The Grace Year

by Kim Liggett

  On clear mornings, I climb past the spring, all the way to the ridge. Every day it gets a little harder, but it’s worth it. Through a sea of barren branches, I get a glimpse of the entire island, encircled by a crust of ice, which slowly gives way to the deepest blue water I’ve ever seen.

  If I didn’t know what this place was, the horror of what goes on here, I’d say it’s breathtaking.

  But the bones are a constant reminder.

  Whether it’s the girl from my dreams or a nameless faceless girl from the county, she’s always here to remind me of what could happen if I slip up. If I let my guard down.

  However she met her end, I hope she had time to make her peace. Father once treated a trapper from the wilds with a hatchet lodged in his skull, his body convulsing with the slightest movement. My father gave him a choice. Pull it out and hemorrhage quickly or leave it in and die a slow death. The trapper chose the latter. I remember thinking it was the coward’s choice, but now I’m not so sure. There’s no such thing as a gentle death, so why give it a helping hand? He fought hard for his very last breath. Running my hand over the dirt, I want to believe she did the same. Maybe she crawled all the way from the camp, to the highest point on the island for refuge. Dying with a view like this wouldn’t be the worst way to go.

  But the darkest part of me can’t help but wonder if her own kind did this to her. If that’s what will happen to me.

  Today, there’s a large plume of smoke rising from the girls’ camp. Clearly, they’re using green wood. A number of other small wisps of smoke can be seen wafting up from the shore in every direction, which leads me to believe the poachers must have camps of their own. They appear to be stationed around the island in perfect intervals. It tells me they’re organized. Methodical. I still haven’t figured out how they get to us, how they break us down to poach us, but I’m doing my best to keep my wits about me.

  I’d like to stay up on the ridge forever, but I tire easily now. Even standing up to the wind blowing against me feels like work. Sometimes I feel like it might pick me up and carry me off to another land. But that’s magical thinking. There’s nothing magical about starving and freezing to death.

  As I climb down the ridge to start another mind-numbing day of foraging for roots, I see a large rodent pop up from the spring with the last river clam perched between his teeth.

  “Muskrat,” I hiss.

  As he takes off down the hill, I go barreling after him. I’m chasing him through the forest, past a huge grove of pines, all the way to the barrier, where he stops. I’m thinking I have him trapped when he turns and burrows his way under the fence. I lunge for him, reaching my hand all the way through the hole, but it’s too late.

  Resting my cheek on the ground, I start to weep. I know it’s pathetic, but it felt like as long as that river clam survived, so could I. But the truth is, I’m running out of time. Out of resources.

  I’m staring at the hole in the bottom of the fence, trying to think about what the hell I’m going to do, when it strikes me: the fence—Hans.

  On our way to the encampment, Hans told me that he was in charge of maintaining the barrier, that he wanted to be close by. If the fence is reported as being damaged, he’ll have to come and fix it. I know it’s against the law to fraternize with the guards, but Hans is my friend. He’s always protected me in the county as much as he could. If he threw my pack over the fence when we first got here, maybe he’d be willing to bring me food—even a blanket, just so I could get back on my feet.

  But no one’s ever going to notice a muskrat-sized hole this far from the gate. Checking out the wood, I see the enormous cedar log is rotting out. When I pick at it, chunks come off easily in my hand. But I don’t have the time or energy to pick away at it for days. Using the heel of my boot, I kick at the soft wood until there’s a hole big enough to pass a kettle through—surely something even the dumbest poacher would notice and report.

  And so I sit.

  And I wait.

  It seems far-fetched, at best. But I’m desperate.

  A vicious wind races through the gap in the fence; I pull my cloak tighter around my shoulders. I can’t believe I used to love this time of year—all bundled up in woolen cocoons, to the point where no one could discern one child from the next. Not the women. After their grace year, their faces needed to be free and clear to make sure they weren’t hiding their magic. The wives scarcely went outdoors during those months. But come spring, when they emerged, it was like watching butterflies shake free of their chrysalis. Little things, like taking the long way to the market. Moving to a different side of the lane just to catch a beam of sunlight.

