The Women of Wild Hill

I have been around for a very long time, and I've eavesdropped on many a learned man. The truth is, women will always confuse them. Witches or not, they're not sure how we work. Women are clearly in league with nature. Even our cycles follow those of the moon. We create life out of little and intuit things that men don't. We terrify them because we posses powers they aren't able to plunder. Because they'll never be able to do what we can, they decided long ago to declare us inferior.

We topple tyrants, right wrongs, and restore the earth. We are the oracles who tell the future. We are the temptresses who taste the apple. We are the women who balance the scales.

When men make the ultimate sacrifice, they’re commemorated with statues or celebrated in song. Only the bravest of heroes lay down their lives, we’re told. It takes an uncommon man to give everything he has for a cause. We women do it every day.

A good witch knows that there's far more to a forest than its trees. Beneath the surface lies another world--- a world most people don't know about and few ever see. Down there, in the dark, the wood giants talk to each other. Fungal webs the size of whales send tiny mushrooms to scout the surface. Their carcasses dissolved, animals reassemble into moss and flowers. The world underneath is ignored by most. A good witch ignores nothing. A smart witch looks where no one else dares. She visits places the others shun, and sees all the things they don't care to see. She studies the countless connections between the worlds above and below. She follows all roots to find out where they go. She turns over rocks and sees what wriggles out. Her fearlessness will be rewarded with knowledge, and that knowledge with skill. But a wise woman also knows that the courage to look beneath the surface is often the difference between a live witch and a dead one.

Women choose poison because swords are heavy and we are not taught to use them. We choose it because we have children who need us, and we cannot be careless with our limbs and lives. We choose poison because we have been denied all other forms of redress. It is for these reasons and more that the Old One gave us this gift. It is a testament to women's essential goodness that we haven't turned to poison more often, for it is all around us. Or perhaps we've just been biding our time.

Of course, true love is far rarer than people believe. Like truffles and ambergris, most make do with lookalikes or imposters. Perhaps that's for the best. Real love is a force of nature that most human beings--- even witches--- aren't strong enough to withstand.

Every woman in the Duncan family had her own, unique way of communing with the Old One. As a girl, Sadie had simply popped down to the dungeon for a chat with the ghosts whenever she was in need of guidance. Rose would lie on the ground that would one day be her grave and watch the clouds and the birds overhead for messages. Ivy grew herbs that allowed her mind to travel to the place where the worlds met. Flora had always loved fire.

Death and life are equally important. You can’t have one without the other. Everything that lives must die. Death feeds life. Plants and animals are eaten so that others will live. When living things decay, fungi consume them and leave soil behind—soil that nourishes the next generation of living things. The Old One maintains a delicate balance of life and death at all times.

Women like us exist to topple tyrants, protect the earth, balance the scales, and avenge the wronged.

Then she saw them both as little girls with wicker baskets in hand as they gathered treasures from Ivy's garden. Beautiful beetles with iridescent green wings clung to Brigid's black sundress, and ghostly white cabbage moths fluttered around her head. A ladybug landed on Brigid's nose and she passed it to Phoebe. "Make a wish," she told her sister.

There, just as she'd known they would be, were the ancestors. Sadie, the redheaded matriarch, dressed as the huntress in a short white tunic and sandals. Ivy and Rose, the golden twins, one fair and one feral. Lilith, the dark, in her somber tweeds and red lipstick. And Flora, in a gown of flowers that left an alluring scent in her wake.

A naked woman sat sunning herself on a nearby rock like a mermaid. Beads of water sparkled like diamonds on her slicked-back hair and bronze skin. A row of pearls appeared when she grinned. Brigid briefly wondered if women like this were the inspiration of seafaring folks' legends. "Harriet?" Brigid asked, though she recognized the woman immediately. There was no one on the Island--- no one anywhere--- who looked anything like her. "I like to swim in the buff. Hope you don't mind." "Not at all," Brigid said. Harriet's nudity seemed so natural that Brigid had barely taken note. She looked back out at the sound. "I saw a whale out there a few nights ago." "I saw one this morning," Harriet told her. "She's a friend of mine. I've known her for years." Brigid stared off across the endless expanse and imagined the whale out there, keeping watch beneath the waves.

