Page 11 of The Women of Wild Hill
FOR TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTYyears, I lived alone. My home sat perfectly preserved, wrapped in a prickly cocoon of thistle, ivy, and wild roses. I watched more colonists arrive on the Island—most Dutch, some English or Scottish, like me. Little towns sprang up along the coast, including a fishing village. The native peoples might have warned the newcomers against building a town in a cursed spot, but the tribes had all been murdered, infected with diseases, or run off their land. And so the town grew, but still no one claimed Wild Hill.
Then a rich man arrived and tore down my little house. In its place, he built a marble mansion. I would have killed him before they laid the first stone if not for a vision of a young woman who would arrive years later with the man’s son. When I at last laid eyes on Sadie, I was shocked to discover she could see me, too. No one else had gazed uponmy face for almost three centuries. The Old One whispered that the girl’s talents wouldn’t be limited to talking to the dead. On Wild Hill, she would grow immensely powerful. Three from her line would begin a new age—one in which women like us reclaimed our rightful place in the world. At last I’d found the family I was sent to watch over.
Gifts
Wrecks were common off the coast of Wild Hill. At least once a year, someone would steer their boat too close to the rocks as they marveled at the magnificent Gilded Age mansion that peered down at the sound. It was said no one had ever lived in the house, which had been sitting empty for almost a century. Climbing roses sealed all the entrances and glistening poison ivy leaves pushed through the mesh of flowers and thorns. Only a single window on the mansion’s uppermost floor remained uncovered. Below it, a tiny cemetery claimed the crest of Wild Hill, with granite boulders serving as tombstones. The old woman who owned the property had grown up in the caretaker’s cottage on the other side of the grounds. People often asked Ivy Duncan why her family chose to abandon the mansion.
“Because it’s haunted,” she would tell them. “It belongs to Bessie, our ghost.”
Most people assumed she was joking. Ivy Duncan may have had a mischievous streak, but she rarely joked. This was something her great-grandnieces learned quickly the first summer they and their mother came to stay with her.
“Be careful what you touch in the garden. Not all poisons must be eaten to work. Don’t be surprised if the ravens in the oak want to talk to you. They’re very chatty,” she told Brigid and Phoebe the day they arrived. “Always say hello to your ancestors in the graveyard. And if you spot Bessie looking down from the mansion’swindow, don’t be rude. Wave and say hello. Without Bessie, none of us would be here on Wild Hill.”
THE MORNING BRIGID AND PHOEBEfinally saw the ghost, the weather was bright and beautiful. It wasn’t yet seven when the girls burst out of the caretaker’s cottage, eager to sample all the splendors of a sunny day. Brigid, who’d just turned eleven, waded through waist-high wildflowers in the meadow that rolled down from the old mansion and stopped just short of the beach. The air around her buzzed with activity, and it seemed as if every flower hosted at least one frenzied guest. Brigid helped Aunt Ivy tend to the hives, and she’d come to think of the honeybees as her friends. She held out a palm, inviting a few to land. Insects weren’t wary of her the way most humans were, and she’d never been scared of them. But on this particular morning, the bees zipped right past her. None could spare any time. They were preparing for something, and Brigid knew a sign when she saw one. She looked up at the sky, which was cloudless and blue, and wondered what on earth had the honeybees bothered.
Phoebe, who was ten, headed for the garden on the other side of the grounds. There, she scuttled down a row like a crab, hunting the last strawberries of the season. Half went straight into her mouth. The rest she dropped into a pink canvas purse for her sister. It wasn’t until Phoebe reached the end of the row that it struck her. The ravens that lived on the hill had been quiet all morning. She hadn’t heard a peep from the other birds, either. Phoebe scanned the trees at the edge of the woods. Even the sight of a squirrel might have eased her mind. But the tree branches were empty and eerily still. The animals were gone. Phoebe zipped up her purse, slung the strap across her chest, and sprinted across the estate in search of her sister.
She raced around the pond without pausing to check on the tadpoles or look for the monstrous crawfish that lived under a rock. She leaped over the stones that sat on the brow of the hill, marking the graves of three generations of Wild Hill women, and past the oak where the ravens gathered and Aunt Ivy went to think. She picked up speed and hurtled through wildflowers as the land sloped down to the ocean. By the time Phoebe hit the beach, she was running at breakneck speed. If two arms hadn’t reached out to grab hold of her, she might have kept going, right into the surf.
“Whoa, Nelly!” Brigid spun the smaller girl around and held her until she’d caught her breath. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“All the ravens have gone missing,” Phoebe finally managed. “The squirrels, too.”
“There’s a storm coming,” Brigid told her. “Close your eyes. You can smell it.”
Phoebe closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. “The air is sweet.”
“The animals probably picked up the scent hours ago,” Brigid told her. “Remember what Ivy told us? Humans are always the last to know.”
“So the animals are okay? They’re just hiding somewhere?”
Brigid pointed at the calm ocean. “The sharks are diving down to the cold, deep water. The toads in the pond are digging into the mud. The bees are in the meadow gathering all the food they need, and the ants are building walls to keep water out of their nests. They know what to do to survive.”
“Where will we go?” Phoebe asked.
Brigid didn’t answer. They were no longer alone. A woman in white stood nearby, her thin cotton gown flowing around her as the ocean breezes picked up speed. Plump and pretty, with red cheeks and round breasts, the woman wore her chestnut hair down and her feet bare. There was nothing to indicate where or when she had come from.
“Hello,” Phoebe said and the woman smiled. Usually Phoebe couldn’t see ghosts, but this one was clear as day. “Who do you suppose it is?” she asked her sister.
Brigid stared at the livid red groove around the woman’s neck where her skin had rubbed off. “We need to go,” she said, just as the first raindrops began to fall and washed the ghost away.
BOTH GIRLS WERE SOAKED TOthe bone by the time they reached the caretaker’s house, where their mother and Aunt Ivy were having their morning tea.
“We saw a ghost!” Phoebe announced breathlessly. “I think it was one of the grandmothers.”
Brigid said nothing.
When Phoebe described the woman, Ivy shook her head. She was ninety-six years old now, and she’d known all the women buried on Wild Hill. “The woman you saw wasn’t a Duncan,” she told the girls. “That sounds like Bessie. Did you see her standing at a window on the second floor of the mansion?”
“No.” Brigid finally spoke. “She came out to see us.”
Phoebe could feel the impact her sister’s words had on their aunt, though Ivy did her best to hide it. “You saw her up close? Bessie rarely leaves the mansion. Did she speak to you?”
“Not yet.” Somehow Phoebe knew that one day, she would.
Far out at sea, lightning struck. Several seconds later, thunder followed.
“Come.” Ivy ushered the girls toward the dining room. “Let’s get you changed into dry clothes. Now you two have no excuse to skip breakfast.”
