On the Rainy Side of the Mountain They Grow Columbine, Nightshade, and Stinging Nettle
Content Warning
ostracism, paranoia
by KT Wagner
Decades past, a hamlet sprang up inside the outer boundary of a vast metropolitan area. Years later, the city map rather arbitrarily and unfairly, according to the residents, annexed the community.
As the crow flies, it wasn’t far, but a lake separated the neighbourhood from the densely populated city. A meandering, neglected road provided the only land access. A mountain range jutted to the north. The hamlet was isolated, and the residents liked it that way.
For as long as anyone could remember, Nora owned a café on one corner of the only crossroad with a stop sign. More recently she added a plant and trinket shop, with many residents referring to the addition as that modern newfangled place. Her customers didn’t like the change until Nora explained the language of flowers.
The residents had gathered in Nora’s café. They were fed up with rules and restrictions designed by and for the big city. They felt ignored — except at tax collection time — and decided to unilaterally declare their village autonomous.
Nora offered to write the city a letter on purple, scented notepaper. She enclosed pressed cyclamen and yellow carnations. Empathy and rejection. Three months later, the city responded by dispatching the alderman assigned to their ward. Over coffee and muffins at Nora’s café, he informed the residents they weren’t allowed to separate. He hinted the city might, someday, build a bridge.
“No thanks,” the people of the hamlet responded. “We didn’t vote for you. Everyone wrote in Nora’s name.”
Nora presented the Alderman with a bouquet of dogwood flowers, white poppies, and blue salvia. She urged him to share it with city council. “Look here,” she said. “I’ve divided the stems into two dozen mini bouquets. Hand them out.” Her voice took on a ring of authority the residents knew well. “Forget my gift. Forget this place. Think only of how they will react to your thoughtfulness.”
The city forgot about the hamlet, and the residents christened their emancipated town Drizzle.
The world moved at a faster rate on the outside. The citizens of Drizzle didn’t like change, and used words like quaint, rustic, and timeless, to describe themselves.
Almost thirty years passed.
Progress leaked in. Mostly in drabs, sometimes in dribs, like the cellular tower a big company — or perhaps another interfering level of government — erected up the mountain. In Drizzle the paranoia was palpable.
Nora sprinkled butterfly weed seeds around the base of the tower. “A warning they best take seriously,” she told those gathered at the café.
The tower was switched on. Soon, the townspeople reluctantly acknowledged that cell access and internet were occasionally handy.
“Don’t forget, if we listen in on the world, the world listens in on us.” Jake — a pluviophile from the city who’d moved to Drizzle decades back — bombastically observed one Sunday from the veranda of the movie theatre that also served as a multi-denominational church.
The church wasn’t popular, even among the religious. Residents worried it might spoil them for movie watching in the same building. However, word of Jake’s proclamation spread quickly as not much else was going on.
For once, Jake was right. Sort of. The problem proved to be more immediate and closer at hand.
Real estate prices had risen a fair bit that year, and a few locals were happy to part with land for much-needed cash. Initially, the influx of newcomers into Drizzle’s outskirts didn’t cause much of a stir.
However, the day following the Harvest Moon, two customers at Nora’s café complained their pets had gone missing. Nora promised to create flyers and baked clove-spiced scones as a fundraiser to cover printing costs.
The next month, late in the evening of the Hunter Moon, Bob, the gas station owner, interrupted a customer at the self-serve pump.
“He tried to cover it up,” he told Nora the next day. “But I caught a glimpse of canine teeth, and his eyes glowed red for a moment. I googled the signs. There’s no doubt… ” Bob raised his voice to announce the verdict, though he needn’t have bothered. The half-dozen villagers sipping coffee were already hanging on his every word.
“Werewolves in our town!” Nora gasped. “I’m calling an old-timer meeting for after closing.”
Old-timer was code for anyone who could trace their Drizzle family history at least one generation back.
Folk at the meeting claimed to have learned, via Google, that supernatural creatures could hear a whispered conversation across a crowded room, but Luke from the eight-plex on First Street discovered a scientific article, and now they knew werewolves could hear conversations miles away and through up to four walls!
For safety, they developed a system of written notes and simple hand signals.
Nora suggested they refresh their knowledge of the language of flowers. She spoke to Gladys, her head waitress, about adding edible flowers to the menu. “Let’s see what customers pick,” Nora whispered. “We’ll watch for concerning patterns. Even folk we’ve known for years might be hiding something.”
Nora inventoried her garden for edible flowers with hidden meanings. Snapdragons for deception. Pansies for loving thoughts. Nasturtium for conquest. And chive blossoms for courage.
Nora found a Pinterest board with many suggestions for edible flowers. There she discovered how pretty and versatile deviled eggs could be and added them to the menu.
Two days later, Gladys uncovered the vampires. There’d been a surge in the population of bats near her property and she’d been grateful for the mosquitoes they ate. However, when two neighbour couples turned down garlic-mashed potatoes in favour of French fries and then visibly recoiled when she garnished their plates with garlic chive blossoms—
Plus, she couldn’t recall ever seeing those newcomers in the café during daylight hours.
The next week, Jake dropped by. They’d been discussing things at church and Luke had done more internet research. “We have concerns about witches casting spells and hexing people. But apparently marigolds protect against witchcraft.”
He asked Nora why she didn’t sell marigolds or marigold seeds at her shop? “Also, deviled eggs seemed an odd thing to suddenly add to the menu and Luke reports that they are often referred to as funeral food, especially in the south.”
“Good thing we’re in the north,” Nora replied.
Jake’s eyes narrowed, and immediately she regretted being flippant. The talk turning to witches made her skittish. She’d never worried about openly owning a black cat, and the gnomes in her garden were cute and harmless.
Nora popped a warm apple muffin into a paper bag and quickly prepared a to-go cup of Jake’s favourite, hot chocolate. She pressed them into his hands. “Here you go. I’d love to invite everyone for a special dinner tonight. My way of giving back.”
Nobody showed up, but a basket of lavender was left at the door. No note. Nora pressed a hand against her stomach. She didn’t need to look up the sweetly scented flower to know they meant distrust.
Drizzle no longer felt welcoming and quaint, only superstitious and rustic.
About the author and the piece
KT Wagner tells us that this was rejected at least 11 times at paying markets, being too speculative for the literary magazines but not comfortably a fantasy story. KT writes speculative fiction and poetry in the garden of her home on the west coast of Canada. She loves to knit and collects strange plants, weird trivia, and obscure tomes. KT can be found online at www.ktwagner.com and https://bsky.app/profile/ktwagner.bsky.social
©2025 by KT Wagner. All rights reserved. May not be used for A.I. training.