The Grace Year(52)
The girls are buzzing all around me, like black flies on a fresh carcass.
“Everyone knows ghosts don’t bleed … so all we have to do is—” Kiersten loses her balance and stumbles forward, slamming into me with such force that it makes me stagger back a few steps.
The girls look on with wide eyes. Kiersten’s jaw goes slack; there’s a low, nervous chuckle seeping from her throat.
And soon, they’re all laughing.
Following their gaze, I look down to find the axe embedded between my shoulder and my chest. It looks fake—like the sawed-off iron spikes we glue onto Father Edmonds’s hands and feet for the crucifixion ceremony at Passover.
Gripping the handle with both hands, I give it a hard tug, which only makes them laugh harder. I keep pulling until the axe finally gives, and with it comes the blood. Too much blood.
They’re laughing so hard now that tears are streaming down their faces.
They think this is some kind of game.
But I’m still standing. And there’s no one holding me back anymore.
Clutching the axe in my right hand, I take off running, barreling through the woods. I was sure they wouldn’t follow. I was wrong. My only advantage is I know the terrain—but what the girls lack in know-how, they seem to make up for in determination.
“Over here,” someone screams behind me.
Even tripping, running into tree branches, into each other, they seem to get right back up again, as if the pain doesn’t affect them. Maybe it’s magic or maybe it’s whatever’s infecting them, but my best bet is to hide, wait them out.
Leaping over a fallen cedar, I scoot back into the dark recess to catch my breath. Two girls vault over behind me; one of them lands wrong, and the sound of her ankle snapping makes me cringe, but somehow she manages to get right back up again, limping after the others.
I try to move my arm so I can get a good look at the damage, but it only makes the blood flow faster. I have to slow it down if I’m going to have any chance of making it through the night. Propping the axe between my knees, I reach under my skirts and rip a strip of cloth from the bottom of my chemise. The ripping sound is louder than I thought it would be. Quickly, I tie the cloth around my shoulder, but the ache is already starting to sharpen. I’ve seen enough of my father’s patients to know that the shock is what’s keeping me upright at the moment. Soon, it will wear off, and with that will come the pain. More than I can probably bear. If I can reach the spring, I can clean the cut out, assess the damage, but I have to get there first. I’m starting to gather my nerve to get up when I hear footsteps in the snow. One of the girls must’ve heard the ripping sound and doubled back. I’m holding my breath, keeping as still as possible. All I have to do is stay quiet, stay hidden until she moves on, but there seems to be something in here with me. A soft squeaking noise, tiny claws scratching against my boots. I glance down to see the tip of a skinny tail emerging from under my skirt.
Forest rat.
Now it’s climbing up the outside of my skirt. I think the rat is heading for the torn hem of my cloak, searching for a stray seed, but it crawls right past the opening, toward the wound on my shoulder. A cold sweat breaks out on my brow. Rats carry disease, and we don’t have proper medicine out here. I wait as long as I can, until I can’t stand another second, before I use my good hand to fling the rat from my shoulder. It flies through the air, scrabbling for position, managing to grasp the head of the axe that’s balanced between my legs. Before my mind can even process what’s happening, the axe is careening toward the earth, impaling the rat—directly at the feet of a grace year girl.
Leaning over to peek into my hiding space, Meg Fisher whispers, “There you are.”
I kick her hard in the face, she falls back, there’s blood gushing from her nose, but all she does is laugh.
Grabbing the axe, I push past her, running to the only place I can think of, the one place no one, not even Meg, will be crazy enough to follow. Using the axe, I hack away at the rotting wood and dive headfirst into the gap in the bottom of the fence. I’m shimmying my way through when I feel cold fingers coil around my ankle.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Meg says, jerking me back. Jagged bits of wood dig into my shoulder. The pain is so intense that it makes me lose my breath, but I can’t let them take me.
Digging my nails into the frozen earth, I kick and scratch my way to the other side, but as soon as I get to my feet, I hear a caw echo from the south. Stumbling forward, I take cover behind a wind-ravaged pine.
“You can’t hide from me,” Meg calls out between grunting and laughing, straining to get through.
Whether it’s the water or the food or the very air making her behave this way, this isn’t the same girl I knew back home—the one who passed the giving basket at church, who collected Queen Anne’s lace from the meadow in the early-morning hours so she could place it under the punishment tree after her mother faced the gallows. I want to tell her to stop, think about what she’s doing, but she’s not in her right mind.
There’s another caw, closer this time.
I peek my head around the tree to find Meg’s black eyes glinting in the moonlight. A huge grin takes over her face, as if the corners of her mouth are being pulled tight by invisible string.
“Got her,” she screams back toward the fence. “She’s right ove—”