Herding feral cats is easier than gathering a group of Pagans. Yet HP Endora somehow managed to bring our meeting to order in our hallowed hall at 6:11 — barely late at all. She was elegant as ever in her midnight-purple robe and pointed hat of office, but she kept fingering a mysterious gilded scroll tucked into her sash and an uncharacteristically grim expression hardened her handsome face.
We cast the circle in our usual manner but with excessive enthusiasm due to the surprise appearance of a fox perched on the divan. Once the rite concluded, the fox shapeshifted into Gwydion wearing a luscious russet velvet dinner jacket, white ruffled shirt, russet trousers, and tall black boots. Half the faces in the room twisted into jealous scowls at his clever trick, the other half enraptured smiles.
Endora remained dour-faced and distracted by the scroll.
We recited the Rede, then seated ourselves.
At Endora’s prompting, the secretary strode to the podium. She meticulously adjusted the crimson robes and matching pointed hat of her office before requesting approval of the minutes from the Hallows Eve meeting.
Dimwitted Winifred, nervously tugging the sleeves of her amethyst robe, challenged the accuracy of the minutes, which she claimed underreported her contribution to the discussion on “Hexes for Exs.” The secretary reminded everyone that her recall spell is flawless and Winifred withdrew her baseless complaint, but will no doubt question these Yule minutes at Hearthfire, as she is a sweet but empty-headed twit.
The Fuddy-Duds — Cedric and Ravenna, both in conservative black hooded robes and oversized pentacles — complained that the minutes referred to them eight times as fuddy-duds, and raised their habitual complaint that the minutes were more “colorful” than strictly required.
The secretary gave her standard reply: “No one reads dry-toast minutes. The juicy parts engage people. Clearly you avidly read the Hallows Eve minutes, thereby making my point.”
“You’re the biggest fuddy-duddy of all,” Ravenna said.
“Which is why I wield the term with such affection.”
Cedric muttered under his breath, “The secretary is an arrogant tart.”
“I also employ an enhanced hearing spell, Cedric,” the secretary said tartly.
The minutes from the Hallows Eve meeting were then approved with no corrections by a vote of eleven yeahs, two fuddy-duddy abstentions.
Our mousy treasurer Fionna, nearly swallowed in the cerulean robe and hat of her office, then mumbled a long, dull financial report from the podium. It can be accessed through the member portal using your members-only spell. As we had a small surplus above our prudent reserve, we voted unanimously to make a donation of fifty euros, four bunches of dried nightshade, and a scavenged crow wing to the international UCW headquarters in Brussels.
HP Endora then graciously thanked Merlin and Radagast for the spectacular Yuletide decorations. We all applauded and the two bearded men preened with pride, their chests practically bursting out of their tie-dyed robes. They outdid themselves this year: glittering snow-unicorns pranced the hall’s periphery, flaming firebirds illuminated the gabled ceiling, and fanciful ice sculptures of griffons, dragons, and selkies posed artfully throughout the hall. On the mantle above the crackling yule-log fire, garlands writhed and entwined like living emerald snakes around glowing candles.
With a dramatic flourish, Endora drew the gilded scroll from her sash. “We have a missive from UCW headquarters requiring immediate attention.” She let the scroll unfurl.
The scroll’s sonorous voice echoed through the hall: “Habitat loss and climate change make the Fae’s connection to our world tenuous, and the more the Fae withdraw, the worse the ecological crisis will become, until all the Earth is a Wasteland.” As the scroll spoke, images formed above us: the Fae, ghost-like and listless; wild climate swings from torrential rains to searing droughts; dying forests, dull rivers, and polluted seas; then a vast landscape of bare rock, sharp and harsh. The Wasteland.
“All UCW precincts,” the scroll continued, “are asked to immediately remediate the human-Fae bond.” The scroll then disappeared in a puff of orange smoke.
Everyone shouted at once. There hadn’t been such an uproar since Melisandre baked Viagra in the holiday pudding back in 2012.
