Fated To Die: YA dark retelling (The Retelling Series Book 1)

by TARA GALLINA

  “How about I walk with you?” I loop our arms as we continue down the street. The cottages have all been turned into shops along this stretch. No one wants to live on the “Cursed Road,” as villagers call it.

  During the day, these stores are bustling with families. My favorite shop comes into view. Mrs. Potterfield’s bakery. The twins love her pastries. I should have gotten them a few. The treats would have been a sweet distraction for them, especially since they know what is happening.

  We reach the last of the cottage shops and stop at the foot of the bridge. Tulia shakes beside me, or maybe I’m the one trembling with fear.

  Thick fog rolls from the woods to cover half of the bridge. The temperature drops and goosebumps raise my skin. Is it a sign? I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going on. Dread unfurls inside me like a snake sensing danger. My senses heighten. Every sniffle, whisper, and whimper pierce my ears. The fog rises like a wall, blocking the trees.

  Nighttime falls in an instant. Tulia gasps and glances over her shoulder. “I can’t see the village,” she whispers.

  A hedge of fog moves in from the rear as if the two vapor masses intend to squash us.

  We huddle closer, shaking against each other as we wait.

  “Look,” a girl calls out.

  I follow her finger, pointing at the wall of mist by the woods. Gold sparks appear like starbursts in the gray haze. They twirl and dance, drawing together to form a name—the name.

  I focus on my white skirt, as if not looking will ensure the name won’t be mine.

  “You can let go of me. I’m not afraid anymore.” Tulia wiggles her arm out from mine.

  I’d forgotten we were linked. “You’re not?” I look into her emerald green eyes.

  She tucks a strand of red hair behind her ear, her features soft with relief. “The first letter is not a T.”

  My gaze drifts to the girls around me. Some of them appear to be as relieved as Tulia.

  “You should look at the name,” she says.

  “Why?”

  Her lips press together with a sad smile. “It starts with a P.”

  My mind races to think of names starting with that letter. A few girls in the village come to mind. Penelope. Petra. Prism. Those three happen to be newly married, but there are more girls whose names start with a P. I am sure.

  Collective sighs pour from the girls, cutting the tension in the air. They’re hugging each other. Why? Is it done?

  I turn to Tulia. She’s no longer at my side. Instead, she’s backing away from me along with the other maidens, sorrow etched on her freckled face. “Sorry,” she mouths.

  My stomach drops to my feet. It’s not me. It can’t be. Slowly, I turn to read the golden name before it fades into the mist.

  Preya.

  Dread fills my veins. “No,” I cry in a whisper.

  “Come ... to ... me ... Messenger.” The voice slithers through the air like a chill, seeking me out. From the fog, a bony hand forms with long, pointed nails.

  It reaches out to me. I stumble back and trip. The mist encircles my torso and draws me across the bridge.

  “No!” I cry, struggling to get away. I reach out for the girls—for Tulia. “Help me!”

  They watch in horror from a safe distance.

  My father bursts through the huddled girls. “Preya,” he shouts.

  A few men grab him and hold him back.

  The look on his face, I’ll never forget. It’s not fear or worry dragging his features down. It’s hurt and heartache because he knows I betrayed him. He knows I didn’t go through with it last night. I gave him false hope and, in my selfish act, have ruined the family forever.

  A sob breaks from me and my knees buckle. I don’t collapse. The fog won’t let me. Like a dense cloud, it surrounds me on all sides, squeezing my body and blocking my sight.

  Any tighter and it will crush me. Maybe it should.

  Maybe I deserve it for betraying my father and sisters.

  CHAPTER 3

  The fog doesn’t squash me. Eventually, I feel the ground under my feet, and my own weight on my legs. Was I traveling and does this mean I’ve arrived?

  Time has passed, though I don’t know how much. Minutes? An hour? It feels longer, but I’ve too much fear in me to know for sure.

  I haven’t moved, afraid of what will happen if I do. Now that I’m on my feet, perhaps I should. Before I do, I listen for sounds of another person or something that will alert me to my whereabouts.

