Winterkill (5 page)

The north-quarter people call these trees
les trembles
, which Pa says speaks to the way the leaves move in the breeze, all trembling. They make a soft tinkling sound that builds to a roar in a big wind. Feels like it's the Lost People, always whispering.

They're whispering real plain right now.
This way
, they're saying,
this way
.

I could duck down and keep searching for roots here, hidden from that Councilman's eyes. Instead, I take a deep breath and head a bit further in, brushing past white birch saplings gleaming in the sun. The forest is quiet and there's a prickle at my neck, but I go a little further, deep into the poplars.

Sunlight beams through the branches, tracing patterns on the forest floor. It's beautiful and dizzying; it coaxes me forward while putting a chill to my spine. I shouldn't go any further—it isn't safe. People who wander too far don't come back. People who wander too far are Taken.

But heading back means enduring Council's stares, mayhap getting questioned about last night. Frère Andre might've
been testing me after all, and turned me in. And then what? I shiver deep, press into my bad foot to focus on the pain. I can't help but wonder if . . .

Pa would be relieved if I didn't come back.

I picture that sad crease in his brow, his shame over our Stain. I make it worse—getting in my daydreaming way, being punished with Watch. And now, a third offense . . .

This way.

I move forward. The grasses get higher, the scrub thicker, so I have to push my way into the tangle of dogwood and wild rose. Branches catch at my tunic and force me to duck under. Deadfall trips me up every other step. I bend and crash through until I have to pull up short.

The woods have given way to a small, dry ravine. There was a creek here once, that's plain, but now it's a rocky bed with slippery shale walls, near impossible to traverse without hurting my foot something fierce. It's my chance to turn back. I should turn back.

But I want my foot to hurt today.

I fumble down the steep bank to the dry creek bed and climb the other side. Every other tuft of grass tears away, so I use my fingernails, skinning my knuckles again as I scramble up the shale.

There's a jumble of logs inside this line of trees: four crumbling walls caked with lichen and dirt. A left-behind from the first generation. There are a few messes like this in the woods outside the fortification; soggy ruins after years of the woods creeping mossy fingers around them, pulling them into the soil. Some of the first settlers must've lived out here. Before they shored up inside the fort.

Before they knew about the
malmaci
.

Heart beating fast, I push into the woods, putting the ghostly jumble to my back and out of mind. I push deep and deeper until the brush gives way once more—this time to a grove. It's small; looks about thirty strides by twenty. The trees around it reach tall to the sky, and end in a circle of bright blue. The scrubby brush in the middle is scarce ankle-high.

I pause and listen hard. A white-throated sparrow trills in the bush and its mate answers. The breeze tinkles through the treetops, soft and sure. The woods around me teem with life I can't see, which is right skittering if I think on it too hard, but this . . .

This is a little secret haven tucked away from those unknowns.

My shame and anger drift away. Moving into the center, I close my eyes and breathe the earthy air.

Nobody has been out here in years—decades. Mayhap I'm the very first person to find this grove.

I like that. I like that it's just me out here. No wary eyes, no Pa, no shame.

A strange kind of peace fills me.
Les trembles
whisper with their tinkling voices, and both my feet feel solid, rooted into the forest floor like I'm a part of this grove, these woods. I breathe deep again. The Lost People are looking on me without judging. I can feel it on my skin.

The little voice in my head reminds me I'm addled. The Lost People were First Peoples, and they were Taken by the
malmaci
before our ancestors even arrived. The stories tell it that way, and Tom and I find their ancient traces—tools, bones—along the riverbank all the time. Only . . .

Only, deep down in my secret heart, I've always felt their absence as though it were a presence. As though they're still here, somehow—just . . .
lost
. Tom's the only one who knows I call them the Lost People, but he doesn't tease me about it.

Course, I don't tell him they call to me.

This way.

My eyes snap open.

A piece of sky is hanging from the brush on the far side. I squint.

No. A scrap of something.

I cross the grove to pull it from the tree. The cloth that comes off in my hands is beautiful, the color of an autumn sky. I turn it over, running my fingers along its strange smooth surface. And then my thoughts catch up to my hands.

Someone has been out here.

I grip the scrap real tight. Who? When?

A heady rush washes over me.

The last Taking happened before I was born. It was an old man from the south quarter; could this be what was left of him? Was he Taken in the night? Or in the day?

Suddenly the possibility of not returning to the fortification—ever—crashes into me. My throat gets tight and I need to take a few deep breaths to stop my head from spinning.

Think
.
Keep your head
.
Look around.

Beyond the tree I spot a broken branch, as though an animal has crashed through. Further on are more branches that look disturbed, but not recent. They aren't bleeding sap; they were broken long ago. I look off through the brush, following the swept-aside branches.

It's a path.

The grasses underfoot are tamped down by . . . footsteps?

But it can't be a trail. Gatherers and trappers don't come out this far anymore, haven't for years. Any trails made by the first or second generation would be long overgrown.

