The Grace Year

by Kim Liggett

  As the heavy liquid spreads through my chest, I know what this means. I know what this is. Death isn’t just coming for me … it’s here.

  The wind howls around me, and with it comes the smell of witch hazel and rotting flesh.

  Frantically, my eyes dart around the room. There are long strips of sinewy meat hanging from hooks. Tanned hides drying on a crudely made rack, and knives … so many knives, splayed across a rough butcher block table. My eyes quickly settle on a fawn-colored leather satchel, a series of small glass bottles lined up in front of it.

  His kill kit.

  The bottles are for me.

  Panic courses through my muscles. My heart is beating so hard I’m afraid it will burst.

  I try to get up, but I can’t move my arms. I can’t move my legs. The only thing I can move is my head, and even that feels so heavy, so bloated, that I can hardly keep it steady.

  I look down to see what’s become of me, but my body is hidden beneath heavy pelts. I wonder if the skin is gone from my entire body now, if beneath the covers I’m only a tangled labyrinth of veins and severed nerves being held together by congealed blood.

  I try to scream, but there’s something in my mouth preventing me from doing so. It tastes of cedar and blood. It makes me think of the horses from the county, with their braided manes, a bit inserted against the back of their jaw in order to control their movement. And I realize that’s what I am now. Under someone else’s control.

  Noticing my agitation, the poacher emerges from the shadows, covered in charcoal-gray shrouds. He’s been watching me this whole time. Probably enjoying it. He forces more of the noxious fluid down my throat. I’m choking on it, but he doesn’t care. I can see it in his eyes. I’m nothing more than a pelt to him. An animal.

  As the heavy liquid spreads through my body, I’m trying to decide if I should fight or give in, if I even have a choice, when I sense a glow moving from the hearth to my left side. It doesn’t flicker like a candle; it’s strong and steady as a northern star. As the light bends toward me, with it comes the pain. Agonizing pain. A soundless scream boils inside of me. The smell of burning flesh fills my nostrils. I remember hearing that some of the cruelest poachers like to brand their kill, play with their prey before death.

  On the edge of passing out, I hear a sound—boots trudging through heavy snow, the clank of wind chimes, only the sound is too dull for metal or glass. It sounds like heavy blocks of petrified wood clattering together.

  The poacher must hear it, too, because he lowers the iron from my flesh. A flash of fear in his eyes.

  “Ryker, you there?” An unfamiliar voice penetrates the small space. It sounds like it’s coming from far away.

  I let out a moan for help, anything but this, and the poacher shoves his filthy hand over my mouth and nose. I’m struggling against the fleshy part of his palm, for even the smallest bit of air, but he’s too strong. Meeting his cold dark eyes, I know that in a few short seconds he could snuff me out without the slightest hesitation, and maybe that would be for the best, but then I think of my mother and father, my sisters, even Michael. I promised that I would do everything in my power to make it home. Not in those glass bottles … but alive. And as long as there’s breath in my body, I will fight.

  But there are many ways to fight.

  Blinking up at the poacher, I feel tears slip from the far corners of my eyes, pooling in my ears. I’m silently pleading with him to let go. He must understand, because just as I’m on the verge of death, he eases his hand away. I’m taking in wild gasping breaths when he whispers, “One more sound, and it will be your last. Do you understand?”

  I nod my head. At least I think I’m nodding,

  “C’mon, lazy,” the stranger’s voice calls. “You’re missing out.”

  “Can’t. Sick,” the poacher replies, never once taking his eyes off me.

  “Then I’ll come up.”

  “No.” The poacher bolts to his feet, showing me his knife belt, one last look of warning before slipping through the heavy door covering.

  “Why are you wearing your shroud inside?” the other one asks. “Are you hurt? Did they try to pull you over the barrier?” There’s urgency in his voice, but it sounds thin and distant, like he’s talking through a narrow tube. “Have you been cursed?”

  “Only a fever,” the poacher replies. “I should be fine by the new moon.”

