The Grace Year(45)

“My mercy has run out.”

“Wait,” I say, trying to get her attention. “I can try. What do you want me to do? Take off my clothes, howl at the moon? Do you want me to put my hand in the fire, roll around in sumac?”

“Do you hear something?” she says mockingly, swatting the air in front of her. “There’s an annoying gnat buzzing in my ear.”

“Or I’ll take the punishment. Do you want a finger … an ear … my braid? I’ll do whatever you want, but don’t make me—”

“Get rid of her.”

Without hesitation, the girls pick up the rocks from around the fire pit and start pelting them at me. One whizzes right past me, narrowly missing my temple, and I take off.

Stinging branches whip at my skin as I fight my way through dense foliage. I look up at the sky to get my bearings, but the moon and stars are hidden beneath the clouds as if they can’t bear to lay witness. I’m running when something grabs me by my skirts. I start swinging my fists wildly but only make contact with a thicket. I’m trying to untangle myself when I hear it behind me. Or maybe it’s right next to me. Is it a ghost, trying to take over my body? Or a wild animal starved for human flesh? Whatever it is, it’s something I can feel over every inch of my skin. Something watching me.

Yanking my skirt free, I take off running in the opposite direction—at least I think it’s the opposite direction. My heart is pounding, my limbs are burning with the strain, but my head is empty, some deeper part of me taking over.

I’m pummeling through the darkness, running blind, for what feels like hours, until I hit something solid.

Stunned from the impact, I stagger back; shocks of blunt pain ricochet through my limbs. At first I think I must’ve run into a giant tree, but when I reach out to touch it, it’s too smooth, like it’s been stripped clean.

“The fence,” I whisper. Sinking down next to it, I’m happy to find something familiar. Something to anchor me to reality. As the heat of my escape quickly leaves me, the chill sinks in. I’m pulling my cloak tighter around me when I hear heavy breathing. I’m hoping it’s my own, but when I place my hands over my mouth, it’s still present, steady as the grandfather clock in our front hall.

“Is that you?” I whisper through my trembling fingers.

There’s no reply, but I swear I can feel the heat from the poacher’s body seeping through the cracks in the wood. It’s the same feeling I had when I first encountered him on the trail.

“Why didn’t you kill me?” I ask, pressing my palms to the fence. “Twice you’ve let me go.”

I listen closely. There’s a sound of a blade being released from a sheath.

“You won’t hurt me,” I whisper, resting my cheek against the splintery wood. “I know it.”

As the cloud cover breaks, unveiling a full moon and a swath of bright stars, a blade comes shooting through the narrow gap in the fence, nicking my chin.

I jump to my feet. The sudden movement makes me dizzy, or maybe it’s the warm blood coursing down my throat. As the glint of steel recedes, I peer inside the slit to find cold, dark eyes staring back at me. His breath is so loud in my ears now that it’s all I can hear. I stagger back a few steps before the world tips on end, sending me crashing to the cold hard ground, a veil of darkness spreading over me like a thick lead blanket.





WINTER





Glittering bony branches hulk and sway above me. My breath hangs heavy in the air. Propping myself up to get a look at my surroundings, I flinch as the harsh wind hits my chin. I touch it—the sticky clotting of blood, the dirt caked beneath my nails, stinging the cut.

“Last night really happened,” I whisper.

Peering through the gap in the fence where the blade came through, I can’t believe I thought he wouldn’t hurt me. I don’t hear the breathing anymore, but I’m not going to get close enough to be certain. Father said that was one of my best traits: I didn’t need to learn a lesson twice. Maybe the poacher assumed I was dead and moved on. The idea of him watching me while I lay there unconscious, bleeding, makes me sick to my stomach.

Staring into the dense forest, separating me from the camp, I know what I have to do. Ghosts or not, I won’t last another day without water. Even thinking about it makes my tongue ache. The animals must be drinking from somewhere.

As I get to my feet, the dizziness sets back in. I have to lean over and brace my hands against my knees to get the world to stop spinning. I’m thinking I need to throw up, but I only dry-heave a few times. There’s nothing in there. Not even spit.

Holding on to a sapling for balance, I take my first step back into the woods. The wind rustles through the high branches, making me shiver. Even the sound of the ground cover crunching beneath my boots feels sinister.

I used to love the woods. I’d spend every moment of my free time exploring the depths of hidden treasures, but this is different.

A bird lets out a shriek of warning. And I can’t help wondering if the warning is for the other birds or for me.

“I am my father’s daughter,” I whisper, straightening my spine. I believe in medicine. In facts. In truths. I will not get caught up in superstition. Maybe the ghosts are something you have to believe in for them to hurt you. I need to think that way, because right now my nerves are dangling by a thread.