Winterkill (13 page)

A birch flagpole marks the path to the Crossroads. If you should ever be unfortunate enough to see it, pray to the Almighty for His grace and mercy.

Why haven't I turned around yet?

My grandma'am.

The Crossroads lies just over the first hill at an intersecting path, and her remains will be swinging there. Right
there.

This path leads to my past, not my future. I close my eyes and grit my teeth against my disappointment. And then I'm washed with anger.

I need to see her. I need to see this woman who had such disregard for the virtues and the reputation of our family that she courted her own death.

I take a step forward. And then another. And another.

I brush past the pole—it catches at my sleeve as though it is willing me to stay put. I set my jaw and throw myself into climbing the sloping mound before me. It's slow going—I have to find handholds and sturdy brush to haul myself up the cracked wall of the coulee. My hands scrabble in the rock and my leg drags behind me, begging me to turn around.

When I crest the top, I'm faced with more hills and rock shelves marred by pockets of trees, reaching off into the distance. But at the bottom of this hill, dead center of a sizeable valley, it's plain as day. A circle of eight tall structures—shorn poplar trees pushed into the ground like arrows,
shorter beams lashed to them at right angles, and dangling from those, the gibbets.

I force my feet ahead, picking up speed as I hobble down the hill. A flame burning inside my heart spurs me on. I slip in the shale, sending a hail of rocks and dust around me, and reach the gibbets, breathing ragged.

Some of the bodies in the cages are near crumbled to dust—small jumbles of bones that the ice winds of
La Prise
have preserved. Scraps of clothing remain. The skulls are the best put-together—empty eyes staring into space, teeth bared in grins. Waywards from before my grandma'am's time, I guess. Two of the skeletons are intact, so they must be the Thibault couple. I think again of their sons, who nobody seems to look on with the same scorn as me and my pa. Doesn't seem fair. Course . . .

Course that couple didn't do what my grandma'am did.

A soft breeze comes up and one of the gibbets twists slightly. The iron lets out a soft groan. I pass between them, my eyes scouring the bones, searching.

There.

I don't know how I know, but I do. The skeleton is a jumble, forehead resting on the gibbet, a hand extended, missing bones. Shreds of brown cloth still cling to the sun-blasted carcass. I step forward for a closer look. The gibbets hang a good man's length above me, but I can see her plain enough.

My grandma'am's empty eye sockets size me up.

Wayward. Miscreant. Harlot
. Whispers that describe my grandma'am. They bite into me, pierce me like a poison, but I know those words aren't unfounded. I know she wandered the woods, failed her virtues.

And I know she propositioned a married man—the leader of the community, no less.

I step hard on my bad foot, wash myself in the pain. And the day my Stain came visible—that day rushes in on me, cold and merciless.

It was a warm late-summer day, my ma dead a year already. We were playing in the courtyard, barefoot and bareheaded, shooting stones in the dust. The adults were slaughtering chickens. I knocked one of the older east-quarter girls' point rock out of the circle.

I did it again. And again.

“Wayward,” she spat. “Nobody wants you to play.”

It was the worst name we knew. “Am not.”

“Are too. Your grandma'am was Wayward.”

“She was not!”

“Ask anyone here.”

The circle of children had low-cast eyes; they all knew something I didn't.

“Mayhap it's a family curse. You should leave before we catch it from you.”

I stood, my fists clenched. “Take that back!”

The girl stepped over our stones. “Or what?”

Rage in my chest, my hands landed on her shoulders and shoved her backward a step. Her face went dark. She put her hands on my chest and shoved. Hard. I staggered back a few steps; she kept coming. She shoved me again, harder still, and I stumbled back near the slaughtering blocks right when Brother Giles dropped his axe.

I push that foot into the earth. The blunt end came down first, thanks be, or I'd be short my toes, but the axe was heavy
and my foot was small, and some of the bones were crushed to near nothing straightaway.

I stare at the skull, a dull anger throbbing in my head.

