The Grace Year(49)

But no one’s ever going to notice a muskrat-sized hole this far from the gate. Checking out the wood, I see the enormous cedar log is rotting out. When I pick at it, chunks come off easily in my hand. But I don’t have the time or energy to pick away at it for days. Using the heel of my boot, I kick at the soft wood until there’s a hole big enough to pass a kettle through—surely something even the dumbest poacher would notice and report.

And so I sit.

And I wait.

It seems far-fetched, at best. But I’m desperate.

A vicious wind races through the gap in the fence; I pull my cloak tighter around my shoulders. I can’t believe I used to love this time of year—all bundled up in woolen cocoons, to the point where no one could discern one child from the next. Not the women. After their grace year, their faces needed to be free and clear to make sure they weren’t hiding their magic. The wives scarcely went outdoors during those months. But come spring, when they emerged, it was like watching butterflies shake free of their chrysalis. Little things, like taking the long way to the market. Moving to a different side of the lane just to catch a beam of sunlight.

Occasionally, I’d see one of them slip off her shoe, placing an unstockinged toe into the freshly sprung grass. A hint of wild decadence, a secret place within her heart that could never truly be tamed.

Lying down on a nest of gathered leaves and bark, I stare through the hole in the fence, memorizing every divot, every crack, every splinter in the rotten wood, and I can’t help wondering if that’s what my insides look like now, or if there’s nothing left inside of me but a hollow space.

Turning my focus to the vast sky above, I let my mind wander over the land. There are times when it feels unfathomable that life is continuing elsewhere. The poachers are living their lives, the grace year girls are living theirs, my parents, my sisters, Michael—for everyone else, time is moving forward, but all I have is this. It feels as if I’m slowly losing touch with reality, with time, with even being a human. Everything’s boiled down to the bare necessity. Eat. Evacuate. Sweat. Shiver. Sleep. This is what it means to exist. All those years at home, I was biding my time, waiting for my real life to begin, but that was my real life, as good as it would ever get, and I didn’t even know it.

It’s so cold, I can see my breath hovering around me. If I close my eyes I can smell the colors green and yellow, feel the sunshine on my skin, but when I open them all I see is gray and brown, the scent of death filling my nostrils, maybe my own. A slow deterioration of body and spirit.

I thought I only closed my eyes for a moment, but it must’ve been longer. A few hours, or maybe it’s been days, but dark is on its way.

With just enough light to gather some wood that might be dry enough to catch, I scoop up a handful of leaves, making a small nest. Using my flint, I hover over it—spark after spark after spark until it finally ignites.

Gathering the nest in my hands, I gently blow. It makes me think of Michael, when we were kids, blowing on dandelions, making wishes.

I always wished for a truthful life. I never asked him what he wished for—I wonder if he wished for me.

At the unveiling ceremony, he said, You don’t have to change for me. But that’s not entirely true. In that moment, I became his property. A slower death for me than anything I’d face out here. As much as he thinks he loves me—his allegiance to his family, his faith, his sex will always prevail. I saw a flash of that when we got in an argument on veiling day. He can tell himself he’s only trying to protect me, but there will always be something in him that wants to contain me, hide me from the world.

The nursery rhyme that Ami was singing lilts through the trees. Without thinking, I sing along with her.

Eve with the golden hair, sits on high in her rocking chair,

The wind doth blow, the night unfurls, weeping for all the men she’s cursed.

Girls beware, if you don’t behave, you’ll be sent to an early grave.



I’m not sure how long I sit there, staring into the flames, singing her song, but the fire’s dwindled to embers now, and mine is the only voice in the forest. Maybe she was never singing at all. And then I remember that Ami is dead.

Curling up into a tight ball next to the fire, I carefully tuck in my cloak around me. Once I’m satisfied that every gap has been tended to, I settle in. The trick is to lie perfectly still. One wrong move and the cold air will invade my space like a brutal army. And once the chill sets in, it’ll be nearly impossible to shake.

I’m lying there shivering, praying for sleep, when I hear something enter my campsite. At first I think it might be the ghost, the girl buried on the ridge, but the footsteps are too heavy, the deep huffing of air too loud, the scent too foul. This is something entirely corporal. Animal.

I think about running, but I’m too tired to move, too weak to fight anything off, and if I leave this fire, if I leave my meager cocoon, I might very well freeze to death anyway. Instead, I lie perfectly still, staring into the embers, willing whatever it is to pass me by, but it only comes closer, so close that I can feel it hovering over me. It nudges my spine. My mind is telling me to flee, but I force my body to stay limp. Play dead. That’s my only defense right now, which honestly isn’t that far from the truth.

The animal lets out a horrifying groan; a long strand of drool drips onto my cheek. I know that sound. I know that smell. Bear. I have to clench my jaw to stop myself from screaming. It’s nudging me with its snout, pawing at my side. The sound of its claws ripping through the wool of my cloak makes me feel faint. I’m thinking this is it, how I’ll meet my end, when I hear something drop on the forest floor a few feet away. The bear must’ve heard it, too, because it decides to stop mauling me long enough to investigate. I hear gnashing teeth, followed by another thud, this time a little further away. And then another thud, even further. With every step it takes away from me, I breathe a little easier, and when I hear it reach the ravine, on the other side of the pines, I know it somehow decided to move on. Wanting to wipe the rancid drool from my face, I reach out to grab a leaf, and my hand brushes against something warm and wet. Picking up one of the burning logs, I hold it close, squinting into the void to find the fatty remains of a mangled piece of fresh meat. Without even thinking, I shove it in my mouth. I’m gagging and chewing at the same time, disgusted and grateful for this tiny miracle. Looking up at the trees, I’m wondering where it could’ve possibly dropped from, and that’s when I hear it. There’s someone on the other side of the fence.