by Kim Liggett
“What does she do in your dreams?” Helen asks, nuzzling the dove under her chin.
“Usually, she leads me through the woods to a gathering.”
“What kind of gathering?” Martha props herself up on her elbow.
I want to shut it down, stop talking, but as I look at her eager face, I think, What do I have to lose at this point?
“It’s all the women—wives, maids, laborers, even the women from the outskirts, they’ve all come together, a red flower pinned above their hearts—”
“What kind of flower?” Molly whispers from two beds away.
I look over to find eyes on me from every direction. They appear to be hanging on every word, but I don’t stop.
“It’s a flower with no name. Five tiny petals with a deep red center. There’s something about it that’s so familiar, and yet I can’t tell you where I’ve seen it before. But I think Mrs. Fallow was holding one between her fingers when she stepped off the gallows. And I think I saw a petal threaded into the hair of a woman in the outskirts. There was one on the path from the shore to the gate. Did anyone else see it?” I ask, my heart fluttering at the possibility.
They look around at each other and shake their heads.
As if sensing my disappointment, Gertrude adds, “But we weren’t looking for it.”
I stare at the door. “Tonight, the dream was different, though. I wasn’t home, in the county … I think I was here … in the woods.”
“Was it scary?” Lucy asks, hugging her blanket.
I nod. I don’t know why, but my eyes are wet.
“I wonder if that’s your magic,” Nanette says, her brow buried in deep thought. “The dreams … the girl … the flower. Maybe you can see the future.”
There was a time when I wanted that to be true, more than anything, but in this last dream, there were no encouraging words, no comfort of the crowd. It was just the two of us in the dark woods. I’m trying not to let my imagination get the best of me, but I can’t help wondering if she was trying to tell me something. If she was trying to show me how I’ll die.
Pressing my palm against my stomach, I stretch out my fingers the same way I saw Kiersten do on that first night. “It doesn’t feel like magic. Do you feel anything?”
“Not yet,” Helen says. “But Kiersten—”
“Remember when Shea Larkin got those red itchy welts a few summers back and they got infected and she nearly died, and then all the other girls in her year fell down with the same?” I ask.
They look at each other and nod.
“They said it was a curse, that one of the girls came into her magic early, hid it and infected the others. My father treated them all, said the other girls itched themselves raw, but there were no welts to be found.”
“Are you saying they were faking it?” Martha asks.
“No. I think they truly believed it,” I say as I glance in Kiersten’s direction. “And that’s the scariest thing of all.”
The sun seeping through the rough-hewn logs fills the air with glittering dots of moted light. If I didn’t know they were flecks of pollen from long-forgotten weeds, or dead skin from grace year girls long past, I might call it beautiful.
There’s something about it that makes me hold my breath, as if breathing it in might infect me with whatever they had, lead me to the same bitter end—just another stacked-up, mattress-less frame—a flaccid red ribbon nailed to the gate.
Easing out of bed, I slip on my boots and tiptoe through the maze of cots. My body aches from the journey, the spent adrenaline lingering in my muscles, or it could just be from the unforgiving springs crushing my spine, but all I want to do is find a soft bed of pine needles and sleep the day away.
As I slip out the door, I take in a deep breath of fresh air, but there’s nothing fresh about it.
Every comfort, everything we’ve grown accustomed to in the county has been taken away from us. They even stripped us of our common language. There are no greenhouses here, no curated flowers, just weeds. Without it, I wonder how we’ll communicate. I want to believe it’s with words, but looking at the punishment tree, I can see it’s with violence.
After all, it’s what we know, how we’ve been raised, but I can’t help thinking that maybe we can be different.
Walking around the clearing, I take note of everything we’ll need to get through the year. At the very least, we’ll need a covered area for cooking and eating, a washing station … enough firewood to get through the winter.
