'Good Witch' by Lucianne Tonti

Throughout October I featured vintage, witch-themed novels from the 20th century. Having finished that, I treated myself to this new-release as a wrap-up, and to pay lip service to the theme of 'non-fiction November'.  I don't usually splash out on brand new books but wanted to see if what I learned from it might shed even more light on the stories I read.  

If you'd like to read my witch themed October, here's the first point of call, the second, third, and fourth. 

 MY THOUGHTS:

This is quite a dense read, incorporating far more than just witch hunts. It touches on environmentalism, dispossession, exploitation, obstetrics, textiles, herbology, and colonialization. But to summarize the main theme in a nutshell, Lucianne Tonti focuses on witchcraft accusations from the 17th and 18th centuries, which she considers to be blatant and dark anti-feminism. She makes her case through the pages of her book that the accused women drew the ire of patriarchy down on their heads because men felt threatened by the feminine power evident in these women's connection to the natural world. She sets out to show that this was cruel persecution, plain and simple. 

Whew, Tonti covers a lot of ground in her research. The wholesale travesty she addresses wasn't a conscious plan, of course. Nobody said, 'Hey guys, let's undermine the impact and reach of women by making heinous accusations of witchcraft.' It was more like an indicator of general contempt, given this started small and fanned into a raging flame so quickly. 

To start with, subordinating women was a piece of cake, since playing on the Puritans' wholesale dread of witchcraft and devilry was itself a cinch. Especially when the justice system became fluid and malleable, allowing accusations of witchcraft to be weaponized against individuals. Methods of seeking proof were ridiculous, including discoveries of suspicious 'marks' on a woman's body. And accusations from wealthy neighbors were often the only testimony needed to condemn someone to death. General prosperity could also be taken as a sign. Tonti tells the true tale of a woman named Katherine Harrison who was accused of forming a deal with Satan, because the cloth from her spinning wheel was so abundant. Go figure!

The book examines how the poor victims' means of earning a living by gardening, healing, and spinning were pulled out from under them. Normal household objects that women relied on to help ends meet were twisted into symbols of witchcraft. Think of cauldrons, brooms, spinning wheels, and even herb gardens. Centuries of storytelling by authors such as the Brothers Grimm have infused these innocuous items with overtones of the occult. 

History proves women were barred from studying the medical profession at universities, and subsequently placed in the no-win situation of being told that practicing medicine without formal medical knowledge is akin to witchcraft. Society offered no choice; to practice their healing arts they had to go underground. And as accredited academic expertise gained a higher profile, the ancient healing arts based on botany and nature are relegated scornfully to 'old wives' tales' and foolish superstition.

During the witch hunting heyday, the paranoid King James VI kept the hype high, and even wrote a book named Daemonologie, about the threat of witchcraft, although his personal interest in magical arts such as astronomy and alchemy made him somewhat hypocritical.  

Does our modern world still bear scars from the witch-hunting era? Tonti says you bet. It seems the world has been slow to catch up that witch hunts are truly over. She points out that traditional feminine arts are still demeaned in society, and that the women's liberation movement has not improved the lot of females in general. The success of high-flying (pun not intended!) women in professional or corporate sectors is a poor marker of general female empowerment, since these women virtually become pseudo-men, outsourcing their own housework and family care to other women (such as myself when I worked as a cleaner) who are prepared to accept lower wages. 

LucianneTonti goes so far as to claim that the modern home, with its hidden 'wet' rooms for labor purposes, is the final iteration of the witch hunter, whose ignoble aim was to fracture women's friendship and community forums. Whether or not you'd follow her reasoning that far, I'd have to agree that the devaluation of feminine work and skills is something we still live with centuries after the witch hunts. Who would've thought there might be any connection, hey? Several interviewees make the case that there ought to be wages for housework, which includes consistent, quality care of our children and elderly relatives, for the family work which women perform for nothing is what keeps the world turning. I sigh and echo, 'If only!' 

Now for the few issues I have with this book.

Tonti has obviously poured her heart and soul into this project, which she's travelled all around the world to research. It hasn't been entirely pleasurable, as some of her horrific discoveries shocked and sickened her. This may explain a biased tendency to put her own slant on things that occurred centuries ago, using 21st century and feminist interpretations. 

Examples are numerous, but this excerpt about a young King James interrogating two Scottish country 'witches' is a good one.