There was that billionaire in Manhattan got attacked by birds. The spider bites out in the Hamptons. And some guy in Texas was just eaten by feral hogs." "Mother Nature's gone serial killer," his colleague quipped. It sounded to Brigid like nature had finally gotten around to addressing a parasite problem. But for once, she held her tongue.

Are you a good witch or a bad witch?" asked Rose, who had recently devoured The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. "I'm not sure," Sadie replied. "Is a thunderstorm good or bad?" Rose's nose wrinkled. It was a ridiculous question. "Neither," she said. "It's nature." Sadie shrugged. "So am I," she said.

When we catch the flu

You were traveling through the bloodline and entering each of your ancestors' minds. You know things about all of us now." Lily was right. Sibyl knew where Ivy kept the baking soda. She knew the family recipe for scones, which Sadie had brought over from Scotland. She remembered that Rose had been particularly fond of currant and cream scones, though she'd never seen her eat one.

In the attic, the three discovered an entire rack of evening gowns representing every fashion trend of the twentieth century. Brigid chose a strapless black cocktail dress that Sadie had worn. Phoebe found a flowing white Halston that Flora purchased back in the seventies. And Sibyl chose a gold-beaded flapper dress that had belonged to her great-great-grandmother, Rose. Liam sent a car to fetch them for the party. Gathered in the foyer, it was the first time they saw each other in their formal wear. Brigid's eyes were smoky and lips scarlet. Her red hair fell over her bare shoulders, where blue veins were just visible beneath violet-tinged skin. Phoebe's skin glowed with no assistance from makeup, and she wore her hair in a crown of braids woven through with a golden ribbon. Sibyl was where all the Duncans traits met. She was light and dark, glamorous and natural. Her red curls formed a bloom around her lovely face. The Three looked, very much, like a trio.

She'd been so quick to believe the worst of her sister. Now Phoebe knew why. She'd wanted to. Her entire life, Phoebe had defined her place in the world in relation to Brigid. She was the sweet one. The easy one. The healer. She needed Brigid to be the bad sister in order for her to be the good one. But she'd mixed up their roles. She'd been wrong about everything. Brigid saw her sister start to crumble. "Hey, Phoebe, don't lose it," she said. "It's all in the past now. I just wish I'd killed that bitch when I had the chance. The fire ants would have been the perfect solution. No open casket." Her sister's kindness destroyed the last of Phoebe's defenses, and the tears finally broke through. "I'm sorry," she blubbered. "I'm sorry for blaming you for Mom's death, and I'm sorry for believing your stepmother. I'm fucking awful." "Yeah," Brigid said, pulling Phoebe into her arms. "You're a real asshole. But you're also my sister, and I'll always love you.

Your stepmother told me that you weren't interested in helping me!" Brigid snorted. "You spoke to Sienna Laguerre? When?" "Right after you turned eighteen. I sent you a letter you never answered, so I got the attorney to give me your dad's phone number, and when I called your stepmother answered." "My stepmom? You mean the monster who tortured me every goddamned day until I got my first movie gig and moved the hell out of her house? The stepmother I haven't spoken to since that happened? The stepmother who was the inspiration for the life-sucking demon in the first film I wrote?" Phoebe pulled in a deep breath and held it. "Fuck," she sighed as she set it free. Sibyl was right. She'd been an idiot to listen to Brigid's stepmother.

You know a lot more about the Duncans than I ever did." "Ironic, isn't it?" Sibyl asked gleefully. "Given that you told me fuck all." Phoebe groaned. "Are you really going to start again?" Sibyl spun around. "Oh, I'm sorry. You thought I was done? Not even close. I grew up in the middle of Texas. I was the only kid with hair like this for hundreds of miles. Maybe you wanted me to be normal, but everyone else thought I was a fucking freak. The least you could have done was let me know I came from a long line of freaks who might have to save the world." "I said I was sorry," Phoebe said. "My childhood was no walk in the park either, for your information." "Oh my god! This isn't about you, you raging narcissist! I can't believe Brigid lived with you for sixteen years and didn't murder you!

