The Grace Year

by Kim Liggett

  Helen staggers forward to get a closer look and then covers her mouth. It’s hard to tell if she’s laughing or crying—maybe she doesn’t even know which.

  Another flash of lightning beats down, making everyone duck for cover, everyone except Kiersten, who’s grabbing Tamara’s twitching arms, dragging her toward the fence. “Open the gate,” Kiersten yells.

  “Wait … what are you doing?” I run into the clearing, but Kiersten shoves me out of the way.

  “I’m doing her a mercy,” Kiersten says.

  Tamara’s eyes lock in on mine. She still can’t speak, but I see the terror.

  “You can’t.” I get back on my feet. “She’s still breathing.”

  “Do you want her sisters to be sent to the outskirts?” Kiersten asks. “She deserves an honorable death.”

  As the girls rush forward to open the gate, I plead with them to stop, but it’s as if they don’t even see me … hear me.

  Searching the clearing, I’m looking for anyone who’ll listen when I see Gertrude hiding behind the punishment tree, tears streaming down her face. That’s how I know she’s still in there: no matter what’s happening, no matter how far we fall, somewhere inside, she knows this is wrong.

  As they lift Tamara’s body to throw her out of the encampment, an enormous flash of lightning erupts over the camp, illuminating her face stretched into a soundless scream of horror.

  The light dissipates; the dense thud of Tamara’s body hits the ground. The eerie creak of the gate is followed by the clunk of the closing latch, like the final nail in a coffin.

  Crowding against the fence, the girls press their faces against the gaps in the splintery wood, vying for a glimpse.

  Sick caw noises echo from the shore.

  As heavy footsteps descend on the other side of the gate, I back away.

  I don’t need to see it to know what’s happening. I can hear it. I can feel it—blades ripping into flesh, Tamara’s soundless scream winding up, building steam until that’s all I can hear.

  A few of the girls have to turn away, Jessica clenching her eyes shut, Martha crouching on the ground, everything in her stomach coming up at once, but they will never be able to escape what they’ve witnessed. What they’ve done. The rest stand there, unable to tear their eyes away from the carnage—this feels like judgment to them, God’s will, but it’s really just the will of Kiersten.

  “You killed her,” I say. “Tamara was one of your closest friends, and you murdered her.”

  Kiersten turns on me, a savage look in her eyes.

  “Is … is that Tierney?” Helen staggers toward me, Dovey peeking out of the pocket of her cloak.

  “She’s back?” Katie asks, poking at my arm. “How?”

  Jenna gets right in my face. Her pupils are so large they look like flat black marbles. “Is she a ghost?”

  Kiersten picks up the axe resting against the fence. “There’s only one way to find out.”

  As she stalks toward me, I’m backing up to the perimeter.

  With every step, I feel the weight in my limbs, my blistered feet sloshing around in my boots, my heart throbbing in my throat.

  The girls are buzzing all around me, like black flies on a fresh carcass.

  “Everyone knows ghosts don’t bleed … so all we have to do is—” Kiersten loses her balance and stumbles forward, slamming into me with such force that it makes me stagger back a few steps.

  The girls look on with wide eyes. Kiersten’s jaw goes slack; there’s a low, nervous chuckle seeping from her throat.

  And soon, they’re all laughing.

  Following their gaze, I look down to find the axe embedded between my shoulder and my chest. It looks fake—like the sawed-off iron spikes we glue onto Father Edmonds’s hands and feet for the crucifixion ceremony at Passover.

  Gripping the handle with both hands, I give it a hard tug, which only makes them laugh harder. I keep pulling until the axe finally gives, and with it comes the blood. Too much blood.

  They’re laughing so hard now that tears are streaming down their faces.

  They think this is some kind of game.

  But I’m still standing. And there’s no one holding me back anymore.

  Clutching the axe in my right hand, I take off running, barreling through the woods. I was sure they wouldn’t follow. I was wrong. My only advantage is I know the terrain—but what the girls lack in know-how, they seem to make up for in determination.

  “Over here,” someone screams behind me.

