The Grace Year(80)

Reluctantly, I walk toward her. I’m trying not to panic, but I can’t help wondering if she heard me whispering to Gertie last night, if she remembers that I was banished … that she stabbed me with an axe.

“Closer,” she says, holding up the bucket of water. The patch of bright green algae clinging to the rope brings that vile taste back—the feeling that your tongue is being coated in dank velvet.

Jenna loses her balance, accidentally bumping into Kiersten’s arm, causing some water to spill. Kiersten’s eyes flash.

Before I have a chance to even take in a breath, Kiersten slams the bucket into Jenna’s face. The sound of cracking teeth makes me cringe. Blood’s gushing from Jenna’s mouth, but she doesn’t scream … she doesn’t even flinch. The other girls just stand around as if they’re accustomed to these sudden bursts of violence. Or maybe I’ve forgotten what it’s like to live among them.

“This is for Tierney,” Kiersten says, offering me the bucket.

Jenna’s blood is dripping from the edge, making my stomach turn, but if I refuse, Kiersten will never trust me. This is a test.

Taking it from her, I’m pretending to take a sip when Kiersten tilts the bucket, forcing the liquid into my mouth. I’m choking on hemlock silt, blood, and malice, and they’re all laughing; their crazed pupils boring into me.

I barely make it into the woods before I hunch over, throwing up every last bit of liquid inside my stomach. I’m panting in my own filth, wondering if I’ve made a horrible mistake by coming back here. I should’ve used the shrouds to walk right out of this place and never come back—

“The shrouds,” I gasp. Anders. Is that what the girl was trying to tell me? He said he’d come back for me if I didn’t follow his exact orders—I was supposed to leave the shrouds on the other side of the fence.

Running to the breach in the eastern barrier, I come skidding to a stop when I see the shrouds are gone. I pace the area, trying to figure out what happened to them. Maybe I shoved them back through and forgot. I was up set. I just remember wanting to get them off me as soon as possible. Or maybe an animal carried them off—they smelled bad enough. Anders could’ve slipped through and grabbed them. He made it clear he wasn’t afraid of crossing the barrier—the barrier—it’s been mended. Sinking down next to it, running my hand over the thin cut of cedar that’s been wedged inside, I feel a mood slip over me. I thought it would take at least a few days to fix, that they’d be replacing the entire log. Yes, it’s shoddy work, but I’m trying to figure out why I care so much. Maybe I just wanted to see a friendly face, to thank Hans for getting my supplies back to me when we first arrived, but it’s more than that.

The window to Ryker has been closed.

And it feels like the final word.





Turning my back on the fence, I make a promise never to come back. No good can come of it.

Instead, I focus on the task in front of me—bringing the girls back to the world … back to themselves. The easiest thing would be to lead them to the spring, but I don’t think that even when they’re high on hemlock silt I’d ever be able to convince them to follow me into the woods. The ghost stories are too ingrained, too real to them, and I certainly didn’t help matters with my stories from last night.

I’m going to have to bring the spring to them.

Since the camp is at a lower elevation, I’m thinking I can make some kind of irrigation system, but without pipes or proper tools, I’m going to have to get creative.

When I brace my hand against a birch to avoid stepping on a cluster of deer scat, the bark lifts up under my sweaty palm. I remember Ryker telling me he used rolled-up bark on his roof to get the melting snow to drain.

Using the hatchet, I make a clean cut in the bark, lifting off a huge strip. If I roll up enough of these and link them together, maybe I can form a pipe. It’s a tedious task, peeling every birch I can find, but there’s something cathartic about it. I was laid up for so long, I forgot how good it feels to use your hands, your mind, for something constructive.

I nestle them together to form one long tube, then start to dig. I remember trying to till the soil for the garden in the dead of winter, how hard that was, but it’s nearly summer now, and the soil gives way to me with only the slightest amount of pressure from the hatchet. After burying the tube all the way up the incline, I’m faced with the difficult task of diverting the brook. I have no idea if this will even work, but I’ve come this far. Digging out a trench, I watch the water flow into the tube. I’m running down the hill, elated to see it pouring from the bottom. Once I’ve filled the kettle, I realize I need to find a way to control the flow. I search the woods for a cork tree. I know I saw a couple of them around here. I figure if it’s good enough to hold the ale in the casks at home, it will be good enough for this. I spot one on the northern wooded slope and pry off a chunk. Whittling it down to the right size, I jam it in, but the water pressure causes it to shoot right out. I need something to hold it in place. Rolling a boulder over, I hold the cork over the tube and use my knees to nudge the rock beneath. I’m waiting for the bark to blow, the earth to reject the water like a spouting whale, but it seems to hold. For now. And all I can worry about is now. I’m thankful for it, because if I start thinking too far ahead, it will lead me all the way back to the county, to a very dark place.