The Grace Year Page 8

  Hans steals a glance at me. A look of warning. Martha’s right. No one can know that we’re friends. I could get him in serious trouble.

  “I can’t believe you volunteered for this,” the older guard says, shaking his head, looking back over the great lake. “An entire year in that crappy little cabin. Just you and Mortimer.”

  I wonder if that’s the shack we saw on the other shore. I heard there were two guards that live nearby to maintain the barrier of the encampment, but it always sounded like more of a punishment than a privilege. Is this what Hans was trying to tell me the other day at the paddock?

  Without another word, the guards load the supplies onto rickety wagons, pushing them up a wide dirt path.

  We follow. What else can we do?

  But it’s more than that. We’ve been building to this moment our entire lives. The grace year is no longer a story, a myth, something that will happen someday.

  That someday is now.

  I take in every last detail of the terrain—just beyond the rocky shoreline, there appears to be a series of tall wooden structures in each direction. At first, I think maybe that’s where we’ll be living, but the guards continue to march us inland.

  The sparse landscape slowly gives way to spindly white pines and ash. As I look ahead, the trees seem to grow thicker, in varying degrees of height, the tallest ones in the center of the island. I remember hearing stories from the trappers in my father’s care about the islands to the north. Pinnacles of land cut off from the rest of the world. Where man and animal alike go mad.

  Hans looks back at me. I think he’s trying to tell me something, but I have no idea what it could be. I’m too tired for subtleties right now.

  Through the foliage, I spot a tight curved line of enormous cedars that seem to wrap their way around the entire island, but they’re too close together to be natural. It must be a fence—like the one we have in the county—but instead of the fence keeping us safe from the outside world, this is a fence to protect the rest of the world from us.

  I have no idea what we’re capable of, how the magic will consume us, but we haven’t even reached our final destination and two of us have already fallen.

  As my damp boots sink into the soft dirt, I think of my mother walking this path before me, June and Ivy, and Penny and Clara, who will be forced to follow in my footsteps.

  There are deer tracks, and porcupine, fox, and fowl, but there’s another set of tracks that makes my blood run cold. Large flat-soled imprints, alongside two long rivets, as if someone had been dragged.

  Searching the woods, I look for the poachers, but I don’t even know what I’m looking for. Eyes and blades, that’s all I have to go on. Have they camouflaged themselves? Are they perched in the treetops or below our feet in trenches waiting for us to make a false step?

  I know the poachers would never cross the barrier for fear of being cursed, so what would draw the girls out? Do they try to run? Do the poachers sweet-talk them? Or maybe they’re forced out by their own kind?

  As if Kiersten can hear my thoughts, she peers back at me over her shoulder, ice-blue eyes singeing a trail from my ankles to the top of my head.

  I duck down, pretending to refasten my bootlace, anything to escape her gaze. I can’t stop thinking about Betsy running off into the woods, Laura keeling over the side of the canoe—that look on Kiersten’s face. Whether it’s true or not, she believes she killed them with her magic.

  And she’s proud.

  I try to shake it off, erase it from my memory, because no matter what happens, how things may appear, I need to keep a level head, my feet firmly rooted in the soil. No more superstition. No more fear.

  As I gather my skirts to stand, I notice a tiny red bloom fighting against all odds to make its way to the surface. Reaching out, I touch the five petals, perfectly formed, just to make sure it’s real. Tears prickle the backs of my eyes. It’s the flower from my dream, the same one I saw in Mrs. Fallow’s hand as she stepped from the gallows, the same bloom that was threaded into the outskirts-woman’s hair. It’s beyond me how it got here, how it managed to survive on this well-worn path, but it seems like a truer bit of magic than anything I’ve seen thus far.

  “On your feet,” Hans says as he wraps his arm around me, pulling me up.

  “What are you doing here?” I whisper.

  “I told you I would look after you,” he says. I don’t dare look at him, but I can hear the smile in his voice. “If there’s a breach in the fence, they’ll send for me. Do you understand? I will come for you.”

