The Grace Year

by Kim Liggett

  “I heard it’s because they’re deformed,” Tamara says, a dark tone to her voice. “They have giant mouths full of razor-sharp teeth.”

  “I bet they’re not even out there,” Martha says. “We haven’t seen them or heard them this entire time. They probably just tell us that to scare us.”

  “But why?” Ravenna asks, clinging to her veil, the scratchy sound of the netting grating between her fingertips.

  I inch closer. Maybe I’m not the only one with doubts.

  “So we don’t escape,” Kiersten says. “They can’t have us running wild with all that magic … all that power.” She leans forward, lowering her voice. “I feel it happening already. There’s a tingling deep inside of me, right here,” she says as she opens her cloak, stretching out her fingers below her navel.

  A flutter of excitement rushes through the group, the same as when the blades are being sharpened in the square before a punishment.

  “I can’t wait to find out what my magic will be,” Jessica says, sitting up a little taller.

  “I heard speaking to animals runs in our family.” Dena looks to Kiersten for approval.

  “Maybe I’ll be able to command the wind,” another girl says, spreading her arms out wide.

  “Or be impervious to fire.” Meg runs her finger through a lick of flame.

  “There now,” Kiersten shushes them as she looks over at the guards. “We mustn’t get carried away. Not just yet.”

  “What are you hoping for?” Jenna nudges Kiersten gently with her knee. “Please tell us.”

  “Do tell…,” the other girls join in.

  “I want…” She pauses dramatically to make sure they’re hanging on every word. “I want to be able to control people with my thoughts. Lead them to their rightful path … deliver them from sin, so we can burn through our magic and return purified women.”

  Gertrude lets out a huff of air. I’m not sure if it’s a sigh, a yawn, or a chortle, but Kiersten glares at her from across the fire. “Maybe even you can be pure again, Gertie.”

  The muscles in Gertrude’s jaw flex, but that appears to be the only reaction Kiersten will get out of her.

  “And what about you, Betsy?” Kiersten turns her attention to the girl sitting next to Gertrude. The next-closest target.

  “Me?” She looks around the campfire as if searching for a witness.

  “Is there another Betsy Dillon?” Kiersten asks. “What magic are you hoping for?”

  “Not to be so big and ugly?” One of the girls snickers.

  Kiersten smacks her in the leg.

  Even in the dim light, I can see the heat taking over Betsy’s cheeks; she’s either embarrassed or flattered that Kiersten is paying attention to her. “I … I want to fly, like a bird,” she says as she looks up into the treetops.

  “Fat chance,” someone murmurs; Kiersten shushes her.

  “And why’s that?” Kiersten asks sweetly. Too sweetly.

  “So I can fly far far away,” Betsy says, a dreamy look coming over her.

  “Trust me.” Kiersten narrows in on her. “We all want you to fly far far away.”

  The other girls let out a burst of pent-up laughter.

  With tears streaming down Betsy’s face, Kiersten turns her back on her and continues talking to the others.

  Gertrude reaches over to try to console her, but Betsy jerks her hand away and gets up, bolting into the woods.

  “What’d I tell you,” the guard with the dark mustache says as he watches her run off. “The Dillon girl.”

  “Every year…,” the other guard says as he digs two coins out of his pocket and hands them over. “I don’t know how you do it.”

  I’m about to go after her, tell her to ignore them, when I hear it—a high-pitched yelp. Followed by another. And then another, all coming from different points in the wood. A classic call and response. At first, I think it must be a pack of wolves, but then I hear it again, closer this time, followed by coarse laughter. I don’t need anyone to tell me that’s the call of the poachers. And they’re herding her.

  I look to the guards to do something, but they’re just going about their business of settling in for the night.

  “You have to go after her,” I say.

  The taller one shrugs me off. “If you run, we’re not responsib—”

  “But she’s not running away … she just wanted to cry … in private.”

  “Don’t stray from the path. Those are the rules—”

  “But no one told us … no one said—”

  “Shouldn’t you just know?” he says, looking me over, shaking his head.

