Winter Rose

by Rachel A. Marks

  It’s strange how the stories go, how they grow and become alive in the believing.

  And I want to take them on and make them true.

  Maybe, in some ways, I have. I prayed curses on them over and over until my throat felt parched. Then Hunt came after me. And the things he said...

  When Mamma was well, she fiddled with the herbs and mumbled smoky prayers, hands filled with burning clutches of thistle or sage. But I never thought of her as anything except Mamma. Could she have done something before she died? Maybe all her whispers to air and nothing were for a purpose. Pa always said she had a way with sending out wishes and causing trouble in the town we lived in before.

  Or maybe it was me.

  In any case, it’s done. And witch or no witch, I’m filled with a small sense of ease I haven’t felt for a very long time. The road remains empty. No more Becca tears or pain in the night. No more lingering stench. I set us free with murder.

  I should have done it sooner.

  *

  There’s no more food brought to our door, so we try other ways to find it. I’m the obvious choice for the hunt since it helps quell my anger. Becca seems to understand that and encourages my outings, content to stay and read her Bible or embroider flowers into the curtains with thread she pulls from her shawl.

  I take the freedom and revel in it. I get out of the dark shack and explore. I don’t have to listen to Becca’s constant prayers and the sound of my desperate stomach is muted by the song of winter birds and the wind rustling the pine needles.

  I have many fruitless outings into the pines before I figure out what I’m doing. Lots of our first meals come from the barn where I practice on smaller animals: bats, rodents, and little birds. I catch and pluck and gut and skin and feel my cold heart a little less. Their tiny bodies aren’t the most appetizing, but they keep us alive.

  I soon figure out more about how they think and what makes a good snag-line. So I decide to make traps to lay out in the trees where I know the foxes come around to look for shelter and smaller animals. By some miracle I might catch one of the furry beasts—maybe Becca and I can use the skins for trade, and the meat’s got to taste better than bat or mouse.

  I check the traps every day and watch for signs of life in case they need to be moved.

  For three frustrating weeks they remain empty.

  Then, one day, just when I decide I’m a fool and don’t have a clue what I’m doing, I find magic when I go check, spotting through the trees and underbrush, a dark heap lying in the snow.

  Excitement fills me and I can’t help smiling in satisfaction. My first catch. And whatever it is, it’s huge. A deer.

  No, maybe an elk.

  It’s a dark mound against the white ground, blood splattered around it like red rain fell in the night. I move closer, through the brush, and see a piece of my rope, tugged out and taut, across a fallen tree, like the beast tried to get away. I push aside a hanging branch.

  And freeze.

  A boot. A cloak.

  A lock of brown hair curls over a pale brow.

  It’s not a deer. It’s a man.

  My heart lurches at the site of his strong hands, clutching the snow. His back, broad inside his coat.

  Fear laces through me.

  I can’t tell what I’m afraid of. He could hurt me. He could be dead. I don’t have a clue which idea scares me more.

  His skin is pale and tinted blue at the fingertips, the lips. Tiny puffs of air emerge from his nose, slow, slow, and slower, like he’s fading away.

  I move around his head, to his legs, and try to get a better view of his foot. It looks like the knife I tied to my string trap impaled his calf. There’s swaths of blood in the snow and on his pant leg. The flesh that’s around the wound is dark and swollen—a sign he’s been here for most of the morning, a sign he might be past fixing. But it’s the cold that’ll kill him first.

  He moans, and I jump back, pulse quickening.

  His face turns and I see now, he’s covered in mountain dust, his flesh smeared with black.

  From the mines.

  I move back another step and have to clench my leg muscles to keep from kicking him. I consider pulling my knife from his leg and walking away, letting him freeze to death in the snow. It won’t take much longer.

  He’s a miner. He’s stains and soot and the smell of sweat in my lungs—

  “Help,” comes a scratchy voice. His violet lips barely move. His eyes crack open, revealing green. Shimmery green, like summer.

