Page 70 of Hexed, Vexed, & Undersexed
Both Mother Shipton and Bellamy look at me like I’ve got a screw loose.
“Tituba,” I correct with a sniff. “Kai’s mom.”
Bellamy nods, like he’s recalling something.
“Samuel Parris was the puritanical minister of Salem,” he says.
“And his wife was Tituba’s accuser,” I add. “So, we know the ‘who’; tell me the ‘why.’”
“Think, child. What did Samuel Parris hate most in the world?”
“People falling asleep to his sermons?” I joke.
“The unreligious,” Bellamy breathes in revelation. “Basically, anyone who didn’t conform to his faith and its societal rules.”
“Like all those women burned at the stake for being witches,” Mother Shipton agrees.
“Ooookay, but what does this have to do with Parris’s great-times-infinity asshat of a granddaughter?”
“She’s been raised with the same undying beliefs, which have grown even more fanatical with every generation. The network knows that witches are real; this is just a guise to get you to find the prophecies,” she pauses for effect, “and to unlock the grimoire.”
I raise my hand again.
“What?” Mother Shipton snaps with an eye roll.
Someone has an attitude.
“Can you just summarize this please? I’m sitting in this dickhole’s lap,” I hitch a thumb at Bellamy, “and goddess knows what’s happening around us. With my luck, the network has unleashed venomous snakes or some messed up shit.”
I shudder at the thought.
I really don’t want to go back to reality now.
“You want a summary?” Mother Shipton moans. “How about just shutting up and letting me finish. Mindy Trump has finally gotten her hands on my grimoire—something that never should have left the family—but she can’t use it because only a Putnam or a Porter can read it.”
“But why the farce of the reality show? Why not just ask one of us?” Bellamy wonders.
“Because there’s something more powerful than revenge—avarice.”
“Huh. Just like a Trump to get side-tracked by money,” I sneer
Mother Shipton ignores me.
“The show brings money, just as my prophecies will—to the highest bidder. So, the network set out to find you both and make sure you were in the last trials. Both of you have the same question to ‘prove yourselves.’ The winner would tell Mindy where the prophecies are and unlock the grimoire, giving her the spell she needs to ‘clean the world of its pagan filth.’”
I blanch at her words.
Apparently, Mindy from the network is fucking insane.
“My prophecies will be misconstrued for political gain and more money; and my grimoire, my beautiful grimoire, will be used for bad instead of the good it was intended for. Samuel Parris’s descendant will use everything in her power to eradicate the world of real witches. She will try to snuff us out like they tried to do long ago. But this is where the two of you come in. Instead of working against one another as enemies, you must work together as a family. As a coven. Animosity is everything that Mindy wants. Don’t give it to her.”
“And what is our true heritage?” I ask.
“Don’t you see?” Mother Shipton says. “It’s giving witches a world of freedom—a world that they feel safe to come out in. A world that accepts them. A world that will not burn them for their differences. You two can herald in this world of peace and acceptance.”
I let Mother Shipton’s words sink in; she’s right.
Even in today’s era, we don’t feel safe telling humans that we’re real witches. Their legacy of burning us at the stake has scarred us forever.