My heart races, but the little voice in my head slows me up. Could be an old trail, still used by animals. Deer? No. The branches are broken off too high for deer.

Looks as though a person's been through.

All right. Think
.

The right thing to do would be to return and tell Council. They might send a group of armed Watchers to come explore.

But I can't. I'm out too far: it's Wayward, plain and simple. After last night, there's no telling what Brother Stockham might decide about me. I have to turn around right now and keep quiet, or risk it alone.

Takings in the daytime are rare.

I listen to the woods again. There's nothing but the tinkling of
les trembles
and the sparrow trill. But underneath it all the Lost People are calling to me, urging me forward.

I'll just follow it a little ways.

I start in, moving as quiet as I'm able. The path is slight; I have to look careful. But I'm creeping forward so slow my eyes start to blur on the path. I look up to rest them, scanning the woods beyond, when a tree ahead of me shifts.

I slow . . . Surely it was the breeze. The tree shifts again. I freeze.

That tree has a right human-like form.

I drop to a crouch behind a bush, my heart beating wild.

Did they see me?

There's a silence, so I rise on my haunches, risk a glance around the brush. The figure is dressed in dark clothes, a bison-skin cloak with hood, their back to me. Whoever it is stands still, glancing about.

I stay frozen, my breath caught.

Then the figure moves to turn and I duck once more. This withering cranberry bush is scarce cover; I pray my clothing blends in with the gray and brown. The damp smell of rot reaches my nose. The figure's head is turned to the ground, searching for something, the face hidden deep inside the hood.

When it turns in my direction, I pull further behind the bush. Silent, I shift to my knees, bow my head, and cower small as I can.

Twigs snap and the leaves rustle with footsteps—coming straight for my hiding place.

My heart! It's deafening, about to thump from my chest.

If they find me, I'm in a heap of trouble. Unless . . .

Unless it's not someone from our settlement.

Excitement shoots through my fear. It's not possible. How could they survive out here?

A thin fluting echoes through the forest. If it's a birdcall, it's no bird I know. It reminds me of the willow whistle some of the old men play. The rustling stops.

I pull my head up, slow, slow . . . and risk another look through the brush. I can't see proper, but the dark shape is about twenty strides from me now. They're turning away once more—this time in the direction of the sound that's trilling through the trees. They haven't seen me after all. My tongue works to free itself from the roof of my mouth to wet my lips.

My foot, crushed under my weight, hollers at me. I shift and rise ever so slight, to get a better view.

The figure is standing sideways to me, the head tilted in a listening way. Looking for something. The hood falls back. Pale skin, chin-length dark hair . . .

Brother Stockham.

No stranger at all. For half an addled moment I want to laugh—did I really think it wasn't one of us? But the next thought crashes in: what's he doing out this far?

The fluting sounds once more. He picks up his pace and disappears behind a jagged wall of trees. The whistle sounds again, softer, like it's retreating. And then the woods are silent.

I get to my feet. There's no way I can follow him through the brush quiet-like. My leg is singing with pain from climbing the ravine and crouching on it, and I'd be too slow without letting it drag.

I look to the sun. It's far across the sky to the west. It'll be dusk soon, and then dark. I should get back to the fort. Brother Stockham can move far faster than me, so he has more time to get back, once he's done whatever he's doing out here.

What could he be doing out here?

I give the trail one last glance, then I turn around and head back to the safety of the fortification. I'm back onto the Watch flats when I realize I traversed those woods without hardly thinking on it. I got back from the grove as though I'd been doing it all my life.

That night, my dreams are strange. I'm back on the trail and I'm trying to follow the path, but my feet are stuck to the forest floor. When I look down, I see they're not my own; the toes are perfect, the skin smooth. They're beautiful, but they don't work proper and I am frozen in place, unable to move forward or back. A hawk circles above me, slow.

And then snow swirls in and I can hear a keening on the wind. It's a wail, like the trees around me are calling and the sky is answering.

It's
La Prise
coming in, and I can't take shelter.

I WAKE FUZZY-HEADED FROM MY DREAMS AND
still tired from my Watch shift two nights ago.

In the kitchen, Pa's real quiet again. His hair and scruffy beard need a trim and his shirt is rumpled. We eat in silence. I watch him scrape his bowl with his spoon, so careful. His hands have a slight tremor to them, like the constant shivering of
les trembles
. Never noticed that before. Those hands used to smooth my brow to sleep when I was young, but back then they were steady. Sure. They'd pull me close when I was scared or angry; when I'd had a nightmare, when an age-mate called me a bad name. They'd dance me around the kitchen to cheer me.

He'd sing to me. Listen to me. What's changed?

Is it that I've stopped talking?

“Pa, you ever go out past the first line of poplars?”

He looks up from his bowl, startled.

“When you trap, I mean.” I fiddle with my spoon.

“What for?”

“Don't know,” I say. “Better chance at getting animals?”

“There's lots of rabbit in the willows and the west snares are usually full.” His brow creases. “What are you thinking on, Emmeline?”