BANGLE MAG - Magazine - Page 32
Flash Fiction
IMBOLC FEAST
by Danielle Marie Cahill
My grandma used to tell me spring began in February – at the quickening – when the earth began to
wake. I tried to explain that it was still winter then, but she would not listen. When the “Beast from the
East” hit, I sent her a picture of me waist-deep in powder, only for her to 昀椀re back a snowdrop rising out
of the sparkling white.
She liked to have the last word.
But it is hard to feel any warmth or sprightliness on a sleeting day when the chill from the earth rises up
through the soles of my ballet 昀氀ats. I am searching for rushes to make a Brigid’s cross, but all I can 昀椀nd
by the canal is damp grass, dotted with cigarette butts. I have googled it though. Apparently, I could also
use straw. Not that there is much of that about in East London.
I am sure my grandma never had these problems.
She would know where the lush green stems grow, and how to weave them into a diamond shape for
the centre of the cross. I remember her deft hands, twisting and bending the stalks. I tried to keep up,
creasing mine until they broke, and I was left with scattered pieces of unruly plant, littering the table.
But she smiled and gave me hers – ready for me to 昀椀nish.
I have been a witch ever since she died, and I pieced together her way with tea leaves, her passion for
the seasons, and her uncanny premonitions. But I am probably doing it all wrong. She did not need
complicated love potions or the expensive crystals that WitchTok content creators hawk to me, and she
would never have dreamt of hexing the moon. Her ways were simple, and most of what her tea leaves
told her was common sense: that I needed to get my nose out of a book and run outside to play.
By the edge of the water, it is so cold my toes go numb and my 昀椀ngers shake, but there, close to an old
tree root, I spot them. I pounce. I hack away at the long fronds with kitchen scissors, borrowed from my
housemate, a mild-mannered Swedish man who is the careful owner of all of our utensils. When the
rushes are freed, I jubilantly tuck them into the pocket of my coat, and I hurry back along the towpath,
dodging icy puddles and starry fallen leaves.
I will make my grandma’s crosses, ready for the Imbolc feast.
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