  Silence greets my ears.

  Is this how I am to remain, trapped in fog until I’m called to duty? No. There must be more.

  Pushing through my fear, I raise a shaky hand. It penetrates the mist as easily as if I were walking through fog. Even though I have no idea where I am—the woods, the edge of the bridge, a cliff—I take a step forward.

  Nothing happens.

  Tension leaves my shoulders, and I slump. This is how the merciless creature of the woods greets her Messenger—slave? I expected more. Perhaps, the tales in the village are more myth than truth.

  I take another step and am about to run when something squeezes my arm. The touch is solid, nothing like the chilling embrace from the fog. To my surprise, a male’s black-sleeved arm stretches through the mist, his gloved hand clutching me tight.

  “Excuse me, sir?” I try to pull my arm free. “You’re hurting me.”

  The person hidden within the mist doesn’t release me or even soften his grip.

  “Hello?” I turn toward him, lessening the strain on my arm. “Can you not hear me, or do you want to hurt me?”

  When he doesn’t respond, I take measures into my own hands and try to pry his fingers from my skin. When that doesn’t work, I flatten my hand and chop at his wrist to break his hold.

  The arm yanks back into the fog, and a groan sounds—one that is no doubt human.

  Confusion drowns my fear. Who did I just hurt, and if the person is human, should I run or confront him? It may be a brave soul from the village here to help.

  Before I can make up my mind, the person’s arm reappears through the mist, hooks my waist, and tugs me to him.

  My head snaps back, and my body crushes against a tall, hard figure barely visible in the haze.

  “Who-who are you?” I ask, slight of breath. His lean build and height are similar to Espen’s and other boys in the village. Does that mean he’s around their age—my age? I peer up at his face, trying to see through the mist with no luck.

  His head tilts down, then he leans closer as if staring deep into my eyes. His breath catches with a sharp inhale and he jumps back, releasing me and leaving me even more confused.

  The fog hugs his body like a thin barrier, obscuring everything about him from my view except for his darker clothing where the haze has a muddier tint. If shadows were solid and able to move on their own, they’d be like this.

  He lifts his hand and points to my skirt.

  The hem of the sheer top layer is caught by my knee. Quickly, I smooth the fabric so it covers the satin underlay. Long white curls fall over my shoulders. My braid must have come undone. I sweep my hair back and straighten my posture, trying not to appear afraid.

  Again, I ask, “Who are you?”

  He remains silent and holds out his hand for me to take.

  I step back and shake my head, confused for so many reasons. I expected to be dragged through the woods and greeted by hideous creature from the river. I expected a wet greeting. A monstrous greeting.

  Actually, I didn’t know what to expect. Little is known about what happens to the maidens after they’re taken because none have returned to tell their tale.

  The man—boy—misty person tilts his head at severe angle. Father does the same to the twins when they disobey him.

  He thrusts his hand toward me again. His message clear—take it or else.

  Still, I don’t. I can’t. “Who are you?” I demand, but my voice sounds weak.

  His chest expands with what app
ears to be a deep breath. “Why do you purposefully defy the rules?”

  He speaks? And his voice… I didn’t expect it to be so eloquent given his tall, ominous presence. It’s young sounding too, not gravelly like Father’s, confirming my suspicion about his age.

  The idea eases my nerves no matter how naïve the response might be. Could the Washer Woman be dead? Am I lucky enough for that to occur? Or, am I mistaken, and the Washer Woman is really a man?

  “Now you choose to be quiet?” the boy remarks.

  I open my mouth to answer, but another question comes out. “Is that always around you?” I gesture to the fog and reach for the cloud around his arm. My fingers pass through moist haze, and I touch the velvety fabric of his sleeve.

  He jerks his arm away. “Are you not afraid?”

  I draw my hand to my chest. “Yes. I am. I suppose. I’m trembling a little. But I’m curious, too. I didn’t expect you. I expected her.”

  “My mother doesn’t greet Messengers. I’m in charge until she summons for them.”

  “She has a son?” I gasp. “How?”

  He tilts his head in that sharp way again.

