The Grace Year

by Kim Liggett

  Kiersten reluctantly takes her foot off the blade.

  I grip the hatchet. The handle is still warm from her touch. The heat moves through me, something I haven’t felt in a long time. There’s a part of me that wants to return the kindness, an eye for an eye, but I have to remind myself that it’s the water making them behave like this. They’re sick.

  “Are they with us now?” Jenna asks, her eyes darting around the clearing like a scared animal.

  Searching the camp, I’m trying to come up with something that might appease them when I see Meghan standing by the gate, who might as well be a ghost with that complexion. “There’s one over there,” I say, pointing in her direction. “But she’s harmless. She’s just trying to find a way out … she just wants to go home.”

  As they stare at the gate, I know they’re thinking the exact same thing.

  Kiersten steps close to me, so close that I can feel her breath on my skin. “How did you survive in the woods without food or water?”

  I’m grasping for answers, trying to figure out what to say, when I think of the truth. Maybe there’s a way I can use this to get them to stop drinking from the well of their own accord. “The ghosts … they led me to a spring in the woods. I was very ill, but the water healed me.”

  There are whispers buzzing all around me, like an agitated hive.

  I’m thinking she’s going to call my bluff, strike me down, but instead, she nudges the cauldron toward me. “Prove it.” Roaches come skittering out onto her bare feet, but she doesn’t even notice. “Bring this back full of ghost water, or don’t bother coming back at all.”

  “Sure.” I swallow hard. “I just want to check on Gertie first,” I say, moving toward the larder.

  Kiersten steps in front of me. “I’ll take care of Gertie until you get back.”

  I know Kiersten well enough to know it isn’t a kindness. It’s a threat.

  Taking the hatchet and the kettle, I back away into the woods. I don’t dare turn my back on them.

  It’s not until I’ve been safely swallowed up by the foliage that I sink to the forest floor and finally let it out. I’m not sure if I’m crying for them or for me, but I have to find a way to make this right. To fix this.

  I may have broken my vows, shamed my family name, but I’m still a grace year girl.

  I’m one of them.

  And if I don’t help them, who will?

  Tucking the hatchet into my skirt, I find the faint remains of the trail I made all those months ago. As I’m hacking my way through vines and hanging moss, a needling thought creeps in. What if I can’t find the spring? What if it’s been swallowed up by the forest or dried out? If I don’t deliver the water, they’ll never believe a word I say. Quickening my pace, I pull myself up the steep incline, relieved to find the spring still there. Collapsing beside it, all I want to do is strip off my clothes, jump in, cool off, but I need to get back to Gertie. I don’t like the way Kiersten said she’d take care of her until I returned.

  As I’m washing out the kettle, I hear a soft scratching noise, the same thing I heard this morning before I crossed over the barrier. Following the sound, I climb the ridge and see something I’m not quite ready for. How could anyone be ready for something like this? The dead girl. Her stark white bones exposed to the surface. The last time I was here, only her skull was peeking up from the earth. I know that storm was vicious, washed away half of the ridge, taking my seeds down with it, but I didn’t think it could do something like this.

  As I walk toward her body, I see that she’s curled into a tight ball, every delicate bone in perfect formation; even the tattered remains of her ribbon are still coiled around the vertebrae in her neck.

  There’s a part of me that wishes I really could communicate with the dead. What would she tell me? Who did this to her and why? Leaving her body here is almost a bigger sin than the murder itself. We all know what an unclaimed body means to us … to our families. Whoever did this must’ve hated her so much that they were willing to condemn her entire family. Even after everything I’ve witnessed here, it’s hard to imagine a grace year girl being capable of such a crime.

  A wave of nausea rushes over me. Crawling to the ledge, I’m gulping down air, trying to calm myself, when I see the most astonishing thing. A pea shoot.

  It doesn’t sound like much, but grabbing on to some vines, I lean over as far as I dare.

  There’s life. So much life.

