The Wind in the Willows

The ancient branches of the weeping willow drag across the tops of the grass like the gentle glide of fingers over satin skin. Rebecka tilts her face toward the warm sunlight that pours between the leaves. From somewhere over the meadow, bluebirds sing with happy chirps. But they do not sit in the willow tree. They won’t even fly over it. 

Rebecka turns her attention to the rolling hills of little purple wildflowers. They stretch beyond the horizon, going on for miles, and miles. They abruptly carve a large circle around the willow. The faces of the flowers twist away as if they can’t stand the sight of the tree. Rebecka stretches out a hand and pucks one from the ground. The flower shudders. The color leaches from the petals like bleach on a shirt left under the blazing heat of the sun. The stem twitches. Once. Twice. It withers away before her eyes, turning black and wilted. 

With a huff, she drops the dead flower back to the ground. The Coven’s Family Tree may look like the epitome of spring, but it’s the opposite. It reeks of death. Rebecka grabs the notebook in her lap and flips it open to the next blank page. She clicks her pen, resting the tip to the paper, then waits. 

A breeze lifts the hair off her shoulders. Goosebumps rake down her arms when the branches of the willow rattle together. The beginnings of soft, whispered words reach her ears. It’s not the comforting murmur of a lover, or a friend. It would be detrimental to the iron wall she’s built around her emotions to think otherwise. 

She grits her teeth as a full blown gust of wind almost knocks her over. The willow creaks and tilts as the leaves screech. Their voices blur together, a symphony of horror that makes her stomach roll. Rebekca’s fingers turn white from her vicious grip on the pen, fighting to not raise her hands to cover her ears. 

The voices merge as one. Her past sisters solidify their thoughts. When they speak again, they do so with direction. 

“So, you’ve returned, sister.”

“Of course I have,” she replies, proud when her voice remains steady, regardless of her pounding heart. 

“That is for the best.”

“Well, it’s not as if I have a choice.”

The voice screams in outrage. Rebecka winces as a warm trickle of liquid rolls down the side of her face. Her ears are bleeding again. 

“You dare insult your Coven when all we’re trying to do is help you?”

“My apologies.” She forces her tone to be sincere. 

“Recite the vow so we can begin.”

She lets the words past her lips. “I am here on my own free will. I am here to better myself for the sake of the Coven. I am here because I understand that my weakness is a threat to my sisters, and I value family above all.”

“We can begin.” The voice pauses as if considering what to say next. “We have decided on our topic for today, witchling. 

“Thank you, sisters.”

“What you are doing is not enough.”

Rebecka can’t help but blanch. “I’m sorry?”

“Are you even trying, Rebecka? Do you not care about the sacrifices the Coven has made for you?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand. I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me,” Rebecka says. “I’ve started training extra hours, my magic has grown. I’m top of my class within the Coven. I volunteer every spare moment I have-”

“We did not ask for a resume. We said you’re not doing enough.”

She swallows hard. “Right.”

“Gods, what a waste of magic.” The voice clicks her tongue with displeasure. “Write this down, Rebecka.”

“Of course.”

“You must change everything. Start from scratch.”

“F-from scratch?”

“Are you deaf, girl? Yes. Scratch. Starting with your appearance.”

Rebecka looks down at the soft lavender dress. It was the first thing she ever bought for herself, and as a result, brings her pride and comfort. It’s why she wears it to these meetings. Since she was five, her Coven Leader has demanded that she talk to the Family Tree, claiming that Rebecka did not do enough for the Coven. That she wasn't a witch enough for the Coven. 

“Write!” the voice screams. Rebecka jolts, the pen scratching down words that blur before her eyes. “Your appearance is sloppy. Clean it up. Run more and eat less. Gods, I thought we beat this into you ages ago. Your waist isn’t as slim as we’d like it. Until then, wear clothing that isn’t as form fitting.”

Hence, her beloved purple dress that laces up like a corset. She grits her teeth hard enough to crack.

“Anything else?”

“You’re not pulling your weight. Do more for the Coven. Find a better job. Higher paying, more impressive. If you bring in more revenue, perhaps that can make up for your other… lacking qualifications.”

“Where do you recommend I search?”

“That’s not for us to tell you.”

“What salary is acceptable?”

“Figure it out. Next, your magic. Your potions, we hear through our ravens, are incredibly inconsistent.”

“I’m experimenting with a new explosive powder,” she replies. “It won’t be consistent until I can figure out-”

“Unacceptable. The only acceptable thing is perfection.”

Figures. Rage simmers deep within her veins. Her fingers spark, almost catching her paper on fire. Rebecka shakes out her hand. The Coven isn’t perfect. Why do her ancestors demand that she has to be? It’s not like they haven’t made mistakes. It’s not like she doesn’t have sisters that work “lower class” jobs, or have a larger pant size. Each of her sisters is unique. Why can she not be? Why are they forcing her into a mold?