Endora brought her wand down on the podium with a loud smack and the voices echoing through the hall transformed into a muffled hush. The room fell silent in shock — Endora wasn’t known for aggressive wand work.
“Line up at the selkie ice sculpture,” she said, “and make your proposals for reviving the human-Fae bond. If you agree with a particular suggestion, stand beside whomever made it in solidarity. Do not repeat what has already been stated, or I will silence you.” Endora waved her wand meaningfully.
Melisandre sashayed to the sculpture first, her indigo cat suit accentuating her voluptuous curves. She shimmied her shoulders and made her dyed sapphire curls bounce. “I suggest we all get skyclad and have group sex!”
“To what end?” Endora asked.
“Mutual climax, of course.”
Endora tapped her wand to hush an outburst of snide commentary. “How will sex magic revive the bond between humans and Fae?”
“I don’t know that it will — but it would be great fun.” Melisandre smiled. Obviously she’d used a whitening spell on her too-perfect teeth. Most of us were on the middle-aged end of ageless, Melisandre included, but she persisted in projecting a youthful glamour.
Predictably, Albus and Radagast strutted up to her like two horny satyrs, eyes bright and nostrils flared.
“Three for sex magic,” Endora said. “Next.”
Dimwitted Winifred suggested using a hex against anyone contributing to climate change. Endora pointed out that everyone is part of the problem, as we all want our modern conveniences—cars, hot water, air conditioning, Amazon packages, and so forth. She also noted that hexes are notoriously hard to contain without risking deadly blowback on the hexer. Winifred bravely stated she was willing to make such a sacrifice if it’d save the Fae. No one stood with her, so the idea was tabled, but her heartfelt proposal was nonetheless impressive.
The next three suggestions were equal parts dull and ridiculous and not worth summarizing. We had dithered for thirty-eight minutes and still had no workable plan.
Former TV star Sabrina and Hollywood Harry stepped to the statue. Bottle-blond Sabrina spoke in her best Glinda-the-Good-Witch voice. “We propose crafting a television streaming series starring a middle-aged witch trying to help the Fae —”
“— by finding a series of horcruxes polluters use to hide their crimes,” Harry said.
“— with the help of her beloved coven,” Sabrina concluded.
The room filled with excited murmuring as we imagined ourselves starring in this fictitious series.
Fuddy-Dud Ravenna raised her hand. “What would be the timeframe for bringing such a project to completion?”
“At least three years.” Harry adjusted his spectacles. “Probably longer.”
“In three years all the Fae may be gone!” cried Belladonna, a staunch hedgewitch. Her round face flushed passionate red above her embroidered citrine robe. “This isn’t a dystopian fantasy where you will somehow survive, whilst others die. No matter how high or how deep you go, no matter what you do to protect yourself, wherever it spreads the Wasteland poison destroys everything. No one, nothing, survives the Wasteland. And if we don’t find a way to save the Fae, the cascading environmental collapse will become unstoppable.”
Endora had to tap her wand three times to quiet the group.
Sabrina’s hands twitched at her sides and Harry anxiously readjusted his spectacles. “We withdraw our suggestion,” they said in unison.
Forty-seven minutes of discussion. No plan.
Gwydion was the last witch standing at the selkie sculpture. “I wonder if our secretary might use her recall spell to see if any useful strategies to strengthen the human-Fae bond were utilized in the past.” The full impact of his glamorous smile briefly flustered her response.
The secretary mentally perused past minutes — most of which were far drier than toast — reaching back to when they were little more than a group grimoire. A pattern emerged and she realized why Gwydion, wisest among our members, had requested this investigation.
The secretary joined Endora at the podium. “The most impactful practice over the years is quite simple,” she said. “Members offered the Fae milk and honey. In the winter, warm honeyed milk, steaming eggnog, or hot cocoa are traditional, with cookies or fruit bread. A welcoming candle in the window signals the Fae that an offering awaits them. The Winter Fae respond by etching windows with frost, tinseling bare tree boughs with glittering icicles, or sprinkling the crisp air with pristine snowflakes — thus filling the winter landscape with breathtaking beauty.”