  I start to go after her, but then I hear screams. Bloodcurdling screams, echoing through the woods. It feels like the sound is penetrating straight through my skin, sinking deep into my bones, freezing them in place.

  “Did you see what I made her do?” Kiersten whispers to Jenna. Jenna then whispers it to Jessica. And just like that, news of Kiersten’s magic spreads like wildfire.

  As I glance back at the girls, their faces lit by the flames, inky shadows nestling into the hollows of their skulls, they look to Kiersten, a mix of fear and reverence taking over.

  A hint of a smile pulls at the corners of Kiersten’s perfect rosebud lips.

  I know that smile.

  Huddled up on the damp ground, I can’t sleep. I don’t know how anyone could. Not with all that screaming. I’ve heard the rumors, how the poachers keep us alive as long as possible as they skin us, how pain brings the most potent magic to the surface, but even the guards seem a little unnerved by this one. It’s as if the poachers want us to hear every cry, every cut; they want us to know what’s in store for us.

  But as the sun rises, heavy, bloated, on the eastern ridge, the color of a late-summer yolk, the screaming dies down to the occasional whimper, until it finally stops all together. I’ve never been more horrified and relieved at the same time. Her suffering is finally over.

  Silently, we pack up for the rest of the journey to the encampment. They take Betsy’s bundle out of the wagon and leave it behind, like it’s nothing. Like she was nothing.

  The heavy fluttering of wings pulls me from my reeling thoughts. I look up at the sparse bony branches to find a wren staring down at me. Plain and plump, wanting to be seen.

  “Fly far far away,” I whisper.

  After we’re lined up and counted, we walk the path. I’m conscious of the woods around me in a way I never thought of before. Last night was proof that we’re being studied. Stalked. And I’ve hunted enough with my father to know they’re probably looking for a weak link.

  Taking a cue from Gertrude, I lower my veil. I know it dehumanizes me, the same way we put a sack over a hog’s eyes before slitting its throat, but I don’t want to let them in. I don’t want them to memorize my face. Dream of me. I won’t give them the thrill of seeing my fear.

  A girl stops abruptly in front of me to pick up a heavy stone from the side of the path, tucking it inside the pocket of her cloak. It’s Laura Clayton, a quiet, spindly girl who will probably be sent to work in the mill upon her return. “Sorry,” she murmurs as she presses on, but she won’t meet my eyes. I wonder if she’s looking for a weapon. The way she’s walking, I can tell this isn’t the first heavy object she’s picked up along the way. I’m looking for my own heavy rock when Gertrude slows her pace so she can walk next to me.

  “See?” she says as she stares straight ahead up the path.

  I look up to find Kiersten whispering to a set of girls. She glances back at me before moving on to the next cluster of eager ears.

  “What about it?”

  “She’s setting the stage as we speak.”

  “I’m not afraid of her.”

  “You should be. You saw what she can do … her magic—”

  “I didn’t see anything other than a hurt girl running off to cry.”

  Gertrude looks at me sharply, but I can see it in her eyes: I’m not the only one with doubts.

 
“Magic or not … there are other ways she can hurt you.”

  I remember watching Kiersten do the same thing to Gertrude last year. Spreading that vile name like a plague. But that was done in the confines of the county, with the men watching over us, making sure we stayed in line. This is something new.

  A part of me wonders if I had this coming. The way I turned a blind eye watching Kiersten bully whomever she saw fit. I could’ve stopped her then, but now … anything goes.

  “I have to ask…,” I say, stealing a nervous glance in her direction. “Did you take the blame for her … for the lithograph? Is that what happened to you?”

  Gertrude looks at me, her eyes glassy … haunted.

  “Are you talking about Betsy?” A girl sidles beside me, startling us both. It’s Helen Barrow.

  Feeling flustered by the intrusion, Gertrude ducks her chin and rushes ahead.

  “Gertrude, wait,” I call after her, but she’s gone.

