What is a whisperroot?

A whisperroot is a plant that only grows where a truth is buried. Its veins glow a faint red. Its a plant unlike any other because, if you touch it, you can feel it pulsing, like a heartbeat. If you put your ear near it, sometimes, you can…. well, not hear exactly, but feel voices. It’s not uncommon for the voices to be names…names of girls you almost remember, but whose names are never spoken…whose stories were swept away, ignored, dismissed as untrue.

Whisperroots, you see, grow as things that cannot be ignored or overlooked so that the buried truth should have to be reckoned with… or, at least, heard.

Whisperroots might be flashbacks. Or addictions. Self-harm or suicide ideation. Whisperroots might be workaholics. Whisperroots might be the life of the party, or a barrel full of laughs. For me, one whisperroot is a recurring nightmare I can’t seem to shake. It might also be problems with trust or an irrational fear. Whatever it is, however it shows up, whisperroots are reminders of the truth you’re trying to bury. Because buried truths do not stay buried. Instead, the longer they stay buried, the deeper their roots burrow into our hearts and minds, eroding our sense of security and hope. Until it blooms, pale, with a center the color of a bruise, its pulse an ache in our hearts we feel every time we breathe.

Over time, they say, life goes on and memories grow faint. In the book, this town ritualizes forgetting.

First, rationalize.
Then, memorialize.
Lastly, erase.

Girls are silenced—literally and figuratively—their torture minimized, their voices forgotten. Except by the forest. Except by the whisperroot growing, waiting, patiently, for someone to listen, for someone to see. For most of us, that’s all we wanted in the first place: someone to hear us, someone to really see us.

In the book Whisperroot, the hushwood is a forest whose design, whose very purpose, is to remember. Special animals, like the duskstag, appear only to girls whose voices are silenced. The hushbark is an old tree who bleeds red sap. For the innocent and the guilty alike, the forest is a tantalizing invitation: come. Remember. Red ribbons appear everywhere–on fence posts, on tree branches too high for children to reach, on street lanterns–because red ribbons where your signature.

Like vines, yesterday and tomorrow are tangled—you can’t have one without the other. There are so many things telling us to silence what can’t be changed or to let go of that which happened so long ago. In a culture where cruelty gets shrugged off as “locker room talk” or “boys will be boys,” where money, fame, or even just youth—like the boy whose father called rape “twenty minutes of action”—can earn nothing more than a slap on the wrist, we’re told it’s not a big deal. We’re encouraged to stay quiet. Assured it’s better that way—for us.

Except we can’t sleep. Or eat. Except we lose interest in doing what we used to love. Except our school or work starts to suffer. Except we don’t feel safe and so our closest relationships start to implode. Except we make marks on ourselves. Except whisperroots begin growing in our lives, pleading —and then demanding—that what we think no one wants to hear has to be acknowledged.

See… The only thing that can get rid of the whisperroot is something more powerful than evil. The only thing that can get rid of the whisperroot is something bigger than silence.
The only thing that can cut out the pain of memories that overwhelm us is something real.
The only thing that powerful, or that real, is your voice.

The town of Myreska is really good at silencing girls–many families and town are, too. But you can’t silence a girl’s truth. It pulses just below the surface, growing stronger and stronger with every passing day until, soon, it spills forth. It might be devastating in its quietness—the first Embergirl stood boldly in the chapel and announced quietly—he holds me down and rapes me every night. It might be more like a volcano erupting—fierce and loud. She might come out swinging. It doesn’t really matter whether it’s loud or quiet—her voice is the antidote to fear and the magic capable of calming the whisperroots.

Because truth is stronger than lies, unity is more powerful than solitude, and memories are less frightening once spoken. Compassion is born when stories are told and from compassion comes hope. For me, this novel isn’t about ghosts. It’s not even about folklore. It’s about challenging the idea that silence means safety. It’s about acknowledging true pain and the heartbreaking effects of silencing it. But it’s also a promise.

Because, you see… no matter how hard the town tries to silence the girls…. No matter how hard they try to erase their names and their stories… they can’t because

The hushwood remembers.

And there is comfort in knowing that the pain that devastates you was so meaningful and impactful that it altered the landscape of Myreska. A new plant bloomed. A mythical bird, the chime thrush, added a piece of your story to her song. There is comfort in knowing that you aren’t crazy for feeling hurt or confused or angry because even the land is hurt, confused and angry for you.

And, if you can’t say what happened….it will.