Page 14 of The Women of Wild Hill
“What does it mean?” asked Brigid. She was twelve now, and she knew everything had a meaning.
“When we catch the flu, what do our bodies do?” Flora asked Phoebe, whose gift for healing had advanced to mending broken bird wings and curing squirrels of mange.
“Sneeze, cough, run a fever,” Phoebe recited.
“Exactly,” said Flora. “That’s how our immune system fights disease. It’s the same for the Old One. Heat is the fever that scorches invaders. Storms are a bit like her coughs and sneezes.”
“What disease is she fighting?” Brigid inquired.
“Mankind,” Flora told them. “And she’ll need our help. The Old One will be coming for the three of us soon.”
The girls had learned about the prophesy the previous summer.According to Aunt Ivy, Bessie had agreed to allow Sadie to live in the caretaker’s cottage at Wild Hill—a lovely five-bedroom brick home that only a robber baron would have dared call acottage—on one condition. There would come a day, the ghost told their great-great-grandmother, when three of Sadie’s descendants would be called upon by the Old One. The Three, as Bessie named them, would be the most powerful of their kind. They would usher in a new age in which the mansion would play a critical role. Until then, the enormous house was to remain closed to the living.
Aunt Ivy was certain that Flora, Brigid, and Phoebe were The Three. She seemed to think it was a great honor, so the girls accepted it. Only later did the vagueness of the prophesy begin to worry Brigid.
“When will we know what the Old One wants us to do?” Brigid asked for the hundredth time.
“Can we get started right now?” Phoebe was eager to be of service. While her sister could be dour and difficult, Phoebe loved nothing more than to please.
“Suck-up,” Brigid muttered.
Flora cupped Phoebe’s face and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Not yet. But when the time comes, we’ll do whatever she asks of us,” Flora replied. She had a way of making everything sound fun.
After their mother’s death, Phoebe would question everything she’d been told—starting with that one simple statement. But at eleven, Phoebe happily accepted the fate she’d been dealt. As long as she had her sister and mother, she couldn’t imagine her life being anything but magical. Their family didn’t have to live by other people’s rules. No one told them not to curse or belch or run around naked. The Duncans read whatever they liked, roamed wherever they wanted, and never turned their nose up at adventure.
Of course, over time, it became clear that plenty of people didn’t approve of Flora’s approach to parenting. Other kids thought it wasstrange that Phoebe barely knew her father, a Haitian-born artist who lived down in Georgia. Flora liked to tell Phoebe that she’d been drawn to his scent. She swore she could smell powerful witches in his family tree. Phoebe kept that part to herself.
Her father was just one of countless men who had fallen under Flora’s spell over the years. Everyone seemed to find her entrancing. That was one of her gifts. Even those who thought she was likely in league with Satan couldn’t help but be fascinated. Once, Phoebe had overheard two moms at school speculating about the source of her family’s fortune. Phoebe had kindly informed them that Flora had sold a chemical company she inherited after her parents died in a plane crash. “She’s not a whore, if that’s what you were thinking,” she added in her sweetest voice. Then she stood there and watched with great pleasure as the women’s faces had burst into flames.
People sometimes said Phoebe had inherited her mother’s charms. Phoebe knew that wasn’t true. She was pretty, but that was all she and Flora shared in common. The older she got, the fewer friends Phoebe had. And that was perfectly fine. When she was little, she’d had playdates every week. Everyone in school begged for an invite. The grounds of Flora’s beautiful beachfront estate teemed with animals. Not just dogs and cats, of which there were many. There were bunnies in the pool house, alpacas in the backyard, and lizards everywhere you looked. Several species of monkeys made their home in the orchard. The tree branches drooped with oranges, kiwis, guava, and grapefruits, and the monkeys were all very plump and happy to let children pet them.
But none of the kids ever asked for a second visit. As pretty and sweet and seemingly perfect as Phoebe was, there was something about her that made them uncomfortable. Hers was a light that never turned off. And sometimes it shone where they did not want it.
“I think you’re mean to the monkeys because your motherdoesn’t love you,” she once told a girl who’d been throwing pebbles at Flora’s pets. “Would you be nicer to them if I gave you a hug?”
The girl’s mother had a word with Flora that evening, but Flora refused to apologize. She was proud of Phoebe for defending the monkeys, and she told the obnoxious woman as much.
“I love my children, and I don’t punish them for telling the truth,” she informed the girl’s mother. “Maybe being phony is more acceptable in your circles, but my family doesn’t have to live by your stupid rules.” Then she hung up.
“That’s right!” Brigid had cheered.
When she realized her kids had been listening, Flora had grimaced. “I’m sorry, darling. I don’t think that girl will be coming over anymore,” she told Phoebe.
Phoebe didn’t give a damn. She knew at that moment she didn’t need anyone else.
THE NEXT SUMMER, WHEN ITwas time to resume their lessons with Aunt Ivy, Phoebe packed two trunks for the summer at Wild Hill. Flora insisted she fill one with clothes and shoes. The second contained only dolls. At the California house, the dolls had their own room, with a door that Phoebe was supposed to keep locked. It was a precaution that had become necessary after a guest of Brigid’s had stumbled across Phoebe playing with her toys in the den.
“What did you do to your babies?” the horrified little girl had cried.
“They’re not babies,” Phoebe replied calmly. “They’re my patients. I’m helping, not hurting them.”
The girl had pointed a finger at the doll Phoebe was tending to. “You’re sawing off her arm!”
Phoebe sighed. She had no time for ignorance. “I’m saving her life. She’s developed gangrene. Haven’t you heard of it?”
The little girl had not, and nor had her mother, who appeared within the hour to whisk her traumatized daughter away.
“I’m sorry,” Phoebe told Brigid as they watched from a window as the car sped off. It was clear that another girl would not be back.