  I wonder how far away that is … days, weeks, if that’s how long he plans on dragging this out before he finally kills me.

  I’m struggling to get up, even lift my head enough so I can get a better sense of where I am … but it’s no use. I must be tied down.

  “Did you hear the news?” the other one says. “We got two a fortnight ago. One right by the gate. The other one made it clear over here to the southeast barrier. Your territory.”

  “Huh,” the poacher says. “I guess I must’ve slept right through it.”

  He’s lying, but it tells me something. They must not know about the rotting cedar, the gap under the fence. And by the way he’s talking, it can’t be far from here. If I can just make it out of here, maybe I can slip back through.

  “First one lasted a couple of days, had burns on its back and chest, but Daniel was able to render most of the flesh.”

  “Tamara,” I whisper, my eyes veering toward the glass bottles on the table.

  “The second one drowned in its own blood before Niklaus even got off its fingertips. At least it wasn’t burned.” He laughs. “Dumb, lucky bastard.”

  My chin begins to quiver. She wasn’t an it. She had a name. Meg.

  “They said there was a third. Blood trail led right to the shore, to a big hole in the ice. I tried fishing it out, but only found this old rag.”

  “Is that wool?” the poacher asks, a strange tension in his voice. “I’ll trade you for it.”

  “Why?” the other one asks. “It’s all ripped up … filthy. Probably full of disease.”

  “I can boil it … make a nice satchel out of it.”

  “Got any hemlock silt?” the other one asks.

  “Not yet, but I bet there’ll be some down in the cove come spring. Got a nice elk hide, though.”

  “Why would you trade a fine pelt for this? What’s going on?”

  “Look, I don’t like to rub it in.” The poacher’s tone changes. Light. Sunny. “But there’s plenty more pelts around here … if you’re skilled with a blade.”

  “Hey, I’m getting better,” the other one says with a robust crack of laughter. “Just get me within ten feet of prey and I’ll take it down. You’ll see.”

  They’re joking about killing … killing us.

  “We got a deal?” the poacher says. “Take whichever one you want.”

  “Your loss.”

  I hear something heavy being pulled off a rod. The same sound as in the market when the reindeer hides come in from the north. And then I hear the poacher catch something.

  As they say their good-byes, I’m straining my neck, determined to get a peek at my outside surroundings, but when he slips back through, all I can see … all I can focus on is the frozen gray clump in his hands.

  My cloak.

  Just the sight of him touching it fills me with rage. June made that with her own two hands. For me. It’s mine. He has no right to it. But clearly, he wants a trophy.

  As he hangs it on a meat hook on the far end of the room, hot acid fills my throat, but instead of turning my head, letting it dribble out the corner of my mouth, like some pathetic victim, I swallow it. I swallow all of it.

  I have no idea what he has planned for my body, but I have a plan of my own.

  Most of the time, I can’t see him, but I feel him watching me. I vaguely remember the sight of his naked backside, but I have no idea what his face looks like, what kind of deformity he’s hiding under his shroud. In my head, he’s a monster.

  The only time I’m sure he’s not watching is when he tends to the hearth, which he does with
an almost religious fervor. It tells me he’s disciplined. Careful. Vigilant. But I know how to make myself invisible, to play the broken bird. I’m a grace year girl, after all. I’ve been training for this my whole life.

  So I stop fighting.

  I stop spitting and screaming.

  And after a few days, the bit comes out of my mouth.

  When he raises the cup to my mouth, instead of trying to bite down on him like a wild animal, I part my lips, storing as much of the liquid as I can in my cheeks, and the moment he turns to set the pewter cup on the bench, I tilt my face, slowly releasing the liquid onto the peat mattress. The fetid smell of the insipid honeycomb used to mask the bitter taste of the poppy makes me gag, but nothing comes up anymore. Maybe that’s part of his plan, what he’s trying to do—dry me out like a piece of jerky.

