Page 19 of The Women of Wild Hill

By twenty-one, Sibyl had opened her first restaurant in Brooklyn.

It wasn’t fancy—just a little hole in the wall.

She didn’t even take reservations. And yet word of her culinary masterpieces quickly made its way around town.

Billionaires tried to bribe her employees for seats.

Celebrities stood in line behind cleaning staff.

The New York Times referred to her as a witch in their review.

Sibyl stared at the word on the screen as though it meant something the critic hadn’t intended.

She took it away with her and turned it around in her mind for the rest of the day.

Every time her thoughts brushed up against it, she felt a charge, like the word was a talisman she didn’t yet know how to use.

She’d never dared think of herself in that way before.

ONE SPRING MORNING AT THE age of twenty-four, Sibyl woke up with the desire to go for a drive.

The urge was rather inconvenient, given that she didn’t own a car and her schedule was jam-packed.

Her mushroom man was coming down from the Catskills with the treasures he’d foraged.

A shipment of rare oysters would be arriving from Maine.

A critic from the Los Angeles Times had announced his intention to wait all night for a table if he had to.

Sibyl shook off the idea of a road trip and rolled out of bed.

Never a fan of pajamas or curtains, she’d chosen an apartment on the seventh floor of a building that faced Prospect Park so she wouldn’t have to worry about upsetting prissy neighbors who weren’t fans of nudity.

And yet, when she turned toward the windows, she found herself facing a pair of amber eyes.

A raven perched on the sill tapped on the glass with its beak.

“Hello to you, too,” she said to the raven.

Sibyl’s mother had always been wary of corvids, but her friend Lily adored them. Crows, ravens, magpies, and jays could travel between dimensions, she once informed Sibyl. When they came to you, they often brought messages.

The triple-sealed windows filtered out the raven’s reply to her greeting, so Sibyl walked over to open it.

Below in the park, the trees were black with birds.

In the three years she’d been in the city, Sibyl couldn’t recall having spotted a raven.

She’d only heard them in the distance. Now there were dozens sitting under her window.

The message they’d come with was bound to be epic.

“What is it?” she asked once the window was open and the raven had hopped inside. But it wouldn’t tell her. “Whenever you’re ready,” she said. “Excuse me while I hop in the shower.”

When she emerged from the bathroom, the bird was gone.

The trees below her window were empty. Then she left the house to head for the restaurant and found them.

They were waiting for her outside on the sidewalk, posing for photos and forcing pedestrians to make a wide arc around them.

When Sibyl appeared, they stopped hamming it up for the cameras and lifted off all at once.

She knew what the message was. They wanted her to follow them.

SIBYL MADE IT ALL THE way to Queens on foot before she stopped to call her mother.

There was no answer, so she tried the ranch landline.

It, too, rang through to voicemail. Sibyl wasn’t worried.

She just wondered if Phoebe might know where the birds were taking her.

She was starting to have a hunch that the trip was going to take much longer than expected, and her feet were already sore.

So she called a car service and asked the driver to follow the ravens.

It wasn’t until she’d handed over her credit card as a deposit that the man pulled away from the curb and they set off to the east.

“Looks like we’re going out to the Island,” he told her.

“What island?” she asked.

He caught her eye in the rearview mirror. “You’re joking, right?”

“Right,” she said, though she hadn’t been.

The driver stepped on the gas, and Sibyl felt herself being reeled in.

Three hours later they were outside a town called Mattauk. Sibyl was trying to remember where she’d heard that name when the ravens finally came to a stop. The car rounded a curve and Sibyl spotted them lined up along the top of an old brick wall.

Even without the birds, she would have known she’d arrived at her destination. Wherever she was, it felt like home.

“This is it,” she said. “You can let me out.”

“You’re sure?” the driver asked. The location did seem rather desolate. The wall stretched as far as the eye could see. Woods lined the opposite side of the road.

“I am,” Sibyl confirmed.

He wasn’t eager to argue. It was late afternoon and the traffic would be picking up soon. He swiped her card and returned it to her.

“You got a way back to the city?” he asked.

“I don’t think I need one,” she told him.

THE CAR DISAPPEARED DOWN THE road, and Sibyl found herself alone with the birds.

“Alright. I’m here. How do I get in?” she asked and received several croaks in return. She got the sense that they wanted her to climb over. “That’s illegal, you know. You’re going to get me hauled off to jail.”

