The pain slides off her body and she nods her head, like it takes all her strength to move. Hair clings to her face, wrapping around her neck in a tangle of amber and blood. Her eyes cloud over and a sigh slips from her lips, like relief, like all the work is finished and she can rest.
Something in the air shifts. Another hole rips open in my world. And my Becca, my sweet companion, blows away, through the door of the Dead, leaving me alone.
A moment ago she was laughing and handing me tea, kissing my cheek, and now she’s gone.
Time seems to stop, to hover over the three of us, like it’s not sure this was meant to happen either. Questions of why circle in the air around us.
It doesn’t seem right. Becca was good. Pure. Even after all the blackness. She shouldn’t be the one to leave this world.
Not Becca.
Luke stands, jerking me back to now, reminding me of his presence. He goes to the rack of knives hanging on the wall and pulls down the sharpest one he can find. He takes it to the fire and singes the metal to clean it. Then he comes back to Becca’s side and hovers, gripping the hilt with white knuckles.
“I’ll do this,” he says, voice shaking.
I stare at him, blood on his neck, tears in his eyes, all strength and safety, and I want to let him do the task. I want to run, far away where the world can’t touch me, into the snow, deep into the bowels of the mountain where the soot and dust will choke me, where darkness can surround me and I won’t have to see, I won’t have to watch my sister’s life end.
“No,” I say with more strength than I feel. I swallow hard and let the ice in my veins numb me even more, I force the ache in my soul to quiet. “I need—I have to do this.” Whatever I feel will need to wait. I promised Becca. I can do this one thing for her. And maybe with this horrifying act I can make some of the terrible things I’ve done right.
I reach out and pull the blade from Luke’s grip.
My whole body vibrates with what I’m about to do. I dig deep inside for strength, for my magic, for anything to make this be finished.
I cut before I can turn back. Slow. Careful. I don’t want to harm the life inside. I can’t think of this body as Becca, my sister, the girl who’s eight-year-old hands patched up my scrapes when I fell from the barn loft, the girl who cared for the baby birds that we found in the hay that summer the swallows filled the rafters.
I don’t see blood, I don’t see torn flesh. I only see memories and the hope of life inside.
Let it be okay
.
I reach in and find an arm, a leg. I pull the tiny, purple body from the womb, and a burst of hope fills me at the sight of it, at the wrinkly face and bunched-up fists.
A girl, so miraculous, so beautiful. A piece of my sister come back to me.
But she’s still. She’s silent.
Don’t let me be too late
.
Luke picks up the knife and cuts the cord. I can’t move, I can only stare and hope something will happen. He gathers up a bundle of clean rags and takes the baby from me, wrapping her in his strong arms, covering every inch of her with his warmth. His large hands rub her back, her belly, patting and soothing, cooing with words to encourage her to open her eyes, to breathe, anything.
Urgency fills me and my hands join his, making warm circles on her tiny back, my voice calling her to us, “Come, now, Little One. It’s time to come home.”
And I know, I sense it. My magic, my wishing, it flicks at the air when my hand touches Luke’s. It takes form, our hopes together finding power and, for once, my wishing brings a blessing. A soul fills the space left behind by Becca and Mamma. A delicate life, moves beneath our hands and out bursts a gasp and a cough and a loud scream.
I’ve never heard anything so beautiful.
PART FIVE
Luke takes Becca’s shell away to the same place where I put Mamma to rest. He says, Becca took him there, told him she wanted to sleep with Mamma in the trees if she flew away when the baby came. She never told me about her fear. She didn’t want me to worry. She loved me.
I don’t say goodbye, not yet. I sit with the new life in my arms and forget about the blood around me, the pain of the night. I look into the wide brown eyes and see my salvation, I watch in wonder at the tiny fists beating at the air, I listen to her cries like it’s the song I’ve been trying to hear my whole life.
I don’t see those men in her. I don’t see Hunt.
All I see is a little angel, come to save me and make everything new.
I can’t look away, I can’t put her down to do anything in reality. I can only hold her, smell her, listen to her tiny sighs.
Luke helps us to the chair beside the fire and then cleans up the blood. He moves around me and when I eventually look up it’s like nothing happened at all. Like Becca just walked out to go fetch water. She’ll be back any second.
The day passes in silence. When darkness falls I move to the pallet and nestle the baby beside me. Luke lies on the other side and we watch her, we touch her cheeks, her chubby arms, and live in Heaven for a moment.