  “I mean no disrespect. I’m confused. No one speaks of your existence or of the Washer Woman having a son. I didn’t know it was possible.” Is it, or is this a form of trickery by the curse? Once again, I’m reminded of how little we know about the Washer Woman.

  The boy inhales another chest-expanding breath. “Shall I remind you of the rules?” His words are tight.

  “You’re angry with me.” I take another step away from him.

  “And you are out of chances. Understand the next rule you break will have a consequence beyond my control.”

  I try my hardest to recall the rules Mother told me when I was seven. At the time, the fear of the Washer Woman overwhelmed my mind, leaving little room for the rules. Mother and I rarely spoke of the curse after that day, and then she was Fated to Die, and I was left to pick up the pieces of our broken home.

  “Um … I might need a refresher course, if you don’t mind,” I say. Razor sharp pain shoots up my spine as if a hot blade sliced my back. My knees buckle, and I drop to the ground.

  “I warned you,” the shadowed-boy says as he leans over me.

  The burning sensation grows stronger, like the wound is being cauterized with fire. My muscles clench and my back arches. I force myself into a ball, desperate to ease the pain, and beg, “Help … please. Help … me.”

  “Try to breathe through the pain. It should be gone in a moment.”

  I work to slow my breathing. The burning starts to fade. When it’s gone, my body goes limp with a relieved exhale. Sweat coats my skin, and my muscles twitch with fatigue, as if I’d carried buckets of water from the river to the barn all day.

  Slowly, my strength returns. As soon as I’m able to speak, I blurt, “You monster! What kind of gentleman leaves a maiden to writhe in pain without helping her?”

  He offers his mist-covered hand.

  “Now you want to help me?” I swat him away. “Forget it. I’ll help myself.”

  Not fully recovered, I roll onto my side and push myself to my feet. Out of fear, I place a hand on my back for support as I straighten. To my relief, no pain returns.

  Once I’m upright, I lift my chin and glare at the cloaked male. “Did you do that to me?”

  “You did it to yourself. You broke a rule.” His tone is calm, void of emotion.

  Anger surges through me, restoring my energy. It must fuel my brain, too, because a memory of the rules returns to my mind.

  “Once the Washer Woman sets the rules,” Mother explained, “you dare not break them or risk becoming her slave until the next Summer Solstice.”

  “Only the Washer Woman can set the rules,” I inform the boy. “Since I haven’t seen her yet, I haven’t broken any.”

  “I don’t know what you think this is,” he snaps, “but a game it is not. The rules were set by the curse. You abide by those rules or suffer the consequences. If one is broken to me the consequence is pain. If one is broken to my mother, the consequence is far worse.”

  It is believed the Washer Woman enslaves maidens who break the rules under the river with her, where she lies dormant until the next Summer Solstice. Only one Messenger has ever resurfaced. It was the week before the Summer Solstice. A hunter from the village found her in the woods near the river’s edge.

  Slime covered her green-tinted skin, and a white film coated her eyes. She kept whimpering the same words, “Dark, lonely, free of sins.”

  The apothecary treated her where she was found, fearing what would happen if they tried to move her fragile body. Still, the Council was determined to get answers from her. Though weak, she was able to explain she’d broke the rule of looking at the Washer Woman.

  She said the woman appeared beautiful at first, with a slender build and long dark hair, but up close, fish scales covered her skin. She had serpents for hair, eyes as silver as lightning, and her mouth was a black hole, ready to devour the souls of those Fated to Die. However, she never mentioned a mist-covered boy or the Washer Woman having a son.

  The reality of the situation and what I am to face crashes over me. My legs tremble and grow weak. This is real. I am a prisoner and likely to die. I will never see my family again. They won’t survive another loss. They’re barely making it as it is. I hold them together. They need me, and in truth, I’m not ready to die. Not now and not like this.

  I have to make it back to them. I need to be strong and get through this. If anyone can do it, it’s me. Preya Weir, outcast of the village, nicknamed Stone Beauty for my ability to hide my emotions. I reveal nothing, least of all my fear or pain. Perhaps the mockery and exclusion I’ve faced my entire life prepared me for this moment, so I could be the first maiden to earn her freedom from the curse.

