Winterkill (18 page)

In the scrub there's a dead smell in the air. I push in past the bramble to where the woods give way to
les trembles
. Fallen leaves lie in wet clumps around their trunks. Less leaves means less cover for things to hide in, but somehow the rows and rows of shedding poplars are more skittering.

Everything looks the same: sentenced, lifeless.

Another week and these woods will be blanketed white, signaling
La Prise
and everything that follows.

I make it to the ravine and labor up it as quiet as I can. My skin gets prickly as I approach the grove and pass through. I go several paces along the Crossroads path, but when I reach the place where I spotted Brother Stockham, I stop and close my eyes a minute. He'd walked off to the . . . northwest. I fish around in my satchel, bring out a few bright pieces of thread, and tie them on the nearest branch. Then I set my feet toward the northwest and push ahead, moving slow.

For such a dead bit of forest, it sure feels alive. I keep checking behind me as I walk, so it's slow going. Round about every forty strides, I tie new threads to a tree. I've walked for five or so minutes when I come upon a tree-covered hill.

My heart speeds. It's the one in my dreams.

I stop and listen careful.

Silence.

I'm taking a step forward when something bursts from the bush on my right. I leap back, panic shooting through my body. Then I see the grouse. It's flapping off through the woods in a heart-stopping flurry of feathers.

Foolish.

I take a deep breath, try to slow the racing in my chest.

Forcing my feet forward, I climb through the spruce and push for the top. I feel the way I did the other day when I came upon the Crossroads flag, like I'm about to see something I need to see. I pick up my pace, eager.

But as I crest the hill, the scene below stops me dead. The hill slopes downward, the trees thin out and become low scrub, emptying into a gully.

In the middle of the gully is a cabin.

Not a ruined cabin like the others around the fortification, not an abandoned jumble of old decaying logs and moss sinking back into the earth. No. These log walls are clean of moss, chinked perfect. The thatched roof is intact. It's a proper cabin.

I stand there stupidly, trying to reconcile the sight. Then it dawns on me I am full exposed; if anyone were to step out of the cabin, they'd see me in an instant. I dart behind a tree and sink to the ground, my heart thudding in my ears. The
spruce trees on this hill are spindly, with scrubby branches that begin a foot above my head—scarce cover from someone inside the cabin.

But who would be inside?

My mind whirls. I need to get down the hill unseen. I can't be sure anyone is around, but my skin is prickling like I'm being watched. Peering around the tree, I risk a better look at the cabin. I can't shake the feeling I'm not alone.

There are no windows and no sound is coming from inside.

I crawl out from behind the tree, keeping close to the ground, aiming for another sizeable tree a few strides away so I can get a mite closer. I start down the hill that way, moving from one tree to another. I'm halfway toward the next spruce when the door swings wide.

I flatten to the ground, praying to the Almighty my cloak and dark hair blend in with the leaves and deadfall.

I wait with my face to the earth. Dead still. Can't stay here. Need to leave before whoever that is sees me. Sees me and climbs over here, hauls me to my feet, drags me back to Council—my thoughts start to splinter. I wait for a hand to grab my cloak . . .

Nothing. Inching my head back up, I see a figure with dark hair disappearing back into the shack. Brother Stockham? I scramble back behind the tree.

There's a little fire burning in my gut. I have to get inside. But how long can I wait? What if someone realizes I'm not working for Soeur Manon today and they can't find me? Won't they report me to Council? What should I do?

I can be careful. I can at least get within listening distance of whatever is going on in there.

What in Almighty's name
could
be going on in there? It's so strange that I wonder if I'm imagining it all. I pinch the skin on the top of my left hand. It smarts. I'm not dreaming. Am I?

One way to find out.

I'm about to get to my feet when I hear something in the woods to my right. It's coming through the trees in the distance, careful but not real quiet.

Could be a deer. Or a wolf.

Or something else.

The thin spruces that cover this side of the hill are no cover at all. I have to choose the side of the hill with the cabin and go quick—too quick to be secret-like—or head back to the grove. Or . . . or risk meeting whatever that is coming upon me.
L'homme comme l'elephant.
Andre's words ring around in my head.

I can get a look inside the cabin later.

I crawl backward from the crest of the hill, then turn and hurry as quiet as I can back toward the Crossroads trail, stepping hard on my bad foot even when I try not to. I rip the threads from the branches as I go.

One bunch of threads is troublesome and I have to stop to use some force. My last footfall, whispering through the fallen leaves, quiets—but the sound comes a heartbeat later than it should, it seems.

I move to the next mark of threads and stop. The woods are silent. I start walking, then stop abrupt. My noise goes silent—again, too late.

Something is following me.

I am almost to the grove, but I can feel that something
behind me. Not too near, but I'm right certain it's following my path. Mayhap even hanging back on purpose.

No.

That's addled. What could be tracking me that wouldn't want to get too close?

I force my legs to stop. I stand quiet in the middle of the woods, my ears pricked for any sound. But it's quiet all around me—no footsteps, no cracking branches.

A prickle touches my neck. I pick up my pace as I head through the trees to the ravine. I need to talk to Andre.

I find him oiling rifles in the weapons shack with that tall Watcher with the fearsome scar. Andre glances up in surprise, squinting at my flushed cheeks and unkempt hair.

“Luc,” he says to the Watcher, jerking his head toward the door. Luc gives me a long look before setting down a rifle and making himself scarce. Andre gestures for me to sit beside him.

I'm still breathing hard from the trek, so it takes me a moment to get the words out. “Brother Andre, about the other week. That day of the Harvest ceremony.”

