Fanny by Erica Jong Page A

that’s Holy….” I chok’d on that last Word and then was mute.
    A sudden Panick seiz’d me. Perhaps they did not believe in God at all, but only in the Devil. Perhaps they were in league with him, us’d his Pow’r to fly thro’ the Air upon their Broomstaffs, held Sabbats at which they were defil’d by him and kiss’d his Arse, defil’d the Host, e’en turn’d the Cross upside down! O now I was really terrified! The Devil himself might rise at any Moment, with Horns upon his Head, Fire in his Mouth, a Tail in his Breech, Eyes like Basons, Fangs like a Dog, Claws like a Bear, and Nostrils that breath’d out the Smell of Brimstone.
    “Come, Fanny,” said Isobel, once again looking up and focussing those bright blue Eyes upon me, “sure you don’t believe all that?”
    “All what?” I askt, for I had not said a Word.
    “All that you are thinking,” said Isobel calmly.
    “Are you hearing my very Thoughts?” I cried in Terror.
    “Dear Fanny,” she said, taking my Hand (which had grown quite cold with Fear), “’tis not as you think. A Wise Woman can hear certain Thoughts,” she said, “but not because she is wicked, and not because the Devil gives her Pow’r, but because she hath train’d her Mind to it by Extream Concentration, by Meditation in Solitude, and by many other Mental Rigours.”
    “Then you can perceive what I am thinking?” I askt.
    “Not always,” said Isobel. “But I can hear certain Thoughts as loudly as if they were Words. Thoughts like these are loud indeed. In fact, ’tis always true that Fears are easy to read. Fears are louder than any Thoughts, but e’en so they are the most foolish Thoughts of all.”
    I star’d at her with Amazement, not knowing whether to credit her as a Genius or to abhor her as a Sorceress.
    “Fanny, my Dear, you are too clever a Girl to believe what may have been confess’d under Torture by poor terrified Women examin’d by vicious Inquisitors. The Sisters of Wicca sure ne’er conjur’d the Devil, nor did they use their Broomstaffs except to sweep the Floor! They studied to be wise, to heal the Sick, to preserve their ancient Herbal Receipts, to gain Pow’r o’er their own Minds and Bodies, to bring Babies to Birth, and Crops to Harvest. All the Rest was but the evil Report of evil Men who fear’d the Wisdom of Women, who fear’d Female Knowledge, thus Female Pow’r….”
    “Then there ne’er was a Black Mass, nor a Sabbat at which Babies were eaten?” I askt, still shaking.
    “Perhaps there was,” said Joan, “but those who partook of it were poor deranged Souls, doom’d to imitate the Things of which they stood accus’d by their Inquisitors. They were not the Sisters of Wicca. And, sad to say, they were not Wise Women.”
    I fell silent now, trying to understand these many Arguments. I was still not sure my Reason was sufficient to grasp ’em all.
    Joan clear’d away the Soup-Dishes and Isobel brought out a fine Pudding studded with Currants and Raisins.
    “Witchcraft,” she said, pointing to the Pudding. This broke the Spell of Silence and we all laugh’d heartily.
    For a Time, we amus’d ourselves with humorous Rhodomontade, whereupon at last, when we had quite finish’d the Pudding and once more were merry and gay, Joan went to a large Sea-Trunk lodged under the Bed the two Women shar’d, and from its very Bowels extracted a strange Object. ’Twas the Size and Shape of a Bowling Ball and ’twas nestl’d in a Shroud of black Velvet, inky as the Sky on a moonless Night. Joan carefully unwrapp’d it to reveal a gleaming Crystal Sphere in whose Depths were mysterious Lights, Planets, Stars, whole Worlds.
    Isobel rose and blew out all the Candles in the Room but one. Joan sat at the Table, staring into the Heart of the wond’rous Crystal. She grew e’er more pensive and melancholick as she did so, rockt back and forth in her Chair, mutter’d to herself, and press’d her Eyes very tightly shut. Then she chanted