The Grace Year(23)
I don’t want to give it any credence, but when my eyes veer up the path, I swear I catch the swish of Kiersten’s braid. The hint of a smile.
My skin explodes in goosebumps.
“Don’t be silly.” I pull her along. “You tripped over a root, that’s all.” But even as I’m saying it, I’m not entirely sure.
It feels like Kiersten is flowering right before my eyes, a belladonna, ripe with poison.
By day’s end, the forest has become so dense that only an occasional burst of dying light filters through. Every time it’s taken away it feels like an insult, until it doesn’t come back at all.
With every step, the air grows thicker, the terrain more uncertain; the scent of decaying oak and wintergreen gives way to hemlock, fiddlehead ferns, moss, clay, and algae.
The path narrows to the point that it feels like the woods might snuff us out.
Some of the girls have to take off their boots, their feet bloody and blistered beyond recognition. Because of our slow pace, the guards decide not to camp. Maybe it’s for the best; that way we don’t have the time to sit and ponder our fate. It seems baffling to me, but in the short span of two nightfalls, we’ve somehow become resigned to it all.
I have to stop to relieve myself. I’m not even sure where it’s coming from since they haven’t given us a drop to eat or drink. Maybe it’s just a phantom urge. Something my body used to do. Spotting a cluster of ferns, I stumble forward, pull up my skirts, push my underclothes aside, and crouch.
I’m waiting for it, even a drop to satisfy, when the last guard passes by without a word. As I watch the torchlight disappear down the path, I realize he didn’t see me. They don’t know I’m gone, and probably won’t know until we’re counted at the encampment. A spark of adrenaline races through me. I could run right now. Not back the way I came, but somewhere new. The poachers will be following the pack of girls, and by the time anyone figures out I’m gone, I will have found a stream of water to lose my scent in. I will be untraceable. I know how to hide. I’ve been doing it for years, in plain sight. Michael was right about one thing … I’m strong and I’m smart, and I may never get an opportunity like this again.
I’m starting to gather my skirts when I hear the unmistakable sound of footfalls. Glancing over my shoulder, I see their silhouettes. An endless parade of dark figures emerging from the woods. Poachers.
The realization quickly sinks in that I somehow strayed from the path. I wasn’t thinking. I just saw the ferns and went for it. I’m only a few feet away, ten at the most, but I can’t tell how close the poachers are, how fast they’re coming … because when I look at them, all I see is black clouds floating through the forest like wraiths.
I want to run for the path, cry out for help, but I’m so petrified that all I can do is sink deeper into the foliage and close my eyes.
It’s childish to think that if I can’t see them, they can’t see me, but in this moment, that’s exactly what I feel like—a child. They can dress me up, marry me off, tell me I’m a woman now, but in no way do I feel ready for this. For any of it.
I should bargain with God, promise to never stray from the path again, but I can’t even do that. We’re not allowed to pray in silence, for fear that we’ll use it to hide our magic, but where is my magic now when I need it the most?
As the poachers begin to pass my hiding spot, I can’t believe how quiet they are. They walk at exactly the same pace, so it’s impossible to tell how many of them there are, but I can hear the steel of their blades hum when a breeze catches the sharp edge. No words are spoken; there’s only breath, deep and measured with precision.
After the last of their footsteps dissipate, I open my eyes. I’m thinking maybe my magic did kick in, maybe I’m invisible, when I feel something warm pulsing against the side of my neck. Slowly, I turn to find a curved blade poised at my artery, a set of eyes staring back at me like wet gleaming marbles, but the rest of the poacher remains shrouded in darkness.
“Please … don’t,” I whisper, but all he does is stand there. Those eyes … it’s like staring straight into a sinkhole.
Easing away from him, I crawl toward the path.
I’m waiting for the sickening caw, waiting for him to grab me by my ankles and pull me into the forest to skin me alive, but when my fingertips reach the cleared strip of earth, I scramble to my feet to find he’s gone. Nothing but the void pressing in all around me.
Running ahead, I deftly slip back into the weary herd. I’m trying to act normal, but my body won’t stop trembling. I want to tell the others about the poacher, how close I came to death, but as I look behind me, into the dark, I’m not even sure what really happened. There’s no way a poacher would’ve just let me go. And the truth is, I didn’t even see a body—just a blade … and those eyes.
My chin begins to quiver. It could be exhaustion or the magic slipping in, but no matter what did or didn’t happen, I need to pull myself together, stay alert, because one false step in any direction could very well be my last.
As the sun rises once again, we pass a run-down cabin. I’m wondering if this is where we’ll be spending our grace year, but they spur us forward, all the way to the end of the earth, only a vast wasteland of water stretched out before us. But if you squint just the right way, you can see a tiny speck of land sprouting up in the distance.