“Urban witches like me can decorate their balconies with twinkling lights to attract the Fae,” Albus suggested, his thick eyebrows frunched like fat caterpillars, “or set out pots of flowers in the summer.”
“We suburbanites can leave summer offerings in our gardens or under a proud tree in the park,” Belladonna added.
“The Summer Fae will respond by calling forth robust blossoming, abundant harvests, and pollinators such as butterflies, moths, and bees,” the secretary said.
“But we are so few,” Fuddy-Dud Cedric protested. “How can —”
“Let me finish,” the secretary snapped. The Fuddy-Duds’ conservatism served an important purpose, as Ravenna had demonstrated by uncovering the fatal flaw in the useless television proposal, nonetheless their pessimism often impeded helpful discourse. “Sharing successful exchanges with the Fae encourages others to mimic the practice,” the secretary said. “In the past word of mouth was used; more recently members wrote newspaper stories.”
“No one reads the newspaper anymore,” Fuddy-Dud Ravenna grumbled.
“We can utilize social media, podcasts, and local television,” Gwydion said. “An attraction spell to help the posts or interviews go viral will be a necessary part of the campaign, but we have an experienced practitioner of such spells.” He winked at Melisandre.
She giggled. Anyone who hadn’t come under her allure always suspected Melisandre used an attraction spell; no one is naturally that bewitching.
“With the right social influencers, offerings for the Fae will become a worldwide fad,” Hollywood Harry said, his spectacles steaming with excitement.
“We can create an ever-expanding circle of beauty and reverence focused on the Fae and the natural world they protect,” Cassandra said, jade sleeves flapping with her extravagant gestures, “by coaxing musicians, poets, and other artists to highlight successful offerings.”
“Why not just conjure the stories we want to tell?” Winifred asked.
“Deception would taint the magic,” Melisandre answered. “Trust me, there has to be a core of truth for the attraction spell to work.”
“But what if …. ” Winifred twisted her sleeve cuffs into anxious knots. “What if the Fae don’t respond?”
“We must practice the oldest magic of all — faith,” Gwydion answered in a soothing tone. “Faith that if we make our offerings with reverence and hope, the Fae will answer.”
“Blessed be,” the membership murmured.
“I’m hearing a consensus,” Endora said. “Offerings for the Fae gives us a practical, immediate course of action, and upon success, we work media magic to spread the practice.”
Sabrina made a motion to adopt the offering/media campaign as our official remediation. Winifred seconded it. The motion passed unanimously and a cone of power, raised quickly with group humming, sealed our intention.
Gwydion flashed his radiant smile. “Well done, Madam Secretary.”
“Your prompting initiated my research,” the secretary demurred, her cheeks burning.
We adjourned the meeting and opened the circle at 6:59.
Belladonna prayed over the refreshments, and Gwydion fixed a plate of holiday cookies and a cup of hot cocoa for the Fae. We watched through the mullioned windows as he set out our offering. Winifred thoughtfully placed a mantle candle in the window to alert the Fae.
Members spent the remainder of the evening enjoying refreshments and singing favorite carols: “Deck the Halls,” “Gods Rest Ye Merry Paganfolk,” “We Wish You a Merry Yuletide,” and “Jingle Bells, Cast Your Spells.”
By midnight, graceful snowflakes swirled in the darkness and the window panes shimmered with feathered frost.
Humbly submitted in traditional protective cipher,
Bellatrix, Secretary of United Council of Witches
Precinct 217,
Yule 2025.
[Lyri Ahnam (decipherer of the above text) spins stories and poems from the ancestral homelands of the Illiniwek in southern Illinois. Her work has been published in Abyss & Apex, Bullet Points Magazine, Eternal Haunted Summer, and Silver Blade Magazine, among others. She publishes a monthly newsletter full of book reviews, thought-provoking essays, poetry, and links to her latest publications.
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