  I stare at him in wonder and shame. He looks so young. No more than seventeen or eighteen. He’s bleeding at my feet, and all I can think of is how I might make him suffer when he’s already in Hell.

  I take in a deep breath and then kneel at his side.

  I study the wound more carefully. I tear his pants and look for embedded dirt or sticks. I touch around the area, checking for places gone hard with ice. His eyes follow every one of my movements, wide and watchful. His brow is tight with worry. It could be my imagination, but he seems frightened of me.

  He jerks back when I look straight at him, and then I remember. My eyes. They give me away for the witch I’ve become.

  “Just be still,” I say, a little too rough. “We’ve gotta get that blade out and tie a tourniquet on the leg to stop the bleeding.”

  “You’re just…a kid,” he mutters. “Don’t touch me.”

  “Oh, and you’re an old man. Well, I guess I’ll just let you lie here, then. That is, until a pack of wolves come by to help you out of your predicament.” I take off my overcoat to free my arms up to work. “It’s me who set that trap and it’ll be me who gets you out.” I study him. “What’re you doing out here, anyway?”

  He shakes his head, like he doesn’t know the answer to my question—or maybe he doesn’t want to tell me. “Running. Running away.”

  “Running right into my trap,” I say.

  He looks like he’s still running in his mind, fear clear in his features. He coughs and clutches his coat closer to his chest. “There was a cave-in. In the mine.”

  “Another one?” I ask. When he doesn’t answer, I decide there’ll be time for questions later and say, “The wound doesn’t look too bad, but I’ve got to get the knife out, so sit still and look away.”

  He doesn’t look away, but he keeps still as a statue.

  I reach for the dagger with purpose and don’t let myself hesitate. I yank before I can think of the consequences or the pain I’m causing.

  He hisses through his teeth and his face scrunches tight in agony.

  I tear a strip from my skirt and cinch it tight to his leg, just below the knee, trying to stop the blood. Luckily, the flow is slowed from the cold.

  “We’re gonna get you somewhere warm,” I say. “But you have to help. Can you move?”

  His teeth start to chatter—from cold or from shock—probably both. He stares up at me, brow pinched in doubt and torment, then he mumbles something about witches eating him, before he passes out.

  Perfect. Now I’ll have to drag him back to the hut on my own.

  I sweep the snow flat as I can, then lay my coat down beside his body. I tug a leg, and push his shoulder, then his back, ‘til he rolls onto his stomach with the fabric underneath. I take the coat’s arm and an edge from the bottom and yank, hoping the weave won’t tear—it’s my only nice piece of clothing. The cloth works fairly well as a sled and seems to be holding steady, as I make my way, slowly but steadily, back to the house. He groans once or twice, but doesn’t wake. It feels like I’m dragging stones, the weight a reminder of what this young man is and what I might be bringing back into our world.

  I can’t think about that, though. I need to get him warm, fixed. Then I’ll worry.

  “Becca!” I call as the shack comes into view. “I need help!”

  She emerges from the doorway and runs across the yard, toward me, but as she gets closer, I see her eyes change. She slows and then stops dead in her tracks. �
�Wh-what’s that? What’ve you done?”

  The horror on her face makes me release dark laughter. God in Heaven, what’ve we become?

  “It was one of my traps. He got caught. I’m sure he’ll be fine.” I move and tug on her shirt when she just gapes and won’t move. “Take the other end, Becca, I’m exhausted and we need to hurry, he needs to get warm.”

  She goes closer but doesn’t move to help. “He’s a miner.” Her eyes turn glassy.

  “A miner that’s passed out and bleeding. He needs to get warm. Come on.” I see why she’s hesitating—I felt those same emotions only a few minutes ago. But I won’t let this one die. I won’t.

  I go pick up the coat tails again and pull, getting him to the porch, my muscles burning. “Becca, please.”

  She must not want to kill him either, cause she’s suddenly there by my side. She picks up his booted feet and we half drag, half carry him into the warmth of the shack. It’s difficult getting him on the pallet—Mamma’s pallet. There’s still dried blood on the hay, on the pillow. I’ll clean it tomorrow; now that it’ll be used again.