'Thinking about this twenty-something, well-read, pretentious little king gathering up his inner circle of male friends to interrogate two women who were poor, illiterate and certainly at the bottom of any kind of social hierarchy is, in short, quite f---ed. It is easy to imagine a young man with private-school-boy hair and the arrogance of privilege getting a thrill out of his power over these supposedly dangerous women.'

I won't deny such passages make entertaining reading, but after a while Tonti's embellishments start coming across as manipulative arm-twisting, however well meant, stamping her own guesswork onto specific situations from the past whose details are long forgotten.  

The second point irks me even more. This book consistently takes for granted that none of the hundreds of women accused ever truly practiced witchcraft. All recorded confessions are systematically brushed aside as results of extreme torture. Tonti quotes the professor emeritus of history, Liv Helene Willumsen, who makes the blanket statement, 'Everyone accused of having performed witchcraft was innocent of the accusations.' Yet how can she really prove such a sweeping claim?

Quite aside from the broomstick riding, shapeshifting stereotypes, (not to mention even crazier claims such as sex with Satan), there may well have been some bona-fide witches who practiced intentional magical arts with the aim to either assist or inflict harm on other people. I suspect that in her zeal to advocate for the long-gone victims of a too-stringent legal system, Lucianne Tonti has swung as far as possible to the opposite extreme. Whereas the austere and superstitious old-timers assumed that almost everybody accused of witchcraft was guilty, this book takes it as a no-brainer that everyone accused was innocent. 

But as I've said in the past, I'm wary of any literature which tends to totally dismiss the power and reality of the spiritual world. 

On the whole...

It is well worth a read. If you've grown up unaware of how patriarchy itself has been an evil shaping force throughout history, this will give you food for thought.  

Since reading it, it is clear to me how the archetypal wicked witch keeps popping up in fairy tales to have her plans thwarted. She's there offering poisoned apples to Snow White, hacking off the hair of Rapunzel, enticing Beauty to prick her finger, and luring Hansel and Gretel into her amazing confectionery house. And she's always depicted with the same unkempt, stringy hair, pointy chin, and hooked nose. 

 The reputations of individual story characters have also been maligned. Morgan le Fay has been depicted by Arthurian legend spinners as an adversarial enchantress with wicked intentions, whereas in the very earliest stories she was introduced as a good-natured and kindly healer. 

I echo what I've said in an earlier review this year, that Shakespeare obviously wrote Macbeth to butter up King James, who commissioned it. In this instance because of the presence of the three hags on the heath. (Tonti makes King James out to be such a nasty piece of work, I feel that examining some of the emphases in his authorized Bible might be an interesting project.)   

And ladies, if we assume that we would've been immune from witchcraft accusations, maybe we should think again. Lucianne Tonti's instagram account this time, suggests that all it might've taken is fondness for a beloved pet, or socializing with friends, or enjoying a drop of wine, or dancing, or proficiency at healing, gardening, or textiles.  

🌟🌟🌟½

'East of Eden' by John Steinbeck (Part One)

It is time to face this literary behemoth at last because my newsfeed is full of East of Eden related posts owing to the popularity of the new Netflix series. I'd meant to read it shortly after The Grapes of Wrath. A few years have lapsed but this is the prompt I need. Then I'll watch the series myself so this might be the perfect time after all. In this post, I'll discuss the first half of the book. Stay tuned for the second. 

Warning: There may be a few mild spoilers, but I consider this more of a discussion than a review. And old classics are fair game anyway. 

MY THOUGHTS:

The First Cain and Abel meet the Monster 

This epic takes its key character, Adam Trask, from the cradle to the grave. His birth is shadowed by the American Civil War and his pending death by World War One. 

We start with Adam's dad. Cyrus Trask is a blustering old peg-leg who lost his appendage during a small skirmish in the Civil War, the one and only taste of action he ever had. Yet he sets himself up as a tactical war genius with such polished rhetoric that everyone believes in him. 

Cyrus has two young sons from two different wives. Adam, the elder, is sensitive and peaceful, and clearly Cyrus' favorite. He decides to send the boy off to military academy and make a soldier of him. Although the younger son, Charles, is clearly more athletic and coordinated, he has to stay home and work the farm. Neither boy is happy with his destiny, and Charles can't understand why his father's love is so elusive when he tries so hard. 

Charles buys Cyrus a super-duper pocketknife which he never uses, while Adam gives him a mongrel pup that he adores. Poor Charles also gives himself a nasty scar in the center of his forehead in a farming accident. It's an iron-rust tattoo like a long fingermark and he feels self-conscious like a branded cow. 

