The Grace Year(76)

As I’m washing out the kettle, I hear a soft scratching noise, the same thing I heard this morning before I crossed over the barrier. Following the sound, I climb the ridge and see something I’m not quite ready for. How could anyone be ready for something like this? The dead girl. Her stark white bones exposed to the surface. The last time I was here, only her skull was peeking up from the earth. I know that storm was vicious, washed away half of the ridge, taking my seeds down with it, but I didn’t think it could do something like this.

As I walk toward her body, I see that she’s curled into a tight ball, every delicate bone in perfect formation; even the tattered remains of her ribbon are still coiled around the vertebrae in her neck.

There’s a part of me that wishes I really could communicate with the dead. What would she tell me? Who did this to her and why? Leaving her body here is almost a bigger sin than the murder itself. We all know what an unclaimed body means to us … to our families. Whoever did this must’ve hated her so much that they were willing to condemn her entire family. Even after everything I’ve witnessed here, it’s hard to imagine a grace year girl being capable of such a crime.

A wave of nausea rushes over me. Crawling to the ledge, I’m gulping down air, trying to calm myself, when I see the most astonishing thing. A pea shoot.

It doesn’t sound like much, but grabbing on to some vines, I lean over as far as I dare.

There’s life. So much life.

Squash, tomatoes, leeks, carrots, parsnips, corn, peppers, cabbage, and chard—a show of abundance, so rich that it takes my breath away. “June’s garden,” I whisper, tears stinging my eyes. “I can’t believe it.”

Grasping some leafy tops—the only ones I can reach—I pull up some plump carrots, and a few beets, before settling back on the ridge. It’s the best I can manage until I rig up some ropes, but this will make for a better meal than they’ve probably had in months.

I want to sing and dance, kiss the ground, but the realization quickly sets in that I have no one to tell. Or the person I want to tell is on the other side of the barrier. He might as well be on the other side of the world.

Looking back at the dead girl, I think of Ryker’s words. From death there is life. My eyes start to well up, but I can’t afford to think about him right now. I can’t afford to go soft.

After chopping wood and filling up the kettle with fresh water, I dig out a clump of clay and place it in my stocking for safekeeping.

Using my overskirt as a satchel, I tie up the firewood and affix it to my back. The vegetables go in my pockets; the wild herbs and bloodroot I collect go in my bosom. Getting the full kettle of water down the slope and dragging it back to the camp is difficult, especially with the heavy load balanced on my back, but this is the only thing that’s going to save them, save us all.

When I stop to take a breath, I realize this is the point in the forest where I used to veer off to the gap in the eastern fence, but that’s not what has me choked up. There’s a thyme flower nestled beneath a patch of clover. It’s a low flower, one that’s so common most people hardly think of it anymore, but in the old language, it symbolized forgiveness. My first instinct is to think of all the people I’ve hurt, the people I’d like to give it to—Ryker, Michael, my father, my mother, my sisters—but they’re not here, and their forgiveness is out of my hands. There’s one person who desperately needs it, though, someone I’m completely in control of—myself. I did the best I could with what I’d been given. I stuck to my beliefs. I survived against all odds. I fell in love and gave my heart freely, knowing that it would be broken. I can’t regret the choices I’ve made, and so I must accept them. As I tuck the thyme flower into the top of my chemise, I hear something behind me.

I’m probably just being paranoid. With good reason, considering that the last time I was in the encampment they tried to cut out my tongue.

“Kiersten, is that you?” I whisper.

There’s no answer, but I hear the same light scratching sound I heard on the other side of the barrier … the ridge. It could be anything—a small creature skittering through the leaves, a boar in the distance rubbing its tusk against a tree—but I swear I can feel it. Eyes on my skin. Like the woods are staring back at me.





When I emerge from the forest, the girls gather round. They seem in awe that I’ve made it back alive—again—but even more so that I returned bearing gifts.

Kiersten pushes forward to inspect the water.

“Drink it.” Her eyes fix on me and I realize she thinks I might be trying to poison her. Glancing over at the well, it almost makes me laugh. Almost.

Taking the clam shell from my pocket, I dip up some water and slurp it down. “See? It’s good.”

She goes to put her dirty hands in, and I stop her.

“The ghosts gave me this. I’ll share it with you, but if you try to take it from me, there will be consequences.” I nod toward the woods. “They say you can have one sip each, for now. The rest is for supper.”

I’m waiting for her to knock me out, at the very least scream at me, but all she does is hold out her hands, as delicately as if she’s accepting a sip of wine from the jeweled goblet at church.

I dip the shell into the water and hand it to her. She sips it, savoring each drop, just like Mother does with the last of the dandelion wine.