  Even tripping, running into tree branches, into each other, they seem to get right back up again, as if the pain doesn’t affect them. Maybe it’s magic or maybe it’s whatever’s infecting them, but my best bet is to hide, wait them out.

  Leaping over a fallen cedar, I scoot back into the dark recess to catch my breath. Two girls vault over behind me; one of them lands wrong, and the sound of her ankle snapping makes me cringe, but somehow she manages to get right back up again, limping after the others.

  I try to move my arm so I can get a good look at the damage, but it only makes the blood flow faster. I have to slow it down if I’m going to have any chance of making it through the night. Propping the axe between my knees, I reach under my skirts and rip a strip of cloth from the bottom of my chemise. The ripping sound is louder than I thought it would be. Quickly, I tie the cloth around my shoulder, but the ache is already starting to sharpen. I’ve seen enough of my father’s patients to know that the shock is what’s keeping me upright at the moment. Soon, it will wear off, and with that will come the pain. More than I can probably bear. If I can reach the spring, I can clean the cut out, assess the damage, but I have to get there first. I’m starting to gather my nerve to get up when I hear footsteps in the snow. One of the girls must’ve heard the ripping sound and doubled back. I’m holding my breath, keeping as still as possible. All I have to do is stay quiet, stay hidden until she moves on, but there seems to be something in here with me. A soft squeaking noise, tiny claws scratching against my boots. I glance down to see the tip of a skinny tail emerging from under my skirt.

  Forest rat.

  Now it’s climbing up the outside of my skirt. I think the rat is heading for the torn hem of my cloak, searching for a stray seed, but it crawls right past the opening, toward the wound on my shoulder. A cold sweat breaks out on my brow. Rats carry disease, and we don’t have proper medicine out here. I wait as long as I can, until I can’t stand another second, before I use my good hand to fling the rat from my shoulder. It flies through the air, scrabbling for position, managing to grasp the head of the axe that’s balanced between my legs. Before my mind can even process what’s happening, the axe is careening toward the earth, impaling the rat—directly at the feet of a grace year girl.

  Leaning over to peek into my hiding space, Meg Fisher whispers, “There you are.”

  I kick her hard in the face, she falls back, there’s blood gushing from her nose, but all she does is laugh.

  Grabbing the axe, I push past her, running to the only place I can think of, the one place no one, not even Meg, will be crazy enough to follow. Using the axe, I hack away at the rotting wood and dive headfirst into the gap in the bottom of the fence. I’m shimmying my way through when I feel cold fingers coil around my ankle.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Meg says, jerking me back. Jagged bits of wood dig into my shoulder. The pain is so intense that it makes me lose my breath, but I can’t let them take me.

  Digging my nails into the frozen earth, I kick and scratch my way to the other side, but as soon as I get to my feet, I hear a caw echo from the south. Stumbling forward, I take cover behind a wind-ravaged pine.

  “You can’t hide from me,” Meg calls out between grunting and laughing, straining to get through.

  Whether it’s the water or the food or the very air making her behave this way, this isn’t the same girl I knew back home—the one who passed the giving basket at church, who collected Queen Anne’s lace
from the meadow in the early-morning hours so she could place it under the punishment tree after her mother faced the gallows. I want to tell her to stop, think about what she’s doing, but she’s not in her right mind.

  There’s another caw, closer this time.

  I peek my head around the tree to find Meg’s black eyes glinting in the moonlight. A huge grin takes over her face, as if the corners of her mouth are being pulled tight by invisible string.

  “Got her,” she screams back toward the fence. “She’s right ove—”

  A low hum hurtles through the night air and then abruptly stops.

  Meg sinks to her knees, her eyes going wide; blood trickles from her open mouth.

  I’m trying to comprehend what’s happening when I catch a glint of shiny steel protruding from her neck. A throwing blade, just like the one that nearly hit Helen on the trail.

  I’m about to crawl forward to help her when I see a black shadow emerge from the south.

  Poacher.

  I try to keep track of him, but he’s moving so fast through the dark that my eyes can hardly keep up.

