Page 18 of A Land So Wide

T hree hours before sunset, the town of Mistaken ventured beyond the Warding Stones, their arms heavy-laden with gratitudes. Horses pulled carts packed with offerings too large to carry—bales of fresh straw, bundled swaths of wheat, and half a dozen sheep, freshly slaughtered.

Greer kept far from that wagon. The smell reminded her too much of what she’d seen in the Calloways’ field, and she wondered if she’d ever be able to stomach a plate of mutton chops again.

They progressed up a narrow trail that wound through the woods like an unspooled ribbon. The soft glow of their lanterns pushed back the falling afternoon gloam.

Finally, they reached the Gratitude Tree.

It had been an enormous Redcap, the biggest in the region, felled during the early years of the town.

Its stump was lathed and varnished into a magnificent slab of wood, easily four men long, three wide.

Once a season, the Stewards’ wives made a pilgrimage to the tree, to wipe it clean of woodland debris and polish its lacquered surface until it shone bloody and bright.

It looked like a king’s banquet table, straight out of a fairy tale, and was situated perfectly in the center of a vast clearing.

The return to Mistaken would not take as long—not with the weight of offerings and gifts left behind—but the townspeople were taking no chances. There was a hastiness in the group, a harried pace at which all worked, emptying their crates and casks, lining and arranging the feast across the table.

Roasted ducks and pheasants lined the edges.

Pies, cakes, and rich breads studded with dried fruits and nuts filled the gaps, and at the table’s center was a suckling pig.

It was burnished bronze with spices and smelled good enough to make Greer’s mouth water, despite the worry in the pit of her stomach.

When it was the Mackenzies’ turn to lay down their gratitudes, Hessel took the lead, helping Greer and Martha arrange their crates of vegetables, their bushels of fruits, their trays of baked goods and lengths of sausages and wheels of cheese.

Since he was the wealthiest man in the cove, it was only fitting that Hessel’s offering was the most extravagant.

Greer set down the final basket of apples, making sure to place them in a pleasing arrangement.

She offered a curtsied bob toward the forest behind the Gratitude Tree and any Benevolents who might be watching the festivities.

As she rose, she felt her personal offering crinkle in the deep pockets of her skirt.

Once the gratitudes were laid out, a bonfire would be lit, and every member of the town would cast in one beloved treasure as a final sacrifice.

This year, Greer had selected one of her maps. It was her best, and the thing she was most proud of: a perfect rendering of the cove and shoreline. Its scale was minute but brilliantly detailed, showing each family’s home and farm.

Just before heading out, Greer had used the very last of her most prized ink—a rich, iridescent blue that Hessel had purchased off a trader three summers before.

The man had claimed that the dark teal mimicked the plumes of a most peculiar bird that lived on the other side of the world in lowland forests warm and wild—a peacock.

When Hessel recounted the story to her, Greer had been overcome with a homesickness most impossible.

It seemed absurd to miss a place she’d never see, but there, in the middle of their sitting room, Greer yearned for that land.

She ached for it, hungering to see these peacocks with her own eyes.

Forever trapped within the acres of the Warding Stones, she mourned a future she’d never have.

She’d vowed to use the ink on only the most special occasions, and had rationed it with sharp vigilance.

The glass bottle was nearly empty now, but Greer had dipped in her pen that afternoon and dotted each of her map’s Warding Stones—rendered weeks before in their original positions—then scrawled a heartfelt plea across the page.

“We know you’re here. We know your might. Return the Stones back to the way they were. Please.”

With the very last drop of her most precious ink, Greer had signed her name at the bottom, a blue-stained oath. It was by far the best thing she had to offer the Benevolence.

Beside her, Hessel cleared his throat, snapping her attention back to the present moment. Greer stepped aside and followed her father.

Once their gifts were given, each family joined the others in a large circle along the edge of the clearing, watching the bounties grow. Greer listened to the aged wood stretch and shift under the weight of the offerings, and she dared to hope that this—that all of this—would be enough.

Whatever offense the Benevolence had seen surely must be wiped away by such lavish generosity. The Gratitude Tree had never been piled so high before. It all but groaned under the abundance.

The last families trickled into the clearing, and Greer smiled as she saw the Beauforts.

Ellis carried several loaves of bread, and each of the younger children brought handfuls of vegetables.

Mary appeared to be present and in good spirits and carried an earthen pot, undoubtedly a stew made from Louise’s rabbits.

Greer’s worry began to ease a little. The Benevolence would get those gratitudes after all.

Louise followed in, her eyes trained low, never once lifting to meet her best friend’s gaze. She set a small wedge of cheese onto the table and stepped back, joining the rest of the gathering. The circle was, at last, complete.

Everyone joined hands. Caught between Hessel and Martha, Greer felt too small, like the child she’d never again be.

“People of Mistaken,” Hessel said, taking a step forward. Greer’s arm stretched out to keep her hold on him. “Good Reaping.”

“Good Reaping.” Their combined echo was strong and solemn.

“What a joyous time of year this is, when we come together to humble ourselves in this sacred space and give thanks to our merciful protectors.”

Greer glanced about the circle, watching how people reacted. After the night in the Calloways’ field, she’d never consider the Benevolence to be merciful anythings ever again.

“Let us take a moment of silence as we ready our hearts to welcome them.”

The town of Mistaken took a shared breath and closed their eyes.

Greer was never sure what she was meant to do in this moment. How should you ready for visitors who never arrived? But she closed her eyes all the same, listening to the sounds around her.