No prizes for figuring out which Biblical brother each Trask boy represents. 

Okay, I've come across theories of why God rejected Cain's gift, including this possibility. The rudimentary sacrificial system that runs all through scripture was already being established, but Cain ignored the parameters and went his own way. Since it was supposed to be a blood sacrifice, he shouldn't have been put-out when his vegetarian offering didn't make the grade. Cain was getting course correction, not personal rejection. Yet the Genesis narrative certainly keeps motives murky and glosses over the incident. 

As far as Steinbeck's story is concerned, there is no particular reason why this man chooses to favor one of his boys. What's more, the rejection of the gift seems synonymous with rejection of the giver. (Surely he could've found a use for that knife instead of dropping it into a drawer! I find it hard to fathom purely from a utilitarian perspective. Cyrus must've had methods that already worked for him sufficiently and been truly set in his ways.) 

To thicken the plot like curdled milk is the Cathy Ames factor. This girl is labeled a monster in the very same sentence that introduces her. She is certainly one of the most cold-blooded, calculating female characters I've come across in classic literature. The further we read, the more evident her modus operandi becomes. Cathy coolly disposes of people who throw spanners in her plans, and these tend to be the same people who feel most affection for her. 

'I believe there are monsters born in this world to human parents,' says our narrator. Rather than being born with a physical abnormality, Cathy has a perfect body (notwithstanding her animal sharp teeth) but entirely lacks empathy or conscience. In her defense, since she was born without human kindness, her atrocious crimes against others are not entirely her fault. You can't use what you don't have. Yet it behooves anyone to steer clear of her, because a female psychopath can utilize a beautiful face to its maximum effect. 

Destiny is cruel. It has to be this girl who crosses paths with the two Trask boys, who still grapple with their already dysfunctional family background. Adam is unable to stand against her dangerous wiles. Like his Biblical namesake, he behaves as if he's born yesterday. She plays him like a big sucker.

And once Adam moves the pair of them to Salinas Valley, we meet Lee, Adam's Chinese servant who has a student's heart and considers the whole world a springboard for research. Lee shares an unfulfilled dream of mine, to open a little bookshop, and he drops the line which I consider encapsulates a major theme thus far. 'The greatest terror a child can have is that he is not loved, and rejection is the hell he fears.'   

Thus far, I kept having serious misgivings for poor Adam, wondering in what manner that monster would chew him up and spit him out? Even though Adam misreads Cathy so thoroughly, she does put on her best behavior around him until her work is done. It wouldn't surprise me if he bears major existential crises and PTSD from his forced military background, and this girl is supposed to be the light of his life, making everything better. When the blow comes, he can't say Charles didn't warn him!

Although I was no fan of Charles when they were kids, I warmed to him when they grew up and his vulnerabilities kept showing. The disillusionment about the father he adored, his shyness around women, his crushing disappointment when his brother keeps delaying his homecoming, it's all weirdly endearing. How can I keep hold of my grudge when all this keeps eating away at the poor guy.  

We're also introduced to Samuel Hamilton, an Irish handyman and inventor who lives on inhospitable, barren land with a dour, Presbyterian wife, and an interesting passel of kids. This whiskered gent practices water divination, midwifery, and spouts philosophy. He's an entertaining person to have around, but how does his grandson happen to be narrating this novel? Initially, that seems a bit random.

I love the dawning discovery that the members of the Hamilton family are Steinbeck's Easter eggs, true-life members of his own family. It comes out that he himself is the narrator (he's even addressed here and there as 'John' in his boyhood reminiscences) and his parents were Ernest Steinbeck and Olive Hamilton. What a genius move, to plant his own grandfather into the fictional Adam Trask's biblically themed mess as his warm-hearted friend and mentor. Samuel Hamilton is one of my favorite characters, but I have several. 

So far I'm quite disturbed by this plot but also hooked.  

Stick around for my discussion of the book's second half incorporating the second generation of Cains and Abels. I'd initially wondered how Steinbeck could possibly maintain the momentum when those twins grow up and take center stage. I'll finish with a teaser, he does it incredibly well!