  Occasionally, I’d see one of them slip off her shoe, placing an unstockinged toe into the freshly sprung grass. A hint of wild decadence, a secret place within her heart that could never truly be tamed.

  Lying down on a nest of gathered leaves and bark, I stare through the hole in the fence, memorizing every divot, every crack, every splinter in the rotten wood, and I can’t help wondering if that’s what my insides look like now, or if there’s nothing left inside of me but a hollow space.

  Turning my focus to the vast sky above, I let my mind wander over the land. There are times when it feels unfathomable that life is continuing elsewhere. The poachers are living their lives, the grace year girls are living theirs, my parents, my sisters, Michael—for everyone else, time is moving forward, but all I have is this. It feels as if I’m slowly losing touch with reality, with time, with even being a human. Everything’s boiled down to the bare necessity. Eat. Evacuate. Sweat. Shiver. Sleep. This is what it means to exist. All those years at home, I was biding my time, waiting for my real life to begin, but that was my real life, as good as it would ever get, and I didn’t even know it.

  It’s so cold, I can see my breath hovering around me. If I close my eyes I can smell the colors green and yellow, feel the sunshine on my skin, but when I open them all I see is gray and brown, the scent of death filling my nostrils, maybe my own. A slow deterioration of body and spirit.

  I thought I only closed my eyes for a moment, but it must’ve been longer. A few hours, or maybe it’s been days, but dark is on its way.

  With just enough light to gather some wood that might be dry enough to catch, I scoop up a handful of leaves, making a small nest. Using my flint, I hover over it—spark after spark after spark until it finally ignites.

  Gathering the nest in my hands, I gently blow. It makes me think of Michael, when we were kids, blowing on dandelions, making wishes.

  I always wished for a truthful life. I never asked him what he wished for—I wonder if he wished for me.

  At the unveiling ceremony, he said, You don’t have to change for me. But that’s not entirely true. In that moment, I became his property. A slower death for me than anything I’d face out here. As much as he thinks he loves me—his allegiance to his family, his faith, his sex will always prevail. I saw a flash of that when we got in an argument on veiling day. He can tell himself he’s only trying to protect me, but there will always be something in him that wants to contain me, hide me from the world.

  The nursery rhyme that Ami was singing lilts through the trees. Without thinking, I sing along with her.

  Eve with the golden hair, sits on high in her rocking chair,

  The wind doth blow, the night unfurls, weeping for all the men she’s cursed.

  Girls beware, if you don’t behave, you’ll be sent to an early grave.

  I’m not sure how long I sit there, staring into the flames, singing her song, but the fire’s dwindled to embers now, and mine is the only voice in the forest. Maybe she was never singing at all. And then I remember that Ami is dead.

  Curling up into a tight ball next to the fire, I carefully tuck in my cloak around me. Once I’m satisfied that every gap has been tended to, I settle in. The trick is to lie perfectly still. One wrong move and the cold air will invade my space like a brutal army. And once the chill sets in, it’ll be nearl
y impossible to shake.

  I’m lying there shivering, praying for sleep, when I hear something enter my campsite. At first I think it might be the ghost, the girl buried on the ridge, but the footsteps are too heavy, the deep huffing of air too loud, the scent too foul. This is something entirely corporal. Animal.

  I think about running, but I’m too tired to move, too weak to fight anything off, and if I leave this fire, if I leave my meager cocoon, I might very well freeze to death anyway. Instead, I lie perfectly still, staring into the embers, willing whatever it is to pass me by, but it only comes closer, so close that I can feel it hovering over me. It nudges my spine. My mind is telling me to flee, but I force my body to stay limp. Play dead. That’s my only defense right now, which honestly isn’t that far from the truth.