He holds up a hand; I stop talking. He watches the door a moment, listening. Then he speaks in a hushed tone.
“Oui?”

I drop my voice too. “What you saw in the woods:
l'homme comme l'elephant
. Are you sure it wasn't . . .”

Andre's eyes widen and he leans closer still.

“Brother Stockham?” He draws back, but I carry on: “Think he might”—I search for the words—“go walking in the woods. Think I just saw him there.”

Andre looks at me for a moment. Then he gets to his feet
and paces away from me, toward the door.
“Non, pas Frère Stockham. C'est pas possible.”

“You're sure you didn't see him.”

“
Non,
I am sure
you
did not see him.”

I pause. “I did. A little while ago.” I stand and follow him.

“Mais, Soeur Emmeline, il est ici.”

“Where?”

“
Avec
Council.” Andre pushes open the door and gestures to the Council building. It looms opposite the weapons shack, casting a large shadow on the main courtyard.

I am about to protest again, but the building's front doors open and a clean-dressed Brother Stockham steps out. He speaks a moment with the Councilman outside the doors, then looks up and meets my gaze.

I snap my gaping maw shut and force my body to move, lifting my hand and giving a halfhearted nod. His eyes measure me for a heartbeat. He nods. Descending the steps, he heads for the ceremonial hall. Councilmen appear at the doors and as I watch them follow him, I realize Kane is with them. I have a fleeting fuddled thought for him.

“Tu comprends?”
Andre puts a hand on my shoulder.

“I . . .” I stare after the group, trying to get my fuzzy thoughts in order.

“Emmeline? What did you see?”

I snap to and find Andre staring at me, eyes wide. “No one. I guess.”

“Peut etre la même chose de moi?”
He means the same thing he saw: the Elephant Man.

Feeling dazed, I shake my head. “No.”

“You are sure?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Parce que je l'ai revue.”

He saw it again.

“Where?”

“Le bois.”

“Why were you in the woods this time?”

He hesitates.

“Please,” I say.

He scratches at his beard again.
“C'est difficil—”
He pauses and searches for the English words. “I have this feeling. To be out there.” He peers at me.
“J'ai des rêves. D'un don de Dieu.”

He dreams about a gift of God. I think about my dreams of running through the woods, the Lost People calling to me, my burning curiosity to follow that trail—

“
Un don de Dieu en le bois
. So I go to see. But I find . . . I find
l'homme d'elephant encore.
He disappear. No noise.”

I stare at him. He has a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. It's plain he saw something he can't explain. Again. I murmur reassurances and leave quick. Before I reach our quarters, I have to stop and put my hands on my knees: my head is spinning.

Who
did
I see? It was no Elephant Man, that's certain. No
gift of God
. Mayhap Andre is old and seeing things. Mayhap he's seeing what he wants to; what he thinks his dreams are telling him.

Mayhap I am too?

No. That cabin was real and someone was there. I breathe deep and force myself to consider the only explanations: either Brother Stockham can be in two places at once, or someone else knows about that cabin.

NEXT DAY I BREAK MY FAST WITH PA, FEELING
like a caged animal. He's eyeballing me in a spooky way. Either he knows I was out in the woods yesterday, or . . .

He wipes his hands on his
ceinture fléchée
as he pushes back from the table. “Emmeline, can you change your clothes?”

I look down at my tunic and leggings. “What for?”

“Brother Stockham's paying a visit. Soeur Manon knows you won't be in until later on.”

“It's . . . a courting visit?”

“Course.” Pa nods at my leggings and tunic. “You'll need to be dressed proper.”

Fear squeezes my throat. Brother Stockham. Looking at me. Looking through to my thoughts.

“Your ma's dress would look real nice.”

Brother Stockham stands in the doorway, tidy and calm. His dark hair is tucked behind his ears, his tunic spotless.

“Brother Stockham, please.” Pa beckons him in through the door.

Brother Stockham doesn't move. “I thought Emmeline might enjoy some fresh air.” He offers his arm. “Care to walk?”

I throw a look to Pa, hoping he'll insist Brother Stockham stay put—where a proper courting visit should take place. My pa's eyes are uncertain a moment, then he straightens his shoulders and smiles.

“Course she would. Wouldn't you, Em?”

Brother Stockham sweeps his arm toward the courtyard. “We'll return within the hour.”

I cast my eyes low and step out beside him. Inside, I'm in a cold sweat. The fabric of my ma's dress itches at me everywhere.

As we walk, Brother Stockham speaks. “Your father is a very virtuous man.”

I nod.

“He works very hard,” he says.

“He has—” I stop. “Yes.”

“You were going to say ‘He has to.'”

“I only meant . . . well, on account of our Stain. He works hard because—”

“I understand.”

We approach the Healing House. Soeur Manon is at the door, sweeping out her kitchen. As we pass, she looks at us with her watery eyes and goes still. Brother Stockham inclines his head and she offers the Peace in return.

“You gather for Soeur Manon.”

“No,” I say quick, my thoughts flying to the woods. He
tilts his head. “I mean, yes. But I'm learning her poultices now. Her broths and such.”

He raises an eyebrow but says nothing, guiding me along like he's got someplace to be, like getting fresh air is the last thing on his mind. I realize with a start that we're headed for the ceremonial hall.

Inside it's empty, dead quiet. With no windows to let in the autumn sunshine, everything falls pitch black when he shuts the door. For a heartbeat there is just the sound of our breathing. Mine is coming too fast.

What are we doing here?