  As soon as I stop ingesting the liquid, the world begins to sharpen. Unfortunately, so does the pain. I hide it the best I can, biting down on the inside of my cheek when I feel it gnawing away at me, but the fever raging through my body will not be denied. I know he’s just trying to keep me quiet so he can take his time, salvage every piece of me. I’m not sure if the blade or the infection will kill me first, but time is running out.

  When he leaves twice a day for water and firewood, I practice moving my toes, flexing my calves and thigh muscles, but my movement is limited because of the ropes. Despite the restraint pinning down my right arm, it seems to be working just fine. The left arm is another matter. It doesn’t seem to be tied down, but the slightest movement of my pinkie sends an unbearable bolt of pain ricocheting through my entire arm, settling deep inside my chest.

  But I have to remind myself, pain is good.

  No matter what he’s done to me, it means that I still have an arm. That I’m still alive.

  I count the steps that it takes for him to walk to the doorway. I imagine doing it myself, over and over and over again. Sometimes, I wake from a fitful sleep to think I’ve already done it, that I’m free, but the blur of gauzy charcoal fabric in my peripheral brings everything back to me … why I’m here.

  When he leans over me, I try not to look him directly in the eyes. I don’t want to give myself away, but it’s more than that. I’m afraid of what I’ll see reflected back. What’s become of me. When I feel my strength waning, I stare at the crudely carved female figures perched on the mantel. No doubt a display to remind him of how many girls he’s killed. But I will not be joining them.

  It takes eight more cups of forced liquid, and nine trips outside of the shelter for supplies, before he’s careless enough to leave his blade belt on the bench next to me.

  I try not to stare at it longingly, but this is it. This is everything.

  As soon as he turns his attention to tend to the hearth, I lift my arm from beneath the pelts. The pain is so intense that I have to clench my teeth together so I don’t scream out against my will. My arm is trembling, a cold sweat beads up on my forehead, but as soon as I grasp the hilt of the blade, something else in me takes over. A determination I haven’t felt in months. I will get out of this. I will survive. As I ease the blade from the sheath, fresh blood seeps from my shoulder, dripping onto the wood floors, but I can’t stop now. I can’t let go.

  Slipping the blade under the pelts, I start working on the restraint holding down my right arm. I’m prepared for a long arduous fight, but the blade slices right through, as if I’m cutting into a fresh block of lard. It startles me, but it’s good. That means it’s sharp.

  Switching the blade to my right hand, I twist my body and quickly sever the restraints on my ankles.

  As soon as I’m free, all I want to do is fling off the pelts and bolt for the door, but I have to be smart about this. I’m not foolish enough to think I can outrun him—not in my condition. Tightening my grip on the blade, I close my eyes and do one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life … I wait.

  I try to listen for his steps, but he’s so quiet—just like the first time I encountered him on the trail.

  I concentrate on his breath, slow and steady as the metronome in Mrs. Wilkins’s parlor. Everyone thought she was blind after she came back from her grace year, but I remember sneaking a candy from a silver dish once, her beady eyes darting toward me like an arrow.

  What if this is the same? What if he left the belt there as a test … a trap? I’m praying that he doesn’t notice the empty sheath … my blood on the wide planked floors … my body drenched in sweat.

  The smell of pine, lake water, and smoke fills my nostrils, and I know he’s close. All he has to do is lean over me, like he’s done a hundred times before.

  As he presses his wrist against my forehead, I hold my breath. I’m only going to get one shot at this, and if I miss … I can’t even think about that.

  Gripping the hilt as tight as I can, I kick off the heavy covers and lash out at him with the blade. A strange sound escapes his lips as he staggers back, clutching his lower abdomen. I’m not sure how much damage I did, but there’s blood.

  When I leap onto the cold floor, my bony legs begin to buckle, but I can’t give in to this. If I don’t get out of here now, I never will. Propelling myself toward the doorway, I push through the thick buffalo hide; the sun hits me like a bolt of lightning, blinding me, grinding me to a halt. The cold air bites into my flesh. I can’t see the poacher behind me, but I can hear him, dragging his body across the floor. “Stop … don’t take another step.”