'Lolly Willowes' by Sylvia Townsend Warner

Each year I aim to include a spooky theme on Halloween week. This year I've decided to extend it throughout the entire month of October. I'll review four witch-themed books back-to-back, but not the popular, spine-tingling type of novel aimed to disturb and unsettle us. I'll focus on insightful vintage reads which encourage us to consider the topic through the lenses of tradition, history, and even Christian faith. Here is my first, second, and third. 

I'm finishing up with this wonderful social satire from the 1920s with its fantastical elements. 

MY THOUGHTS:

Wow, The Blue Castle meets Supernatural! This is the sort of refreshing novel where we needn't worry too much about spoilers, because the whole story is contained in several of the blurbs I've come across. As a general summary, a maiden aunt goes to live in the countryside and becomes a witch. I won't tiptoe too lightly as I discuss the plot, because doing so will restrict a lot of its whimsy and fun. But if you're concerned about such things, here is my disclaimer. There are mild spoilers but it probably doesn't even matter.  

Now here goes. 

In her early years, Laura Willowes is a daddy's girl. The apple of his eye, she keeps house for him to their mutual satisfaction. Her beloved father dies when she is 28 years old, and Laura is absorbed into the clockwork-running household of her older brother, Henry. She becomes a companion to Henry's orderly and pious wife, Caroline. The children call her 'Aunt Lolly' and before long, everyone else calls her Lolly too. Laura's persistent dream of living a simple, leisurely life in the country seems futile. Her identity has dissolved. 

Twenty years later, when the kids have all grown up, Laura decides enough is enough. Just because her relatives are set in their ways doesn't mean she needs to follow their example any longer. She buys a guidebook and map to the Chilterns in Buckinghamshire and announces her intention to move to the secluded hamlet of Great Mop, holding out against family resistance. 'No Henry, I love you all, but feel I have lived here long enough.' 

Staying put with her London family for twenty years was a suffocating trial, but her family never intended to be stick-in-the-muds. That's what makes it hard to stick to her guns. Caroline is a generous sister-in-law who willingly opens her heart and home to Laura. Even Henry is only taking on the head-of-the-family role which the world tells him is his by right. They aren't to know that the lifestyle they offer stifles Laura's soul.  

And little does Laura realize that she'll need to become a witch to guard her peace and quiet. Making a deal with the devil appears to be the only way she'll be able to protect the solitude of the new domain she's worked so hard to acquire. Laura doesn't know she's come to Great Mop to become a witch. She thinks she's come just to be in the country and escape being an aunt. 

I love the section when her nephew, Titus, crashes into her new stamping ground at Great Mop. He's delighted that his aunt has discovered such a peaceful, unspoiled place for him to settle down in and write his book. Of course letting Titus stay is out of the question. Laura knows she will sink into her familiar, acquiescent role as this overbearing young man's Aunt Lolly. 

Titus has already scared off her hard-earned peace with his BIG friendly presence. Even the woods have changed their character. Yet giving him his marching orders must surely fracture their relationship. It's a delicate matter that requires the subtle power of her newfound witchcraft. Titus will surely leave of his own accord when tiny trials keep piling up. 

Titus is one of my favorite characters, and the Great Mop villagers love him too. Once again, it isn't a case of driving out an enemy. Laura knows he'd be crushed if he guessed how annoying she finds him. But she can't possibly tell him that he's ruining everything for her.

Honestly, the introduction of the Satan character can be taken with a grain of salt. The author of all evil is written as a genial gent willing to lend a hand. It is a literary ruse aimed to show just how dire things are, when the only way Laura Willowes can attain the peace and autonomy she craves is to strike a deal with the devil and become a witch. It is a social critique laced with satire. 

'It had pleased Satan to come to her aid. She did not see who else would have done so. Custom, public opinion, law, church, and state - all would have shaken their massive heads against her plea and sent her back to bondage.' 

It becomes clear that Sylvia Townsend Warner has sneakily drawn from traditional witch stereotypes all along. When Laura realizes her vocation, she considers it more an illumination than a surprise. It explains everything; her fascination with 'rural pharmacopoeia', her brews and distillations, her affinity with deep, quiet, country places. When a tiny kitten appears out of nowhere, he's presumably been assigned as her familiar. Even Laura's looks fit the picture that's been built up. Before she even leaves home, Caroline quietly notices Laura's hook nose and sharp chin, reflecting that when she's ten years older, she'll be positively nut-crackerish. 

I'd hoped to find this a pleasant, quirky read, but it amazed me how affirming it is for my present season. Earlier this year, I'd made a stand and stopped doing something I'd done for decades. Laura's story comes as a quiet thumbs up. I have three top take-aways which are counter to some of the habits we're urged to practice in our western world. 