The voices split up as her departed sisters lose their connected train of thought. Their words slam at her in rapid succession, so quickly that she can barely make out what they’re saying. 

“Be smarter.”

“More graceful.”

“Find a good boy and settle down.”

“But still keep your independence, of course.”

“Smile more.”

“Work harder.”

“Try harder.”

“Be more.”

Rebecka’s breath comes in sharp pants. The words are knives digging into her flesh. Her sisters carve up bits of her soul and roast them on a spit. They split her open at the seams and poke at all of her organs. Panic starts to overtake her, black creeping into the corners of her vision. She stares at the scrambled letters on the paper to fixate on something tangible, only to find she hadn't been writing words at all. All that’s there are swirls and random patterns. 

A scream builds in her throat. She chokes on it. She digs her nails into her palms and blinks at the slight burst of pain. Breathe. She needs to breathe. Rebecka fights to get air through her lungs. The first gulp of air is like a drink of crisp water on a summer day. She continues to breathe, taking it one second at a time, until her pulse thuds slowly. 

She shuts everything out. Her ears ring with white noise. The wind whips around her, but she can no longer hear the chattering of her sisters. She glances out at the horizon where those purple flowers extend endlessly. Flowers know what they are. They know that they must seek the sun to live. They know that nutrients come from the dirt, so they dig their roots deep. 

Who am I? 

Who is she? Good question. She doesn’t have an answer to that. The Coven has been trying to tell her who she should be, but that’s clearly not reality. It’s not right. If it was right, it wouldn't feel like she was being constantly crushed by the weight of the entire world. She doesn’t know who she is, but maybe a better question is why she’s let them do this to her. 

Why has she let them twist her around? Why has she let them bury into her head like parasites, feeding on every small insecurity and planting doubt? Rebecka drops the pen. The notebook slides off her lap. What’s keeping her here? The Coven that clearly doesn't give a shit about her?

“Witchling, are you listening to us?”

“Focus on us, Rebecka.”

“You need to-”

“No,” Rebecka hisses with such venom that it even surprises her. “Shut up.”

The witches riot, but she pays them no mind. She’s a witch for gods’ sake. She is one of the most powerful creatures on the planet. She is starlight and earth; salt and bone. She can not be crushed by words, nor mountains, nor planets. Rebecka shoves herself to her feet, raising her chin up a notch with defiance. 

“Where do you think you’re going, witchling?”

“Yes, foolish girl. Your Leader will hear about this, and she will not be happy. You will be punished.”

“We have not fixed you yet. You can not leave.”

“Fix me?” Rebecka laughs. “Fix me?”

“Control your magic and leash your tongue.”

Sparks jump off her hands in earnest now. Her mind whirls, honing in on every hurtful comment, every physical jab, every single bit of hell the Coven put her through. The wall around her emotions chips away with clouds of dust until it falls completely. Suddenly, she feels everything.

Hurt is prevalent. She wanted her Coven to love and accept her. Hopelessness is also there. But a single emotion burns brightest: fury. Fury that would scorch the entire earth if it was given the chance. Rebecka shoves her hands into her pockets. Her fingers graze against the small packet of powder. It's the experiment that the Family Tree demanded she took up in the first place. 

“Sit back down, girl.”

She should listen, right? That’s the wise thing to do. That’s the easy thing to do. But survival isn’t supposed to be easy. Fish will swim upstream to keep their species alive in the spring. If she waits here beneath the Family Tree, the Coven will just string her up with their expectations. She’s a witch. She’s not a pawn. Not a doll. Not something that can be controlled. She dumps the powder into her palm and rips her hand from her pocket. The wind stills as if recognizing the danger. 

“Be smart, girl,” the Family Tree says, the leaves whispering. 

“I am,” Rebecka replies. 

She tosses the powder in the air. The sunlight catches on the individual grains and shimmers like gold, but when they land against the bark of the tree, they erupt. Rebecka hits the ground, throwing her hands over her head with a gleeful shriek. Chips of wood fly through the air. The scent of burning brush fills her nose, getting stuck in her throat. A deafening boom shakes the meadow, rattling her bones. 

Elation floods Rebecka like a tidal wave. When the chaos dies down, she stands and grins manically. Flames spiral up the branches of the Family Tree to the heavens. The voices of her past sister die in the wind as the leaves crackle to ash. The Family Tree is gone. 

Overhead, regardless of the fire, a bluebird flies over the remains of the willow. She inhales sharply, throwing her head back. Under the smoke are hints of lavender and sweet grass. Rebecka nods once. Then she places one foot in front of the other, walking toward the horizon to make herself.