Witches appear to be very “in” these days, among a certain type of woman – a woman, on paper, not unlike myself; those attempting to learn that being “mad” or “occasionally irrational” or “a bit difficult” could, with the right marketing and a few crystals, be reshaped into a positive. And so it might appear, at first glance, that Margaret Meyer’s is merely a brazen attempt to capitalise on this trend (women being, as we all know, by far the largest market for novels). But such cynicism would prove ill-found.
This book is clearly a love project. I’d go so far as to say that the subject – a fictional account of the very real witch hunt that occurred in East Anglia in the late 1640s, in which “more than 100 innocent women lost their lives” – must’ve been an obsession for Meyer, so painstakingly detailed are her descriptions of the life, times and irrational tortures of the period. Everything from the slop bucket to the particular herbs used for different ailments are mentioned, repeatedly. It’s like stepping into the world of the 1640s. My impression? It stank (literally) but the people were, all in all, almost the same as one would find now; good, bad, much uglier. And, like us, they feared the Other.
It was harrowing, reading Meyer’s chilling depiction of the witch hunter, Master Makepeace, to recall that blindly unyielding zealots have always been given positions of power. Throughout history, people have found new and ingenious ways to persecute women, and this is where we get to the root of Meyer’s book. It is, not unexpectedly, a feminist novel, but it is Meyer’s need to ensure we don’t miss this fact that proves the book’s greatest weakness.
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It’s filled with Meaningful Statements regarding the plight of women. Such declarations of pained sisterhood, shoehorned in to reflect the sensibilities of our own time, felt forced and didactic. Meyer also depicts the main character, a servant woman called Martha, constantly ignoring her orders, instead getting distracted and wandering off to accidentally witness key scenes. Call me a strict master, but I found this irritating. Ultimately, Meyer should’ve trusted her reader to comprehend her meaning – this horrifying story, drawn from women’s lived history, is testimony enough.
