The Grace Year(46)
I have no idea where I am, how far I got from the camp last night, but as I look up to get my bearings, the sky is no help. It looks like it’s been smeared with river clay—a drab, endless swath of pewter. Back home, I hardly thought about the sun, but out here, it’s everything.
When it briefly pops out, I rush to a spot where it’s beaming down, longing to feel it on my skin, but by the time I reach it, it’s gone. It feels personal now, like Eve is toying with me.
As I crawl over a large cluster of limestone to try to catch another beam of light, I spot a patch of bright green algae clinging to the edge of a small pool of water. Just the sight of it makes my throat burn with thirst. How long has it been since I’ve had something to drink? Hours … days … I can’t recall. But as I move toward it, I catch something. A swish of a tail. There’s a creature hunched beside the pond. It raises its head—two beady black eyes glare back at me. I recognize the perky ears, the pointed nose, the copper coloring of its fur—but there’s something wrong. Blinking hard, I see a fox, but it looks as if someone’s painted a bright red smiley face over its mouth and whiskers. I’ve heard the rumors that the animals are mad in the woods, but when I look closer, I see the small rabbit splayed open at its feet. Blood oozes into the stagnant pool like a pot of ink tipped over in the rain.
My stomach lurches. My head feels so light, like it could float off my body at any moment. Pressing my face against the cool mossy stone, I try to get hold of myself. “You’re okay. It will pass.” I think about waiting for the fox to leave, drinking the bloody water, but as a breeze passes over me, I follow it up a steep incline, and remember my mother telling me that water is best when collected high on the spring. And that water had to come from somewhere.
Following the faint trickling sound, I use the holly bushes to guide me up the wooded hill, but every time I grab them, the points prick my fingers. My feet are unsteady. My vision blurs to the point that I have to stop every few yards to gain my composure, but when I finally reach the top, I’m met with the most welcome sight—water gushing through the limestone, forming a small deep pool. The water looks crystal clear, no sign of the algae … or blood … but I need to be careful. It’s hard to know what’s real anymore. Crawling toward the surface, I lean over, sinking my hands into the frigid water, scooping it into my mouth. Most of it dribbles down my chin, soaking my dress, but I don’t care. It tastes clean—nothing like the water from the well.
As I go in for another drink, I see something twitch at the bottom of the pool. Clinging between two large rocks, there’s a cluster of dark shells that look like rolled-up shoe leather. Mollusks of some kind.
I know I could catch my death going in after them, but I might very well die from hunger if I don’t. Stripping off my clothes, I try to ease into the water at first, but every inch feels like I’m being skinned alive. Letting out three short pants, I plunge my entire body under the water. The shock seems to revive me a bit, making me move a little quicker. I pry two of them loose, but there’s one that’s really rooted in there. As I come up for air, I place the two shells on the edge and hop out to grab a jagged rock. The air feels so nice and warm that I don’t want to go back under again, but I need as much food as I can get.
Diving back under the surface, I’m digging the rock into the crevice, trying to pry the third one free, when I think of a time my father took me to the big river. I was so keen on catching my first fish. First line in, I caught a beautiful rainbow trout. It fought so hard that it took all my strength to reel it in. Even when I got it to the shore, it flipped its body all over the place, thrashing its head from side to side, and when I went to hit it with a stick, my father unhooked it and threw it back in. “You have to respect something that wants to live that bad,” he said. I remember being furious at him, but I understand it now.
This little one isn’t ready to give in. And neither am I.
Pushing back to the surface, I pull myself out of the spring, grab my clothes, and immediately start working on the two shells I harvested, but I’m shivering so hard I can barely hold on to the rock. “Breathe, Tierney,” I whisper.
Pulling up the hood of my cloak, I sink into a tight ball, blowing hot air into the gap until the feeling comes back in my fingers.
Trying it once again, with steady hands, I use the rock to gently pry open the shell. The cream-colored flesh, the pinks and blues and grays lining the inside of the shell—I don’t know exactly what it is, but it’s some kind of mussel or clam. I poke it and it flinches. At home, we’d slurp these down as quickly as possible so we wouldn’t have to taste them, but I want to taste it. I want to taste anything other than bile. I only hope I can keep it down. Carefully separating the mussel from the shell, I take it in. I chew every bit of it, savoring it all the way to the very last drop of murky liquid. I wanted to save the other one for later, but I can’t wait. Prying it open, I suck the mussel into my mouth, and immediately bite down on something hard. I’m thinking it’s just a piece of shell that broke off, but as I spit it out into my hand, I realize it’s a river clam pearl, just like the ones from my veiling day dress. Turning it over in my hand, I study every facet, every hint of iridescent color, every dent and rise. These are rare. And now I have two. I put it in my pocket, nestling it with the one June gave me. Maybe when I get home I can give these to Clara and Penny. And I realize that’s the first time in months I’ve even thought about going home—about getting out of here alive.