Meet Ragnell Hagathorn

It was three thousand years ago, as mortals count, that I came to this world out of the ruin of another – from Witchen, the Witch World! As Magic died there I brought the last embers of enchantment to kindle the Old Magic in this world.

I have tended the flame down the centuries, as Druidess, Hedge Witch and Storyteller! Among the Druids of Albion, in the forest groves of yore, I opened up the Gateways Between The Worlds!

I have have been called The Old One. But think not that I have truly given thee the measure of my years, for I have been here and there, back and forth in time, through the old Gateways! (Oh I tell folk that I'm 3,000. Yet I am merely doing what you mortals do when you forever claim to be 21!) I am no longer mortal, unless I should wish for death, or should lose the will to live. And, I think, it is coming to that! For I am so old now. And so tired. And I have lost so much.

I have traversed the Web of Worlds and the Web of Time, and lived long in lost eras and distant spheres! I have lifted the Veil of the Goddess, or, rather, She has lifted the Veil unto me, and multiversal realities are open to me. I think this world will soon be done with me.

But I have lived among legends and forgotten gods. I saw Camelot rise and fall. I am remembered in the annals of King Arthur as Lady Ragnell, most loathly, yet fairest, of damsels. I was wed, then, to Gawain, the Knight of the Pentacle, Arthur's Sister-Son. Bless him!

Oh, I loved that lad! And he loved me. Not as much as he loved Arthur. And not as much as he loved his own honour. But he loved me enough. And I was content. For a little while. Two fair sons I bore him. One is spoken of in legend and named – Gingalain: the other a Fair Unknown, for long ago he was taken by the Fae before I myself had named him. He was the first one lost to me. And I wish he had not returned from Faerie.

For I lost them all in the Battle of Camlann, my husband – my Gawain, my Only One, my Best Belovéd, my Anam Cara – and my brave and beautiful sons!

I was a Salt Hag by the sea, by Tintagel, after Camelot fell – the second time my whole world was destroyed, the second time I rose from ashes and rebuilt my life from nothing! But not the last time.

For then, centuries on, there was the Burning Times and, for me, the Second Death of Magic. I took shelter in York, where the madness of the Witch Hunts was not so bad as in other places. I could have retreated into another world entire, yet here I remained to aid those I could. And here I have been, hidden since then, almost invisible, unknown in the midst of mortalkind. In more recent times (by my count) I abode in the slums of Bedern among the Irish folk, where they knew me as Old Mother Hawthorn.

Now I am revealed once again. And I am startled to find that even now, in this so-called rational age, there are those who would approach me in hostility and still call me Witch with fear in their eyes. One, indeed, even had the gall to press a crucifix to my ancient, Goddess-hallowed brow, and to rebuke me in the name of Jesus Christ, as if I were some unholy thing! I am not an enemy of the Christ. And (another tale untold) I wore the nun's habit and was wed to Him in spirit, a lifetime long, centuries before the Witchunters came, or this little shadow of a man trod clay. I saw in his eyes the old fanaticism and hate of the Witchhunters. Even now there are some, who, if they had power as of old, would burn me. But I have survived the Burning Times to this day. I live still. Though perhaps I am coming now to my end.

What have I left, before the will to continue forsakes me? Maybe a hundred years? What is that? The blink of an eye to me. Yet for a while I am with thee, and for this little while I have meaning and purpose once more!

For now the Old Tales shall be told!