Winter Rose

by Rachel A. Marks

  The things I said last night to her, the hurtful horrible things, they come back to me and make my heart sick. I try to find the words to say, I’m sorry. That I don’t hate her, it’s not her fault. But I can’t. There’s nothing to say that’ll take it all back.

  “I feel fine,” she says. “Besides, it’s about time you have a turn getting fussed over.”

  I give her a weak smile and she gets up, moving to the hearth to busy herself with something. And it’s like none of what we said happened.

  That day I slumber off and on, awakening to the sounds of Luke and his boots on the wood floor, of laughter and soft voices, of the crackling of the flames. I imagine Becca and Luke, tucked in each other’s arms. They whisper and look at each other with longing. Luke’s eyes are full of hunger. Full of longing and love.

  I wish it was for me.

  But I know, deep down, Becca deserves it more. Even I know—I feel it in my bones—like I can smell ice in the air and know the snow is about to fall.

  I’ll never be the one to be loved.

  *

  As the days pass I find myself smiling, more than I can remember smiling in a long time. Like in my other life, Before. When there was green and amber coating the world instead of grey and white. Like when Mamma was alive and young, when Becca and I played in the summer fields, wheat growing as high as my five-year-old head, while Pa and Mamma would harvest the grain. She would chase Becca and me through the stalks ‘til we rolled and giggled and all the dust flew up, then fell like golden snow into our hair.

  Before we moved to the top of this mountain.

  Before.

  And the smiles begin to wipe away the memories. The nightmares fade a little, more and more each day.

  There are days that pass when I barely think of the shadows and ghosts at all. I feel them there, waiting at the edges, but I can pretend. I can block them out and find peace for a moment.

  Most of these times are when I go with Luke to catch supper. We throw snow at each other and laugh at nothing. He opens up his world to me and tells me about the places he’s been—so many stories, so many different places. He paints me pictures in the air with his hand motions and tells me about his parents, their deaths, how he set out on his own, sleeping in boxes and train-cars and even trees. His adventures become fairy tales in the telling, full of adventure and mystery, and I soak them in and see them as they come alive.

  I let him talk and enjoy the warm sound of his voice. I watch the way his smile makes little dimples in his cheeks and how the snow falls onto his broad shoulders. He treats me like a friend and I feel less and less of an Ice Witch, every time he brushes my arm with his hand, or gives me a little tap as he runs past, challenging me to a race. These memories fill me, and push back the ones I don’t want anymore.

  And I love him for it.

  I never say anything about him leaving again. I can’t think what I’d do if he did. What if, like Pa, he disappears into the flurry of white and Becca and I are left alone again? It’s strange and alien, caring, but I can’t help it. He really has no reason to stay, though. Maybe he’s waiting for Becca to finish her confinement, make sure she’s okay, and then he’ll leave.

  My throat goes tight with the idea and urgency stirs. I can’t go back to how it was before he came. I wonder if I could work a spell to keep him here. Drawing him in with smoky lavender, knotting a thick rope to his pallet. A little crushed rabbit bone, a bit of ash from burning a piece of his shirt, sprinkled in the doorway, and wishing, wishing, wishing...

  We walk home from one of our hunts and I find myself thinking about it. I frown at the snow and Luke comes up from behind me with the catch of three hares over his shoulder.

  “What’s tuggin’ at you?” he asks, as he comes up to my side.

  “Nothing,” I try to push the thoughts aside, forget the Ice Witch again and smile up at him. His nose is red from the cold, so I decide to tease him about it for a distraction. “You could light our way in a fog with that thing,” I point at him and release a giggle when he gives me an offended look.

  He pretends to run into a tree, then falls with great theatrics, catch and all.

  “You’re insane,” I say, shaking my head.

  He rubs his nose. “I don’t think it works very well.”

  “I think it’s your brain that needs fixing.”

  He raises his hand so I can help him back up.

