Close your eyes and think of witches. Go ahead. I’ll wait.
Now, tell me—what did you see? Was she green? Did she wear a pointy hat? Did she wiggle her nose or wave a wand? How many black cats did she have?
In literature and art, witches are mostly of the female persuasion, but that’s only half the truth.
Here’s the thing: witches are part of a broad class of Pagans. These people are diverse in their beliefs, but in general, they believe it takes both female and male energies to run the Universe properly. Some men find equal doses of male and female threatening, but not the guys who choose to be witches. The men who embrace the dual nature of the Universe are a special breed. They don’t feel powerless just because women share the stage. They don’t see the male/female relationship as win/lose where somebody has to step down or accept less. They see it as a win/win where both energies cooperate, sharing strengths. In short, they are secure in their own bodies and sure of their place in the Universe.
Wow! What’s sexier than that?
5 Things to Understand about Male Witches
- Don’t call them warlocks. The old meaning of warlock is oath breaker and many male witches consider it an insult of the nth degree—and you seriously don’t want to annoy these guys.
You can call them wizards or sorcerers, but ask first because preferences vary.
- Do call them witches.
- Being a witch is a choice—though it helps to be born in a family of like-minded individuals. Male witches are proud of their witchy heritage whether patriarchal or matriarchal.
- Being a witch—male or female––has nothing to do with Satan (or, as I’ve seen it spelled in some places Satin-‘All Hail, Satin, our silky soft lord.’) It has everything to do with respect and reverence for the planet and the wider Universe.
- Male witches have been around for a long time. An estimated 20% of those executed for witchcraft over the centuries were men. People like Gerald Gardner, Raymond Buckland, Scott Cunningham and a host of others hold important places in the history of Paganism.
In my Zoraida Grey paranormal romance series, witches abound—male and female, good, bad, and undecided. While I love to add those little tidbits about female witches, I’ve had the most fun creating male witches. Here’s Zoraida’s first look at a couple of male witches while she and her best friend Zhu are on a tour of mysterious Castle Logan in far northern Scotland.
I lean close to Zhu. “Can you tell where that music is coming from?”
“What music?” Zhu snaps out the words. The rest of the group pays no attention to us. They mill around the room, waiting for the guide to resume. “Invisible hunky guys, disappearing shadowy figures, mysterious threats at the gates, and now music only you can hear. This is getting on my nerves.”
“It’s a tinkly, bell-like music. I’ve been hearing snippets of it since we got to the barbican, but now it seems to be everywhere.”
“I don’t hear any music.” Her lift eye twitches a bit. “How am I supposed to learn about magic if I can’t see or hear or feel anything magical?”
The joyful tune cascades down the walls like spring water, sending my spirits soaring. Zhu narrows her eyes at me and I narrow mine back at her. How can she not hear it?
I search the room, looking for its source. My gaze focuses out the backdoor of the keep. In the courtyard, two men face each other in animated conversation. One is the young man with the cat who brushed past us in the barbican––the one masked in magic. The spell is gone and I can get a good look at him.
He is dressed in a black t-shirt and black leather pants. I run my practiced eye over the indigo blue Celtic knot tattoos around the fullest point of both biceps. Al would be able to comment on the quality of the artwork, but muscular arms and dusky skin distract me from the more technical appreciation. A leather strap holds his black hair in a short ponytail. Stubble as though he hasn’t shaved in days shades his jaw. He looks tired and dark and angry. He leans close to his companion, speaking with intensity.
The resemblance between the two men is strong, though the difference in age is apparent. The other man, not as tall, but every bit as striking, listens calmly. His black hair, braided with a length of silver-studded velvet, reaches nearly to his waist. He is clean-shaven. Even casually dressed, he carries an air of elegance and surety. His eyes are as black as his companion’s and his jaw square and strong.
With a shock, I realize they must be members of the Logan family, my family. Their swarthy skin, black eyes, and black hair remind me of pictures of my mother and all the cousins in Granny’s line.
“Holy Cow.” Zhu leans against me, her eyes as riveted as mine. “Is one of those two the cat guy?”
“The younger one. The one with the tattoos.”
“Oooooooh,” she breathes out the word slowly. Fishing is third and magic is second, but Zhu’s first favorite thing is pretty boys.
The younger man speaks in a low voice, but his ponytail bobs with intensity. The older man places a conciliatory hand on the younger one’s shoulder. With an impatient flinch, the younger man pushes it aside, stepping away. The conversation heads in an unpromising direction when, at the same moment, they hesitate. Both men cock their heads to the side in identical gestures. They turn toward the tour group, black eyes searching.
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Sorchia Dubois lives in the piney forest of the Missouri Ozarks with seven cats. She edits technical writing part time, but she spends a number of hours each day tapping out paranormal romance, Gothic murder, and Scottish thrillers.
A proud member of the Ross clan, Sorchia incorporates all things Celtic (especially Scottish) into her works. She can often be found swilling Scotch at Scottish festivals and watching kilted men toss large objects for no apparent reason.