Page 41 of The Women of Wild Hill

Love

There are countless books devoted to the miracles of saints.

It’s a pity nature’s miracles go unappreciated.

To understand even the tiniest tidal pool, you must know the heavens, the sun, then the moon and her orbit.

You will need to study the poison the anemone uses to stun her prey.

All the small creatures who learn to avoid her.

The forces that always haul the tides in on time.

The molten rock that emerged from an ancient volcano.

The water that wore that rock into a bowl so a wee world would one day take shape.

If you look closely enough at a tidal pool, you’ll see the Old One looking back at you. And yet everyone at the beach hops right over them—little miracles that are far more impressive than loaves or fishes.

Lust is a delight, but love is a miracle of nature.

We’re right to see the hand of the divine in it.

Love requires a meeting, and that’s hard enough to arrange.

Two people out of billions find their way to each other.

Then one must catch the other’s eye. Up close, the attraction will always be put to the test. The smell of the body must appeal, and with it the sound of the voice, the spark of intelligence, the volume of laughter.

The number of factors can’t be listed or enumerated.

And yet, still—against every odd imaginable—it happens.

Of course, true love is far rarer than people believe. Like truffles and ambergris, most make do with look-alikes or impostors. 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.