Mazal Aliefendioğlu

The moon shone high above the cottage she had grown up in. Over the hills she had run as a toddler, and the meadows she had hiked. Over yonder, it shone on the little village school she had gone to, over the river and the little houses spread throughout. 

She had been raised by a single mother who had prayed to the moon. “Lady Hecate,” she would say, “may you continue your boon.”

Her father had never been there, his visits unlikely and disliked. Her lessons on magic were taught by her mother, which was much more preferred than his face and fake words of delight. 

Her mother, the village witch, who took care of spells and potions; her mother, the most selfless person she had ever met; her mother, Helen. 

Helen, who had been killed by the order of the village mayor. Helen, who had been betrayed by a wretched man who had been terrified of her power. Helen, who had done nothing but help from the moment she was old enough to cast spells, yet had been backstabbed by every man in the village she had grown up in. 

“Joan,” Her honorary aunt’s voice startled her.

Her dear aunt, who had raised her just as much as her mother had; her dear aunt, who had taught all of the little girls in Joan’s generation; her dear aunt, the village teacher. Her Auntie Rosa, her mama’s best friend.

“Joan,” Auntie Rosa spoke again, “We have an hour.”

Joan’s hands clenched to fists near her sides, “Is it confirmed?” she asked, “That the order which killed my mother was one, of the many by the mayor?” 

“Yes.”

“Who's next?”

“Marie.” Auntie Rosa’s voice echoed through the starry night. 

Mama Marie, another honorary family of hers; Mama Marie, who had healed her when she was hurt; Mama Marie, who had birthed every single child in this village; Mama Marie, their healer; Mama Marie, her grandmother. 

“The Mayor killed my mother and now wants my grandmother?” Joan hissed. “Who else is on his list?”

“Me, Ada, Jane, Rosalind, Cleo…”

The names rang in her head, the faces spinning in a constant wheel across her eyes.

Ada, the village handywoman, who could fix anything. 

Jane, her friend, the phenomenal journalist whose work was read even far away in the bigger cities.

Rosalind, the mayor’s sister, who did more work than he ever did.

Cleo, the keeper of law and order, as she was called by many. 

And their common trait? 

Being powerful, known, respected, and cared for women in their village. 

At least by their fellow women. 

Without needing to ask, Joan knew that it was men who supported the mayor's statue. That it was a man, scared of her magic, who had taken her mother’s life. 

“What about me?” Joan asked, turning to face her Aunt properly. 

Rosa’s eyes shone with grief, yet she grabbed Joan’s hand, her gaze unwavering. In a voice that had once sung her fairytales before she had gone to bed, “Your father does not know that you are a witch,” her aunt said, “He thinks of you as his daughter first, and your mothers’ second.”

The mayor. Her father. 

“I am far more than the mayor’s daughter,” Joan grinned. 

She raised a hand in front of herself and prepared her mind to pray, her gaze fixated on the moon. “Hecate, goddess of witchcraft,” she sang, “May you continue your boon.” 

Her mother’s soul seemed to stand by her, a phantom hand almost on her shoulder. 

Her mother, now the wraith of the doom of men. 

Magic rippled through the moon, through her and every other woman in the village. 

It broke through to the mayor’s house, so different from the cottage she had grown up in, and found her father, gifting him the same fate he had gifted Joan’s mother. And then after him, fellow men of the village who had stood by her father. 

For anyone who tried to escape, Mama Marie waited, with Ada, Jane, Rosalind, Cleo and many other women by her side, preventing their getaway. 

For this was a women’s village.

And Joan was her mother’s daughter.