Traitors in the Realm: Chronicles of the Crone Wars

The meeting was about to begin, and Cora is chattering about her wrinkles and weathered face.

You see this face? I make more money for the beauty industry than all the supermodels combined.

How is that?

This is what all you young women are afraid of. They spend a fortune to avoid looking like this. I get advertising gigs all the time. I get hired to be the “before model.” Laughter breaks out, and Martine walks in.

Silence fills the room as Martine begins to speak:

I came back renewed from my retreat, as you know. I have a new realization and a problem we must address. Allow me to share the dream that came to me at the meditation retreat:

The wind on the ridge carried the sound of distant bells, though no church stood within fifty miles.

I heard them anyway. This came to me like a dream.

I was standing at the stone table in a Hall of Debate and Misery, a place where the Crones gathered when the world had once again wandered into foolishness. The candles burned low, their flames bending toward the east as though listening. I seemed to be in a meeting in some ancient time.

In the dream, I spoke, “Something is wrong.”

“That has been true for centuries,” replied Celestine without looking up from her tea.

“But this is different.”

I dreamed of a council of Crones that seemed to speak to me from the past.

Around the circular chamber sat the usual suspects of the Crone Council: Celestine the Archivist, who remembered everything; Aurali the Firebrand, who had once burned down three ministries and a men’s club; and Leora, who had the unnerving habit of laughing at things that were not yet funny.

I pushed a stack of parchment across the table.

“They are multiplying.”

Celestine adjusted her spectacles.

“Who is multiplying?”

“The women of the High Court.”

At this, even Aureli stopped stirring her tea.

The High Court was not an actual court, though it behaved like one. It was a cluster of councils, ministries, foundations, committees, panels, and advisory boards whose main purpose appeared to be the production of announcements that harmed ordinary people while sounding extremely responsible.

Martine pointed to the parchment.

“These women are everywhere now. Administrators, spokespeople, directors of strategic compassion.”

Leora coughed and choked on hearing those words.

“Strategic compassion. That one always means trouble.”

Martine nodded grimly.

“They speak in the language of care. They hold press conferences about protecting the future. But the policies they defend take away the very things women fought for.”

She ticked them off on her fingers.

“Food programs for children.”

“Healthcare for the elderly.”

“Protection for mothers.”

“Safety nets for the aging.”

Celestine flipped through the documents slowly.

“And the men behind them?”

“Hidden,” Martine said. “Conveniently quiet.”

“So the old trick returns.”

Martine looked at her.

“You’ve seen this before.”

Aureli gave a small, humorless smile.

“Oh yes. When a policy is cruel, they often place a woman at the podium.”

“Why?” asked Leora.

Aureli shrugged.

“Because people expect women to care. It softens the blow.”

The room fell quiet.

Outside, the wind shifted, and I awoke with a new understanding.

“Yes, that was my dream that led me right to our problem at hand:

Traitors to the cause and needs of women. They exist today as the aprons of power.

“These women speak with authority. They dismiss criticism. They say anyone who questions the policy is emotional, outdated, or confused.”

“And yet they themselves are ignoring the consequences.” Cora adds.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Martine hesitated.

“Ambition and proximity to power.”

Soft-spoken words of agreement and recognition rose throughout the room.

Cora: “Some women have mistaken access to the throne room as leadership?”

Martine nodded.

“They believe that repeating the male’s misguided policies makes them powerful.”

Cora sighs, “That is not leadership.”

“No,” said Martine.

“It is ventriloquism.”

Justine stood and walked to the window.

“Right below us are the lights of offices where press releases are nonsense announcements written and tweeted late into the night.”

“Women fought for centuries to enter the halls of power,” she said quietly.

Martine joined her at the window.

“And now some of them guard the doors against the very people they once represented.”

“The real question is not, Why do they do it?”

Martine turned.

“It is what we do about it.”

A long silence followed.

Ariel, who rarely speaks, stood up in the room.

“I have a suggestion.”

The others waited.

“We remind them,” she said, “what real leadership looks like.”

“And how do we do that?” asked Martine.

Ariel smiles.

“The same way the Crones always have.”

“We tell the truth so clearly that it becomes impossible to pretend not to hear it.”

Martine nodded slowly.

“Yes.”

Martine felt the familiar spark of resolve.

Not anger.

Not bitterness.

Something older.

The stubborn refusal of women who had lived long enough to see patterns repeat—and who had finally decided that this time, they would interrupt them.

Martine gathered the papers.

“Then it begins again.”

“The Crone Wars,” she said.

Outside, the wind carried the sound of bells in the distance.

“That's our sign,” Martine offers.

“We got game. They all have Crones in their midst, in their neighborhoods, and in their audiences. The good news is that some women have already awakened and quit being puppets.”

In the hearts and heads of the assembled crone leaders, a new carefully rehearsed message and set of tactics began to unravel.