  I nod. But I have no idea what he’s talking about.

  As we approach the end of the path, we’re faced with a towering wood gate, hundreds of lifeless ribbons nailed to the rough-hewn wood. Some are tattered, long since faded to the softest blush, but others are still crisp, the sharpest of crimson. I want to pretend the girls put them here themselves, one last rebellious act before returning to the county, but I’m done pretending.

  These are the ribbons of the girls who’ve been killed.

  It’s more than a warning.

  It’s a message.

  Welcome to your new home.

  “Are we just going to stand here?” Kiersten asks, tapping her boot impatiently in the dirt.

  “One of you will have to open the gate,” the short, stocky guard says as he shifts his weight.

  I can’t stop my eyes from veering between his legs. It makes me wonder if he feels the cut more deeply here at the encampment.

  Without the slightest hint of reverence for the moment in front of us, Kiersten yanks open the gate.

  As the creaky wood swings open, a high whinny of lament, we’re hit with an overwhelming burst of green wood smoke, burned hair, and the sickeningly sweet scent of decay. I can’t help breathing it in. I’m woozy with it. It’s so heavy, so deep, I swear I can feel it clinging to the tiny spaces between my ribs, almost as if it’s afraid to be named.

  “You’ll need to take the supplies inside,” one of the guards says, a slight quiver in his voice, like we’ve just opened the gates to hell.

  As the girls hop to, dragging the carts inside, the men edge away, never once turning their backs on us, as if just stepping over the threshold will unleash our magic, making us swallow them whole.

  We wait for parting words … instructions … anything … but they just stand there in silence.

  “Close it,” Kiersten says, eyeing the heavy rope mechanism connected to the gate.

  Meryl and Agnes jump at the chance to be noticed and pull it shut.

  At the last second, Hans reaches in to unsnag the end of my ribbon from the wood post, his fingers lingering.

  Another guard yanks him back. “Are you crazy? The curse,” he reminds him. And I know this is his way of saying good-bye.

  As the gate closes on the guards’ troubled faces, it’s clear they truly believe we’re loathsome creatures that need to be hidden away for safekeeping, for our own good, to exorcise the demons lurking inside of us, but even in this cursed place, anger, fear, and resentment boiling inside of me, I still don’t feel magical.

  I still don’t feel powerful.

  I feel forsaken.

  This is the first time we’ve been alone. Unsupervised.

  There’s a beat—a few weighted seconds—before it fully sinks in.

  The energy swirling around us feels like a living, breathing thing.

  As some of the girls rush off to explore, trills of excitement nipping through the air, others cling to the gate, weeping for the world that’s been taken away from them, but most of us, out of obligation or curiosity, inch forward, one foot in front of the other, edging our way into a vast but barren half-moon clearing that’s been carved out of the dense woods before us.

  “It’s a lodging house,” Ravenna says as she peeks inside the long primitive log-cabin structure on the north end of the clearing. There are two small shacks positioned on either side, and beyond that, nothing but forest.

 
; “This can’t be it,” Vivian says as she spins in a slow circle, dragging her veil in the dirt.

  I gravitate toward the center of the clearing, to an old stone well and a lone tree, but that’s not what has my eye. Placed at the foot of the tree, there’s a pile of smoldering remains, a string of sumac leaves encircling it like a lewd gesture.

  “I heard they did this,” Hannah whispers. “But I didn’t believe it.”

  “Did what?” Kiersten says as she kicks one of the leaves out of formation, breaking the chain, which makes most of the girls flinch.

  “I shouldn’t say.” Hannah shakes her head, staring down at the ground. “It’s forbidden to speak of the grace year.”

  Kiersten’s nostrils flare like she’s getting ready to lose it, but as she exhales, her face softens. “What’s said here … what happens here…” She smooths her hand over Hannah’s ruddy cheek. “… remains here forever. That’s our most sacred vow.”

