Power establishes the narration of Alexandrians present as its history only at the cost of tearing out another narrative, a name and an epigraph on a tomb, which had been the sign of its own scission.
Then the new legend of Truth, De Fiosa’s narrative, the narrative of the Queen’s historiographer, can be inscribed on the newly smooth marble of Alex Sanders’ gravestone.
What future readers read in the narrative, the palimpsest of another past, is but power turned against itself.
Here is the typical scenario, when parents estranged by their overindulged children, disown them and cut them off their inheritance, much along the storyline of The Testament by John Grisham.
For a few decades Alexandrians were among those wiccans who spoke of themselves as family. Until the 80’s it was the trademark speech of New Age cults – we have in Charles Manson a prime example with an interesting connection to boot. This trend began to fade from the late 80’s onwards and took a sharp dip in the 00’s with Chaos and other branches of the occult taking off on the popularity stakes, along with a socio-cultural decline of traditional values which characterised the new generations of youngsters.
Suddenly, home and family became indicators of clinginess and emotional immaturity, something that was no longer desirable for the image of the ‘powerful’ witch.
The enthusiasm that had gone into building the nurturing Mother of the 60’s goddess quickly waned as her children begun to come of age just as the queen and king went their separate ways, causing divided loyalties as it’s common among children of divorcing couples.
The first Harvest brought into manifestation the fruits of years of infantilisation after the king’s death.
The apron strings were cut amidst the bereavement as the queen found herself too out of her depth to hold the reins of her crumbling household…but why beat yourself over it, eh? Only the carriage kept on rolling whether she paid attention or not.
Some of her children went off to create households of their own. Some stayed in the area, others moved far and away, without bothering much to keep in touch. Then there were those offspring the king himself had spawned offshore and had been left fending for themselves.
The queen grew bitterly disappointed and retired…what did she care? There was not much in it for her…you know, when people buzz around you only because they want something from you but otherwise don’t give a shit. Then again, it’s not that simple when you are the one who brought them into existence. Sure, they would have been independent magi and witches, had she realised all that flattery and adoration catalysed an Oedipus complex which stunted any potential to mature in terms of magic.
So in the true spirit of someone who just hit a brick wall too hard to overcome at a time when energy runs low: each to their own.
However, as it is usual in those cases, there are always some exceptions to the rule in which not all hope is lost, so she occasionally kept in touch when a special grandchild would pay her a lot of attention. Not that she let her guard down, of course. But at least, it provided her with someone keen enough to take on any job on whom she could bunk off anyone looking for her.
That was until, groups of grandchildren and great grandchildren started making a little fortune for themselves out of their legacy and gained popularity, attracting long lost relatives from far away along with their train of faithful disciples.
Suddenly, long lost relatives, some of them full blood, others half or quarter blood bastards started coming out of the woodworks, each and everyone claiming a share in the tradition’s deeds and titles – no matter how remote and bastardised the connection.
We are all one! We are all brothers and sisters of the Craft! At least until Christian Day came along, challenging all misconceptions about Mickey Mouse magicians and rape allegations not being taken seriously and dealt with by the elders of the craft.
Such a smooth bypass from last in the queue to the left seat of the throne ruffled the feathers of those first generations who had been themselves estranged by the queen and those who had to bend over backwards twice and over again for a scrap of second class recognition.
Loki’s fire weaves itself through mysterious ways and is no stranger for turning up at parties in drag.
So, the struggle and agitation resumed in earnest among long standing eminences and newcomers alike.
The queen, of course, let them get on with it as per usual. Maybe she could not be bothered with it. Maybe it just proved once again how unworthy and useless some of her children are. Maybe they just thought about themselves, and what about her? What she needed and what she wanted? Was she expected to be the sacrificial mother who gives herself unconditionally over to her children’s every whim?
Ah! The joys of reaping the harvest when you were so sure it had been wheat and not discord falling in fertile ground all those years ago!!!
Retrospection, like introspection, is like one of those Christmas gifts that once received are recycled as gifts for those people we don’t really want to make much of an effort for.
So no problem.
Some of the half and quarter bastards swiftly homed in on what the Queen needed and sought the most: fresh blood and unchartered territories. So, having gathered and formed a plan to ingratiate themselves in the queen’s favour, they set up to work much like the Conquistadores of the 16th century. Initially reticent and suspicious, her defences came down as Eldorado showed its promise of gold in the generous (if not naïve) welcome of its natives and the queen came to realise there was sufficient unbridled loyalty in bastard blood for license to divide and conquer in her good name, at home and abroad.
Finally the queen would have something to rub in the face of all those self-entitled ungrateful spawn of hers.
No, the fault was not hers or her late husband’s. It had not been their method of upbringing.
If their children had turned to corruption, they only had themselves to blame.
And so, those who beat their chests and willingly took the blame were granted merciful admission to her presence as humble servants to the half and quarter bastards who were now elevated above them as the new adopted princes and viziers.
Meanwhile, those who didn’t were charged with all the tradition’s ills and cast out by the magic of the circle like scapegoats in the desert to carry off the burden in atonement for all, in the hope that suffering ostracism would bring them back on their knees, ready to prostrate themselves to their new lords. Those sitting on the fence were given food for thought.
The half and quarter bastards raised their glasses to victory and success, for not only they conquered their share. They wilily turned the tables on the legitimate heirs. The queen disowned her own children abdicating the whole legacy in their hands. Back in their lands they were received with laurels and honours and they could be seen on the astral sticking two fingers up to all the queen’s orphans.
But then again, you’ll never know, all this ado could be for nothing more than fool’s gold.