As Cello watched his family eat together, a feeling of loss bubbled up in his chest. He was missing so much of it. But, he reminded himself, it was by his own choice and his alone. Sabina and Joanie would have been happy to have him back at the garden, but he couldn’t deny that it didn’t feel quite right. Not just because he had his own place, and a steady job with a landscaping company. The bargain Joanie made—with Letta and Sil, but mainly the bargain she’d made with the Vine—that compromise would never feel seemly to Cello. The Vine took too much, and what it gave in return was not always a gift.
“Mama? Cela!” Joanie’s son toddled out from his little bed in Joanie’s room and swayed, still groggy, at the back door.
“Good morning, little dude,” Marcela said, suddenly standing and beamy. “Wow, Riv, you got so big! I can’t believe how fast he’s growing,” she said, shaking her head at Joanie.
“It’s because he eats so much,” Joanie said. “Don’t you?” She gathered her son up in her arms and kissed him under his chin until he laughed.
“We should probably get started,” Sabina said, apologetic. “Shouldn’t we, sugarplum?” She blew a raspberry on River’s chubby little leg.
Cello didn’t like the way they were all maneuvering around what had to come next.
“Alright, let’s go,” Cello said, clapping his palms together. “You need me to do anything special?”
“No.” Joanie’s voice was tight, as it always was when Cello mentioned the worship.
“We just need you to be there,” Sabina said, overly cheerful.
“The Vine needs you to be there,” Joanie corrected.
“Seems strange the Vine doesn’t need Sil and Letta, too. They were part of this garden for a long time. How are they out there at Mother Joseph’s?” Cello couldn’t resist asking. He cared about them the way you cared about a place you couldn’t visit again but that you’d always remember. He’d also meant it to be the smallest dig at Joanie and Sabina, at the way they still took money from Sil and Letta, how they still profited from the commerce both Cello and Marcela had rejected.
Joanie’s fingers dug into her skin where she held her crossed arms in place. He could see her struggle to remain neutral, and not to snap back at him. She looked down at her son, who scooped Cheerios from a plastic cup. “They seem old,” she said. “Especially Letta. She looks tired.”
“I’m not surprised,” Marcela cut in. “She took over Mother Joseph’s whole operation—what did she expect?”
“She’s getting what she wanted, I guess.” Joanie lifted the toddler into her lap, and he half leaned into and half squirmed away from her. “At least they’re keeping their promise.”
“And you’re keeping yours,” Cello said.
“Yes,” Joanie said, curt.
“Actually, that’s a good question,” Marcela said. “How come Sil and Letta don’t need to be here, too? Cello’s right—they lived at the garden a long time. A lot longer than us.”
“It’s not about who was at the garden or when. It’s about our family. It’s special. The Vine needs our family to be here,” Joanie replied, her voice firm. “And this worship is important because we’re clearing the last of Mother Joseph’s energy out of here and replacing it with all of ours. Let’s go and get this done so we don’t need to hold up anybody any longer than we need to.” She shot a pointed look at Cello.
After dinner they walked down to the garden. The tiny chapel Joanie and Sabina had built had expanded to the size of the old kids’ trailer. They added to it week by week, until Joanie said that the Vine was satisfied. All the trailers at the garden had been removed from the property by the state. The garden was only a garden now, and all of the Vine and any of the other plants that grew there belonged to Joanie.
Cello had resisted visiting Joanie’s chapel all through the time he and Ben were getting settled into their new life. When Joanie finally convinced him to take a look, he itched to leave, feeling so unsettled inside of that jade green music box of a place. He still didn’t fully believe, not like Joanie and Sabina, but he couldn’t deny that the Vine held mysteries he would never understand. Why it required his presence for this kind of ritual, he would never know. And whatever way he felt about the worship or the Vine, he couldn’t deny that it had transformed Joanie. She was different, patient, more somehow. When she led them in worship she seemed larger than a person—he knew it didn’t make sense, but it was like she contained more than one type of body, a new energy surrounding her.