You know, just because the rest of us aren't as perfect as you are doesn't mean we're completely useless. Which reminds me--- what the hell did Brigid do that made you cut her off from the rest of her family?" Phoebe hesitated. "Tell me!" Sibyl demanded. "She said Calum didn't kill our mother." Sibyl threw her hands up. "So Brigid was right and you've been punishing her all this time for nothing?" "He was the reason my mother died!" "No." Sybil was adamant. "Flora showed us. She made a choice. It was her decision. Brigid was right all along." "Technically," Phoebe muttered. "What the fuck, Mom! Are you completely incapable of admitting you're wrong?

We'll probably have to kill him." "Fine by me," Brigid replied. "While I'm gone, why don't you two figure out which one of you is going to do the honors?" "Funny," Phoebe said. "Wasn't joking," Brigid told her.

I hope I didn't upset your sister," Liam said. "Don't worry. She'll forget all about it," Brigid said. "She's the sweet one, believe it or not." "Actually, I find that very hard to believe," Liam replied.

Fine. Fuck him, then kill him if that's what you have to do," Phoebe said. "But he needs to be killed." "Aren't you supposed to be the healer?" Brigid said. "Why don't you make yourself useful and get some bandages for our guest's gaping head wound.

Why the hell do you keep blaming Brigid for everything? I wasn't even aware she existed until this afternoon. The ancestors were the ones who told me everything." Phoebe's face drained of blood. "Did they tell you why our mother died?" "Not yet," Sybil admitted. "Flora is going to show us. Then you and I are going to have a long chat, just the two of us.

They may have argued, but over the sixteen years they'd lived together, she'd done everything she could to protect Phoebe. She'd heard other people say they'd be willing to kill for their families. Well, Brigid actually had. And not once--- not once--- had she ever regretted it. You'd think that Phoebe would know Brigid always had her best interests at heart. Or at the very least would give her the benefit of the doubt. But nothing Brigid had ever done was enough to make Phoebe trust her. Thirty years had passed, and the bitch couldn't even be cordial.

Ivy was only a little older than you when Rose died," Flora had reminded her daughters. "She still misses her sister." "She wasn't cursed with the Bride of Frankenstein here," Phoebe muttered. "Fuck you," Brigid sneered. "You're not nearly as perfect as you think, Princess Buttercup.

Though we both know what happened between us would have broken her heart more than anything Calum ever did." Phoebe's words, delivered so matter-of-factly, cast a chill over the conversation, just as she'd intended. She wanted her sister to know she hadn't forgotten--- and she definitely hadn't forgiven. After thirty fucking years, she was still holding on to her grudge. "Right." Now that Phoebe had made it perfectly clear where she stood on the matter, Brigid rose from the ground. "Well, we've both been brought back here for a reason. I guess we have to work together." "Doesn't mean we have to enjoy it," Phoebe told her.

Staring out from a movie poster on the wall of the dinky town cinema were her sister's two bright blue eyes. Brigid was the star of the summer's blockbuster movie. "That fucking bitch!" Phoebe swore a little too loudly. An old lady gasped and two teenage girls froze in their tracks. "It's my sister!" Phoebe tried to explain. The two teenage girls tittered and hurried away. Nobody in Nowheresville, Georgia, was going to believe that the unkempt daughter of a swamp-living, Haitian-born artist was related to a lily-white movie star. Phoebe bought a ticket to the matinee. There, in the dark, empty theater, she watched her sister lop off zombie heads with a samurai sword and sobbed for ninety-four minutes straight.

You're saying that gorgeous little goth girl---" Heidi started. "You think she's gorgeous?" Sienna interrupted. "She's so pale she's purple. She looks like a corpse." Heidi apparently knew better than to argue with the boss. "You're saying that kid had fire ants crawling all over her body and none of them bit her?" "Haven't you been listening!" Sienna screeched. "She's a fucking witch! She said so herself?" "Wild," Heidi said, leaning in with a powder brush. "I don't think I've met a real witch before." Sienna swatted Heidi's hand away and rose from her chair. "Believe me, she's not as interesting as she sounds.