  I guess it’s good we didn’t break it up for fuel when Mamma died. I’m not sure why we didn’t. Maybe ‘cause the act of doing anything like that felt even more final than leaving her body in the snow. More than a putting away. A forgetting.

  I clean the wound as best as I can and then go to the basket of winter onions. I count three small ones out to make a poultice. He’s still, sleeping as I work. And Becca just watches me crush and heat and wrap it up to use. He releases a moan as I place the muslin-wrapped concoction on his wound, but he doesn’t wake up. Sweat beads on his forehead in spite of the chill so I dampen the fire a little.

  I sit by his side and stare into the dimming yellow flames while Becca makes a supper from what’s left of the same onions I used for the poultice and some pine nuts she found yesterday. I should eat, but I don’t. I can’t seem to make myself.

  I sit beside the young man all night, his even breath soothing to my ears. It means he’s still alive. I haven’t killed him.

  PART THREE

  Fingers graze my leg and I lurch. Sleep lingers at the edge of my vision. I release a muffled scream, still feeling the effects of the nightmare I was in.

  ...Hunt hovers over me, head cracked, blood dripping onto my face. The copper taste of death fills my mouth…

  I fall over, out of the chair, onto the wood floor. My elbow stings. My hip throbs. And green eyes look back at me from above.

  The young man is sitting up on the pallet, staring down at me with confusion pressing deep lines into his brow.

  I clamber to my feet and brush off my skirt, trying to get my bearings. The moon’s high, casting silver beams through the small window behind me. The fire, now only orange embers, pulses in the hearth. Becca sleeps, curled on her pallet across the room. A small sigh escapes her lips and she rolls over.

  The young man shifts closer to the wall behind him, gaping at me, like he’s looking at something terrifying. “Where am I?”

  I put more wood on the fire and stoke it before I say anything. His awareness is daunting, his masculine spirit an unwelcome presence in this house of female ghosts. “You were caught in one of my traps. You need to get warm. Rest.”

  “I shouldn’t be here,” he says. He pushes back the blankets and tries to rise. He makes it onto his feet, then cringes in pain, crumbling to the floor.

  I rush to him as he falls. “You’ve lost too much blood. You need to rest.” What a fool. Now I’ll have to get him back on the pallet.

  He lurches back when I reach out, and my frustration mounts.

  “Stop being childish. I’m not going to eat you,” I say, waving my hands at the plate of food left on the table. Then I glare at him. “Unless you don’t cooperate.”

  He swallows and goes still.

  I roll my eyes and point at the pallet he stumbled out of. “Get back in bed before you mess up my bandaging.”

  He crawls back to the pile of blankets and lies back down, keeping me in view the whole time.

  I go to sit across the room on my own pallet, beside Becca, who’s missed the whole thing, still safe in dream.

  “I need to leave,” he says, his voice rough and dry. “They might need me.”

  “Whatever you want. As soon as you’re well, you can go. So much the better.” I curl in my quilt, trying to still my heart. The more he looks in my direction the more I want him gone.

  “I’m Luke,” he says as he lays back down and slowly closes his eyes, like he’s trying to keep them open, but can’t. And after another few seconds I hear his breathing even out as he falls asleep again.

  But no matter how I try, I can’t find rest. The night turns to day, and sunlight climbs up the wall. And that ice in my heart starts to crack from the pressure.

  *

  Luke stays quiet over the next few days. His strength grows, but he’s still not able to walk. He starts sitting in the chair by the fire instead of the pallet, and watches us work and go about our day without a sound. He looks anxious, but I think it’s because he can’t stand being idle. At one point he tries to help stoke the fire and almost falls in. That earns a smile from Becca.

  I’m too busy hoping he’ll get caught up by flames to be amused.

