The Grace Year(53)

A low hum hurtles through the night air and then abruptly stops.

Meg sinks to her knees, her eyes going wide; blood trickles from her open mouth.

I’m trying to comprehend what’s happening when I catch a glint of shiny steel protruding from her neck. A throwing blade, just like the one that nearly hit Helen on the trail.

I’m about to crawl forward to help her when I see a black shadow emerge from the south.

Poacher.

I try to keep track of him, but he’s moving so fast through the dark that my eyes can hardly keep up.

As he descends upon Meg’s crumpled frame, I hear her trying to speak, but I can’t make out any words beyond the gurgling of her blood-filled throat. Grabbing her by the hair, he yanks her head back, exposing the pale skin of her neck to the moonlight; that shrill caw escapes from beneath his shroud. It’s echoed back.

The ground sways beneath me. Gripping the axe to my chest, I sink down against the tree, pressing my spine into the knotty bark, desperately trying to stay in the present, but I can feel the blood leaving my body. I can feel myself slowing down.

Soon, this place will be teeming with poachers. I won’t be able to get back through the fence, not before I bleed out.

I’m teetering on the edge of consciousness. Maybe it’s the loss of blood, the sound of the poachers ripping into her flesh, the utter hopelessness I feel, but I begin to drift …

There’s snow melting on my lips. For a moment, I’m back in the county, in the meadow, catching snowflakes on my tongue. I’m twelve years old. I know this because I still have a white ribbon. Michael and I are lying side by side making snow angels. When I roll over to get up, he gives me the queerest look—the space between his eyes crinkling up—the same way he looked when he held the rock over a dying deer in the woods last summer. “You’re bleeding,” he whispers.

I check my nose, my knees—there’s nothing there, but he’s right. There’s blood on the snow, right where I was lying. At first, I think it must be a suffering animal that’s burrowed its way beneath the snow, but the damp sticky feeling between my legs tells me otherwise.

I want to stuff it back in, pretend it didn’t happen, but he knows. Soon everyone will know. I don’t see it as a beautiful pain, something that will bring me closer to my purpose, closer to God, I see it as a sentence. Without another word, Michael gathers our things and walks me home. When we reach my door, he opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. What is there to say?

I’m the suffering animal beneath the snow.

From across the great lake, the wind finds me, whispering in my ear. “Time is running out.”

Looking up, I find the girl standing on the shore. I haven’t seen her in so long, it brings a smile to my face.

I know I have a choice: stay here and die in my memories, or embrace one last adventure. I’ve followed her for so long now, what’s once more?

The clouds seem to clear, unveiling a moon so bright, so full, that I’m afraid it might burst.

And suddenly, I know what she’s been trying to tell me.

Time is running out … on me.

Maybe surrendering my flesh is the only way I can still be of use.

Because isn’t that the biggest sin of all for a woman?

Not to be of use.

Tightening my grip on the axe, I crawl forward. I don’t look back. Instead, I focus on the smell of algae and wet clay, and when the wind unfurls around me again, I know I’m headed toward open water. Toward home.

When I reach the rocky shore, I use the axe to help me to my feet.

Looking out over the horizon, I see two moons.

One is real, the other a reflection.

It’s just like the girl. Maybe that’s all she ever was, a reflection of who I wanted to be.

Walking onto the ice, I wonder how far it goes … how long it will last. A few more feet … ten … twenty?

As the wind washes over me once again, I close my eyes and hold my arms out.

In this moment, I’d do anything for the magic to be true. I’d forsake everything just to be able to fly far away from here.

But nothing happens.

I feel nothing.

I don’t even feel cold anymore.

The distinct sound of footfall on the rocky shore creeps up on me. But it’s more than the sound, it’s something I can feel deep inside of me. Like standing on a razor’s edge.

Peering over my shoulder, I can’t make out his features, but I know it’s him—the way he moves, like heavy fog rolling in over the water.

With the dark gauzy fabric billowing around him, he looks like the angel of death. Nameless. Faceless. But isn’t that exactly what death is?

As he steps onto the ice, I turn to face him.

A deep crack needles beneath us, making us both freeze in place.

I always thought if it came to this, I’d be able to face my death with dignity and grace, the same way I’ve seen countless women face the gallows in the square. But there’s nothing dignified or graceful about dying like this, being skinned alive.

Lowering my chin, I square my feet, grip the axe with both hands, and stare him down.

Maybe it’s Eve slipping under my skin, maybe it’s the moonlight, or my feminine magic making me cruel and wily, but all I want to do in this moment is take him down with me.

Warmth is trailing down my arm, over my hands, making the handle slick with blood. But all I need is one good swing.