Category: Lineages of the Craft

The oldest culture on Earth is not a museum piece.

It lives in the red country of central Australia, in the knowledge held by Anangu elders, in the healing practices of ngangkari who work today in both remote communities and city hospitals, in the songs and stories and law that have been maintained across tens of thousands of years of continuous human presence on this continent.

Aboriginal Australian spiritual traditions are, by any reasonable reckoning, the oldest unbroken spiritual practices currently in existence.

Not everyone gets the family story.

Some of us grew up with gaps where the history should have been, or were handed versions of it that didn’t hold up, or came from people who simply weren’t interested in passing anything down. Some of us had mothers who made it very clear, in one way or another, that we were on our own.

I’m one of those people. My family history is full of silence and misdirection, and what little I do know doesn’t light a clear path backward. There’s no grandmother’s windowsill to look back on fondly. No folk wisdom quietly handed down between women over generations.

For a long time I thought this meant I was starting from nothing.

I wasn’t. I just had to learn to look differently.

Here’s what I’ve come to understand: the path found me before I had words for it. Long before I knew what any of this was called, before I’d read a single book or found a single community, something in me was already oriented in this direction. Toward the unseen. Toward meaning beneath the surface of things. Toward fire and symbol and the question of what persists.

In 1921, a fifty-eight-year-old British Egyptologist published a book that changed the history of witchcraft. Not because it was right, but because it arrived at exactly the right moment with exactly the right idea, in exactly the right voice.

The book was The Witch-Cult in Western Europe: A Study in Anthropology. The woman was Margaret Alice Murray. And the idea, that the accused witches of the early modern witch trials were not deluded, hysterical, or innocent victims but actual practitioners of an ancient pre-Christian religion that had survived underground for centuries, was, as subsequent scholarship would show in some detail, largely wrong.

And yet.

She rises from the water at night.

She is impossibly beautiful. Her hair is long and falls loose around her shoulders. Her eyes hold the particular quality of deep water, dark, reflective, suggesting depths that the surface does not reveal. She may wear a snake coiled around her body like living jewellery. She may have the tail of a fish where her legs should be, or she may appear entirely human, more human than any human you have ever seen, which is itself the sign.

She is Mami Wata. Mother Water. And she has been present in the spiritual life of West and Central Africa, and the African Atlantic world, for longer than any written record can reach.

She is not a goddess in the distant, untouchable sense. She is immediate. Capricious. Generous and dangerous in equal measure. She takes lovers and brings them fortune, or she takes them entirely. She heals. She curses. She appears to those she chooses, often without being asked, and the encounter changes the person forever.

To be chosen by Mami Wata is not

Before Confucius. Before the dynasties that gave China its recognisable historical shape. Before the texts that would define Chinese philosophy and religion for millennia – there were the Wu.

They danced in long-sleeved robes until the spirits entered them. They spoke in the language of gods and communicated the will of the dead to the living. They performed rain ceremonies, healed the sick, drove off malevolent forces, interpreted dreams, and predicted the future through divination. They were called to the oracle bones, the ancient Chinese practice of writing questions and submitting them to flame. And their voices were recorded in the inscriptions that survive as some of the oldest writing in the world.

And they were, predominantly, women.

The wu (巫) ~ the word translates as shaman, sorceress, spirit-medium, or ritual specialist depending on context and century,

In the spring of 1662, in the small parish of Auldearn on the Moray coast of Scotland, a woman named Isobel Gowdie began to speak.

Over six weeks, between April 13th and May 27th, she gave four separate confessions to a panel of ministers, landowners, and a public notary named John Innes, who wrote everything down. She was not, as far as the records indicate, subjected to the spectacular physical tortures that characterised some witch trials. She simply spoke. At length, in detail, with a richness and internal consistency that scholars have been returning to ever since.

What she described was a world saturated with magic. A coven of thirteen, each with a named spirit attendant. Meetings at Earlseat Hills and the Kirk of Nairn and Darnaway Palace. The Devil as a large, dark, cold man. The Queen of Faerie in white linens.

Her name evokes images of dark magic, seduction, and betrayal. Morgan le Fay, or Morgana, Morgaine, Morgen, stands as one of the most complex and misunderstood figures in Arthurian legend. Today she’s often portrayed as a villain, depicted as a witch or enchantress, the antagonist to King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. But this wasn’t always her story. The truth is far more fascinating. Morgan le Fay began her literary life as a powerful healer, a divine feminine figure, and Arthur’s protector, only to be systematically demonized by medieval male writers who couldn’t reconcile themselves to a woman wielding such extraordinary power.

This is the story of how a goddess became a witch, and what was done to one of the most powerful women in Western mythology.

The Ancient Roots ~ Goddess, Fairy, and Divine Healer
Morgan le Fay’s origins trace back to Celtic mythology and legend, first appearing in writing in the twelfth century but likely based on much older figures from Celtic folklore and mythology.

Her name itself offers clues to her divine origins. “Morgan” may derive from the Welsh “Morcant” (meaning sea-born or sea-circle) or connect to “Mor-rigan” (great queen), linking her to the Irish goddess Morrigan. A powerful deity associated with sovereignty, prophecy, war, and fate. She has also been linked with the supernatural mother Modron, derived from the continental mother goddess figure Dea Matrona and featured in medieval Welsh literature.

In the shadowy corners of Scottish folklore lives a figure both feared and revered, Nicnevin, described as a witch or fairy queen who rides the night sky at Samhain, leading spirits, witches, and the dead in her wake. She is Scotland’s dark goddess, the hag queen, the mother of witches. Yet her story has been nearly lost to time, fragmented across centuries of poetry, witch trials, and whispered warnings.

The Mystery of Her Name
The origins of Nicnevin’s name remain debated, with multiple theories emerging from the linguistic fog of history. Some scholars suggest it derives from the Scottish Gaelic Neachneohain, meaning “daughter(s) of the divine” or “daughter(s) of Scathach,” while others propose NicNaoimhein, meaning “daughter of the little saint.”

Another interpretation links her name to the Gaelic Nic an Neamhain, “Daughter of Frenzy”. A fitting title for a goddess associated with the liminal chaos of Samhain night. Some scholars have even connected her to the Irish war goddess Neamhain, one of the Morrigan’s triple aspects, or to water spirits like the Nixie and Nokke.

The multiplicity of her names reflects the complexity of her nature. She is not one thing, but many things at once.

Deep in the woodlands of Fife, just minutes from the ancient city of St Andrews, lies a place where the veil between worlds grows thin. Hidden behind Dunino church sits an ancient pre-Christian holy site featuring an altar stone, a sacred well, and carved footprints etched into rock overlooking a stream. This is Dunino Den. A place where time layers upon itself, where ancient kings may have been crowned, where druids once performed their mysteries, and where modern pilgrims still leave offerings for spirits that have never left.

Descending Into Sacred Space
A narrow, winding set of stone steps carved into the rocks lead down into the den, pulling visitors deeper into the wooded ravine. These aren’t modern stairs. They’re worn smooth by countless feet over potentially thousands of years, each step a descent not just into geography but into history itself.

As you descend, the mundane world falls away. The canopy closes overhead. The sound of the Kinaldy Burn rushing below fills your ears. And suddenly, you’re standing before something that defies easy explanation. Massive rock faces covered in symbols, some ancient, some modern, all speaking to the same impulse – the need to mark sacred space, to communicate with what dwells beyond the visible.