  As he descends upon Meg’s crumpled frame, I hear her trying to speak, but I can’t make out any words beyond the gurgling of her blood-filled throat. Grabbing her by the hair, he yanks her head back, exposing the pale skin of her neck to the moonlight; that shrill caw escapes from beneath his shroud. It’s echoed back.

  The ground sways beneath me. Gripping the axe to my chest, I sink down against the tree, pressing my spine into the knotty bark, desperately trying to stay in the present, but I can feel the blood leaving my body. I can feel myself slowing down.

  Soon, this place will be teeming with poachers. I won’t be able to get back through the fence, not before I bleed out.

  I’m teetering on the edge of consciousness. Maybe it’s the loss of blood, the sound of the poachers ripping into her flesh, the utter hopelessness I feel, but I begin to drift …

  There’s snow melting on my lips. For a moment, I’m back in the county, in the meadow, catching snowflakes on my tongue. I’m twelve years old. I know this because I still have a white ribbon. Michael and I are lying side by side making snow angels. When I roll over to get up, he gives me the queerest look—the space between his eyes crinkling up—the same way he looked when he held the rock over a dying deer in the woods last summer. “You’re bleeding,” he whispers.

  I check my nose, my knees—there’s nothing there, but he’s right. There’s blood on the snow, right where I was lying. At first, I think it must be a suffering animal that’s burrowed its way beneath the snow, but the damp sticky feeling between my legs tells me otherwise.

  I want to stuff it back in, pretend it didn’t happen, but he knows. Soon everyone will know. I don’t see it as a beautiful pain, something that will bring me closer to my purpose, closer to God, I see it as a sentence. Without another word, Michael gathers our things and walks me home. When we reach my door, he opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. What is there to say?

  I’m the suffering animal beneath the snow.

  From across the great lake, the wind finds me, whispering in my ear. “Time is running out.”

  Looking up, I find the girl standing on the shore. I haven’t seen her in so long, it brings a smile to my face.

  I know I have a choice: stay here and die in my memories, or embrace one last adventure. I’ve followed her for so long now, what’s once more?

  The clouds seem to clear, unveiling a moon so bright, so full, that I’m afraid it might burst.

  And suddenly, I know what she’s been trying to tell me.

  Time is running out … on me.

  Maybe surrendering my flesh is the only way I can still be of use.

  Because isn’t that the biggest sin of all for a woman?

  Not to be of use.

  Tightening my grip on the axe, I crawl forward. I don’t look back. Instead, I focus on the smell of algae and wet clay, and when the wind unfurls around me again, I know I’m headed toward open water. Toward home.

  When I reach the rocky shore, I use the axe to help me to my feet.

  Looking out over the horizon, I see two moons.

  One is real, the other a reflection.

  It’s just like the girl. Maybe that’s all she ever was, a reflection of who I wanted to be.

  Walking onto the ice, I wonder how far it goes … how long it will last. A few more feet … ten … twenty?

  As the wind washes over me once again, I close my eyes and hold my arms out.

  In this moment, I’d do anything for the magic to be true. I’d forsake everything just to be able to fly far away from here.

  But nothing happens.

  I feel nothing.

  I don’t even feel cold anymore.

  The distinct sound of footfall on the rocky shore creeps up on me. But it’s more than the sound, it’s something I can feel deep inside of me. Like standing on a razor’s edge.

  Peering over my shoulder, I can’t make out his features, but I know it’s him—the way he moves, like heavy fog rolling in over the water.

  With the dark gauzy fabric billowing around him, he looks like the angel of death. Nameless. Faceless. But isn’t that exactly what death is?

  As he steps onto the ice, I turn to face him.

  A deep crack needles beneath us, making us both freeze in place.

  I always thought if it came to this, I’d be able to face my death with dignity and grace, the same way I’ve seen countless women face the gallows in the square. But there’s nothing dignified or graceful about dying like this, being skinned alive.

  Lowering my chin, I square my feet, grip the axe with both hands, and stare him down.