1) It's perfectly fine if your current ambition is neither lofty nor showy. If you merely want a quiet, curious, and hidden life, all power to you!

2) Some of us aren't born to be social people, no matter how willingly we try to fit in. Laura finds the witches and warlocks' sabbath she attends no more to her liking than any other ball or party she'd ever been to. She takes it as a sign to be careful not to start deferring to public opinion in her new life, just as she had in her old. Right here is permission not to stretch ourselves. (I doubt I would have liked the sabbath either. What a weird event.)  

3) It is more than okay to protect our boundaries. And we needn't feel guilty about thwarting the plans of family and loved-ones if they strike the roots of our own personhood. On the surface, it is easy to reason that Titus has a perfect right to come and live in Great Mop if he feels like it, and Laura should just deal with it. But sometimes selfishness is vital for our peace of mind.   

This novel begins in the early twentieth century Edwardian era but was first published in 1926, a restless time in history. It was the simmering interwar era when women, whose efforts had been invaluable in World War One, now chafed at the idea of being pushed back into their boxes and expected to resume their old subservient lives. Warner's protest is up among the most charming I've come across. It includes some stunning nature writing, as she urges us to stay true to our own essential natures. It's a far lovelier and more palatable offering than the outright bitterness some other author might have used to air her grievance.    

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟 

'The White Witch' by Elizabeth Goudge

Each year I aim to include a spooky theme on Halloween week. This year I've decided to extend it throughout the entire month of October. I'll review four witch-themed books back-to-back, but not the popular, spine-tingling type of novel aimed to disturb and unsettle us. I'll focus on insightful vintage reads which encourage us to consider the topic through the lenses of tradition, history, and even Christian faith. 

Here was first and second. Third is this offering from the incomparable Elizabeth Goudge. 

MY THOUGHTS:

It is the year of grace, 1642. Shakespeare is slightly out of fashion, because he's been dead for 30 years, and people wonder if his work will ever revive. England has embarked on bloody Civil War. The Puritan Parliament, under Oliver Cromwell, is ready to fight it out with King Charles I and his loyal Royalist troops. Both sides are equally convinced that the Almighty is pulling for them. 

Parson Hawthyn is an admirable old clergyman who is dirt poor but considers himself wealthy in all that counts, including his meagre book collection. His hugest trial occurs when Robert Haslewood, his zealous young squire, commands him to burn all the holy treasures he's made for his church, and forsake music, bell-ringing, and the Book of Common Prayer. These have become desecration to the formerly easy-going Robert, yet remain spiritual sustenance for Parson Hawthyn. The same items are precious iconography for the elderly parson, but evil idolatry to the young Puritan. What a stalemate.  

Hawthyn has no intention to obey, but then Haslewood unexpectedly comes home for Christmas.  

The titular character is Froniga Haslewood, Robert's cousin, a gifted herbalist who has both gentry and gypsy blood flowing through her veins. Froniga considers herself to be a white witch as she dispenses her homemade tonics, ointments, and potions. She professes a blend of Christianity, fairy lore, Romany spells, and confidence in her own intuition and second sight. At the start, she is more devoted to her spells than to God, since 'good spirits permit their power to be drawn on with human will, while God demands the human will be drawn into his.'   

Not far away lives Mother Skipton, the local 'black witch', who grows 'love apples' later known as tomatoes. This lady has made a deal with the devil if ever anyone has. She has sold herself over to dark forces in exchange for the opportunity to wield some power, and has paid a high price. The heavy oppression surrounding her house and property seems almost palpable. 

Other characters take their turn on center stage. Francis Leland, a journeyman painter turned political spy; Will and Jenny, Robert's eight-year-old twins, as different as chalk and cheese, the stately and wise Madona, who is Froniga's Romany aunt, and Yoben, the mysterious wanderer with the secret past who happens to be the only man Froniga could ever love. 

I can sympathize with Froniga, who never regrets her love for animals, but sometimes regrets that her love for humans is so paltry in comparison. For that reason, some of the animal characters deserve a mention too, such as Baw, the white gypsy pony who tends to be mistaken for a unicorn in the dark, and who narrowly misses becoming a victim of blind superstition. Also Maria, the King Charles cavalier spaniel with the droopy ears, who is now an embarrassment to her Puritan master, and Pen the white cat, who weaves around her mistress's legs, purring and vibrating.    