*
Luke leaves the next day to go down the mountain and see if he can trade some skins for more supplies and a goat for the babe’s milk.
There’s a part of me—what feels like an ancient part of me—that wonders if he’ll come back at all. Will he keep walking until he finds green things again, a girl who can satisfy him, a home without ghosts and shadows? I can’t imagine him not here, though. He’s a part of this forest now. Part of this shack. So, I make myself imagine he’s gone hunting. I tell the babe he’ll be walking through the door any second, returning to us, with his wide, easy grin and emerald eyes.
I almost think I’m dreaming when I hear something outside the next morning. I go to the door and see him leading a small grey beast into the barn. He waves hello and something inside me melts into mush. I want to bound up to him, clapping my mittens, and wrap him in a hug. Becca would’ve done that.
But instead I lift my hand to wave back.
The babe thrives on the goat’s milk. She grows pink and plump after only two weeks. Luke sits with her when I’ll release her, and tells her stories of knights and dragons and fills the small shack with his male voice every night. I sit beside them and listen in rapt amazement, wondering how his mind can imagine such magical things.
“Does the prince find a way into the castle?” I ask one night when he’s telling a tale about a girl cursed to sleep forever. She was locked in a dark castle, surrounded by thorny vines, with a dragon guarding the door. Winter shrouded the air in fog and snow, and no one could reach her. The prince tries, though. He finds a magic potion to push back the fog, he cuts the vines with his sword and creates a path through the thorns. “What about the dragon? And how will he wake her?” I ask, impatiently.
“Just let me finish,” Luke says, with a playful frown.
I inch to the edge of my seat and lean forward. “Well, hurry.”
He smiles and looks down at the baby saying, “She’s very impatient.” He takes in a dramatic deep breath, making me wait. When I growl he laughs and continues, “The prince met the dragon at the door of the castle. Its scales were strong as iron and its breath burned through brick. But the prince wouldn’t leave his love. He fought valiantly against the beast, he dodged the flames and swung his sword wide. But a man can’t fight a dragon. So, the monster opened its mouth, teeth sharp and wicked, and bit down on the prince, swallowing him whole.”
“What?!” I squeal. “What a horrible story to tell her.” I huff and try to take the baby back, but Luke just laughs and hushes me, telling me to sit down.
“I’m not finished,” he says.
I grunt and sit.
He focuses back on the child in his arms. “The dragon wasn’t thinking clearly, see—a man may not be able to fight a dragon, but it’s always a bad idea to swallow a fellow with a sword. The prince cut his way from the belly of the beast, killing it, and came away unharmed—except, he was very smelly and dirty, and needed to wash up before he could see his princess, so he scrubbed himself in the fountain—”
“Oh, please.”
“—and soon he’s clean and shiny again.” Luke gives me a grin. And as he continues his eyes stay on mine. “The prince climbs the hundred and three steps up the tower and finds the room where the princess sleeps. But thorny white roses grow over her body, making it impossible to see her face, making it painful when he reaches out. Still, he lets himself be cut and he bleeds. And when his blood drips down, onto her dress, her hands, her face, the thorns shrink back and he can see her.”
There’s sadness in his words now, the story changing, becoming too close to reality for play. “He kneels at the side of her bed and brushes a drop of red from her cheek. He takes in the sight of her. The dark chocolate of her hair and the cream color of her skin. She has lips that are pink like clamshells and a neck as delicate as a swan’s.” Luke swallows and studies my face, the air thick with his words. Words about a princess. Words about me? My skin tingles as they wrap around me. “The prince came so far to find her. He fought and bled for her. But she can’t see him, she still sleeps under her curse. He whispers in her ear that she’s safe, he’ll protect her, and then he leans in and kisses her lips, gently—she might break apart if he’s not careful.”
The buzzing in my skin sinks down, vibrating through me.
Luke reaches out. His fingers graze my knuckles and I see the kiss in his eyes, the longing. “The princess stirs and opens her eyes to him. Eyes that make his heart break, such a light winter-blue. They make him think of the sky in summer. Of robin’s eggs in spring.”
My heart beats at my chest. My hand turns hot where his fingers touch. “Luke,” I say, feeling breathless. I don’t know what to do, what I want to tell him, I just need to say his name.
“He loves her,” he whispers; the quick beat of his pulse shakes his voice now. “He always will.”
“Luke,” I say again. Because I’m not sure what else to say.
