Wildflowers and Wicked Women

I used to cry myself to sleep nearly every night. As I stifled my sobs with a pillow, Mother would attempt to soothe me by brushing my hair.

One night, she tucked a yellow wildflower behind my ear. “To sweeten your dreams,” she whispered, before pressing her soft lips against my forehead. “A sensitive soul is a gift, as near to magic as anything, my darling Isabella. Never allow anyone to destroy your magic.”

The next day, Father choked Mother until her lips turned blue. I pummeled his legs with my balled-up fists, but I was a girl against a Goliath. And in my world, the Goliath won every time.

When Father finally released his grip, Mother wilted to the floor. He didn’t spare her a single glance as he gathered his lantern and tools and took off for the mines. When I brushed the hair away from her face and reassured her everything would be okay, her bloodied lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile.

The next morning, Father fell face-first into his bread porridge. He never got up again.

Mother and I waited until nightfall to bury him in the backyard under the moon and stars. Then, we planted herbs and flowers over the makeshift grave until the sun shone down on us.

With hands caked in dirt, Mother twisted the simple silver wedding band on her finger. “A reminder to never let a cruel man poison our home ever again.”

Our bodies were sore and stiff, yet we slept peacefully that night, side by side.

Over time, the plants grew wild and free, hiding our darkest secret deep beneath their roots. We told our neighbors that Father had run off with another woman. They shook their heads in disapproval but never questioned our story.

Mother learned to work with a more subtle hand after that. We gathered foliage and berries from the garden and ground them into fine powders with a mortar and pestle. I’d label each vial with tiny symbols in black ink, and Mother would carefully mix them together to create her concoctions. They were crafted to work slowly, over the course of a week or two, mimicking common ailments before taking a sudden turn for the worse.

“Women might not have swords or the guillotine on our side,” Mother explained as she pressed powdered belladonna and arsenic into a silver compact. “But we create our own quiet strength from the earth.”

Word spread quickly about our beauty powders and perfumes, but our most precious wares were only ever spoken about in the softest whispers amongst the closest confidants and free to those who needed them the most. Cloaked in the veil of night, women from the surrounding villages arrived with tear-streaked faces and battered bodies and left with tiny glimmers of hope in their eyes as they clutched their purchases.

We stuffed wildflowers into vases and decorated our once-dreary cottage with rainbows of color. I no longer cried myself to sleep, but Mother still brushed my hair and decorated it with blossoms from our garden.

Mother’s bruises had long faded, but some injuries lingered. The bones in her foot and hip never set right, so she walked with a painful limp.

My fingers tingled as I prepared poultices for her that smelled of the earth. While she rested, I’d stuff my pockets with coins and walk the long dirt road to the market. When I returned with piles of silks, sweets, and books, we’d scatter them out in front of us so we could admire our good fortune. Then we’d speak of our dreams.

“Someday, we’ll buy matching ivory horses and gallop across the countryside,” Mother said one night after we had gorged ourselves on sugary confections from the market until our bellies ached.

“And we’ll collect wildflowers on our journeys and decorate their manes,” I continued.

“And their tails!” We giggled together.

With Mother’s bad hip and foot, I knew she would be unable to ride unless a miracle happened. But I had already seen one grand miracle in my lifetime—surely, there would be more to come.

Our daydreams were interrupted by a faint rap-tap-tap on the door. As soon as we decided it must simply be the wind, the same knocking pattern echoed throughout our tiny cottage once more, much louder this time.

When Mother swung open the door, a woman pulled back her hood to reveal black and purple bruises on her face.

I winced, immediately recognizing her from the market. Her name was Agatha, and she had sold me lavender soap, throwing in a handful of candied oranges for free. Her booth had been vacant for the past two weeks.

“My apologies for coming by so late,” she whispered, averting her gaze. “I was told you might be able to help me. This was the only time I could manage to sneak away.”

“Come inside, dear.” Mother lifted up a lantern to examine the bruises. One of Agatha’s eyes was swollen shut. The pale, jagged scar below the other suggested this was far from the first time she had been struck.

Despite her wounds, Agatha couldn’t seem to muster up any anger. “There must be good inside of him somewhere. I only wish I could flood the bad out.” Her voice was thick with sorrow and hesitation. “Please, don’t you have something—a potion or spell perhaps—that will make him kind?”

Mother’s face turned to stone. “I’m afraid there are no such spells.” She had a strict policy against helping anyone who wasn’t fully prepared for what must be done. As she attempted to shoo Agatha out, I clung to Mother’s arm and begged her to please do something.

“Forgive my foolishness.” Agatha’s voice grew steadier as she looked Mother directly in the eyes. “I fear it will get me and the baby killed someday, if I don’t take care of this problem now.” She caressed the underside of her rounded stomach. “I understand what must be done.”

“Please, Mother, please,” I cried. “You have to help her!”

As Agatha left, clutching a compact filled with poisoned powder, she let out the tiniest sigh of relief. I knew we had made the right choice.

The next day was my favorite kind of day. Bees buzzed among the blossoms as we snipped peppermint leaves off their stems. The sharp, sweet scent tickled our noses while we worked side by side, singing and laughing, our toes wiggling in cool dirt while the sun warmed our faces.

We were startled out of our joy by a woman sprinting toward us, her face covered in red splotches, hair flying wildly in the wind.

“You must leave—” the woman choked out in between sobs. “—immediately!” She explained that she was Agatha’s neighbor and that Agatha had second thoughts just as her husband lifted a spoon of poisoned porridge to his lips. She knocked the utensil out of his hand and begged him not to eat it. For her change of heart, she was beaten until she confessed everything. “They’ll be coming for you next.”

