The Grace Year(33)
“But you heard what they said.” Becca chews on her cuticles.
Martha, now upright, her eyes bright with mischief, says, “They can have their water. We’ll have ours.”
The girls look at each other nervously before nodding in agreement.
Back in the county, cutting up our clothes, removing our underskirts would be enough for a whipping, but everything’s different now. The realization gives us a surge of energy.
After a humble breakfast of cornmeal cakes, we gather the axe, and any nails we can dig from the ashes, and head off to the west, in the opposite direction of Kiersten and the others, who seem to be doing nothing more than kneeling in the dirt and praying.
Maybe our magic will consume us, making us little more than animals, but until that time comes, until the poachers lure us out of the gate to be cut up and placed in pretty little bottles, there’s work to be done.
Toward the western edge of the clearing, we settle near a grove of ash and oak. I set my sights on a widowmaker near the perimeter. It’s dead, so it’s already seasoned, which will give us decent wood to burn until the other timber dries out.
I’m waiting for everyone to pitch in, give their opinions on the best angle for the first cut, but they look completely bewildered. Clearly, I’m the only one who knows how to do this, so I’m going to have to start with the basics.
“The key is a good split. Once you get it in there, it will eventually give. Like this,” I say as I slam the axe into the wood. Prying it out, I hand it over to Molly. She takes it from me as gingerly as if she’s accepting a flower from a suitor, but as soon as she gets her first bite of wood, she grins, gripping the axe a little tighter. When her arms have turned to soft custard, she passes it on to Lucy.
Lucy hauls it back for the first strike.
“Wait, wait, wait,” I call out, grabbing the hilt. “You have to at least keep your eyes open.”
Some of the other girls laugh.
“No, it’s okay. You’ve never done this before,” I assure her. “But this is serious. You wouldn’t believe the timber injuries I’ve seen in the healing house.”
At the mention of this, the girls pipe down.
“Here…” I position the axe in her arms. “Feet wide, strong grip, take in a deep breath through your nose,” I say as I back away, “and when you exhale through your mouth, lock eyes on your target and swing.”
Lucy takes her time, and when the blade makes contact with the wood, there’s a satisfying crack. As the tree begins to lurch, I’m looking up trying to see which way it’s going to fall, and when it starts to go down we all run to the other side, laughing, hooting, and hollering.
Cutting the tree into chunks and splitting the wood into quarters is grueling work, but it seems to be exactly what we need. The girls take turns going back to the well for water, sneaking dried apples from the larder, and as the day goes on, we’re talking and laughing, like we’ve been doing this for years. Maybe it’s being away from the county, being able to use our bodies to do something useful, but I think opening up to them last night about the dreams, about the girl, seemed to have given them permission to do the same. To be themselves.
Looking around, it’s hard to fathom that in a year’s time we might turn on one another, sacrifice bits and pieces of our flesh, and burn this place to the ground, but if it’s anything close to what Kiersten is claiming to be true? God help us.
As the girls pile up the boning from their skirts, I get to work on the rain barrels, cutting large discs from a mighty oak. I’ve only seen the men in the fields make these a few times, but I’m not about to tell them that. Confidence is key, that’s what my father always said. When he went on calls, even if he wasn’t certain how to treat someone, he never let on. He was afraid that if he showed even the slightest waver, they’d go right back to the dark ages—drinking animal blood, relying on prayer to heal them, or worse, the black market. He needed their trust. He needed them to believe he could help them even if he couldn’t.
As I get to work, cutting the planks for the sides, Ellie asks, “Why did your father teach you all this?”
An unexpected wave of emotion comes over me. “I guess I was the closest thing to a son he was ever going to get.” But even as I’m saying it, I’m wondering if it goes deeper than that. I want to believe he did this so I would be able to take care of myself out here, but if that’s the case, that means he knows exactly what this place really is, and he sent me here anyway. The night before I left he said teaching me was a mistake … like I was a mistake.
“Tierney? Are you okay?” Ellie asks.
I look down to find my hands trembling. I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here like this, staring off into nothing, but long enough that all the girls are watching me with concern. That’s never happened to me before.
“Here, why don’t you give it a try?” I say, putting the axe in Ellie’s hands, anything to get the attention off me.
As she pulls it back to swing, she loses her balance and goes spinning round and round, until she finally collapses to the ground, narrowly missing cutting off her own foot in the process.
As we gather around, Martha says, “Give her some air.”
Nanette brings a cup of water to her lips.
“I don’t know what happened,” she whispers, her cheeks flushed, her eyes struggling to focus. “It was as if my head got so light that it felt like it was going to drift away.”