Of course the story's outstanding character is Froniga herself, a single woman, living alone, who has reached the age of forty. Despite her mixed heritage, she never once feels displaced, but rather empowered with the force of life. She strikes me as a seventeenth century example of the sort of woman who men admire, and women resent. Froniga is independent and decisive. There is never anything wishy-washy or hesitant about her, but although she doesn't make a habit of second guessing herself, she's humble enough to take course correction on board.   

I won't reveal all the catalysts, but by the end, Froniga renounces her white magic and spells. She feels too much pride in her ability to summon benign spirits, and therefore realizes the inherent danger in doing so. 'One's heart must be pure indeed to summon to one only that which is good.' Yet inevitable pride disqualifies many a well-intentioned white witch. Who would want to slide down the same slippery slope as poor Mother Skipton (who once referred to herself and Froniga as 'sisters in the occult')?  

'Magicians, sooner or later, became worshippers of their own power, and the smoke of their idolatrous incense hid the face of God.' 

This is undoubtedly my favorite Goudge novel. Although I haven't read them all, I've read enough to predict that I won't change my mind. Goudge's own brand of Christian mysticism has never fascinated me more. I stopped counting the number of times I paused to sit pondering, 'Wow, what just happened?' There was so much to stretch my brain and tick my boxes. For example, what fine but decisive nuances there are between spells and prayers. This novel is exceptional. It is colorful, immersive, convincing, and dare I say bewitching.  

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟

Next week I'll finish up this witchy month with a very cool novel of manners from the 1920s that has touches of magical realism. (Update, it is here.)

'The Whispering Knights' by Penelope Lively

Each year I aim to include a spooky theme on Halloween week. This year I've decided to extend it throughout the entire month of October. I'll review four witch-themed books back-to-back, but not the popular, spine-tingling type of novel aimed to disturb and unnerve us. I'll focus on insightful vintage reads which encourage us to consider the topic through the lenses of tradition, history, and even Christian faith. 

Second is this novel I read during my Primary School years, and tracked down as a free read on Internet Archive. 

 MY THOUGHTS:

Three young friends, William, Susie, and Martha, concoct a witch's brew as a bit of a lark. They follow Shakespeare's recipe (Eye of newt and toe of frog...) but improvise heavily. The old Cotswold barn in which they hang out is rumored to have once been the home of a real witch. 

Old Miss Hepplewhite, the owner of the barn, totters over a moment too late. Still, she enlightens them about the identity of the witch who once claimed ownership. It was King Arthur's sister, Morgan le Fay, whose alter-egos include Duessa, Circe, the witch from Snow White, the Ice Queen, and many more. She is widely recognizable as a bad egg. 

 As Morgan thrives on credulity, she's disempowered when people don't believe in her. That's why she jumps on any opening afforded by children. But perhaps, Miss Hepplewhite suggests, since theirs was only a small belief, nothing will come of it. 

Nope, it is soon clear that the evil Morgan has snatched her opportunity to enter their era. She takes advantage of vulnerable Martha, who has nervous misgivings from the very start, and who is subject to nightmares of the most fantastical nature. Yet the other two are certainly not blameless. William always comes up with creative and original ideas (such as the brew) which pragmatic and capable Susie figures out how to implement. 

The question we readers may wonder is why Morgan would target these three specifically for harm, simply because they unintentionally summoned her? Is being evil all through enough of a motive? Hmm, I'm guessing she's discovered, throughout her personal history, that those humans who give her a leg in feel most responsible for getting her out again. Therefore she's pre-empting the young trio by already acting defensively as well as maliciously. 

It is the early 1970s. Black-and-white TV is state-of-the-art technology, and Morgan apparently assumes that those who watch it are worshipping some sort of deity, haha. 

Although the kids 'win' the first few rounds, they soon realize they're in over their heads. Morgan le Fay, in her renewed human form, marries a local business tycoon and begins machinations for a whopping great highway to run right through their beloved village. Why, we may ask? Miss Hepplewhite provides the answer. If Morgan controls the road, she may ensure that it becomes a place of mass fatality. William, Susie, and Martha are obligated to think of a way to stop her. 

What follows is a retro series of rescues and chases, involving hypnotism, public buses, and a menacing black Rolls Royce without a driver. The triage in the hospital casualty waiting room was impressively quick in 1971, but cancelled out when the nurse casually organizes a lift against the children's will. I'm impressed to see that Morgan, like Count Dracula, is susceptible to the power of the Cross, so a high stakes scene in a church becomes vital. And at last the Whispering Knights of the title come into play. 