  Hannah purses her lips so tight they turn the shade of newly sprung blueberries before blurting, “It’s the remaining supplies, everything they’ve built … everything they used to get through the year.”

  “But why would they burn it?” Jenna asks.

  “Because it was done to them,” Hannah says, studying the notches in the lone tree—forty-six. “Year after year. Why should we have a leg up when it was never given to them?” she says, running her fingers over the deepest, freshest cut.

  I don’t know why it surprises me, but I feel the betrayal deep within my bones. Not only did they want us to fail, they wanted us to squirm in doing so.

  A scream comes from one of the smaller structures. Ruth Brinley is backing out, holding her cloak over her nose and mouth as a flood of black flies comes pouring out of the shack.

  Martha cringes as she peeks inside. “I think we found the privy.”

  “Ashes,” I say without thinking. “If we put the ashes in the privy it will cut down the smell, help break it down.”

  “How do you know that?” Gertie asks.

  “My father. I used to go on calls with him to the field house. They have an outhouse similar to this one.”

  They all look to Kiersten.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” Kiersten barks out an order at me.

  Grabbing a sleeve of fallen birch bark, I scoop up the ashes and carry them into the shack. The smell is unbearable; there’s feces and who knows what else spread over the walls. I dump in the ashes, and when I come back for a second round, I notice the stone hidden beneath the debris. It appears to be etched with something. “Look,” I say to the others. “Maybe it’s a message.”

  I try to brush away the soot but only manage to kick up a thick cloud of ash.

  “Are you trying to kill us?” Kiersten says, fanning the air in front of her. “Get some water to wash it away.” She nods toward the well.

  There’s a part of me that wants to refuse on principle. After all, I don’t want to set a precedent, but at least I’m doing something. Not just standing around like a bunch of sheep.

  Gertrude joins me at the well. “See? This is smart,” she says as she helps me pull up the heavy bucket. “If you make yourself useful, maybe you can get back in their good graces.”

  Green algae clings to the sides of the well, the rope, the bucket. Maybe I’m delirious from the journey, but there’s something about it that looks unnatural. The bright green glow against the drab stone.

  “Hurry up.” Kiersten’s brusque voice pulls me back.

  I carry over the bucket, trying not to slosh too much over the sides. Kiersten grabs it from me, slinging water over the stone. The etched words come into focus.

  Eyes to God.

  My skin erupts in goosebumps. This is identical to the plaque we have in the town square. They position the gallows directly over it so when our necks snap, it’s the last thing we’ll see, which always struck me as especially cruel. If your neck is broken, how can you look up? Even in death we’re a disappointment.

  As the girls press in to get a closer look, a red drop appears, followed by another.

  I crouch to see if it’s rust seeping up through the stone, when a drop appears on the top of my hand.

  As I look up, a cloud passes by, the late-afternoon sun filtering through the branches, illuminating hundreds of trinkets tied to the tree like yule ornaments.

  Helen’s pointing at the gnarled limbs of the tree, but she can’t seem to find any words.

  It takes me a moment to put it together, like a vile jigsaw. It’s not rust. It’s blood. And they’re not yule ornaments, they’re fingers, toes, ears, braids of all shades and textures affixed to the tree.

  But while everyone is backing away, Kiersten steps closer.

  “It’s a punishment tree,” she says, reaching out to touch the rough bark. “Just like the one we have in the square, only this one is real.”

  Becca starts pacing. “I always thought the reason they came back with missing fingers was because they traded them with the poachers for food, not as some kind of punishment.”

  “Why would they trade for food, dummy?” Tamara says as she glances back at the wagons. “We have plenty.”

  “And yet they come back starving.” Lucy wraps her arms around herself.

  “Don’t be so dramatic.” Martha rolls her eyes. “We can always forage if we get scant.”

  “Not in those woods.” Ellie shakes her head a little too rapidly as she stares past the log cabin into the surrounding forest. “I heard the animals are mad in there.”