  I take it and he yanks me, pulling me down into the snow with him. He chucks a bunch of snow, blocking my vision, then starts rubbing the icy flakes into my hair with a mischievous laugh.

  I squeal and whack his hands away, half-heartedly telling him to stop.

  He complies and falls onto his back, huffing out big puffs of icy air. “Who’s the fool now?”

  I let myself fall beside him and we lie together, arms nearly touching, staring at the treetops, catching our breath.

  It’s quiet for a long while, my clothes soaking in the melting ice beneath me. I barely feel it as I listen to the creaking limbs above and the thump of snow clumps falling. To the sounds of Luke shifting beside me.

  He breaks the silence first. “Do you know why you frightened me that first night?” he asks.

  I go still inside, shocked and confused by his question. Why’s he bringing that up now? “You thought I was a witch,” I say, quietly, “that I would eat you.”

  He laughs again, a loud, surprised laugh. “Yes, the Ice Witch, you were. But that’s not why I was frightened of you.”

  I sit up and stare at him. “It wasn’t?” I can’t think of any other reason.

  His smile shifts, growing timid. His nose and cheeks get even redder.

  He clears his throat and sits up beside me. “It was just…When I saw you that first day I did think of...of the man that disappeared.”

  I’m glad he didn’t say that man’s name aloud. It seems every time he’s a thought, it brings him near.

  “But then I woke up in this strange, warm place,” Luke continues. “It was soft and full of smells I remembered from being a kid, fresh corn cakes cooling and pinecones burning in the hearth.”

  He leans closer and reaches out, slow, tentative. His fingers trail to mine and I watch them touch with wide eyes. I can’t move. I can’t think. I don’t want to breathe. An ache fills my chest, twisting and fighting it’s way up my throat, as he takes my hand in his.

  “You sat there, in that horrid chair, beside me, asleep,” he says. “Tears shimmered on your cheeks. I saw you crying and was worried—I didn’t know you were caught in a dream—I touched you and you jerked away, you screamed. You almost put me in my grave, I was so scared.”

  It’s strange and frightening to think he saw me so vulnerable. I don’t know what to say, what to think.

  “Suddenly you were the witch,” he says. “You were power and rage, your shoulders straight, and your eyes bright enough to burn right through me. But it was different than when you found me. You were so beautiful, so small and feminine. It was hard to understand anyone being frightened of you. But I was. I was terrified. I was afraid you’d seduce me and leave me to die.” He looks down at his hand, wrapped around mine. His thumb brushes against my palm as he hesitates, like he wants to say more but he’s not sure. Then his eyes meet mine and he says words I couldn’t have imagined him saying to me, not ever, “I wanted you in that moment, Rose. I wanted you unlike I’ve wanted a girl—a woman—ever. And it terrified me.”

  My heart crashes against my ribs. My fingers go hot from his touch. His story echoes Hunt’s words: “You tease me with those light blue eyes, like winter frost. They haunt me…just let me have it. I need it.”

  Oh, God, help me. Will I always be the Ice Witch? The girl who draws men into madness.

  I stare at Luke. Waves of shock course through me, knowing how he’s seen me this whole time. How I never knew...

  ...he wanted to touch me.

  He’s nothing like Hunt. Not in any way.

  But he’s a man
.

  What’s he thinking now? Is he holding my hand, thinking of—

  “I shouldn’t have told you,” he says, searching my face. His brow creases with worry. He pulls his hand from mine in the same slow way he took hold of it.

  I shake my head and scramble to my feet. I need to get away, from him, from my feelings for him. My longing to feel his hands on my skin, to have his smells overwhelm me again.

  But it’s all impossible. It’s all too terrifying.

  Luke stands and reaches for me.

  I jerk away and stumble back. “No.”

  “Rose,” he says, like a moan.

  I know that I’m hurting him, that my reaction will make him think all the wrong things about how I feel—how I wish he’d have kissed me instead of saying those words—but all I can seem to do is move farther away.

  “Why?” I ask suddenly.