  Squash, tomatoes, leeks, carrots, parsnips, corn, peppers, cabbage, and chard—a show of abundance, so rich that it takes my breath away. “June’s garden,” I whisper, tears stinging my eyes. “I can’t believe it.”

  Grasping some leafy tops—the only ones I can reach—I pull up some plump carrots, and a few beets, before settling back on the ridge. It’s the best I can manage until I rig up some ropes, but this will make for a better meal than they’ve probably had in months.

  I want to sing and dance, kiss the ground, but the realization quickly sets in that I have no one to tell. Or the person I want to tell is on the other side of the barrier. He might as well be on the other side of the world.

  Looking back at the dead girl, I think of Ryker’s words. From death there is life. My eyes start to well up, but I can’t afford to think about him right now. I can’t afford to go soft.

  After chopping wood and filling up the kettle with fresh water, I dig out a clump of clay and place it in my stocking for safekeeping.

  Using my overskirt as a satchel, I tie up the firewood and affix it to my back. The vegetables go in my pockets; the wild herbs and bloodroot I collect go in my bosom. Getting the full kettle of water down the slope and dragging it back to the camp is difficult, especially with the heavy load balanced on my back, but this is the only thing that’s going to save them, save us all.

  When I stop to take a breath, I realize this is the point in the forest where I used to veer off to the gap in the eastern fence, but that’s not what has me choked up. There’s a thyme flower nestled beneath a patch of clover. It’s a low flower, one that’s so common most people hardly think of it anymore, but in the old language, it symbolized forgiveness. My first instinct is to think of all the people I’ve hurt, the people I’d like to give it to—Ryker, Michael, my father, my mother, my sisters—but they’re not here, and their forgiveness is out of my hands. There’s one person who desperately needs it, though, someone I’m completely in control of—myself. I did the best I could with what I’d been given. I stuck to my beliefs. I survived against all odds. I fell in love and gave my heart freely, knowing that it would be broken. I can’t regret the choices I’ve made, and so I must accept them. As I tuck the thyme flower into the top of my chemise, I hear something behind me.

  I’m probably just being paranoid. With good reason, considering that the last time I was in the encampment they tried to cut out my tongue.

  “Kiersten, is that you?” I whisper.

  There’s no answer, but I hear the same light scratching sound I heard on the other side of the barrier … the ridge. It could be anything—a small creature skittering through the leaves, a boar in the distance rubbing its tusk against a tree—but I swear I can feel it. Eyes on my skin. Like the woods are staring back at me.

  When I emerge from the forest, the girls gather round. They seem in awe that I’ve made it back alive—again—but even more so that I returned bearing gifts.

  Kiersten pushes forward to inspect the water.

  “Drink it.” Her eyes fix on me and I realize she thinks I might be trying to poison her. Glancing over at the well, it almost makes me laugh. Almost.

  Taking the clam shell from my pocket, I dip up some water and slurp it down. “See? It’s good.”

  She goes to put her dirty hands in, and I stop her.

  “The ghosts gave me this. I’ll share it with you, but if you try to take it from me, there will be consequences.” I nod toward the woods. “They say you can have one sip each, for now. The rest is for supper.”
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br />   I’m waiting for her to knock me out, at the very least scream at me, but all she does is hold out her hands, as delicately as if she’s accepting a sip of wine from the jeweled goblet at church.

  I dip the shell into the water and hand it to her. She sips it, savoring each drop, just like Mother does with the last of the dandelion wine.

  As she takes in the final bit, the girls line up for their turn. Kiersten stands guard, supervising them. I wonder what she’s thinking—if by drinking this she’ll become more powerful … or if this means the ghosts won’t harm her … whatever’s going on in her hemlock-silt-addled brain, I’m grateful for it.

  When the last one has had her taste, Kiersten motions for them to back off.

  As they slowly dissipate, I let out a long, quiet breath.

  I’ve found the one thing that still scares them: the ghosts of the fallen grace year girls.