The Benevolence were near, and this year, more than ever, she wanted to hear them.

She listened to her father’s deep breaths and the soft rattle that rasped at their end.

She heard the shifting sway of the group and the howl of the wind high above them, a constant drone that never truly died away.

It set the tamaracks creaking and ripped the remaining poplar leaves from their branches.

There were scratches from a pair of squirrels racing up a spruce, the lumbering shuffle of a porcupine, the patter of martens darting through undergrowth.

There was—

“Starling.”

Greer’s eyes flashed open.

She searched the circle, scanning for anyone who might have spoken, but everyone had their eyes closed and brows furrowed with concentration. Though she saw some lips moving, their prayers were silent.

“You don’t look like much, little Starling.”

Certain now that the voice was coming from the trees at her back, Greer turned. Her hands slipped free, rending apart the circle. Though Hessel made a soft noise of confusion, she stepped closer to the forest.

There were spruces, dark and forbidding, and Redcaps grown so twisted that even her father wouldn’t dare approach them. Greer scanned their depths, yet found nothing but trees.

“What is it, girl?” Hessel hissed, his voice low to avoid attention.

Despite his effort, others stirred, noticing the interruption. Breaths caught. Whispers rose. Still, Greer remained fixed on the shadows, squinting. Was that movement there, or just a trick of her mind?

“Someone’s out there.”

“In the trees?”

She nodded.

“But everyone we know is here.”

Greer dragged her gaze from the forest. “I don’t think it’s anyone we know.”

Hessel’s eyes widened, and the dark worry that had covered him like a shroud since the night at the Calloways’ lightened by soft degrees. He looked…hopeful. “You heard them? The Benevolence?”

She hesitated. She’d heard something, but was it the Benevolence?

“Greer,” Hessel prompted, urgency weighting her name. Reluctantly, she nodded. “That…that’s wonderful.” His eyes raced across the tree line, then he grabbed her hand and returned them to the circle.

Across the clearing, Ellis watched her, face grim with worry. Greer smiled, trying to offer the assurance that she was all right, that everything was fine. She could tell he didn’t believe her. She wasn’t sure she believed it herself.

“Friends,” Hessel began, “these days have been grim. Grim and mystifying. Challenging. It is not possible for us to understand the ways of the Benevolence. To us, their methods seem cruel and incomprehensible, but we must believe they act in our favor. We must believe that they will continue to watch over our cove, protecting us and bestowing prosperous bounties upon all who dwell here. The way they always have. They are close.” A sound of mirth escaped him, as if he could not hold back his joy.

“They are not faceless gods, far off and uninterested. The Benevolence is here, right now, watching to see what we’ll do next. ”

Murmurs of surprise and confusion rose. Several Stewards dared to approach the trees, trepidation clouding their faces.

“I…I see them!” shouted Ian Brennigan. When he turned back, his eyes were bright with wonder. “They’ve come to show us their mercies.”

“Yes! There’s one! And another!” Michael Morag cried out, pointing.

Greer tried to see what they saw, narrowing her eyes against the falling light, but there were only shadows. And though she strained to hear the voice, the woods were silent once more.

“They have seen our sufferings. They have seen our pains,” Hessel continued. “So now, good people of Mistaken, let us show them our devotion! We must light the bonfire!”

Greer was surprised to see Lachlan Davis come forward, lantern held high. Normally, a Steward performed this most sacred task. She did not doubt that Hessel had bestowed the honor on Lachlan, signaling his great esteem.

Lachlan knelt beside the pile of logs and set to work, transferring his flame to the kindling. The dried grass and twigs caught quickly, casting a warm red glow over the group.

As the fire rose, Lotte Morag started to sing the first hymn.

“As we gather here together, hands and hearts and minds as one,” she began, her voice as clear and sweet as a freshwater spring.

The song had been sung at Mistaken’s first Reaping, and each thereafter.

“We try ever to endeavor, pleasing Ones whose wills we’ve done.”

Other women took up the next verse, strengthening the old melody with richer altos. The song filled the clearing, haunting and beautiful and so full of hope.

Once the bonfire was fully lit, its orange and yellow tongues flickering high into the dying afternoon, townspeople began to feed their offerings into the flames.

They went alone or sometimes in pairs, but each person had their own moment with the fire, whispering their dearest wishes. It wasn’t hard to imagine what was most asked for this year.

When her turn came, Greer knelt alongside the raging heat.

She took out her map and smoothed the creases, looked it over one last time.

Whispering her wish, she pressed a kiss to the back of the vellum before tossing it into the flames.

It was incinerated in an instant, its thin ashes caught in an updraft and carried out into the approaching night.

When all the sacrifices were burned, another song was sung, and then the town of Mistaken returned home, leaving behind their offerings and a bank of smoldering embers for the Benevolence to enjoy.

They all made it across the town line before sunset, pressing a reverent touch to the Warding Stones as they passed.

They stood at the edge of their world, watching the sun dip behind the mountains and feeling its pull in the marrow of their bones. It set without fanfare, and, for one perfect moment, everyone breathed a happy sigh of relief.

The Warding Stones had remained still.

The border had held.

The good people of Mistaken began to cheer. The heavy weight of their worries eased, sloughing off like water from a duck’s back, and they celebrated. They danced and jumped and shouted their good fortunes to the sky.

But then, far beyond the Warding Stones, a dark shadow rose, and Mistaken’s joy turned into screams.