  His brow pinches over his nose and he shakes his head. “Why what, Rose?”

  “Why are you telling me this now?” Tears rise into my throat, choking me. “We were happy. It was all getting better. And Becca. You’re supposed to love her. You can’t want me. I—” But I don’t finish. I can’t see his face and say what I was going to say. I can’t let him know the truth of what I feel for him.

  We stare at each other, across a million miles of pain and horror.

  Too late. It’s too late.

  I turn and run. The sound of him calling my name echoes off the mountain, following me into the trees.

  *

  I stay out in the forest for several hours before I take the path back to the shack.

  Becca waddles into the doorway, holding her swollen belly and immediately starts scolding me. “What were you thinking? Luke’s worried sick! He went out looking for you.” Accusation rings clear in her voice. Even though she doesn’t say it, I hear it in her words: It’ll be your fault if he dies out there.

  I stare at her, unable to speak.

  “What, in the name of Heaven, got into you? You know how he fusses over you. How could you do this to him?”

  Fusses over me? My heart beats faster, remembering his words, how his body felt near mine. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do anything horrible. I just needed to get away.”

  “Away?” Her voice is different then. Like she knows something about what happened. “What’d he do?” She looks like Mamma when she asked me the same question about Pa.

  I rise to Luke’s defense. “Nothing! He didn’t do anything at all.”

  But Becca doesn’t seem convinced. “He should’ve known better. I warned him about what happened to you. I can’t believe he’d—what a fool. Men are such fools!”

  Her words send a chill up my spine. “What’re you talking about, Becca? He didn’t do anything. I swear.”

  “Oh, Rose.”

  And that’s all she says. Oh, Rose. But it’s enough to see she knows what I’m not saying. But why isn’t she more upset if that’s true? The man she loves tried to touch me, he said words men say to women they care about. Doesn’t she hate me for that?

  She shakes her head and walks back to the wood pile. “We best get a good size fire ready. You’ll both be needin’ a warm-up when he returns.”

  I follow after her to take the wood out of her hands that she’s picking up from the pile.

  She shakes her head and grabs another two pieces.

  “Stop that, Becca!” I say. “You shouldn’t be carrying all that.” She’s so annoyingly helpful all the time now that she should be resting.

  “I’m not an invalid. Stop pestering me.”

  I’m relieved the conversation’s taken a turn away from Luke, so I go along, even though I’m worried about her doing too much. “Fine. You make the fire. I’ll wait and watch for Luke.”

  I carry in the wood I rescued from her, bring in a few more pieces, and then go back outside to wait.

  It’s odd sitting here again, at the wood pile. I haven’t sat in this spot for so long—not since the miners’ visits. So much has happened. I’m close to seventeen now. Becca’s going to have a child in only a month or so. And Luke. Everything’s changed with Luke here.

  Inside me.

  The words he said to me in the snow float back to me. “You were so beautiful, so small and feminine...”

  Am I really the Ice Witch the men say I am? Do I show them something they can never have and drive them mad with it?

  Pa.

  Hunt.

  Am I driving Luke mad?

  I can’t bear the thought.

  I know that I’m driving him away from Becca, and that in itself is horrible. I won’t hurt Becca anymore.

  I can’t stay if that’s what’s coming.

  Someone in this family deserves a life, a family, love. Becca’s been through so much. And I’m not made for happiness. All I ever do is hurt people.

  The image of Pa’s back disappearing into the flying snow burns at my eyes. What’ll they think of me, though, if I leave? That I’m like him? I can’t be that to them.

  I shake with the pain it gives me. Somehow I need to make Becca and Luke see…

  …that I love them.

  *

  Luke returns but he doesn’t say a word to me about what happened. He comes up the rise and only pauses a second before passing me by. “Are you okay?” he asks, his jaw tight.

  I nod. Too many words surface to choose, so I keep silent.