  The animal lets out a horrifying groan; a long strand of drool drips onto my cheek. I know that sound. I know that smell. Bear. I have to clench my jaw to stop myself from screaming. It’s nudging me with its snout, pawing at my side. The sound of its claws ripping through the wool of my cloak makes me feel faint. I’m thinking this is it, how I’ll meet my end, when I hear something drop on the forest floor a few feet away. The bear must’ve heard it, too, because it decides to stop mauling me long enough to investigate. I hear gnashing teeth, followed by another thud, this time a little further away. And then another thud, even further. With every step it takes away from me, I breathe a little easier, and when I hear it reach the ravine, on the other side of the pines, I know it somehow decided to move on. Wanting to wipe the rancid drool from my face, I reach out to grab a leaf, and my hand brushes against something warm and wet. Picking up one of the burning logs, I hold it close, squinting into the void to find the fatty remains of a mangled piece of fresh meat. Without even thinking, I shove it in my mouth. I’m gagging and chewing at the same time, disgusted and grateful for this tiny miracle. Looking up at the trees, I’m wondering where it could’ve possibly dropped from, and that’s when I hear it. There’s someone on the other side of the fence.

  Crawling forward, I whisper through the hole in the wood, “Hans, is that you?”

  But the only reply is his retreating footsteps.

  At the first hint of cold gray dawn, I brace my hands on the frozen ground to get up, then notice small flecks strewn all around me.

  At first I think it might be snow—the air has felt that way for days—but it’s the wrong shape, the wrong color: cream with specks of light red. I poke it with my boot; it rolls over. A bean. I’m sure of it. When I lean forward to pick it up, more beans fall to the ground.

  Where did these come from? I’m thinking Hans might’ve thrown these in along with the meat, but when I stand, I see another one fall from my cloak.

  Slipping my fingers inside the clawed edges of wool, I feel a series of small hard bumps. Carefully opening the stitches of the hem, I peel back the soft gray, revealing an intricate maze of seeds that have been sewn into each layer of the lining. Hundreds of them.

  Pumpkin, tomato, celery, and a few I don’t even recognize.

  “June,” I whisper, the realization taking the breath from my body. She must’ve worked on this for months, but how did she know I would need these? Unless what’s happening to me happened to her. Clamping my hand over my mouth, I try to stifle a sobbing gasp, but it can’t be stopped. Tears are streaming down my cheeks, and all I can think about is how much I want to see her again. How much I want to see all of them—my mother and father. Clara and Penny, Ivy … even Michael. I want to thank them, say I’m sorry, but in order to do that, I need to survive this.

  For weeks, I’ve felt like I’ve been moving under thick water, but not today, not in this moment. Despite the gloomy weather, the cold nipping at my flesh, the emptiness festering inside of me, I have a spring in my step. A newfound bit of hope, one that I’ve been carrying with me all this time.

  Climbing the incline, I pass the spring, the bones of the girl, and fight my way to the highest ridge. I remember June said she sewed in different layers of lining for each new season, but I’m just going to plant them all. I may not even make it to the next season.

  I know next to nothing about gardening, just the little bits I’ve picked up from June’s stories, but I seem to remember a little nursery song she taught Clara and Penny. I even remember the hand motions that go with it. I feel silly for doing it, but it brings an unexpected smile to my face. “Dig, drop, cover, pat … water, sun, grow, eat.” I raise my head to the sky, willing the sun to come out, to give me a sign, when something falls in my eye. My skin prickles up in a fresh wave of goosebumps. “Snow,” I whisper, my heart sinking in my chest.

  At home, I would be ecstatic for the first snow. Michael and I would spend the whole day planning our snow kingdom, stuffing handfuls down each other’s backside, wandering home at dusk with numb fingers, eyelashes caked with glittering ice. I’d thaw by the hearth, sipping mulled cider, peeling off one layer at a time, with the sound of my mother taking out her frustration on her knitting needles, the crinkle of Father’s paper, the serene voices of Clara and Penny taking turns reading a chapter from a book.

  Blinking hard, I try to erase the memories from my brain, but I’m too weak to stop them anymore. I need this garden to work.