Stepping to the edge of the forest, I study the ragged, hacked-off stumps marking the perimeter. It doesn’t appear the girls have ever ventured further than this. I wonder how deep it is, where it goes, how many creatures call this place home, but whatever lurks beyond the clearing, mad animals or vengeful ghosts, we’re trapped in here together by a fence taller than giants. The wind filtering through the branches makes the last of the fall leaves shiver. There’s something about it that makes me shiver, too.
I may not know much about the encampment, what happens to us here, but I do know land. This island doesn’t care that we’re grace year girls—that we’ve been put here by God and the chosen men to rid ourselves of our power—winter will descend upon us just the same. And I can tell by the chill in the air that there will be no mercy.
The sound of a stake being driven into the earth grabs my attention. Behind the punishment tree, toward the eastern fence, Kiersten appears to be erecting a series of tall sticks. I thought I was the first one up, but from the looks of it, she must’ve been up for hours collecting fallen branches, sharpening the ends. I’m thinking she must be building something for the camp—maybe it’s the start of a washing shed or even maypoles for dancing—but when she drives the last stake into the dirt and stands back to survey her work, I understand what this is. A calendar. One post to signify each full moon. This year, there are thirteen. A bad omen. I want to believe it’s simply a way to keep track of our time out here, but the placement is no coincidence. Back home, full moons are punishment days. Totems to our sin.
As if Kiersten can sense my presence, she turns and stares over her shoulder. My skin prickles beneath her gaze. There are twenty-six days until the next full moon. Twenty-six days to figure out how to turn this around. Because if I don’t, I’m certain I’ll be on the top of her list.
“Get back, veiled girls first,” I hear someone holler.
Peeking around the larder, I find Jenna and Jessica pushing their way to the front of the well, grabbing the bucket from Becca.
I want to sink back, disappear into the grainy wood, but those days are over. And I certainly didn’t help matters by getting in Kiersten’s way last night. I thought I’d be a lone wolf out here, but even after this short amount of time I feel a certain responsibility for Gertie and the others. The others. That sounds terrible, but that’s how we’re raised to think of it—the unveiled, the unwanted, the undesirable—what I should’ve been. But if I start thinking about that right now, about Michael, I’ll get so mad I won’t be able to see straight.
Taking in a deep breath, I walk toward the well. “Is there a problem?”
The girls at the front lower their veils and glare at me before traipsing off to join Kiersten.
We’re all standing there, staring at one another, wondering if anyone has changed in their sleep, but we all seem to be the same. Just as scared … just as confused. Last night, emotions were running high, lines had been drawn, but after a good night’s rest, all of that could change. I wouldn’t blame them. Kiersten clearly has it in for me. And Gertrude … well, Gertrude is a whole other story. I know they’re still a little wary being around her, but I don’t think she did anything wrong. I wonder how long it will take for Gertie to confide in us about what really happened.
“Do we have to drink this?” Molly asks, sniffing the water in the bucket.
“Didn’t Tierney say something about a rain barrel?” Martha asks.
Gertie nudges me forward.
I clear my throat. “
I thought we could use the well water for bathing and washing, and then rain water for drinking and cooking.”
“You heard what Kiersten said.” Tamara barges forward, fumbling to get her arm out from under her veil so she can scoop her pewter cup into the bucket. “We drink from the well.”
As soon as she’s out of earshot, Martha says, “How long do you think it would take to make one?”
“Couple of days,” I reply. “If we had the right tools.”
“Well, there goes that idea,” Martha says, dipping her cup into the bucket, drinking it down. She gags a little. “Only the best for the grace year girls.”
I don’t know if she trips or just loses her footing, but Martha seems to wobble on her feet, accidentally pushing the bucket over the edge. She grabs the rope, nearly going down with it. “I’m fine,” she calls out. With her skirts raised high in the air, we have to hold on to her legs to pull her back, and it hits me—literally hits me in the head.
“The hoops. We can use the boning from our skirts to bind the wood for the barrels.”
“But you heard what they said.” Becca chews on her cuticles.
Martha, now upright, her eyes bright with mischief, says, “They can have their water. We’ll have ours.”