  He goes inside and I follow. Becca starts to bustle around us, immediately, getting us warm. She soon had us both in our skivvies, wrapped up in wool blankets. Then she begins baking oatcakes and making tea, humming to the baby in her belly as she moves back and forth from the flames.

  I peek at Luke several times over the blanket, but his gaze stays locked on the fire. I need so badly to let him see what I’m struggling with, to show what I can’t seem to say. The words are lodged in my throat, words that might break us all if I’m not careful.

  Becca sets the hot tea cups in our hands, and smiles down on us. “There, now,” she says, reminding me so much of Mamma it hurts to look at her. “Now, I think we should talk. Would you like to start, Luke?”

  My heart starts thumping as I watch him shift uncomfortably in his chair under Becca’s gaze. “I think I’ve done enough talking for one day,” he says finally.

  Becca rolls her eyes and sits on the pallet beside us. “Well, I assume my silent sister won’t volunteer either. I just hate all this hard silence. It’s like walking through cotton in this place, the air is too thick with unsaid things.”

  My heart gets so loud it’s impossible to think.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  They both turn to me.

  Becca’s eyes grow. “What, Rose?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say a little louder, shocked I said it once, let alone twice. “I’ve been awful to you, Becca.” My throat clenches and tears make the fire look blurry. But now that I’ve started it flows out of me like a river of repentance. “I’m ashamed of things I’ve said. Things I’ve done. I don’t want to be like—I just…My heart’s been all wrong. There’s been darkness, so much darkness. But you’re my sister, and I…I love you.” And I can’t say anymore. There’s too much boiling over in me. Tears soak my cheeks, my chin.

  I let my eyes stray to Luke and try to make them say what I can’t speak in front of Becca.

  Her hand finds mine and squeezes. “I love you, too, my sweet Rose.” And she leans over to kiss my cheek.

  But then she goes stiff and gasps, clutching at her belly.

  Luke lunges and I reach for her in the same moment. We both cry, “Becca!” trying to catch her as she falls.

  There’s the sound of dripping and the smell of salt, then I see fluid spreading out from under her legs. It darkens the wood floor and runs through the cracks, thick and final, tinged pink with blood.

  “Oh, God,” I say, my hands shaking.

  The baby.

  Becca just lifts her head to us and smiles. “It’s coming!�
� She squeezes my hand again. “See what you’ve done with all your crying. Now the little thing wants to come and meet her aunt.”

  I smile with her, but my heart’s focused on the blood and torment to come.

  *

  The labor is on and off all the rest of that day and night. Becca grows tired and weak, unable to lift her head or hands to drink, conserving her energy for the trial. I push back at questions I can’t answer: what if the babe never comes? What if it slips out blue and limp? My head is full of all the horrors that might be coming next, as Becca cries out over and over, filling the small shack with screams that tear the air.

  It all pulses at my skin, pressing worry and doubt into me.

  I direct Luke in things he can do to help and he listens intently, following orders well. He gets the water boiling and rinses the rags as they fill with blood. He tends the fire, to keep the room warm. I see my own fear mirrored in his eyes, but we hold our feelings secret. We just stay busy and do what needs to be done.

  And as night turns to day, the blood comes, thick and insistent, spreading out around her like a dark presence. It grows so large it seems impossible she has any blood left in her veins.

  The sun rises, marking another day of torment and no progress. The room glows with light, showing all too clearly how much damage the labor’s doing to my sister.

  “Just pray, Rose,” she gasps between her pains, which come faster and faster. “It will be well.”

  It’s like she’s comforting me.

  Me.

  But it’s not me in a pool of blood. Blood that would never be, if it wasn’t for those men. If it wasn’t for Hunt. And Pa.

  Anger boils through me, rocking me to my core. Becca doesn’t deserve this.

  How could you? I hiss at God. And then in the next breath, Please, help us.

  Becca seems to sense time’s short. Her cries become more than pain. She stares at my hands, sticky with her blood—there’s so much blood. Tears run through the crimson stains on her cheeks, creating pink pools on the pillow.