Findhorn is two villages. They sit together on an isthmus of golden sand. They are one hour east of Inverness airport. The Findhorn River flows beside them, out into the Moray Firth. The river is a Goddess. All maner of sacred rituals are performed by her banks. Folks from the Bay or the Dava Moor go to her.We sit or bathe where she carves the rocks. Her forms are smooth through stone mountain. There are crystal baths the river made, high in the hills, hidden by trees. 

The Winter waters below Randolph’s Leap were my favourite. I liked to go when Mother Moon was full and I bled. I emptied my mooncup up there. I eased my hole. I cleansed my cunt before the Spring trim. 

I lived on the Bay. In one of the villages. One of the villages is matirarchal at its root. The other is patriarchal. They are often poles of opposition refusing to merge. The river flows beside, under and into both villages. She seeps, she rises. 

I lived with the patriarchy, for a while. My non compliance miffed the little men. 

One village blesses the river Goddess as she passess. One village builds on her. The rich white property developers of Findhorn village do not like women like me. Who chop wood. Who free-bleed in rivers by moonlight. Who can do with their hands others need tools for.

There’s a force field over both villages feels like magnets. I don’t have a name for it. Or They. Or Them. Could be a Prophet. Or Plaeidians. Maybe Allah. Perhaps Christ the angel. Perhaps all of them lined up. Maybe they take their turn in the watching of us. Quiet old men revere that force. Insecure men are frightened of it – they deny it exists. There’s a Them in the skies above the Findhorns. One village built Nature Sanctauries for Them. 

Under foot in both Findhorns are Ley-lines. The paths of the Ancients stretch into the lanes. You can see them as you drive the whiskey distillery trail. They are still-lush in Autumn tracts of apples, salads, beetroots. The clay the earth became after machinery blows into greener, warmer places. The river Goddess ignites the Ley-lines. The land flourishes at that touch. The biggest cabbages grow by the Ley-lines lit by the Goddess.

Where the magnets of the air meet the Goddess. Where the underfoot passages glow; there you find the Findhorns. When the forces try to align, drama begins. The Findorns attract and reject cosmic tensions. Both villages have dramatic stories rising and falling. One village transmutes the dramas that hurt. It is accurate to state that the ethos of Findhorn eco-village is to transform trauma into love, somehow. In Findhorn village of the rich white men with many mansions, drama hurts.

Most days, for three or so years, a man would walk by and threaten me. Names, faces and words are all melted into one misty memory now. I question myself. Did it all really happen? Did the rich men of Findhorn bully you, any chance they got? Or is it your mind? I look inside. The persecution complex. The neurosis that nowhere is safe. One man didn’t like us chopping wood in the lane. One man didn’t like me writing in the shed. One man didn’t like my daughter’s vests.

Both villages have a shop and a cafe. You can breakfast in one then stroll five miles the pretty way to the other. You can sit with a pal on a log. Your children can play in the waves. Seals could poke huge eyes at you. One topic is the chat. No matter the place, no matter the pal. I could be hanging washing in the lane. I could be having tea in a kitchen. The chat about witches flies in the air, everywhere. It took me a year to wholly own my witch-self frightened the shite out of the wee small rich men.

I have to go back. My trial date is set. They have charged me. I am called to Court in the county of Moray – for letting in light. The men who accuse have stated I scare them. 

On a golden sandy isthmus in the north of Scotland, a rich white man swathed steel fences in screens. He was protecting his plot. He blocked all our light. I cut out a window hole. Three local policeman spoke to me about the wrongdoing. 

This can only play out when the prophet, the Plaeideans, Allah or angels meet the pure power of she-water raging. When the land is lit by all the forces, we chat about witches when we hang out our washing in the lanes. It’s when the little men stomp and rage and find fault. I tried to find a pattern between the energy clashes but couldn’t. There seems to me, no commonality of how they converge. 

The Findhorns may be studied some day as The Bermuda Trinagle was. There’s a glitch. Rich white men still pick witches to hunt. They want to hurt me. Or you. Or her. If you are any way witchy, you’re game.

‘They’re a plague.’ Said Heather. ‘Flogging wouldn’t work. Don’t let one near you.’

‘Pray for them.’ Said Haseena. ‘Chant that they will show compassion.’

‘They’re the witch-pickers.’ Said Olive. ‘They’ll hound you forever, ’til your dead. Do what they say.’

Men who cleanse or pray high in the hills by the Goddess river are my pals . Men who dance Five Rhythms are my soul friends. Men who want me to beg for light and be good wish to punish me publicly. I am not the river Goddess in war or fury. I cannot create crystal pools in solid rock. The partirairchal bullshit of Findhorn village is stronger and more powerful than me. 

I cut a hole in a screen with a shears. I wanted the light the rich man had taken. 

I await sentence.