” said Allie, suddenly. Her trepdiation had given way to an anger that was so clearly a resort that she shook. “What are we doing?”

“Here we go again…” muttered a mutter.

“You said the gods know us, but do we want that?”

Fear guided some floppy speed to Allie’s tongue, the gods knew, for soon she was blurting out everything that had been playing on her mind.

“You say this is a Gardnerian coven and yet we’re playing with Irish paganism. None of us speak any of the language, none of you have visited the places these gods live. Do we even know if they can hear us here…?”

“Exclusion.” Said a voice

"Oh right, that's why I got out of bed today, to be persecuted and accused of cultural approp-"

“Nice gatekeeping.” cut in another

“The is soooo problematic.”

“I thought Irish people were meant to be fun.”

“Do the gods we’re praying to even live here? What if we’re just opening a door that we cannot close? What if something else comes through that you might not have considered?”

“I never thought I’d see the day that a witch…an Irish witch no less…”

“Look, please! I’m not saying you can’t, not at all. I’m just saying that what you think will happen will not happen. Yes, there might be something there. No it will not be what you think.”

“And what will happen, then?”

“I don’t know.”

“The Morrigan will pro-“

“The Morrigan doesn’t care about you, Erica. Trying to get their attention is not the way to start.”

“I have been a disciple of the three-faced Goddess since 2015, Allie! Are you telling me that all the work I did and the improvement in craft is for nothing? You don’t get to decide who it works for. She speaks to me.

"I don't think that's how-"

"She speaks to me everyday. We talk. She...they know me. They trust me."

“Please…please listen. You’re going about this the wrong way. Macha, one of the three, is the goddess of Ulster, right? Right?”

“As we all know…”

“So why in the name of anything would she…they…bother coming to Kentucky, Erica? The Curd Bombs?”

She hadn’t made her point well, Allie knew. She had missed the vital argument. Dammit if they weren’t so eager to be offended...

Aoghaireaicce had assumed a triumphant sneer. She was delighted that she was being religion-shamed and could complain about the injustice online. A part of her mind was already deciding just when to add the lip tremble in her ‘The Truth’ video she would post about Allie later. Her followers, all fifteen thousands (give or take a few thousand bots) would never see the actual tears, but they would be implied. She didn't know how many followers Allie had on her socials, but with a bit of manipulation...some good copy...those witches might just mosey on over.

“I’ve overlooked a lot of your deficiencies, Allie. You are mopey, argumentative, stubborn and not Three-Faces Coven material.

"Yeah, you're such a downer! This is meant to be fun."

"Now, you look us in the eyes and tell us we are not entitled to worship our own gods. The gods we have chosen."

"I'm not saying-"

"You are bringing the wrong sort of energy”

“They’re not ANYBODY’s gods…” Allie tried, “and the gods of the land here are angry. They’re sad.”

“You should leave this clearing now.” Fuck, but Erica could be pompous when she played dress-up. “Quit this place and plague us not with your narrow-mindedness.”

Allie rose without much fuss and collected her coat and bag from underneath the refreshment table. Looking back, she saw twelve figures huddling around a weak fire, all of them texting. Marcus, his mouth wide open, was actually scowling in a ‘what?’ way and taking a selfie to accompany whatever text he was about to post. Erica was already leaving Siv a voicemail. Her phone flashed in the lethargic glow of the fire like an athame.

“Heya babes, sorry to be a pain, but that new girl, yeah Allie, total washout. She went completely neurotypical on us. Yeah, very very problematic…normies right? Could you come and make up the numbers, babe? We can do that thing at the weekend with your parents, yeah? We’re stuck at being twelve thanks to all the drama.”

“Blessings.” Whispered Allie and left them.

She walked for a while, not towards the car-park, but deeper into the copse of woodland. It was so fresh, so wild. The land hummed with life, and with sadness.

“I know you’re hurting.” said Allie. She sat at the foot of a maple and allowed the breath of night to settle on her. There were so many bitter memories in the land. Her features took on the nighttime and she took the form of Ailil, the charioteer.

