The Grace Year(10)

As we gather around the punishment tree, I’m searching for a hint of what’s about to happen, but everyone stares straight ahead, as if transfixed by the dying light glinting off the cold steel branches.

I wonder if this is what Hans was trying to tell me. If it was some kind of warning.

Father Edmonds steps forward to address the crowd, his white robes clinging to his bulbous shape. “On our most sacred eve, a grave matter has been brought to the attention of the council.”

I don’t know if I’m just being paranoid, but my mother’s eyes seem to dart in my direction.

The dreams. I swallow so hard I’m sure everyone can hear it.

Searching the crowd for Michael, I find him near the front. Could he have ratted me out? Was he so angry at me that he could’ve told the council about the girl from my dreams?

“Clint Welk will speak on behalf of the council,” Father Edmonds says.

As Michael’s father steps forward, it feels like my heart is going to burst through my rib cage. My palms are sweaty; my mouth is chalk dry. Penny and Clara must sense my distress, because they nuzzle in a little closer on either side of me.

Standing before us, in perfect alignment with the punishment tree, Mr. Welk lowers his head as if in prayer, but I swear I catch the rise of his cheekbones—the hint of a smile.

I feel sick. Every sin I’ve ever committed runs through my mind, but there are too many to count. I got too comfortable, careless. I should’ve never spoken of the dreams … I should’ve never had them at all. Maybe I secretly wanted this to happen. Maybe I wanted to be caught. Just as I’m getting ready to speak up, promise to repent, vow to rid myself of this magic and be good from now on, Mr. Welk’s lips part. I’m watching his tongue—waiting for it to move to the roof of his mouth to form a T, but instead, he presses his lips together to form an M. “Mare Fallow, come forth.”

I let out a gasp of pent-up air, but no one seems to notice. Maybe every girl in the square did the same. Despite our differences, that’s the one thing we all share in. The fear of being named.

As Mrs. Fallow walks to the front, the women push forward to spit and jeer, my mother always the first among them. I don’t know why she feels the need to rub salt in the wound. Mrs. Fallow was kind to me once. In my fourth year, I’d gotten lost in the woods. She found me, took me by the hand, and led me home. She didn’t scold my mother, she didn’t tattle on her that I was out where I shouldn’t be, and this is how my mother thanks her? It makes me feel ashamed to be her daughter.

Focusing in on the gate, I try to escape in my mind, but Mrs. Fallow’s measured steps, the swish of her underskirts, burrow their way into my senses, like the softest of death knells.

I don’t want to look at her. It’s not out of disgust or shame—I feel like it could just as easily be me. Michael knows it. Hans knows it. My mother, too. Maybe they all do. But I owe her my full attention. She needs to know that I remember … that I won’t forget her.

She looks like a ghost as she passes. Pale papery skin, salt-and-pepper braid lying limp against her curved spine, her husband shadowing her like a bad omen. I wonder if she knew her time was up. If she could feel it coming.

“Mare Fallow. You stand accused of harboring your magic. Shouting obscenities in your sleep, speaking in the devil’s tongue.”

I can’t imagine Mrs. Fallow raising her voice above a whisper, let alone shouting obscenities, but her season has changed. She bore no sons. Her girls have all been assigned to the labor houses. Her womb is a cold, barren wasteland. She has no use.

“Well … what do you have to say for yourself?” Mr. Welk prods.

Other than the thin stream of liquid trailing over the tip of her worn leather boot, she gives away nothing. I want to shake her; I want her to tell them she’s sorry, beg for mercy so she can be sent to the outskirts, but she just stands there in silence.

“Very well,” Mr. Welk announces. “On behalf of God and the chosen men, I hereby sentence you to the gallows.”

By law, the women—wives, laborers, and children—are required to watch a punishment. And choosing to do this on veiling day is no accident. They want to send us away with a message.

Before climbing the rickety steps, Mrs. Fallow looks to her husband, perhaps waiting for a last-minute reprieve, but it never comes. And in that moment, I know if she had any magic left in her, she would use it. She would choke the life out of him, the entire council … maybe all of us. And I can’t say I’d blame her.

When she finally reaches the top of the platform, and they place the rope around her neck, she opens her hand, revealing a small red bloom. It’s so tiny, I wonder if anyone else even notices it.

Right before she steps off the ledge, it hits me like a cast-iron kettle.

Scarlet red, five delicate petals. It’s the same flower from my dreams.

I start pushing to the front. I need to stop this. I need to ask her where she got it, what it means. My mother grabs me, squeezing my hand. It’s not a nurturing squeeze. It’s rough and tight. Stand down, child. Do not bring shame on this family, it says.

And so I stand there with the others, watching the red petals dance with every spasm, every final impulse, until her hand finally goes limp.

There’s a moment of silence that follows every hanging. Sometimes it feels like it stretches on forever, like they want us to dwell in it for as long as possible—dwell is the right word, to be domiciled, take up residence, to abide—but this time, it feels too short, like they don’t want us to really think about what just happened … how wrong it is.