  Wiping away my tears, I frantically dig my fingers into the soil, but the ground is nearly frozen solid. Any sane person would wait until spring, but I don’t have that luxury.

  Using sharp rocks and sticks, I burn through the daylight, I burn through every last bit of my energy, tilling that soil, until I can no longer feel my hands. And as the sun begins to set, the cold air settles deep into my marrow, threatening to freeze me in place. A part of me wants to curl up, close my eyes, but I know I’ll never be able to get up again. I’ll die on this ridge, and as weak and tired as I am, I’m not ready to give up yet.

  With bloody, battered fingers, I place each seed into the soil and cover it with the freezing earth. I say a silent prayer for each one of them. I know it’s against the law for women to pray in silence, but I’m the only God here.

  With the last seed in place, I take a look around to see the snow has blanketed the forest around me, like it’s hiding me from the world, tucking me in for a long forgotten nightmare.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” I whisper.

  The clouds let out a deep groan, as if in response; goosebumps erupt over my entire body.

  Thunder snow.

  “It’s just a coincidence. That’s all,” I say as I gather my things, but before I can descend the incline, another burst of thunder shakes the very ground beneath me.

  Eve will not be denied.

  The storm bears down on the island like a heavy omen.

  I know I should find shelter until it passes, I’ve heard about storms like these from the trappers, but if this garden doesn’t make it, neither will I.

  Flipping up the hood of my cloak, I brace myself as I push against the ice, wind, and snow. It’s hard to see the next step in front of me, let alone where the rows are so I can step between them.

  A crack of lightning pierces the air, striking the ground in front of me. All my hair is standing on end, but I’m okay, I’m thinking the garden is okay, when the earth lets out a terrifying groan and the ground begins to shift. I’m rushing around the ridge, digging my freezing hands into the dirt, manically trying to push the soil back together, but it’s disintegrating beneath me. Scrabbling upward, I manage to hold on to some vines as half of the ridge breaks off, thundering to the bottom of the ravine.

  As I look down at the seeds, floating away down the eroding bank, I start to weep. That was everything I had. My last chance. And all I can do is watch it wash away, slip right through my fingers. Pulling myself back onto the ledge, I look up to the sky and I scream, “What did I do to deserve this?”

  A burst of thunder seems to answer back, louder than lions, and I can feel her power, her ire, and it makes me angry—somehow I feel betrayed by her, but there were no prom
ises made, no secret pacts to be broken. No one told me that this would be fair, that this would be easy. I can’t help feeling that maybe I’m not meant to be here. Maybe I’m not meant to survive this. I scream as long and hard as I can, raging against everything that brought me here, and when I collapse into the frozen mud, a scream echoes back to me, a scream that isn’t my own.

  At first I think it might be a trapped animal, the final cry of a dying elk, but when it happens again, I know it’s human. A blood-curdling scream, and it’s coming from the direction of the camp.

  “Gertrude,” I whisper.

  Abandoning the ruined garden, I run through the woods. I know the way by heart now, every fallen log, every wicked branch.

  As I get closer, the screaming grows, but there’s also laughing and singing. I break into the clearing to find girls spinning in circles, covering themselves in mud and snow. One of the girls is standing on top of the privy, waving her hands around, as if she’s orchestrating the entire thing.

  “Have you seen my veil?” A girl stumbles toward me, soaked to the bone, ice clinging to her dark lashes. It’s Molly. I want to tell her she doesn’t have a veil, but she’s already wandered off in a daze.

  I can’t tell if they’ve gotten worse or I’ve just gotten better, but this is pure insanity.

  Kiersten grabs Tamara’s hand, pulling her into the center of the clearing. They’re dancing wildly, spinning faster and faster, laughing and shrieking into the inky darkness, when a flash of lightning needles through the sky, striking the earth before them. I can smell the electricity in the air, but it’s more than that. I smell burning hair and searing flesh. Tamara is on the ground, her body convulsing in a shallow puddle.