Sibyl wasn’t big on breaking laws. But the birds either couldn’t understand or didn’t give a damn about her spotless arrest record. They repeated their answer. The only way in was up and over.

So Sibyl scaled the wall and dropped down on the other side.

The wild ivy had led her to think the property had gone to seed.

But the drive appeared well maintained, and the oaks that lined the road seemed happy to see her.

Their fluttering leaves whispered their greetings.

Chipmunks and squirrels popped out to lay eyes on her.

A few hundred yards in, she reached a fork in the road.

Before her, the trees thinned out, with only a handful of magnificent specimens rising from a flower-filled meadow.

To her right, the road led to an attractive two-story brick house with dark green shutters and gingerbread trim.

A porch circled three sides of the structure, which looked out over the ocean.

She was standing, it seemed, at the top of a hill.

Below, a pale yellow beach lined the water.

Sibyl took the fork that led to the left, wondering what else there was to see on the property.

Soon, a tall, briar-covered wall came into view.

As she kept walking, Sibyl realized it belonged to an enormous structure.

The windows were grown over, and there were no doors to be seen.

But the marble stairs that led out to the lawn were those of a Gilded Age mansion.

The view from the top of the hill, even now, was breathtaking.

The wildflowers rippled in waves of orange, white, and purple. Wading through the blooms was a woman in white. She was pretty and plump and apparently naked beneath her white shift.

“Hello, Sibyl.” The smile the woman wore could not have been warmer. “Welcome to Wild Hill.”

She knew the name. She’d heard countless stories about the place growing up—none of them from her mother. She hadn’t believed it was real. Wild Hill seemed as far-fetched as Narnia.

Sibyl had to fight the urge to embrace the woman. “Do you know me?” she asked instead.

“Oh yes,” said the woman, who, upon closer inspection, didn’t seem to be entirely there. “I’ve been waiting a very long time for you to arrive. So has your family.” She gestured to five granite boulders that lined the crest of the hill.

“This is where my family comes from.” It wasn’t a question. Sibyl realized she knew the place. She’d dreamed about it for as long as she could remember.

“Yes. Go. Have a look.”

Sibyl walked over, with the woman following behind her. Each of the rocks bore a familiar name. Sadie. Rose. Ivy. Lilith. Flora. “I know these women.”

“Of course you do. They’re your ancestors. It’s their blood inside you.”

Pieces of a puzzle were coming together in her head. Sibyl glanced back at the woman. “Are you one of them?”

“No. My name is Bessie. I arrived here on Wild Hill in 1624.” She pointed out across the water at a thin strip of land. “I was hanged by the neck there on Culling Pointe.”

“Then you must be—”

The woman laughed. “Dead? Yes. Though the rules of death are a bit laxer for women like us. We can linger as long as we like.”

“What do you mean?” Sibyl asked. “Women like us?”

“What did your mother tell you?”

“Nothing. She never spoke about her family.”

Bessie’s smile dimmed. “That’s a pity. Still, you must have known you were different. Surely you never thought your mother was ordinary.”

It did seem ridiculous when Bessie put it that way. There was nothing even remotely ordinary about Phoebe. “What are we?”

“We are priestesses of the Old One. Defenders of the ancient ways. Guardians of the earth, air, and water. Protectors of all living things. Summoners of storms. Huggers of trees. Avengers of the innocent. Punishers of the guilty. Or, if you prefer to keep things simple, you might call us witches.”

Sibyl absorbed the information with a long inhale. “And my mother knows about all of this?” she asked on the exhale.

“Certainly.”

“Why didn’t she tell me?”

Bessie knew the answer. Sibyl could see it on her face. But the witch wasn’t going to say. “Phoebe was rebelling, and for a time, the Old One let her have her way.” She paused for a moment and seemed to study Sibyl. “But you are The Third. It is your gift that is needed to turn the tide.”

Sibyl couldn’t help but giggle at the thought. Sure, she had a few little tricks up her sleeve, but nothing that might be mistaken for real power. “I can make a great omelet, but that’s about all I can offer.”

“You must get that from your aunt Ivy. She was a marvelous chef. Never underestimate the power of food. But today, we’ll be giving you the most important gift of all.”

“We?”

Bessie pointed down at Sadie’s grave. “Lie down, child, and close your eyes. Your ancestors have a great deal to share with you.”