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━━┓ the witches ┏━━
━━ ★ ━━
. . . 𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐃, 𝐍𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐎
𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐃𝐆𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃, Phoebe Grené was everywhere and nowhere.
Her garden was like an extension of her own limbs, a place of rest and terrifying growth. It sat at the edge of the Grené family home, a small cottage nestled amid willow trees and sweetgrass. In it, there was some kind of ancient magic come to life: Electric green plants that could cure a cold. A rippling pond with a surface like a mirror. Sunlight so gold, it could be bottled with a cork stopper like the honey that sat on the kitchen shelf.
Eccentric and strange, so they said. The whispers about the woman that lived in a strange forest traveled all the way into Theed.
"A botanist," Phoebe always clarified. "With a penchant for gardening."
In spring, the rains washed into the dirt and purified it into the rich soil Naboo was known for. Deep, russet brown that became dotted with new growth. At the first sign of life, spring began and Phoebe was outside working the terra, pacing back and forth as if she were the one controlling the cycle of life and death. Green sprouts began to appear along the ground and white blossoms opened on the trees.
By early summer, the water lilies were blooming.
It was the eigth summer Cora had lived. They were sitting on the dock at the edge of the pond, just the two of them, Aunt Phoebe and Cora. For the duration of an afternoon, Cora had followed behind her Aunt as she walked among the rows of quickly-growing carrots and tomatoes and snap peas. Phoebe told her stories of a goddess of the harvest, tales of the Old Naboo that explained the years when a bountiful harvest turned into decay and blights.
Now, Phoebe ran her hand under the water, letting its coolness settle against her skin. Cora fought the urge to dive in and let the water envelop her small body, instead focusing on twisting the sweetgrass between her fingers into a small knot. Birds sang overhead, simple songs that turned into melodies on the breeze.
"Dad says those stories about magic things are all superstitions," Cora whispered, sights focused on the ripples at the water's surface. "He said they're fun stories to tell, but they aren't real."
"Stories they may be, but that doesn't make them any less true." She looked towards the sun and held up an outstretched hand to mark the time. "What do you think about the stories, Cora?"
Even so young, she needed to believe there was something more to the world. "I think they're real," she blurted. I want them to be real.
Phoebe turned her bright green eyes toward her niece and smiled. "Good. Come with me."
Cora followed behind in her aunt's wake as they traversed the gardens. The willow trees were brushed with sunlight and clung together with the mist of an incoming evening. At Phoebe's feet, the vines seemed to reach for her as she passed. As if she was the sun. An anchor point so far removed from the simplicity of normal life.
Phoebe grabbed a spade from the marble bench in the garden and knelt to the ground. In one graceful scoop, she had picked up a flower by the roots.
"Hold out your hands."
Cora obliged, and suddenly the flower was plunked in her outstretched palms, dirt and all.
"Aunt Phoebe?"
"Yes?"
"What am I supposed to do with a flower and a chunk of dirt?"
The woman swept her dress out of the way and sat down on the marble bench. Hands folded on her lap, she said, "Make it grow."
As if it were so easy.
Cora had spent hours following Phoebe around the gardens. She watched her plant and harvest, and there was never a day that they didn't have fresh flowers and fruit and vegetables on their great wooden dining table. Weeds never grew and the pond was always crystalline clear. Even when the neighboring farmers complained about late summer droughts, it never touched this garden. Everything was more alive here than it was anywhere else. Like the saturation was turned all the way up, all at the beckoning of Phoebe's hands.
The flowers in Cora's windowsill died the second she forgot to water them. How was she supposed to make a flower grow on command?
She stared at it. The dirt felt cold and wet on her skin, and the gentle petals of the white flower ruffled slightly in the breeze. She thought about it growing so hard, she felt her brain shaking against her skull.
"You can't do it on your own," Phoebe explained. "Think about the life around you, the energy in the air. Channel it into the flower. It knows what to do all on its own, you just have to help."
Cora breathed deep. What had Aunt Phoebe always said? Fire, water, air, terra, the tenants upon which the galaxy stood. The energized particles of an endless cycle through life and after death.
Grow, she commanded.
The feeling was like a rush of water running up her arms, and before she could do anything to stop it, a flame roared to life in her palms. The gentle flower was no match, and the green stem burned bright until it was wholly consumed by fire.
Cora yelped and dropped the dirt. The shriveled and charred plant fell to the ground at her feet, useless now. Her hands shook, but no fire had scorched her skin. Cora looked up at her Aunt's face expecting to see fear and disappointment.
But there was no anger in Aunt Phoebe's bright green eyes. Just the satisfaction of a woman proven correct.
"It is a gift, Cora." She knelt in the grass and wiped the tear off from Cora's cheek. "Do not let it see fear, understood?"
Cora nodded, and breathed in a deep, shaky breath of air.
Phoebe looked on at where the Grené household sat, nestled in its small forest of trees. Beyond that was the sprawl of Theed. "They will never understand what it is like to be a part of something else, to be yourself and still belong to an ancient power deeper than we can even comprehend." Wind brushed at her long brown hair and tugged at the blue fabric of her pristine dress. "It is in our heritage, Cora. The venefica smile down on us."
The language of the Old Naboo was still foreign on her tongue, but Cora knew enough to understand what that word meant.
