The Grace Year(50)

Crawling forward, I whisper through the hole in the wood, “Hans, is that you?”

But the only reply is his retreating footsteps.





At the first hint of cold gray dawn, I brace my hands on the frozen ground to get up, then notice small flecks strewn all around me.

At first I think it might be snow—the air has felt that way for days—but it’s the wrong shape, the wrong color: cream with specks of light red. I poke it with my boot; it rolls over. A bean. I’m sure of it. When I lean forward to pick it up, more beans fall to the ground.

Where did these come from? I’m thinking Hans might’ve thrown these in along with the meat, but when I stand, I see another one fall from my cloak.

Slipping my fingers inside the clawed edges of wool, I feel a series of small hard bumps. Carefully opening the stitches of the hem, I peel back the soft gray, revealing an intricate maze of seeds that have been sewn into each layer of the lining. Hundreds of them.

Pumpkin, tomato, celery, and a few I don’t even recognize.

“June,” I whisper, the realization taking the breath from my body. She must’ve worked on this for months, but how did she know I would need these? Unless what’s happening to me happened to her. Clamping my hand over my mouth, I try to stifle a sobbing gasp, but it can’t be stopped. Tears are streaming down my cheeks, and all I can think about is how much I want to see her again. How much I want to see all of them—my mother and father. Clara and Penny, Ivy … even Michael. I want to thank them, say I’m sorry, but in order to do that, I need to survive this.

For weeks, I’ve felt like I’ve been moving under thick water, but not today, not in this moment. Despite the gloomy weather, the cold nipping at my flesh, the emptiness festering inside of me, I have a spring in my step. A newfound bit of hope, one that I’ve been carrying with me all this time.

Climbing the incline, I pass the spring, the bones of the girl, and fight my way to the highest ridge. I remember June said she sewed in different layers of lining for each new season, but I’m just going to plant them all. I may not even make it to the next season.

I know next to nothing about gardening, just the little bits I’ve picked up from June’s stories, but I seem to remember a little nursery song she taught Clara and Penny. I even remember the hand motions that go with it. I feel silly for doing it, but it brings an unexpected smile to my face. “Dig, drop, cover, pat … water, sun, grow, eat.” I raise my head to the sky, willing the sun to come out, to give me a sign, when something falls in my eye. My skin prickles up in a fresh wave of goosebumps. “Snow,” I whisper, my heart sinking in my chest.

At home, I would be ecstatic for the first snow. Michael and I would spend the whole day planning our snow kingdom, stuffing handfuls down each other’s backside, wandering home at dusk with numb fingers, eyelashes caked with glittering ice. I’d thaw by the hearth, sipping mulled cider, peeling off one layer at a time, with the sound of my mother taking out her frustration on her knitting needles, the crinkle of Father’s paper, the serene voices of Clara and Penny taking turns reading a chapter from a book.

Blinking hard, I try to erase the memories from my brain, but I’m too weak to stop them anymore. I need this garden to work.

Wiping away my tears, I frantically dig my fingers into the soil, but the ground is nearly frozen solid. Any sane person would wait until spring, but I don’t have that luxury.

Using sharp rocks and sticks, I burn through the daylight, I burn through every last bit of my energy, tilling that soil, until I can no longer feel my hands. And as the sun begins to set, the cold air settles deep into my marrow, threatening to freeze me in place. A part of me wants to curl up, close my eyes, but I know I’ll never be able to get up again. I’ll die on this ridge, and as weak and tired as I am, I’m not ready to give up yet.

With bloody, battered fingers, I place each seed into the soil and cover it with the freezing earth. I say a silent prayer for each one of them. I know it’s against the law for women to pray in silence, but I’m the only God here.

With the last seed in place, I take a look around to see the snow has blanketed the forest around me, like it’s hiding me from the world, tucking me in for a long forgotten nightmare.

“Why are you doing this to me?” I whisper.

The clouds let out a deep groan, as if in response; goosebumps erupt over my entire body.

Thunder snow.

“It’s just a coincidence. That’s all,” I say as I gather my things, but before I can descend the incline, another burst of thunder shakes the very ground beneath me.

Eve will not be denied.





The storm bears down on the island like a heavy omen.

I know I should find shelter until it passes, I’ve heard about storms like these from the trappers, but if this garden doesn’t make it, neither will I.

Flipping up the hood of my cloak, I brace myself as I push against the ice, wind, and snow. It’s hard to see the next step in front of me, let alone where the rows are so I can step between them.

A crack of lightning pierces the air, striking the ground in front of me. All my hair is standing on end, but I’m okay, I’m thinking the garden is okay, when the earth lets out a terrifying groan and the ground begins to shift. I’m rushing around the ridge, digging my freezing hands into the dirt, manically trying to push the soil back together, but it’s disintegrating beneath me. Scrabbling upward, I manage to hold on to some vines as half of the ridge breaks off, thundering to the bottom of the ravine.