‘The dead have no designs they say, but I sit here with Father Satan and all of our sons in the Underworld. The Living don't see the Designs, but tis we who weave the weather, crafting the air from our cold dead bones. Tis we gifting them their herbs and potions they use for portents to stay alive - another year, another year, they holler, all the way down to Hell their voices reach. Penetrating our earthen walls, with no thought to our food supply or privacy, whom we want joinin’ our ranks, spinnin’ cloth and breakin’ bread with US - no thought at all is given to what we need, to sustain them. No, no - then they holler up to God when they don't get their way, blamin’ everything on the Devil again.’ She rattled a tree root dangling in to her cellar from the roof. ‘I'll give them something to holler about.’