  “I know I don’t have a veil,” Helen says. “But you’ve always seemed like a nice girl … nice family. Your father did my mother a great kindness once—”

  “Yes. He’s a great man,” I murmur without inflection, wondering where she’s going with this.

  “There’s talk,” she says, glancing up in Kiersten’s direction. “You should steer clear of Gertie. You don’t want people to think you’re dirty, too.”

  “I really don’t care what they think,” I say with a deep sigh. “And neither should you.”

  She looks at me, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean any offense.”

  “Just because you didn’t get a veil doesn’t mean you’re anything less. We’re all the same here.”

  Her eyes well up; her bottom lip puckers out.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m afraid. Afraid of what’s going to happen when we—” Helen stumbles over her own feet, careening off the path.

  Grabbing the edge of her cloak, I yank her back just as a slender blade whizzes past her cheek, embedding into a nearby pine.

  “Did you see that?” she gasps, fresh tears making her eyes look even bigger.

  Slowly, we turn to look behind us, but there’s nothing there. Only the woods. But I swear I can feel them out there … their eyes on my skin.

  “Is Kiersten looking at me?” Helen whispers in horror, keeping her eyes trained on the ground in front of her. “Did she make me trip?”

  I don’t want to give it any credence, but when my eyes veer up the path, I swear I catch the swish of Kiersten’s braid. The hint of a smile.

  My skin explodes in goosebumps.

  “Don’t be silly.” I pull her along. “You tripped over a root, that’s all.” But even as I’m saying it, I’m not entirely sure.

  It feels like Kiersten is flowering right before my eyes, a belladonna, ripe with poison.

  By day’s end, the forest has become so dense that only an occasional burst of dying light filters through. Every time it’s taken away it feels like an insult, until it doesn’t come back at all.

  With every step, the air grows thicker, the terrain more uncertain; the scent of decaying oak and wintergreen gives way to hemlock, fiddlehead ferns, moss, clay, and algae.

  The path narrows to the point that it feels like the woods might snuff us out.

  Some of the girls have to take off their boots, their feet bloody and blistered beyond recognition. Because of our slow pace, the guards decide not to camp. Maybe it’s for the best; that way we don’t have the time to sit and ponder our fate. It seems baffling to me, but in the short span of two nightfalls, we’ve somehow become resigned to it all.

  I have to stop to relieve myself. I’m not even sure where it’s coming from since they haven’t given us a drop to eat or drink. Maybe it’s just a phantom urge. Something my body used to do. Spotting a cluster of ferns, I stumble forward, pull up my skirts, push my underclothes aside, and crouch.

  I’m waiting for it, even a drop to satisfy, when the last guard passes by without a word. As I watch the torchlight disappear down the path, I realize he didn’t see me. They don’t know I’m gone, and probably won’t know until we’re counted at the encampment. A spark of adrenaline races through me. I could run right now. Not back the way I came, but somewhere new. The poachers will be following the pack of girls, and by the time anyone figures out I’m gone, I will have found a stream of water to lose my scent in. I will be untraceable. I know how to hide. I’ve been doing it for years, in plain sight. Michael was right about one thing … I’m strong and I’m smart, and I may never get an opportunity like this again.

  I’m starting to gather my skirts when I hear the unmistakable sound of footfalls. Glancing over my shoulder, I see their silhouettes. An endless parade of dark figures emerging from the woods. Poachers.

  The realization quickly sinks in that I somehow strayed from the path. I wasn’t thinking. I just saw the ferns and went for it. I’m only a few feet away, ten at the most, but I can’t tell how close the poachers are, how fast they’re coming … because when I look at them, all I see is black clouds floating through the forest like wraiths.

  I want to run for the path, cry out for help, but I’m so petrified that all I can do is sink deeper into the foliage and close my eyes.

  It’s childish to think that if I can’t see them, they can’t see me, but in this moment, that’s exactly what I feel like—a child. They can dress me up, marry me off, tell me I’m a woman now, but in no way do I feel ready for this. For any of it.

  I should bargain with God, promise to never stray from the path again, but I can’t even do that. We’re not allowed to pray in silence, for fear that we’ll use it to hide our magic, but where is my magic now when I need it the most?