The girls look at each other nervously before nodding in agreement.
Back in the county, cutting up our clothes, removing our underskirts would be enough for a whipping, but everything’s different now. The realization gives us a surge of energy.
After a humble breakfast of cornmeal cakes, we gather the axe, and any nails we can dig from the ashes, and head off to the west, in the opposite direction of Kiersten and the others, who seem to be doing nothing more than kneeling in the dirt and praying.
Maybe our magic will consume us, making us little more than animals, but until that time comes, until the poachers lure us out of the gate to be cut up and placed in pretty little bottles, there’s work to be done.
Toward the western edge of the clearing, we settle near a grove of ash and oak. I set my sights on a widowmaker near the perimeter. It’s dead, so it’s already seasoned, which will give us decent wood to burn until the other timber dries out.
I’m waiting for everyone to pitch in, give their opinions on the best angle for the first cut, but they look completely bewildered. Clearly, I’m the only one who knows how to do this, so I’m going to have to start with the basics.
“The key is a good split. Once you get it in there, it will eventually give. Like this,” I say as I slam the axe into the wood. Prying it out, I hand it over to Molly. She takes it from me as gingerly as if she’s accepting a flower from a suitor, but as soon as she gets her first bite of wood, she grins, gripping the axe a little tighter. When her arms have turned to soft custard, she passes it on to Lucy.
Lucy hauls it back for the first strike.
“Wait, wait, wait,” I call out, grabbing the hilt. “You have to at least keep your eyes open.”
Some of the other girls laugh.
“No, it’s okay. You’ve never done this before,” I assure her. “But this is serious. You wouldn’t believe the timber injuries I’ve seen in the healing house.”
At the mention of this, the girls pipe down.
“Here…” I position the axe in her arms. “Feet wide, strong grip, take in a deep breath through your nose,” I say as I back away, “and when you exhale through your mouth, lock eyes on your target and swing.”
Lucy takes her time, and when the blade makes contact with the wood, there’s a satisfying crack. As the tree begins to lurch, I’m looking up trying to see which way it’s going to fall, and when it starts to go down we all run to the other side, laughing, hooting, and hollering.
Cutting the tree into chunks and splitting the wood into quarters is grueling work, but it seems to be exactly what we need. The girls take turns going back to the well for water, sneaking dried apples from the larder, and as the day goes on, we’re talking and laughing, like we’ve been doing this for years. Maybe it’s being away from the county, being able to use our bodies to do something useful, but I think opening up to them last night about the dreams, about the girl, seemed to have given them permission to do the same. To be themselves.
Looking around, it’s hard to fathom that in a year’s time we might turn on one another, sacrifice bits and pieces of our flesh, and burn this place to the ground, but if it’s anything close to what Kiersten is claiming to be true? God help us.
As the girls pile up the boning from their skirts, I get to work on the rain barrels, cutting large discs from a mighty oak. I’ve only seen the men in the fields make these a few times, but I’m not about to tell them that. Confidence is key, that’s what my father always said. When he went on calls, even if he wasn’t certain how to treat someone, he never let on. He was afraid that if he showed even the slightest waver, they’d go right back to the dark ages—drinking animal blood, relying on prayer to heal them, or worse, the black market. He needed their trust. He needed them to believe he could help them even if he couldn’t.
As I get to work, cutting the planks for the sides, Ellie asks, “Why did your father teach you all this?”
An unexpected wave of emotion comes over me. “I guess I was the closest thing to a son he was ever going to get.” But even as I’m saying it, I’m wondering if it goes deeper than that. I want to believe he did this so I would be able to take care of myself out here, but if that’s the case, that means he knows exactly what this place really is, and he sent me here anyway. The night before I left he said teaching me was a mistake … like I was a mistake.
“Tierney? Are you okay?” Ellie asks.
I look down to find my hands trembling. I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here like this, staring off into nothing, but long enough that all the girls are watching me with concern. That’s never happened to me before.
