INTRODUCTION

I met my first witch at the age of three in a children’s fairy story. She was a warty, black-clad old hag who lived alone in the depths of a forest, snared and dined on juicy children, and turned those who displeased her into toads. She presented an image of menace, cunning, pure evil. My story books were full of mothers who turned out to be step-mothers who made children’s lives hell, grandmothers who were wolves in disguise, and godmothers who cursed the infant in rage when not invited to the party.2 Witches could seem attractive and enticing in these stories, but would turn out to be cannibals.