As a nine or ten-year-old, I found this story riveting. It doesn't quite live up to my memory. The Whispering Knights' role has an anti-climactic, backstage feel about it, even though the children are present for the duration. Same with Mr Steel's apparent whirlwind courtship and marriage, although he has, of course, been 'magicked'. But descriptions of Morgan are suitably creepy, evoking visions of Narnia's White Witch and Harry Potter's Bellatrix Lestrange to join the litany of examples Miss Hepplewhite tells the young trio. 

Penelope Lively has really played on the longstanding legend of the wicked witch. This seems to draw from some more base type of evil, presenting true devilry with a feminine face. The question is how it started (presumably during the witch hunt era) and why it's stuck. 

I didn't find this novel as quaintly philosophical as Lively's haunting offering, The Ghost of Thomas Kempe, but it has some truly lovely nature descriptions. 

🌟🌟🌟

I love this t-shirt featuring some of Disney's wicked witches with the caption 'Chillin' Like Villains.' I popped into a tiny secondhand shop in a rural town where we stopped to stretch our legs and came out with this. It fits the spirit of this book perfectly.  

Next week I'll feature a witch-centric book by the incomparable Elizabeth Goudge. For my witchy October, start with last week's review, The Witch of Blackbird Pond.

'The Witch of Blackbird Pond' by Elizabeth George Speare

Each year I aim to include a spooky theme on Halloween week. This year I've decided to extend it throughout the entire month of October. I'll review four witch-themed books back-to-back, but not the popular, spine-tingling type of novel aimed to disturb and unsettle us. I'll focus on insightful vintage reads which encourage us to consider the topic through the lenses of tradition, history, and even Christian faith. 

This Newbery Award winner is the first. 

MY THOUGHTS: 

This novel won the 1959 Newbery Award, but is set way back in 1687. Sixteen-year-old Kit (Katherine) Tyler is soon to disembark in Connecticut, New England, to gatecrash on relatives who aren't remotely expecting her. She was brought up in Barbados by her grandfather, an indulgent plantation owner who managed his affairs badly and lost everything before he died. Now Kit plans to throw herself on the mercy of her Aunt Rachel and Uncle Matthew who live way across the ocean and have two teenaged daughters of their own. 

Awkward incidents pile up before Kit even sets foot off The Dolphin. While on board, she keeps accidentally shocking or offending the two handsome young men she befriends; Nat Eaton, the captain's son, and John Holbrook, a divinity student bound, like herself, for the colony of Weathersfield.

 Some of Kit's behavior has the potential to get a little hazardous in the new land where she's bound. Kit rescues a child's beloved doll which has fallen overboard, but young women aren't usually proficient swimmers. (For witches float but the innocent sink.) And 'normal' girls generally can't read fluently either, as Kit can. There is no real impetus to learn, for the proper use of reading isn't for fun but to improve our sinful natures. 

It's when she reaches her new home and makes friends with the local oddity, Hannah Tupper, that Kit really begins to gain a suspicious reputation with some of the townsfolk, for Hannah lives isolated in a small rickety house at the edge of a swamp, and she is a Quaker, who folk regard as blasphemous. Throughout the novel, especially when several townspeople fall sick with fever, accusations of outright witchcraft come to a head, although why they believe Hannah Tupper would wish to kill them and their children is anyone's guess.  

But the story is really as much about culture shock as it is about witch hunts. Kit's Puritan relatives are not unsympathetic (which I appreciate) but their niece, with her seven trunks crammed with lavish clothes, is now expected to pull her weight and help out with work she'd only ever seen done by slaves, such as wool-carding, weaving, spinning, cooking, and vegetable garden maintenance.

Worst of all, she has to put up with all those pious, dour Puritans, who find it outrageous when Kit sets some young schoolchildren playacting Bible stories.

The story sometimes lacks depth though. When Aunt Rachel says, 'The Quakers don't take the holy sacraments,' Kit responds, 'So what?' She has evidently given no thought to the significance of what she chews and swallows each week in church. Surely a teenager can chafe under the heavy weight of Puritanical rules without glibly dismissing a major Christian mainstay. Puritans are tiresome at best and downright dangerous at worst, but since Kit is living among them, she might as well try to dig for some bedrock to their staunch faith. Yet there is no evidence that she ever does. 