“Here, why don’t you give it a try?” I say, putting the axe in Ellie’s hands, anything to get the attention off me.
As she pulls it back to swing, she loses her balance and goes spinning round and round, until she finally collapses to the ground, narrowly missing cutting off her own foot in the process.
As we gather around, Martha says, “Give her some air.”
Nanette brings a cup of water to her lips.
“I don’t know what happened,” she whispers, her cheeks flushed, her eyes struggling to focus. “It was as if my head got so light that it felt like it was going to drift away.”
“Maybe it’s your magic,” Helen says. “Maybe you’ll be able to hover above the ground … float among the stars.”
“Or maybe we’re just overworked,” I say as I pick up the axe, burying it into the stump. “It was a long journey.”
They look at each other; I can tell they’re not entirely convinced.
“Tierney’s right,” Martha says, flopping down in the grass. “Until something happens … until we’re certain … it’s best to keep our heads.”
One by one, we find ourselves lying in a patch of dried-up grass, staring up at the clouds, our bodies spent, our minds splayed open wide enough to speak without any more pretense.
“I don’t know what I was expecting…,” Lucy says, squinting toward the fence. “But it wasn’t this.” A tiny moth flutters around her, landing on the back of her hand. “I thought we’d be fighting off poachers.”
“Or battling ghosts and wild animals,” Patrice says.
“I thought when we stepped through the gate, our magic would rip through us,” Martha says, plucking a willow from the grass, blowing on the seeds. “But nothing happened.”
“I’m glad we’re away from the county,” Nanette says. “If I had to look at my parents’ disappointed faces for one more second, I was going to explode.”
“We knew I wouldn’t get a veil,” Becca says, staring up at the cornflower-blue sky. “I didn’t even have my first blood until May, and no one wants a late bloomer.”
“Better tha
n not having one at all,” Molly says. “I never even had a chance at a veil, let alone a spot in the mill or the dairy. It’ll be the fields for me.”
“I didn’t mind not getting a veil,” Martha says.
They all look at her in shock.
“What?” she says with a casual shrug. “At least I don’t have to worry about dying in childbirth.”
They look appalled, but no one argues with her. What can they possibly say? It’s the truth.
“I thought I was getting one,” Lucy admits.
“From who?” Patrice props up on her elbow, excited for a juicy tidbit.
“Russel Peterson,” she whispers, as if just saying his name is like pressing down on a fresh bruise.
“Why would you think he’d give you a veil?” Helen asks, feeding a bit of apple to Dovey. “Everyone knows he’s been sweet on Jenna for years.”
“Because he told me so,” she murmurs.
“Sure.” Patrice rolls her eyes.
“She’s telling the truth,” I say. “I’ve seen them together in the meadow.”
Lucy looks over at me, her eyes welling up with giant tears.
I’m trying not to picture her—eyes turned to God as Russel grunts over her, whispering empty promises.
“And what were you doing in the meadow?” Patrice asks, clearly trying to dig up dirt.
“Michael,” I reply. “We used to meet there all the time.”
“Just like Kiersten said,” one of the girls whispers.
“No … never.” I lift my head to see who said that, but I can’t tell. “Not like that. We’re friends, that’s all. I was as surprised as anyone when I received a veil. And even then, I was sure it was Tommy or Mr. Fallow.”
“I wouldn’t mind Tommy, at least he has all his teeth, but Geezer Fallow…” Ellie crinkles up her nose.
Nanette elbows her, nodding toward Gertrude, but Gertie pretends not to hear. It’s sad to think how good she is at pretending.
There’s an awkward pause. I’m trying to think of something to say, anything to divert their attention, when Gertrude says, “My parents called it a miracle. I mean, it’s not every day a girl accused of depravity gets a veil.” Her candor seems to disarm everyone. We all find ourselves staring at the thick scars on her knuckles. I want to tell her it wasn’t a miracle, that she’s worthy of a veil, but she’s right. A veil has never been given to a girl accused of a crime before, in all of grace year history, especially nothing as grave as depravity.