Love
.
It seems to thicken the air, to cloud around the two of us, like threads weaving us together. But, love...love is delicate and softness and grace.
And I’m...
Luke deserves so much more than me.
He smiles, a sad smile. Then pulls away and stands. “The fire’s dying. I’ll go get some wood.” And he sets the baby on the pallet and walks out of the shack, leaving me in silence and confusion.
*
Luke’s restless for the next several days. He makes excuses and goes hunting a lot, but how many rabbits can two people eat? I dig a smoke-hole to try and make sure none of the meat goes bad—something else to trade later.
The baby’s content and quiet, all her needs met before she even realizes she has them. She’s snuggled in someone’s arms nearly every moment, warm and at peace.
When I go outside, I tie her to my stomach with a blanket and do my chores. I milk and feed the goat—luckily it eats pretty much anything. I clear the path to the shack now, after a snowfall, uncovering the line of black stones to the withered garden. If spring ever comes again I’ll ask Luke to trade for seeds and bulbs. I’ll plant herbs and potatoes and maybe even flowers. Tulips. Lilies.
I spot a dark shape in the distance, coming from down below. I figure Luke must’ve gone north to hunt, so I wave as he get’s closer, deciding to be cheerful—as cheerful as I can be. I’ll find some more winter onions to put with the rabbit. I’ll talk to him about the garden, my flowers, what colors I’m wanting; he’ll like that.
I miss his smile and know that I’m the reason it’s hiding. I’ve got to try what I can to make it better.
But then I sense something wrong. It’s not Luke coming up the rise. My hand sinks back down to my side and a surge of nausea rolls over me.
I recognize that walk, the shoulders, and the tip of the head.
Pa.
I stumble back, almost falling into the snow. I catch myself on a piece of old fence and freeze. A million emotions and thoughts spring up at once. I start to think of hiding in the trees, then the barn, but as Pa gets closer, all I can see as real safety is the shack.
I turn and run, up the path, through the door. I latch it tight and search frantically for a place to hide the baby—a basket, full of mending in the corner—she squeaks when I put her down, but stays asleep. I cover her in Luke’s old shirt and a few rags.
I’m trying to decide if it’s too much—what if I smother her?—when the door rattles.
“I saw you, Rose. Let me in!” comes Pa’s scratchy voice through the wood, and my stomach turns liquid.
I glance at the basket holding my treasure, then the door.
It rattles again, harder, the wall shaking.
I scramble to the kitchen and grab up a knife, the biggest one I see, then I stand in the middle of the room, between the door and the basket. “Go away! I don’t want you here!”
“Lilly!” he barks. Mamma’s name. “Get that girl under control.”
I slide a chair in front of the door, but I know it won’t do any good. “She’s sleeping, leave her be!”
“I’m gonna cut this door down, woman! Let me in. I’m hungry and tired.”
“Go away,” I say, a sob catching my voice. Why did he have to come back?
There’s a growl and then a sudden crack. The wall near the latch splinters. The door swings open, and slams against the chair, sliding it across the floor.
I lurch back. A scream escapes. I grip the knife tighter.
But he surges into the room, tossing aside his sack, and coming at me with his fist before I can move. The back of his hand meets my cheek with a meaty
thud
, sending me to the floor, dazed.
I lift the knife, but it’s gone, my hand empty.
Tears cloud my eyes from the blow. I fumble for my weapon, getting it caught in my skirt. I can’t see, I can’t see.
He grips me by the hair and pulls me up from the floor. His blurry face hovers in front of me.
I taste copper. I smell soot. And then he’s not Pa, he’s Hunt. There’s blood—so much
blood
—
smeared
across his features, in his hair. He opens his mouth, but his jaw hangs limp, the muscles severed from my ax. I cry out and try to get away, to kick and beat him back, but he holds tight to the roots of my hair and hits me again.
“What the hell’s wrong with you, Girl?” he says. But wait, that’s Pa’s voice. “You don’t lock a man outta his home.” He pauses and looks around. “Where’s your Ma? I thought you said she was sleepin’.”
I can only stare at him and hope Hunt won’t come back in his face.
He sneers and shoves me onto the pallet behind me. I reach down and snatch up the knife, holding it in front of me again.
Pa just looks down on me like I’m a silly child having a tantrum. “Put that thing down or I’ll take it and use it on you. Where the hell’s your Ma? And Becca?”
“Dead!” I scream at him.