  I’m not sure what troubles me so much about him. He seems like a gentleman in every way I know a man can be. He nods thank you, never asks for anything, and turns away when Becca and I speak to each other. I can tell he’s trying as best as he can not to be a nuisance. And now it seems he’s no longer afraid of us. He even gives Becca a nod of deference now and then. Apparently he’s noticed our lack of magic, or at least our consistent lack of excitement.

  But he’s a man. His hands alone frighten me, their roughened palms and obvious strength a sure sign of what he’s capable of. His broad shoulders make my insides shake, reminding me of Hunt’s shadow over me. It hurts to look at him, and yet I can’t look away.

  He caught me staring last night—his hair was turning gold and orange in the firelight and I couldn’t seem to stop watching the flames dance over the dark curls, I couldn’t seem to keep from being fascinated by the way he talked to Becca, all quiet and soft, like he might hurt her with his words. He glanced at me and I turned away, saying, “I better get more wood for the fire,” and then walked out into the cold air.

  I sat beside the pile of wood for a while, just breathing, and trying to get the image of his eyes out of my head. Trying to keep the heat of the fire from building in my skin.

  *

  “Rose! Rose, get up!”

  I open my eyes to Becca leaning over me, rocking me by the shoulder.

  “He’s gone,” she says, wide-eyed.

  I sit up and look at Luke’s pallet. It’s empty. Twelve days of his form filling the shack and suddenly he’s gone. I’m confused for a second, not sure what I’m supposed to do.

  “Rose.”

  “What?” I ask, turning my attention to her again.

  “We need to go look for him.”

  “What? Why? I’m sure he wanted to go.” We should be relieved. Right?

  “No, Rose, we need to go make sure he’s okay. He might’ve stumbled. Fallen off a cliff. What if he’s hurt? He was getting better, but he wasn’t fully recovered. He might still be unwell!”

  I look at her, stumped. Why’s she so worried about this miner? Are we his keepers now?

  “Rose,” Becca insists, her voice low and full of her seventeen years. “Get up.”

  I comply, for no other reason than to get her to stop saying my name. Why should I chase after a man who wants to go, whose very presence is a dark shadow over my world? We’re better off on our own. Without him there, always there, to look at.

  Becca hurries me into my coat and shoves my hat on my head, then pulls me out the door. The sky is a clear light blue, the air crisp and solid with cold. Light shimmers off the snow and I have to squint as she drags me through the yard and down t
he hill.

  “I think we should try the south path first,” she says, absently. “The cliffs are that way.” She points down the ridge and renews her vigor.

  I let her pull me for a few more feet and then jerk from her grasp. If I’m going, it’ll be because I mean to. “We’re never going to find him,” I say. “He’s probably—”

  But no sooner do I start to decide to turn back than a familiar figure appears out of the trees. He raises a brace of furry prizes in the air. “Mornin’,” he greets us with a smile. I’ve never seen a face shine in quite that way. “I found supper.”

  Becca doesn’t even scold him for taking off without a word. She bounds up to him, clapping her mittens together. “Oh, goodness, Luke. We’ll eat like queens!”

  My mouth waters at the site of the limp, soft bodies of the two hares. I forget that I’m afraid of him and allow him to look in my eyes as he smiles. It’s very contagious. I can’t help tilting my lips in response.

  I also can’t help saying: “What are you doing up? It’s not safe. I didn’t spend all that time fixing you, losing sleep, so you could just take off and fall from a cliff.” I know I’m being ridiculous. Even Becca looks at me funny.

  He stops in front of me and cocks his head. His mouth twists in an amused smirk, his eyes searching mine. My pulse speeds up but I can’t look away, like he’s locked me to him and I’m stuck.

  “You miss me, Little One?” he asks.

  The sound of his voice, sure and familiar, using that name, Little One, makes me feel about two feet tall. What, am I a child?

  I snatch the brace of hare from his hands and paint a smile on my face. “Thanks for the payment. You can leave now.”

  “Rose!” Becca says, shock plain in her voice.

  “What?” I say, swinging around to look at her. “He’s well enough to hunt. He can go. Unless you still want to give him something?” I challenge her with my eyes and ignore the hurt that grows into her features.