Even if Brother Giles had never dropped his axe, I'd still be different. My child's eyes hadn't noticed the shifting glances when my pa and I arrived at settlement events. But I noticed them after that. Been noticing ever since.

A rage rushes in and roars in my ears. I look to the few stones scattered about, grab the nearest one, and lob it at the iron cage with all my might.

It bangs the metal bottom with a clank that echoes off the coulees around me. I grab another stone and hurl that. And another, and another. With each throw I curse my grandma'am's name:
Clara.
Smash.
Clara.
Smash. But it's not near enough to satisfy my rage.

I find a large rock, one twice the size of my fists, that takes both hands to lift. I don't have the strength to hurl it overhand and so I brace my bad foot, then heave it upward from between my knees. It crashes against the bottom of the cage with a satisfying bang that splits the air, echoing through the Crossroads. The impact loosens the decrepit body from its rigid perch, and the bones shift, dropping to one side and knocking the skull against the cage with a hollow crack.

Something drops from the cage into the dust before me. I scramble forward to snatch it up. A ring. I run my fingers over the tarnished gold band, picking away crusts of dirt and Almighty knows what else.

I hold it before my eyes. My grandma'am's wedding band? A family ring? No one wears jewels anymore—not even family heirlooms—since they're reminders of useless wealth. I
gaze at its perfect circle. And then I see a reddish-brown stain on the rock wall beyond.

I close the ring inside my fist and step closer.

There are figures etched into the rock in black and reddish-brown colors. I look along the rock face and see the entire wall is full of them, near blending into the earth. The drawings are simple—not like the figures I've seen in Soeur Manon's books—but it's plain they're people and animals, scratched into the surface with something sharp and hard.

I've seen something like this before—there's one on a rock near the riverbank that Tom and I found years ago. A left-behind from the Lost People.

My hands trace along the figures as I skirt the walls, outside the circle of gibbets.

I've never seen so many left-behinds in one spot. The pictures are a few hands' widths from each other: people next to a big herd of animals, people standing with animals below their feet, fire, sun, great swirls of black and red and brown along the top of the rock.

There's one part of the wall where the drawings get muddy and jumbled, like the scene was scratched in, smoothed over, and scratched in again. It's people, standing in a group. Beyond them, several more lie on the ground. Above that is an animal—several times bigger than the people—with horns, like those in the great herds. It has a long tail, like nothing I've ever seen, and clawed feet. It's standing on two legs.

The air in the valley gets real still.

The malmaci
.

I hold my breath. The heat bounces off the rock in waves, making the picture dance. A buzzing fills my ears as I watch
it shimmer, come to life. Then the beast is lunging forward through the pile of dead, grabbing the next person in its claws. I choke back a cry as it opens its maw and closes jagged teeth around its victim, gnashing and tearing the flesh.

The light shifts and the scene goes still. I blink. It's just a dusty etching.

I throw a quick look behind me, toward the gibbets. My grandma'am's bones are leaning awkward in a heap. But her skull is against the cage, and her eye sockets are on me. The glare of the sun behind her blinds me a moment, and when I drop my eyes I notice the long shadows on the ground, reaching across the space with greedy fingers. My breath leaves me in a rush. It's dusk.

Less than an hour before dark.

I stuff the ring inside my
ceinture
and spin around. A wind rushes in from over the coulees, snaking around me, through the Crossroads. The gibbets rock and sway, throwing frantic shadows on the hills. The creaking of the cages becomes an ear-splitting whine, drowning my thoughts.

I pitch forward, back the way I've come, stumbling through the swaying bones, hugging my arms tight around myself. I am halfway through this place of death when I feel the caged bones shift, come alive. They're reaching for me, grasping with brittle fingers. They're going to pull me up with them, into those cages of starvation where the sun blisters the skin and flies feed on oozing eyes. Where death comes quick if you are lucky—

I run.

