Page 20 of The Women of Wild Hill

We are taught that every witch has a million mothers, each one formed in the Old One’s image.

Like the goddess who gave birth to the universe, our ancestors saw life spring from their wombs.

As children, we learn to revel in nature and never take her gifts for granted.

Everything she brings to life will one day end in death and decay.

We are told light and dark always come as a pair.

The Old One’s disciples may be called to create or destroy.

Our foremothers were midwives who guided their neighbors through childbirth, but they were also murderers whose shears trimmed life’s strings.

They were mothers who breastfed their babies—and crones who made bread from their enemy’s bones.

They were healers whose elixirs restored the body—and reapers who always knew which weeds would kill.

Milk is our gift to the world and poison our weapon. We will always be worshipped, reviled, and feared. Our power is one that men cannot understand, and one kings will never conquer.

History has been the battle to harness our power, but like moonlight it won’t be controlled or contained. 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.

We are the daughters of the triple-faced goddess who sees the beginning, the end, and every pregnant moment in between.