  Maybe it’s Eve slipping under my skin, maybe it’s the moonlight, or my feminine magic making me cruel and wily, but all I want to do in this moment is take him down with me.

  Warmth is trailing down my arm, over my hands, making the handle slick with blood. But all I need is one good swing.

  As if sensing my intentions, he holds his hands out in front of him, the way you’d try to calm a skittish horse before ensnaring it with a bridle.

  I lift the axe. The moonlight glints off the blade, setting something off inside of me—a memory rising to the surface, something I thought I’d buried long ago: my mother standing over my bed, her eyes soft and moist, her metal thimble twitching in the lamplight. “Dream, little one. Dream of a better life. A truthful life.”

  And I wonder if she can see me now, if she can feel me, from across the great lake, over treacherous trails of thorn and thistle, if she somehow knew how all of this would end.

  With tears streaming down my face, I whisper, “Forgive me.”

  Tightening my grip, I heave the axe into the ice.

  At first, there’s nothing, only the shock of impact reverberating up my arms, settling in my wound, making it throb with every beat of my heart, but then I hear it, a dull pop followed by a long continuous crack, as if my bones are being split in two.

  He lunges for me, but it’s too late. As the ice breaks beneath my feet, I plunge into the frigid water, a straight needle shooting toward the depths, but my skirts billow up around me, slowing my descent. Or maybe I’m not drifting down but up. Maybe it’s the wind filling my skirts, making me soar high above the earth. My lungs are burning to take a deep breath. Whether I’ll fill my chest with stardust or water, I cannot say, but I feel my body slowing down. My heart thrums in my ears, my throat, the tips of my fingers, like a funeral dirge.

  Slow.

  Slower.

  Stop.

  With the moon lighting the way, I drift under a sheet of glass. I’m watching the world pass me by. I don’t feel sad, I don’t feel lost, I feel a sense of peace knowing that I left this world on my own terms. This is one thing they couldn’t take from me.

  I’m trailing my fingers against the surface when I hear a crash of thunder, a shattering of glass. Something tugs at my braid and I’m jerked
toward the heavens. Jagged knots are being dragged against my back. There’s something beating on my chest—a soft warmth on my lips. A burning sensation flares in my lungs; I’m heaving up liquid. When I take in a deep gasp, it burns—the air feels alien going into my lungs, a betrayal of some kind.

  I’m walking, but I have no feet. I’m drifting through the woods on a cloud of smoke. There’s a caw in the distance. A blood-drenched hand covers my mouth. My eyes focus on the one thing I can’t make sense of—two black orbs staring back at me, the eyes of my executioner. My enemy.

  Straining my neck, I bite down as hard as I can.

  And then the world goes black.

  I am nothing. I am no one.

  Only skin and bones.

  The sound of a serrated blade tearing through cloth seeps into my senses. There’s blazing heat along my back, my spine. Long, even breath pulsing against the nape of my neck. A heavy weight on top of me, all around me. I try to stay disconnected from my body, unaware, the way I used to drift away during a punishment in the square, but as life returns to my limbs, so does the pain. A deep throbbing sensation on my left shoulder.

  When the heat against my back leaves me, I see a man walk across the room, stark naked, pure muscle roiling beneath flesh. I want to scream, I want to wail, but I can’t find the air. Every bit of my energy is being taken up with violent shivering. My teeth are clattering so hard I’m afraid they might break. A blur of charcoal fabric swells in the corner of the room and the poacher is back. Black eyes boring into me from the void.

  Hovering over me, he pours rancid liquid down my throat. I try to spit it out, but he holds his hand over my mouth, forcing me to swallow.

  A flash of gleaming steel, followed by the sharpest pain I’ve ever felt.

  The blade digs into my flesh. It feels like he’s tearing my arm off, but it happens again and again and again, more times than I have skin on my arm. I know they believe the more pain, the more potent the flesh, but it’s a lie. I want to tell him the magic isn’t real, that all he’s doing is killing someone in cold blood, but something tells me it wouldn’t even matter.