  “Animals?” Jenna laughs. “What about the ghosts? We’ve all heard the stories. If you go in there, you don’t come out.”

  There’s a deep pause. A strange electricity among us. Suspicious glances quickly turn to panic as the girls take off running back toward the gate, clawing at the wagons for anything they can claim.

  “I heard this is how it starts,” Gertrude says.

  “How what starts?” I ask.

  “How we turn against each other.”

  I meet her gaze and I know she feels it, too.

  I’m waiting for Kiersten to stop this, do something, but she just stands there, a hazy smile perched over her lips. Almost as if she wants this to happen.

  Swallowing my nerves, I force my way into the fray. “We just need to stay calm,” I say, but they’re paying me no mind. Two girls fighting over a bag of food bash into me; the burlap rips, sending a cascade of chestnuts spilling to the ground. Girls are piling on top of each other to get to them. Leaping out of the way, onto the empty wagon bed, I yell, “Look at you … behaving like a pack of outskirt dogs.”

  They glare up at me, hate burning in their eyes, but at least I have their attention.

  “All we have to do is take inventory. Ration. We’re going to have to trust in each other if we want to get through this.”

  “Trust you?” Tamara lets out a strangled laugh. “That’s rich coming from the girl who filched Kiersten’s husband.”

  I’m opening my mouth to try to explain myself when Kiersten steps forward. “She didn’t steal him from me.” The girls ease back in anticipation of what’s about to happen. “I wanted Tommy all along, a real man who can give me sons.” But even as she’s saying it, I feel a surge of repulsion rush through her. “No…” She looks me up and down before facing the crowd. “This is about betrayal. Tierney never wanted anything to do with us. And now she thinks she can come in and tell us what to do? How to live our grace year?”

  “That’s not what I’m trying to do.” I yank off my veil and get down from the wagon. “I’m not trying to take over.”

  “Good,” Kiersten says, but I can tell she’s slightly disappointed. She was ready for a fight. “Everyone, put the supplies back. The only thing that belongs to you right now is your pack. Gather that.”

  The girls do as they’re told, but they’re still staring at each other skeptically.

  As I’m searching for my bundle, out of the corner of my eye, I see something sai
l over the fence.

  I turn to look, but all I find is Kiersten standing there, a priggish look on her face as a gaggle of girls hover around her trying, and failing, to stifle their laughter.

  “All set?” Kiersten asks.

  Looking around, I see everyone has their supplies, everyone except me. “I don’t have mine.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame,” Kiersten replies. “Yours must’ve rolled off somewhere along the way. You’re welcome to go back and find it.” She nods toward the barrier.

  I want to go after her, drag her to the gate, make her go out and fetch it, but then I think of Gertie’s warning. As hard as it is, I need to show Kiersten that I’m not going to be a threat to her. And if that means being a little less comfortable than the others, so be it.

  “I’m sure it will turn up,” I say, lowering my eyes.

  “That’s the spirit,” Kiersten says, smug satisfaction dripping from every syllable. “But hear me,” she says as she walks through the group. “If someone took Tierney’s supplies, stealing will not be tolerated. There will be punishment.”

  “But who’s going to do the punishing?” Hannah asks. “At home, the punishers are men, chosen by God.”

  “Look around,” Kiersten says as she stares me dead in the eyes. “We are the only Gods here.”

  As we pry open the door to the small structure on the left, we discover a narrow space with shelves lining each side.

  “This must be the larder,” Ravenna says.

  “Or a place to stack the bodies,” Jenna whispers to Kiersten.

  “Oh no, pretty dovey,” Helen cries, barging past everyone, coming out with a scrawny ringnecked dove cradled in her hands. “I think her wing is broken.”

  Kiersten picks up the rusty axe propped up in the corner. “I’ll do it.”

  “No … you can’t,” Helen says, pressing the bird against her ample bosom.

  “What did you say?” Kiersten snaps back.

  “I mean … I’ll take care of her.” Helen quickly softens her tone. “You won’t even know she’s here.”