“You tried, brave Ailil.” said the forest. “Your kindness is a mercy for these Oathless. That little song should be for you”

Ailill winced. The humour in the voice was immense. The Oathless, too young and mortal to make the promises they did to the gods. The children who liked to play at immortality with their hopes and pretences, and their arrogance. His wards, for a while.

“They can learn.”

“They don’t even know that they are receiving instruction. Your efforts are futile.”

“But they have so much to achieve.”

Somewhere behind, in the mortal realm, the Three Faces Coven were starting their ceremony.

“Are you sure?” said Ailill, “can’t you ignore them?”

“They called us. They called me. It would be discourtesy to ignore them after such a long visit. We have come a long way. We all have.”

"But they're children...they don't know what they're doing. This is all a game to them. Please, they can't understand."

"This is a game, the rules of which have never been a secret. Let them think of us what they imagine. They will know, the Oathless. They receive bounty from our name, so cannot claim to not know the rules. We see them. They called us. Let us play. We have travelled far."

Defeated, Ailill trooped further into the night, as the horde of the forest let him past. The thinnest night, when the shoreline between the land of mortality and the sea of the gods can be walked by the Oathless for a little while. Somewhere in the canopy a corvid gave a plaintive croak. A vixen shrieked her passions like the summons of doom. None of them tried to bother the gods. They were part of the gods.

“Come home when your grief is dry, Ailil na Deora, Ailill of the Tears” said the voice.

He had done his job well; the charioteer that conveyed the sacrifice to the altar.

He had been appointed the task since his master, his love, the Young Hound, tied himself to the standing stone at the ford of Knockbridge, and died upright, after his single combat with Golden Ferdia. It had been Macha, one of the three Morrigna, the goddess of the land, who had perched on the Young Hound’s shoulder as a raven, marking his death and letting the Horde of Leinster know that Ulster's hero was slain. The Leinster raiders had never succeeded though. The Young Hound had bought time for the Red Branch of Conchobair Mac Neasa to overcome the birth-pang curse that afflicted them in times in need. The Morrigna had aided Cúchulainn, the Young Hound, even unto his death. The y were akin to war, bonded of fate.

Ailill had been associated with the Three since, something like to a subcontractor. Logistics were important.

Ailill stepped on his chariot and took the reins. The old war-platform felt too spacious still, missing it's passenger. His horse, his old master’s horse, Lugh’s Grey, a gift from Macha, shimmered like marble.

“Ar ais, a liath.”

Lugh’s Grey snickered and then took the lead.

Ailill faded and the chanting of voices was the only disturbance in the night. A focal point of life. The summoned shadows surrounded the clearing. Nature faded to silence. The fire did not sing.

Now that the rhythm had been established, jeepers they were not a musical bunch, and all cellular devices had been readied, the party could begin. Aoghaireaicce purred in the warmth of the customized cloak around her and wondered how the time-lapse video would come out. She was enjoying herself. The Coven’s profile really needed a boost, and this evening was just the ticket. Perhaps if she switched to a subscription model, it would both increase revenue and also give her wiggle room to quit her job, do this full time. It was a piece of piss. Money for old rope. It was fun. It was her exoticism and her identity. The Morrigna was an aesthetic; a way of life. It was Evanescence and leathers; hair-dye and Hallowe'en. IT was sexy. It was unique. It was better than having the same, powerless, conversations, day-in, day-out, with the same boss, the same new sites, the same lonely struggle every single day, in a world stacked you. It was the look her Siv gave her when she was dressed up. The desire. It was time-travel romance and magic and identity and definitely nothing else. It wasn't something else; not a deep hunger, not a deep feeling of being a coloniser, not an existential need for any other identity. It was genuine. She was Witchy Erica. She even had the website. Everyone knew how magical she was.

A new sensation made itself known to her, as they chanted. A clinging, foisty feeling, like the pulling on of damp tights or the constriction of a flu patient’s blanket. It was claustrophobic and uncomfortable, damp and breathless. It felt very much like being wrapped in a shroud. Perhaps she had eaten too many Curd Bombs. The night was losing its warmth, the trees drew close.

“Three-fold battle Goddess

Hear our plaintive rhyme

Guide us to your wisdom

In this dark, unfeeling time…”