The Grace Year(48)
Father had a patient a few years ago who insisted he smelled dandelion greens in the dead of winter. That was right before something exploded inside his head and he bled out.
“No.” I give my braid a hard tug. I need to stay focused—steer clear of the fence. I don’t care that the girl from my dreams led me here.
I know enough from eavesdropping on the fur trappers returning from the wilds to understand that the real enemy out here isn’t the wildlife or even the elements, it’s your own mind. I always thought of myself as such a solitary creature—oh, how I longed to be alone—but I didn’t realize until I got out here how much of that is false. Something I told myself to feel strong … better than the rest. I spent most of my life watching people, judging them, sorting them into some category or another, because it kept the focus off myself. I wonder what I’d see if I came across Tierney James today. And now I’m talking about myself in the third person.
I try to stay busy, but it’s harder than one might think. When I feel myself drifting to that shadowy realm behind my mind’s eye, that place of doubt and blame, guilt and remorse, I pull myself back with little tasks. I weave a rope so I can pull myself up the incline easier. I remember Michael and I doing that a few summers back so we could reach the bluff over Turtle Pond. I’ll never forget that feeling, leaping off the ridge into nothing but air, hitting the cool water with a tremendous splash.
Thinking about him hurts. I’m not pining after him like some veil-hungry schoolgirl. It hurts to think about how wrong I was about his feelings for me. It makes me wonder if I’ve been wrong about other things, too. Important things.
Taking shelter from the wind behind a giant oak, I press my body against the bark. At first, it feels grounding, something to remind me that I’m still a human being, but my thoughts eventually turn into wondering if I’ll be petrified here, if I’ll become one with the tree. A hundred years from now people will pass by, and a girl will tug on her father’s sleeve. “Do you see the girl in the tree?” she’ll ask. And he’ll pat her on her head. “You have a grand imagination.” Maybe if she looks closely, she’ll be able to see me blink. If she places her palm against the bark, she’ll be able to feel my heart still beating.
On clear mornings, I climb past the spring, all the way to the ridge. Every day it gets a little harder, but it’s worth it. Through a sea of barren branches, I get a glimpse of the entire island, encircled by a crust of ice, which slowly gives way to the deepest blue water I’ve ever seen.
If I didn’t know what this place was, the horror of what goes on here, I’d say it’s breathtaking.
But the bones are a constant reminder.
Whether it’s the girl from my dreams or a nameless faceless girl from the county, she’s always here to remind me of what could happen if I slip up. If I let my guard down.
However she met her end, I hope she had time to make her peace. Father once treated a trapper from the wilds with a hatchet lodged in his skull, his body convulsing with the slightest movement. My father gave him a choice. Pull it out and hemorrhage quickly or leave it in and die a slow death. The trapper chose the latter. I remember thinking it was the coward’s choice, but now I’m not so sure. There’s no such thing as a gentle death, so why give it a helping hand? He fought hard for his very last breath. Running my hand over the dirt, I want to believe she did the same. Maybe she crawled all the way from the camp, to the highest point on the island for refuge. Dying with a view like this wouldn’t be the worst way to go.
But the darkest part of me can’t help but wonder if her own kind did this to her. If that’s what will happen to me.
Today, there’s a large plume of smoke rising from the girls’ camp. Clearly, they’re using green wood. A number of other small wisps of smoke can be seen wafting up from the shore in every direction, which leads me to believe the poachers must have camps of their own. They appear to be stationed around the island in perfect intervals. It tells me they’re organized. Methodical. I still haven’t figured out how they get to us, how they break us down to poach us, but I’m doing my best to keep my wits about me.
I’d like to stay up on the ridge forever, but I tire easily now. Even standing up to the wind blowing against me feels like work. Sometimes I feel like it might pick me up and carry me off to another land. But that’s magical thinking. There’s nothing magical about starving and freezing to death.
As I climb down the ridge to start another mind-numbing day of foraging for roots, I see a large rodent pop up from the spring with the last river clam perched between his teeth.
“Muskrat,” I hiss.
As he takes off down the hill, I go barreling after him. I’m chasing him through the forest, past a huge grove of pines, all the way to the barrier, where he stops. I’m thinking I have him trapped when he turns and burrows his way under the fence. I lunge for him, reaching my hand all the way through the hole, but it’s too late.
Resting my cheek on the ground, I start to weep. I know it’s pathetic, but it felt like as long as that river clam survived, so could I. But the truth is, I’m running out of time. Out of resources.
I’m staring at the hole in the bottom of the fence, trying to think about what the hell I’m going to do, when it strikes me: the fence—Hans.
On our way to the encampment, Hans told me that he was in charge of maintaining the barrier, that he wanted to be close by. If the fence is reported as being damaged, he’ll have to come and fix it. I know it’s against the law to fraternize with the guards, but Hans is my friend. He’s always protected me in the county as much as he could. If he threw my pack over the fence when we first got here, maybe he’d be willing to bring me food—even a blanket, just so I could get back on my feet.