  I don’t know where I’m going, what’s in store for me out there, but anything is better than this. As soon as tiny dots of muted color begin to prickle the backs of my eyes, I take my first step toward freedom … into nothing but air.

  I’m plunging toward the depths when something catches me by the wrist. I try to scream, but the pain is so eviscerating that it robs me of my breath.

  When the world slowly comes back into focus, I find myself dangling at least forty feet above the ground. The earth below is blanketed in thick snow, the northerly wind penetrating straight to my bones.

  “Grab on to me with your other hand,” a gravelly voice calls out. I look up to see the billowing charcoal silhouette of the poacher leaning over a narrow platform. Looking around, I’m shocked to discover that I’ve been in some kind of tree house this whole time … a blind … like they use back home for elk hunting. Only this isn’t for elk. It’s for hunting grace year girls. Hunting me.

  “Just let me go,” I say, tears stinging my eyes. “Do it, and all of this can be over.”

  “Is that what you want?” he asks.

  “It’s better than being skinned alive.”

  “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

  Blinking up at him, I concentrate on his face. I’m expecting the same cold, inhuman gaze, but what I find confuses me. I don’t know if it’s the pain or the cold or the sickness making me see things that aren’t there, but in this light, he almost looks … kind.

  Reaching up with my other hand, I grasp his wrist and let him pull me up. I could be making the biggest mistake of my life, but even now, after everything that’s happened, I’m still not ready to give up. Surrender.

  I groan as my body scrapes against the side of the rough-hewn wood platform. My naked body. Searching the room for my clothes, all I find is strips of linen spread out by the small hearth.

  “What did you do to my clothes … to me?” I ask, doing my best to cover up with my hands.

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” he says as he grabs a strip of cloth, tying it around his bloody torso.

  “But I’m naked … you were naked. I saw you—”

  “You were freezing to death. It was the quickest way to warm you up,” he says as he yanks a hide off the bed and tosses it at me. “You’re welcome.”

  I wrap the pelt around me, ashamed by how good it feels. “But I saw you with a knife … you skinned me … branded me.” I peek inside the pelt. Just the sight of the fresh blood oozing from the bandage on my shoulder makes me sway a little
on my feet.

  “I didn’t brand you,” he snaps. “I had to cauterize the wound, which you’ve probably ripped open again.” He moves toward me, and I back up against the wall, knocking over a pile of antlers.

  “Don’t touch me,” I whisper, my fingertips grazing a pointy edge. I’m ready to protect myself if need be, but he softens his tone.

  “May I?” he asks, taking a tentative step toward me, nodding toward my left arm.

  I don’t like that I can’t see his face. It’s disconcerting, but maybe that’s the whole point. The same way the veils dehumanize us, the shrouds do the same for them. One symbolizes pure innocence, the other pure death.

  Letting the pelt slip from my shoulder, he reaches out to unwrap the bandage.

  His fingers feel like slivers of ice against my skin.

  I take in a hissing breath. “What’s that smell?” I ask.

  I follow his gaze to the gaping flesh on my shoulder.

  I’ve seen enough stab wounds in my father’s care to know this one is bad, the kind that even the strongest men have succumbed to. A wave of dizziness swells inside of me, making me waver.

  “Tierney, you should lie down, you’re in no condition—”

  “How do you know my name?” I stare up at him, but my vision is starting to blur. “Who are you?”

  He doesn’t reply, but there’s a sound—like something heavy and wet, slowly sizzling in a pan.

  A flash of movement catches my eye. I squint into my mangled flesh.

  The room begins to lurch, but my feet are firmly planted on the ground.

  “Maggots,” I whisper. “The smell is coming from me. It’s the smell of death.”

  I dream. Strangely enough, not of the girl, not of home, but of here—this place, this poacher. A cool rag on my forehead. Biting into soft wood when he cuts away decrepit flesh. The woozy droplets of blood being wrung from a bandage into a worn copper bowl. The steady sound of a thick needle. In and out. Out and in.