  As the poachers begin to pass my hiding spot, I can’t believe how quiet they are. They walk at exactly the same pace, so it’s impossible to tell how many of them there are, but I can hear the steel of their blades hum when a breeze catches the sharp edge. No words are spoken; there’s only breath, deep and measured with precision.

  After the last of their footsteps dissipate, I open my eyes. I’m thinking maybe my magic did kick in, maybe I’m invisible, when I feel something warm pulsing against the side of my neck. Slowly, I turn to find a curved blade poised at my artery, a set of eyes staring back at me like wet gleaming marbles, but the rest of the poacher remains shrouded in darkness.

  “Please … don’t,” I whisper, but all he does is stand there. Those eyes … it’s like staring straight into a sinkhole.

  Easing away from him, I crawl toward the path.

  I’m waiting for the sickening caw, waiting for him to grab me by my ankles and pull me into the forest to skin me alive, but when my fingertips reach the cleared strip of earth, I scramble to my feet to find he’s gone. Nothing but the void pressing in all around me.

  Running ahead, I deftly slip back into the weary herd. I’m trying to act normal, but my body won’t stop trembling. I want to tell the others about the poacher, how close I came to death, but as I look behind me, into the dark, I’m not even sure what really happened. There’s no way a poacher would’ve just let me go. And the truth is, I didn’t even see a body—just a blade … and those eyes.

  My chin begins to quiver. It could be exhaustion or the magic slipping in, but no matter what did or didn’t happen, I need to pull myself together, stay alert, because one false step in any direction could very well be my last.

  As the sun rises once again, we pass a run-down cabin. I’m wondering if this is where we’ll be spending our grace year, but they spur us forward, all the way to the end of the earth, only a vast wasteland of water stretched out before us. But if you squint just the right way, you can see a tiny speck of land sprouting up in the distance.

  And I know this is it.

  The beginning of the end for some of us.

  We’re assigned to canoes, but given no oars.

  Only the guards get the privilege of steering u
s to our prison. Maybe they don’t want us going feral and knocking them out. Maybe Laura Clayton has been gathering stones for that exact purpose. I keep my eye on her, ready for the slightest hint of a revolt. I don’t know where we’d go, what we’d do, but I think I’m willing to find out.

  No one says a word as they begin to row us over the glasslike water. Each stroke of the wood carving through the deep blue feels like someone’s gutting me. Piece by piece. Stroke by stroke, stripping me of everything I’ve ever known, everything I thought I believed in.

  Midway across the great lake, I see Kiersten reach her hand over the side, skimming her fingertips along the surface, creating long sensuous trails—it does something to me. Does something to all of us. The only person not looking her way is Laura Clayton. She’s staring straight ahead, clutching the heaviest stone in her lap. Her lips are moving, but I can’t make out what she’s saying.

  As I lean closer, she gives me the queerest look.

  “Tell my sister I’m sorry,” she says, right before she slowly keels over the side of the canoe.

  “Laura—” I call out her name, but it’s too late.

  As her black wool cloak envelops her body, she quickly sinks to the depths.

  And I realize the only rebellion she had in mind was her own.

  No one moves. No one even flinches. If this is what we’ve already become, it makes me shudder to think what we’ll be like a year from now.

  Kiersten pulls her hand back into the boat, and the girls give her knowing glances. They think she made Laura do it.

  And maybe she did.

  A wave of panic rushes through me.

  Two down, thirty-one to go.

  Sunburned and weary, our bodies still swaying from the lull of the water, the emptiness of Laura’s escape, we watch the awaiting guards pull the canoes onto the muddy bank. The scraping of the hulls against the rocky beach is like a razor to my frazzled nerves.

  “The perimeter is clear,” I hear one of the guards say. “No breaches to report.”

  I know that voice. Looking up, I see that it’s Hans. I start to stand, but Martha, who’s sitting behind me, yanks down on my skirts. “Don’t draw attention to yourself. You saw what happened to Laura.”