Stumbling, pulling my leg along, scrambling up the hill, down again, past the flagpole, and into the brush. The woods
are a muted shade of gray, the sun's rays just slices of red peeking through the poplar boughs. My eyes strain to find the path, but it is gone. Each tree looks like the next, shadows loom at me from each side, and I am running, running, following only my instinct now.

The
malmaci
breathes hot on my neck, the Lost People urge me to hurry. Branches whip at my face, catch my hair, tear at my arms as I go. I hit the ravine unawares and near pitch down the bank. Catching myself in time, I slide, then tear my fingernails as I claw for the top. A rosebush tears at my cheek as I burst into the bramble, and then I'm running again. I'm nearing the Watch flats. I steady my breath and keep going, limping, dragging my foot. I'll make it back to the fortification, but . . .

How will I get in past the Watch? If they don't shoot me on site, mistaking me for the
malmaci,
they'll surely turn me over to Council. No one is allowed beyond the fortification after dusk.

The last of the sun disappears behind me, but I'm so close now. I could make it before they close the gates. I burst through the last of the scrub, into the thin birch trees, and find the torches already blazing. The Watch fires are being set atop the walls, and I can hear shouts as Watchers prepare to take their posts. The doors on this side of the fortification are already creaking shut.

My heart sinks as I watch the fort close up for the night—a rock daisy folding its petals tight to wait for the morning sun.

I stand at the edge of the woods and the dark rushes in around me. My leg aches. The heat of the autumn day has
been snuffed out with the sun. If the
malmaci
doesn't find me, I'll catch the fever out here for sure. But if I'm turned over to Council . . .

The trees at my back creak, reaching for me with tangled arms. My mind wants to splinter, but I force myself to blow out my breath. Think. I remember standing on those walls the other night. How scared I was at first. The other night . . .

I get an idea. It's risky, but it's all I can manage. Hopefully he'll be far more careful about what he's firing at after his near-mistake.

I cut a wide arc, far enough outside the circle of torches that I remain in shadows. I head to the corner of the wall I patrolled. I can see a Watcher taking position on the corner near the Watchtower.

Almighty, let it be Andre.

I swallow hard, then step into the light of the torch and wave my arms, praying the response is not a swift bullet to my chest.

I can't see the Watcher's face, but the person stops moving. Then I see a flash of glass—a spyglass? Whoever it is will have clear view of me any second—

“Soeur Emmeline!”
It's a hiss, thanks be, not a shout.

I scour the walls for other Watchers taking their positions, but, Almighty's grace above, Andre is first to his post on this section. I take a breath and limp across the lighted area to the shadow of the wall. When I look up, Andre is squinting at me, his face distorted with shock.

I make a frantic, helpless gesture.

He glances about quick. Then he straightens, crosses away from me, and disappears into the tower.

For an awful moment I wait for the alarm to sound.
Wayward!
I press myself against the rough wall, trying to blend into the shadows.

Then Andre is back with a rope. It snakes down to me. I have no idea if I'm strong enough to hold on to this rough lifeline, but I'll tear all of my arm muscles trying.

I wrap the rope once around my right hand and grab tight. Then I nod up to him.

Andre may be old, and his eyesight is right crumbly, but the man is strong. He has me over the side of the fortification before my hands begin to burn.

He drops me abrupt-like to the ground, then quickly coils the rope. I climb to my feet.

He stares at me.
“Que faisiez-vous?”

I swallow hard.
Forgive me
. “I was gathering.” I gesture to my root sack. “Lost track of the sun.”

“C'etait trop dangereux!”
He shakes his head.
“Cette fois-ci, il n'y avait pas de garçon pour te sauver.”

No boy to rescue me this time? Kane? The silence stretches between us in the dark. I can see in Andre's eyes he's figuring something.
Please.

“You must go home,” he says finally.

Relief floods me. “
Merci,
Andre.” Tears brim in my eyes and I blink them away, embarrassed.

He ducks his head and waves his hand toward the east quarter.
“Allez,”
he says, gruff. But his eyes look a mite pleased.

I go as fast as my foot can bear.