Chapter 2

She had a deep, all-over tan—the combined product of lazy days at her favorite nudist beach and the tanning bed at home. She had a great figure, if she said so herself: long legs, narrow hips, and a pert little butt. Her breasts were not large, but they were a delightful conical shape, with smooth, puffy areolas that were only slightly darker than the surrounding skin. Although completely natural, her tits were wonderfully firm and rubbery—so much so they hardly bounced at all when she jumped up and down. She tried it in front of the mirror just to prove the point. With her spiky blue hair she could easily pass for a teenager, although she was now well past her twenty-second birthday.

Tara had promised Red Sonya she would do some local research on Friday evening, and she was as good as her word. A few blocks from the hotel she’d found a witch-themed bookstore, where she’d duly acquired a slim volume entitled Witchcraft in Salem: A Brief History. She settled down on the hotel bed to peruse it now.

She read about the notorious Salem witch trials of 1692, when Chief Justice William Stoughton had overseen the execution of twenty people for alleged witchcraft. Although this was the best-known case of anti-witch hysteria, it was merely the tip of the iceberg. Witch-hunting was endemic in Puritan New England throughout the 1600’s, with witchcraft practitioners regularly being denounced as “Satan-worshipers.” Fear and intolerance of the old ways—in other words anything that conflicted with Protestant Christianity—continued unabated into the 18th and 19th centuries.

It was only in the 20th century that witchcraft was rehabilitated. It was finally recognized as a peace-loving, goddess-worshiping religion known as Wicca, which predated Christianity and the other patriarchal religions by hundreds of years. The consort of the goddess was traditionally depicted as a horned man, and it was this figure that had been deliberately confounded with Satan by the evangelizing Puritans.

Coming to the last chapter of the book, Tara discovered that Salem today was a haven not only for the Wiccan religion but for a vast range of Pagan and alternative lifestyles. Back in the 1970s the town had even been granted an “Official Witch” by the Governor of Massachusetts, in the person of High Priestess Laurie Cabot. Among other things, the book described Ms. Cabot as the owner of a specialist store selling herbs, jewelry, Tarot cards, and other witchcraft-related merchandise.

The reference to Tarot cards surprised Tara, who hadn’t realized they had any connection with witchcraft. She owned a set of cards herself—the Sapphic Tarot deck, which had been a birthday gift from a girlfriend a few years ago. The girlfriend was long forgotten, but Tara still had the cards. She liked the names on them—things like Empress, Lovers, Strength, and Wheel of Fortune—and she liked the photo-realistic illustrations, every single one of which featured at least one naked female. Even the card called the Emperor was illustrated with a butch-looking woman sitting on a throne and holding a scepter in a provocative position between her widely spread thighs.

Thinking about the lascivious images on the Tarot cards made Tara horny. She picked up the remote control and switched on the TV, with the intention of finding an old sexploitation movie or a fashion show or something that she could watch while she rubbed one out. As she clicked rapidly through the channels, however, she caught a fleeting glimpse of something that, a few seconds later, she realized must be a live broadcast from the festival site here in Salem.

She backtracked and found the channel again. As she’d guessed, it was a local news channel reporting on preparations for tomorrow’s event. The camera panned around the campsite, with its tiny one- and two-person tents packed tightly together. Even though the sun had now set, it was obvious from the sweaty, drained-looking faces that the atmosphere was still very hot and humid. Sitting on the bed in her air-conditioned hotel room, Tara gave a little shiver of pleasure. Camping out was a part of the festival experience she was only too happy to miss out on!

The view moved to the diverse stalls, stages, and tents of the main festival area. Various preparations could be glimpsed in the background as the camera came to rest on a chunky, long-haired woman in a dark velvet dress. A caption identified her as one of the festival’s organizers.

A reporter appeared in the frame, holding a microphone. “You had five thousand people here last year, and at least that number are expected tomorrow. Are there really that many witches around in the 21stCentury?”

“We prefer the word Wiccans to witches,” the woman said. “But in any case, Wiccans are just part of the picture. This is an all-embracing Spiritual Consciousness event; a focus for enlightened truth-seekers of any and all traditions. We’re expecting Pagans, Buddhists, Shamans; followers of Tantra, Yoga, astrology…you name it. Whatever their path, there’ll be something for them here tomorrow.”

The interview continued for several more minutes, then the reporter turned to another figure. This one was a man: someone Tara felt she’d seen on TV before, although she couldn’t recall exactly where. Then a caption flashed up identifying him as Darren Bates. She remembered him now. He was some kind of self-proclaimed “rationalist skeptic,” who always popped up to debunk anything that had a hint of mysticism or other-worldliness about it.