In fact, I noticed a continuity glitch early on. At first Kit seems not to know what a Puritan even is. (You mean a Roundhead? One of those traitors who murdered King Charles?) Then not long after that, she explains to John how her Aunt Rachel married a Puritan and ran away to America. So she must have known something about them, and at least heard the word before.

There is a comical mix-up in the matter of potential marriage partners. It involves Kit, her cousins, and several young men. We keep reading to find out how these unfortunate liaisons might get untangled when they are in such a massive snarl. Girls and guys who are totally wrong for each other somehow end up engaged. I found the resolution a little too slick, considering what a scramble it was.  

But I grinned to discover that some of these characters were real historical figures. Based on their names, I would have sworn Speare had invented them, especially Mr Eleazar Kimberly, the schoolteacher, and Reverend Gersholm Bulkeley, John's esteemed mentor. If we're thinking in the most traditional, vitriolic sense of the word, the biggest 'witch' in the story is the hate-filled Goodwife Cruff. But no, perhaps she's more like a snake. ('Goodwife Cruff drew in her breath through her teeth in a venomous hiss.') 

I recently landed on a book recommendation forum where several commenters mentioned this as their favorite book ever. Meh, I consider that pretty generous. After the hype I came across, I was a little disappointed. I guess it is refreshing to see three young people actually want to visit an old woman, when in the 21st century young people often need coercing to visit elderly relatives. Perhaps the proverb about forbidden fruit is true.

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 Next week I'll examine a blast from my long-ago past which really utilizes the tradition of the wicked witch.  

'Shakespeare in the Orchard' by Danielle Binks

Summary: A coming-of-age story inspired by true events in Australia in World War I that explores the things that separate us and those that bring us together, from an award-winning author.

MY THOUGHTS:

Tales of World War One from the home front always interest me. This YA novel is an Aussie offering, and since my own forebears include a mixture of British and German settlers, the premise hooked me enough to reserve a copy from the library. 

The setting is Langwarrin on the Mornington Peninsula. The story begins late 1914. Having just turned 14, Jack Thorning is too young to enlist as a soldier like his brother, Matt. Still, he is a fine athlete, a deadly accurate rifleman, and the star of the junior cadets. The old school teacher, Mr Kempster, has inflamed Jack with a passion to defend their nation against the hated Huns. 

Jack and his mother, Ada, have a serious problem. With all able-bodied men away overseas, there are no pickers to help with their five acres of ripe apple trees. The crop will rot, and they'll go broke. But then they receive a repugnant offer they can't refuse. Prisoners from the local enemy alien camp have offered to help struggling farmers and orchardists to harvest their crops for minimum wage. The timing is too crucial, and the labor too cheap to deny. The Thornings are assured that the pickers will be under strict surveillance. 

Jack is in for the biggest attitude readjustment of his life. For of course the poor pickers sent to help are not hostile enemies at all, but a variety of men who have been majorly screwed over by the War Precaution Act of an ultra-sensitive nation. Some have never even set foot on Teutonic soil, others have lost positions in companies they helped found, and even more have been cruelly torn away from their loved ones. 

When the German prisoners decide, for the sake of staying human, to put together their own slapdash production of Hamlet as they pick apples, Jack cannot help but be interested. 

Walter Maberly, Jack's best buddy, is up to his neck in problems of his own. He befriends and champions Lotti, a girl of German descent, whose father is among the prisoners of war. And Walter's dad, the local postmaster, stirs the pot even more by offering Lotti's mother a job. Things get vitriolic, since Mr Maberly is already suspected of pacifist leanings. 

Jack's 19-year-old brother, Matt, is part of the AIF (Australian Imperial Force). His newsy letters home to his family are valuable fodder from a historical perspective, including all the censored words intended to identify place and plan. Ada and Jack know he's in sandy Cairo with his battalion, awaiting their next orders. And with the benefit of decades, we readers predict that will turn out to be Gallipoli Cove (gulp).

At one stage I thumped this book down in disgust over a questionable, spur-of-the-moment decision Jack makes. There are emotive triggers  aplenty. I definitely enjoyed the story but do wonder how well the Shakespearean content will go over with modern teens, the book's target audience. It rings true that a boy like Jack, in 1915, might find himself lured in by the Hamlet rehearsals. But how about his counterparts from the mid 2020s? 

Time will tell. 

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