  I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to keep it up—hopefully long enough to get them clear of the hemlock silt—but my first priority is Gertrude. Not only because she’s my friend, but because they always put her last, they put her out here to die, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let that happen.

  As I drag her cot out of the rancid shack into the late-afternoon sun, Gertrude blinks up at it in disbelief and then gives me a hazy smile. I wonder how long it’s been since she’s seen the sun. Carefully, using the clump I brought back in my stocking, I spread clay over her hair, her scalp, and wash it clean with a bucket of well water. I then grind the bloodroot stems into a thick paste, applying it directly to her wound.

  Limb by limb, I scrub Gertie’s emaciated body with basil and sage leaves. I’m trying to be gentle with her, not expose too much skin at one time so she doesn’t get too cold, but she’s shivering so hard that it rattles the rusty springs beneath her. I ask her if she’s okay, and she just smiles up at me. “Look how pretty the sky is,” she whispers.

  Fighting back tears, I look up and nod. She’s so incredibly grateful, but she shouldn’t have to feel grateful for this—for being treated like a basic human being. None of us should.

  Outside of the infection, she seems clearer than the rest. Maybe because she hasn’t been able to keep anything down—including the well water.

  I give her little sips of fresh water.

  “It tastes so good,” she says, latching on to the cup, trying to gulp down the liquid.

  I have to pry the cup away from her. “You need to take it slow.”

  I remember Ryker saying the exact same thing to me. It’s hard to imagine him caring for me like this. Bathing me, cleaning up maggots and puke. I even stabbed him in the stomach and he still took care of me. But I can’t think about Ryker right now. I can’t think about anything other than getting the camp clear of this poison.

  Shredding the kindling into long wispy threads, I arrange the firewood in the pit and hit the flint over and over and over again until I finally catch a spark. I’m out of practice, but the wood shavings catch like a charm. With the fire crackling, I stash some of the fresh water in an empty honey jug in the larder and use the rest to make a stew. Adding carrots, beets, wild onion, and herbs, I set the kettle over the fire, and soon every girl in the encampment is gravitating toward me. Even Kiersten makes an appearance, pacing the length of the clearing like a caged animal. She hasn’t asked for the hatchet back, so I keep it close, just in case they try to jump me, but all they do is sit there, licking their lips, staring into the flames.

  I wonder how long it’s been since they’ve eaten a meal. There’s a part of me that wants to refuse them, tell them this is only for me and Gertie—it would serve them right—but seeing them like this, emaciated, dirty, living-breathing-hollowed-out skulls, I have to remind myself, it’s not their fault. It’s the water that made them do all those things. As soon as I get them clear, everything will be different.

  One by one, I dish out the portions, and we sit around the fire, just like we did on that first night, but there are a lot fewer mouths to feed now.

  A noise rustles on the perimeter. The other girls must hear it, too, because all eyes are focused on the woods now. It’s the same sound I’ve been hearing all day, but I think it goes back further than that … it’s something familiar … a memory tugging at me … but I can’t seem to place it.

  “What are they saying?” Jenna asks.

  They all look at me, and I realize they think it’s the ghosts. My first instinct is to tell them they don’t want us to drink from the well, but that’s too clumsy. Too obvious. I need to find a way for Kiersten to think it’s her idea. If I come on too strong, too soon, she’ll know I’m up to something. Best to start small. And since I’m a terrible liar, I’ll start with something I know to be true.

  “It’s Tamara,” I whisper, the memory of her death making my throat feel thick. “She lived for two more days, had burns on her back and chest from the lightning strike, but her poacher was able to render most of her flesh.”

  They all look to Kiersten, but she pretends not to notice, staring directly into the flames.

  There’s another sound, closer this time.

  “Who’s that?” Jenna asks, peeking up through her fingers.

  “It’s Meg,” I reply.

  The girls get very still.

  “She disappeared months ago,” Dena whispers, the memory of her best friend coming back to her. “We thought the ghosts took her.”