  Doing what I do best, I push back my shoulders and put on a brave face. “I am ready to obey.”

  The cloaked boy turns his head to me but doesn’t respond. His body is still, the mist seeming frozen all of a sudden.

  Have I shocked him with my change in behavior?

  “Much better,” he says with a nod and gestures to his left. The fog surrounding us parts, revealing dark woods. An orange glow lingers around the trees. The sun has set? I’ve been in this fog for longer than I imagined.

  With cautious steps, I exit the haze. A path appears in the woods.

  “Follow it to the end,” he instructs, standing close behind me.

  I do as I’m told, surveying the area as I go in search of anything familiar. The ground turns mushy. Mud covers my satin slippers and coats the hem of my white dress. Moisture thickens the air and dampens my skin.

  The orange glow fades from the woods, turning everything to night. Silver illuminates the path as if the moon is showing me the way. It must be huge tonight. I search the black sky, finding nothing, not even a twinkling star. It doesn’t make sense, especially since the ground still shimmers with silver light.

  The path grows longer with each step as a new portion brightens the darkness ahead. I scan the area for the lights of the village, hoping to get a sense of how far we are in the woods. Nothing ever appears.

  The shadowed-male stays close behind me. His steps become so quiet I peek over my shoulder to see if he’s still there. He is, of course.

  “Are you always covered in fog?” I ask, tired of the silence, tired of walking, tired period.

  “No.”

  “Why are you covered in it now then?”

  “When we are out, I am cloaked. When we are in, you are.”

  My steps falter. “What do you mean I’m cloaked? Not like you, I hope. My skin will shrivel and prune in all that mist.”

  “Keep walking.”

  I shuffle onward and try not to stutter when I ask, “You said ‘when we are in’ I’m cloaked. Where is in? The river?”

  “You will soon find out.”

  I stop and focus on his hazy face. “Is that pa
rt negotiable?”

  His shoulders hitch, and he makes a small throaty sound. Either he’s in pain or he’s laughing at me. I sense it’s the latter.

  He straightens as if collecting himself. “You should not be speaking. Rules are rules.”

  “Can you at least tell me how they work? How many questions can I ask before—”

  “You’re writhing in fiery pain again?” he says in a mocking tone. “Keep talking and you will find out for yourself.”

  I shrink back with detest. “You are a cruel monster.”

  He stiffens and the mist stops swirling. “I am no monster. I am the Keeper of the Messenger. Nothing more, nothing less. I speak in truths and warnings, and I warn you again, too many questions will result in pain.”

  “Help me then,” I plead.

  His head tilts to the side a little like he’s considering my request. The mist resumes its dance around him. I take it as a good sign, until he points a misty finger at my mouth. “Only speak when spoken to.”

  My jaw drops and I exhale a frustrated breath. “Why are you being so difficult?”

  “Me?” He sounds aghast. The mist freezes and his posture turns rigid again. “You are the difficult one. Now walk.” He points down the trail.

  Has anyone ever irritated me this much? With my jaw clenched, I glare at him for a moment before turning and stomping off. So much for keeping my emotions guarded.

  I maintain a steady pace and focus on my surroundings rather than my anger. Farther down the trail, the darkness lightens enough for me to see the woods and what looks like a cottage.

  Two huge tree trunks press against the sides of the small structure as if to hold it in place or keep it from escaping. The thatched roof dips in the middle. From the pressure? A crooked wooden door marks the entrance. Similar to the path, silver light showers the cottage like shimmering mist. As we draw closer, the damaged exterior shows wear and tear with large holes in the wood siding.

  I cross my arms around my mid-section and eye the Keeper, awaiting an explanation.

  He gestures to the door. “Welcome to your home.”

  My throat tightens as I survey the dilapidated structure. “I can’t live in that. It’s not even stable. The roof could cave in and crush me. The holes in the framing are hazards too, easy access for hungry animals and poisonous snakes.”