Cello stood at the very back of the chapel and gripped Emil’s hand while Sabina and Joanie drew swirling, glittery shapes in crystals of salt strewn across the ground. They worked slowly, their attention keen as a blade. Cello didn’t know how long they lingered there, but he was sure that the light had changed from late afternoon to evening. No one complained, or grew tired or bored. Even little River stood with them and watched, nearly hypnotized by his mother’s movements. Every time Sabina and Joanie neared the end of a pattern, Cello felt the same thrill of fear—like the earth would pull them all apart in some strange, powerful tide. Joanie called the girls forward, and they linked hands, circling the shimmering shapes on the floor. When all of their hands were connected, the salt gleamed. Only when the last pattern was complete, did Cello let go of Emil’s hand so they could all go back out into the fresh night air.
“Well?” Marcela asked, the very first stars shining over them. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” Joanie said, flushed and happy.
“Did it work?” Cello asked.
“I think so,” Joanie said. “But I guess we’ll see.”
* * *
Acknowledgments
It is no exaggeration to say that I’ve been moved to tears on multiple occasions over the course of this book’s journey. So many lovely people have been endlessly generous with their kindness and support, and I can’t even believe my luck in knowing them.
First—and perpetually—thank you to my patient, smart, and thoughtful agent, Kate Johnson. Thanks to Rach Crawford, world’s best maternity cover, and everyone at MacKenzie Wolf for their sustained support over the years. My thanks to Dillon Asher, too, and his exciting future visions for Daughters of the Wild.
Thank you to my brilliant editor, Laura Brown, who pushed me to make this book the best it could be. It was an honor to work with someone who cares so deeply. I am immensely grateful to the entire gifted team at Park Row, especially Erika Imranyi, Heather Connor, Randy Chan, Rachel Haller, and Punam Patel. Thank you to super publicist Justine Sha for so much dedication and optimism, and to Gigi Lau for the stunning cover. Without this excellent group of people, this book wouldn’t have made it into your hands.
Daughters of the Wild would absolutely have stayed inside my head without the encouragement and guidance of early readers like Tracie Martin, Janet Walden West, Susan Bickford, Kelly Cabrese, Erin Foster Hartley, Ted Thompson, Sofia Groopman, and Emily Clark.
I have been so moved by the generosity of other writers throughout this process, and want to thank anyone and everyone who boosted this book along the way. Thank you to Jessica Valenti, Adam Wilson, Jessie Chaffee, Danielle Lazarin, Julie Buntin, Robin Wasserman, Erin Khar, and Iris Cohen for all of their kind support.
I also want to say thank you to my talented Elsa, Ramona, and Freya Project colleagues; each of them makes my day jobs a source of real joy—Zeb Millett, Keegan Grandbois, Jeremy Wilson, Margaret Fitzjarold, Eleanore Pienta, Marcos Toledo, Kate Ladenheim, Paige Jacobus, Libby Flores, and Nonie Brzyski, you are all treasures.
And of course, maximum thanks to my beautiful and hilarious extended family. I am so blessed to have in-law siblings like Scott Schneider, Lis Schneider, and Eva Hogan, who are the very best. Thank you, too, to Arnie and Nancy Schneider for all of the childcare and kindness over the years. I wouldn’t be who or where I am without my own intrepid and loving mother, Irka Zazu
lak, and my sister, Milya. I drew so much for this book from my isolated childhood summers, and my brother, Olesh Burian, shared these strange, magical, and often unsettling experiences with me.
Anyone familiar with West Virginia geography will know I took some liberties with distance in this book. I hope it doesn’t pose any insurmountable distractions while reading. I have so much appreciation for the Antietam Visitor center, where I passed many hours over the course of one muggy summer. Thank you, too, to Tracy Wilson and Holly Frey, the podcast hosts of Stuff You Missed in History Class. Their Voynich Manuscript episode was the seed for the Vine of Heaven and this entire book.
Finally, every last one of my thanks to my husband, Jay Schneider, who I love so much that it’s borderline gross. All of my gratitude goes to whatever forces of the universe let me parent my two wacky and wonderful daughters, Viola and Leonora—without them, nothing would be the same.
ISBN-13: 9781488058974
Daughters of the Wild
Copyright © 2020 by Natalka Burian
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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