  “No,” I whisper. “She escaped, under the eastern barrier … took a knife in the neck. Drowned in her own blood before her poacher even got off her fingertips.”

  “Stop … stop.” Helen’s shoulders begin to shake. At first I think she’s laughing, like she did on that night they threw Tamara’s twitching body out of the gate, but when she glances up at me, I see wet streaks running down her dirty cheeks. She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Maybe she can’t voice it yet, maybe she doesn’t know how, but I can see it on her face—the seed of regret.

  Looking around the campfire, it’s hard to imagine that in a few short months, we’ll be going home to become docile wives, compliant servers, laborers. Maybe for some, the true believers, they’ll think nothing of it—that everything was God’s will, a necessary evil so they could come home as purified women. Most have had their first taste of freedom—they might even like what they’ve become—but what of the others, the ones who only wanted to survive. When the “magic” wears off, when the memories come pouring in, how will they make peace with what happened here? The horror we inflicted on one another.

  But maybe the well water will make them think it’s all a hazy dream. They won’t be able to distinguish fact from fiction, dream from reality. Maybe that’s the look the women always get after they return, the one I can never decipher. Maybe they don’t even know what they’re feeling.

  Desperately trying to remember, but blessed to forget.

  After cleaning out the larder, I move Gertrude back inside. They made it clear they would make room for us in the lodging house, but I don’t trust the girls, not until they’re clear of the hemlock silt.

  Settling in beside her, I feed her a special broth I made with yarrow, ginger, and the remaining bloodroot. I’ve seen my father make it for his infected patients a hundred times before.

  “This should help ease your stomach, your fever.”

  “It’s good.” She takes a few sips through her chattering teeth, and when she looks up at me, I notice the same chalky red residue clinging to the corners of her mouth that I saw on my mother the night before I left.

  My mind stumbles over the memory. It wasn’t the blood of grace year girls, it was the broth. I remember the cold sweat on my mother’s brow, her trembling fingers, her near-fainting spell at the church. She must’ve been ill, but why would they try to hide it from me?

  Gertrude reaches back to scratch her head; I catch her hand. “No more scratching.” Ripping off a strip of my underskirt, I wrap the linen around her hands, tying them off like mittens.
“That’s why you’re sick. Your wound is badly infected.”

  “Wound,” she whispers, the memory of what happened slipping over her like the darkest of veils. “How will Geezer Fallow like me now?” She tries to make a joke out of it, but it’s no use.

  We sit in silence for some time before Gertrude speaks again.

  “Kiersten…” She swallows hard. “I need to tell you what happened.”

  “You don’t have to tell me anything, you don’t owe me any expla—”

  “I want to,” she insists. “I need to.”

  I squeeze her hand.

  I had the same urge to speak when I was sick, the need to share my story … just in case.

  “Kiersten found the lithograph in her father’s study. She asked me to meet her at church, in the confessional booth, before lessons so she could show it to me.” I wipe a cool rag over her forehead; she shivers. “It was the middle of July. Blistering outside, but the confessional was cool in comparison.” She stares at the flame of the candle. “I remember the smell of frankincense, the dark red velvet cushion pressing against the back of my knees. The ooze of beeswax dripping onto the pedestal.” A faint smile plays slowly across her lips. “Kiersten was squeezed in next to me so tight that I could feel her heart beating against my shoulder. When she pulled the parchment from her underskirt, it took me a minute to even understand what I was seeing. I thought…” Her eyes are on the verge of tearing up. “I thought she was trying to tell me something. I thought she was giving me some kind of a sign.” Her bottom lip begins to quiver. “I kissed her,” she says. “Like we’ve done a dozen times before. But we got caught. I wasn’t asking her to do those things in the lithograph. All I was trying to do was tell her that I loved her. It wasn’t dirty. I’m not dirty…”

  “I know that.” I smooth my hand down her cheeks, wiping away her tears.

  “When Kiersten threatened to tell you, I played along. I thought…”

  “What?”