I couldn’t speak. The taste of betrayal was a bitter bile that threatened to suffocate me.

Mother attempted to hand the lady a coin pouch as a reward for her warning, but she simply shook her head, tears welling up in her eyes. “I couldn’t. You’ve helped so many.”

We stuffed dresses, fruits, and dried meats haphazardly into knapsacks, not bothering to retrieve the oranges that rolled under the table. Most of our potions and plants had to be left behind, except for two tiny vials stamped with even tinier lip prints.

“Just in case,” Mother said, tucking one of them into the inner pocket of the silk lining of my cloak and one into her own. “For there are some things worse than death that we may need to escape, my darling girl.”

Anger burned inside my chest as we raced through the woods, leaving behind the cottage that had finally become a home. “How could she?” I hissed as my skirt caught on a branch. Briars pricked my hands as I tugged and yanked at the fabric, unraveling the hem but remaining entrapped.

Mother stepped beside me and gently untangled the cloth from the branch without fuss. “Loving a cruel man is poison for the soul. The more you drink, the blurrier everything else becomes.”

“Loving a cruel man is poison for the soul. The more you drink, the blurrier everything else becomes.”

“I will always hate her.” I refused to even utter her name.

“Hate is a poison, too, my love.”

How could Mother forgive so easily? I rubbed at the tender cuts on my hand until they stung. “I’d rather drink every single drop of poison in the world than ever forgive her for what she’s done.”

After a few days of traveling on foot, Mother’s old injuries worsened, and our pace slowed. Her face crumpled up in agony as she struggled to continue. “Please, darling, go ahead without me. I will catch up.” She attempted a smile, but it came out strained. “Traveling will be easier once we have our matching horses.”

I knew now there would never be any horses. Despite her protest, I refused to leave her side.

By nightfall, we found sanctuary between the brick walls of an old church on the outskirts of a sleepy town. We were tasked with caring for the gardens in exchange for a tiny bedroom to share. Marble statues of saints watched over us with their stone-cold eyes as we attended to the fragrant tulips and roses of the sprawling churchyard.

Mother plucked a red rose from a thorny stem and tucked it behind my ear. I smiled at the familiar gesture, but the sweet scent turned my stomach as my heart longed for our old lives in our wild garden. The flowers were beautiful here, but there was no magic between these walls.

Eventually, word spread of Mother’s deeds. One of the nuns with thin, downturned lips in a constant scowl warned us that Father’s body had been found and that our potions and powders had been ransacked. “May God have mercy on your soul for such wicked deeds,” she whispered, but there was no judgment in her tone, only sorrow.

Someone from the church must have let it slip that a woman hiding here had a limp and a daughter, much like the poisoner everyone was searching for. Within days, an angry crowd surrounded the church, chanting demands to release Mother to face their idea of justice.

The nun warned us that men planned on storming the doors at dawn if the church refused to turn Mother over by then. “They will spare the girl,” she explained in her raspy voice. “But they insist you must be punished for your crimes.”

“This isn’t fair,” I cried after the nun left us to bid our goodbyes. “Father would have eventually killed you, and no men would be breaking down his door for justice. Please run away with me,” I begged, but I knew she could not. Despite her efforts to hide the pain, I saw the way she winced with every step she walked.

Mother pressed her tarnished wedding ring into my palm and instructed me to take it and the gold we had earned and continue on without her before the angry mob changed their minds and came for me, too. “Our work was about releasing women from their shackles—not anger and revenge. Don’t let anger be your poison, my sweet Isabella.”

Visions haunted my mind—images of pouring poisons into the wells and killing everyone, everywhere—a rampage of revenge.

But that wasn’t my mother’s legacy.

When the rage began to melt away, something even more painful settled in. “I’m so sorry, Mother.” I sobbed as I lay my head in her lap. “I never should have begged you to help Agatha.”

Mother coiled my hair around her fingers and whispered into my ear. “Your sensitive soul has always been drawn to help others. That is your greatest strength. Don’t ever let anyone destroy your magic, my darling Isabella.”

She pulled the tiny vial of poison from her cloak and held it to her lips. “I’m leaving by my own hand, not by their blades. I have no regrets as long as you are free. Promise me that you will flee immediately.” Tears welled up in her eyes, although her voice remained steady.

“I will be free, Mother,” I cried. “I promise. I promise I will be free.”

As she downed the liquid from the vial, the blood drained out of me, too. I watched until her lips turned blue and her body limp. The vial slipped from her hand and shattered into tiny jagged shards.

“I promise,” I whispered again. But she was already gone. Tears clouded my vision as I tucked the now-wilted rose she had given me into her hair and kissed her forehead a final time.

No matter how hard I tried to outrun my broken heart, the pain followed me—heavy, all-encompassing, unrelenting. Still, the image of my mother’s final peaceful smile stirred something inside of me that felt faintly of hope and strength despite the overwhelming sorrow that permeated my soul.

I continued our journey on my own, stopping at a nearby farm to purchase a riding horse to hasten my voyage. When the farmer led me to his barn, an ivory-colored filly greeted us, as if it had galloped right out of Mother’s daydreams. I knew at once what to call her.

Wildflower’s temperament was sweet and gentle despite my inexperience, but my legs burned from long days riding over hills and through forests. My nights were spent sobbing myself to sleep at various campsites and inns.

Paying homage to Mother’s sacrifice, I eventually settled into a small cottage in the countryside, where I grew a wild, unruly garden filled with tiny seeds of hope for those with no other escape.

Most folks considered us to be the most wicked of women. But to the women who found themselves caged and tormented by the most wicked of men, we were capable of magic, conjuring up freedom and second chances out of the earth itself.

That was my mother’s legacy. That is our legacy.