Page 2 of A Land So Wide
S critch, scritch, scratch .
Even with her face buried in a sketchbook and her back turned away from the bloody business, Greer Mackenzie could still hear every bit of Louise Beaufort slicing into the hare’s pelt, splitting a bright seam down its stomach.
The flick of the knife.
The wet squelch as fur peeled away from red meat and glistening sinews.
Those cords of muscle stretching taunt, then snapping asunder.
“Last one,” Louise announced as an eagle screeched overhead, circling them in lazy, hopeful patterns. It beat its wings against currents of air, once, twice, before drifting off for a more promising meal.
The tip of Greer’s pencil dug divots into the soft paper as she doubled her concentration upon the map, forcing the noises away as she made sure her lines were tidy and accurate.
“Take your time,” she said, glancing back, regrettably, to see Louise twist the rabbit’s heart free, her fingers stained with rust-colored offal. “It’s probably our last trip out before Reaping.”
“A good one, too,” Louise commented, sounding distracted. “So many hares, and I’m sure your father will be pleased as well. Never seen this many Redcaps.”
Greer’s gaze fell on the copse of scarlet trees, standing out starkly against the forest’s green pines and yellow tamaracks.
Named after the murderous goblins found in whispered childhood tales, Redcaps were wide and squat.
Their limbs spread farther out than up, as if they were monstrous spiders moving in for their prey.
The red bark was thick and riddled with bulbous whorls.
When it broke off, shedding jagged bits and pieces across the forest floor, a pungent scarlet sap flowed forth, raining down like blood.
Gray moss clung to the creaking branches, like tufts of straggled hair.
They were not attractive trees, not by half, but the wood was surprisingly strong and flexible. Perfect for lumber, for boats and buildings.
It was what first drew Resolution Beaufort and his workers to this land: the whispers of bounty, the lure of untold, easy wealth.
Her butchering done, Louise sat back on her feet and stretched, tipping her face to the sky. Rich amber sunlight sparkled down, turning the forest around them to flame. “That’s all I want to carry back today.”
“I’ll put up the flags, then,” Greer said, pulling out the strips of cotton from her pack.
They’d been taken from other trees nearly a mile back.
It gave Greer a thrill to move the flags on each of their excursions, claiming more of the surrounding unknown, yard by yard, bite by bite.
She loved knowing that, even though she might be stuck behind Mistaken’s border each night, there were small pieces of her remaining out in the wild, tiny scraps of defiance that would not budge, that were not subject to the Warding Stones’ pull.
The markers were made of blue-and-white ticking, their stripes bold and unmissable—perfect for warning any travelers from Mistaken that they were about to venture too deep into the forest, that they wouldn’t be able to return before sunset.
Anyone who went blithely by those bright strips of fabric needed to know they weren’t coming back.
Alive, at least.
Greer tied them along these new Redcaps, careful to keep her fingers from the sap. When brushed against skin, it caused painful rashes, burning as bright as the trees themselves. She jotted the flags’ new positions along her map, adding the marks to the others running along the ridge’s curve.
She glanced at the sun’s position before turning to her friend. “All packed? Only a couple hours till First Bellows.”
Autumn had toppled heavily over the land, the night nibbling in earlier each day, swallowing up more seconds of sunshine, and leaving Mistaken in a shroud of hazy twilight by mid-afternoon.
Soon the sun wouldn’t even bother to rise, leaving them in the clutched fist of unending night, trapped inside the town’s Warding Stones, hunkered down against winter’s fury.
Greer didn’t mind the cold, didn’t mind the dark, but the weight of the cove’s limits pressed down in those long stationary months, flattening any potential joys or cheer. She could already feel the serpentine squeeze of claustrophobic dread tightening around her, as binding as shackles.
She rubbed her hands over her forearms with brisk efficiency, stirring her blood as she tried to think on better things. “Are you going to the barn warming tonight?”
Louise shrugged without commitment. She tied the hare to her rucksack, letting it join two others, already cleaned. The pelt went inside the bag, but as she reached for the organs, Greer stopped her.
“Wait. Aren’t you leaving those?”
Louise’s hazel eyes darted past the flags; her face was cloudy with hesitation. “I wasn’t planning on it.” Her voice was careful, the words delicately formed. “It’s not yet Reaping.”
It wasn’t, but lacy patterns of hoarfrost stretched fingers over the little pond behind the Mackenzies’ cabin, and Greer’s breath lingered in frosty puffs even throughout the afternoon’s warmth.
Great flocks of black-and-white geese had long since flown for warmer climes, and golden stalks of wheat rustled and whispered against one another, nearly driving Greer mad with their secrets.
The farmers’ silencing scythes couldn’t come soon enough.
The Benevolence would soon descend from their colony high up in the Severing Mountains.
Some might already be here.
Greer reached out to stop Louise, her fingers covering the bloody bits.
“Just these, then. Please?”
Irritation flushed over Louise’s face, nearly drowning out her stain of freckles.
“Louise,” Greer persisted. She could feel the discontent building between them, like a wall grown taller with every stone her friend dropped in place.
Louise pressed her lips together, and Greer could tell she was struggling to hold back a mouthful of sharp words.
“You’re right, it’s not Reaping,” Greer tried again, gently, quick to avoid confrontation if she could. “But…we shouldn’t give only when it’s expected. All this”—she gestured to the trees, to the rabbit—“it’s a gift. Their gift to us. We should be grateful for it.”
Louise snorted. “You sound just like Martha.”
A blossom of pride swelled in Greer’s chest—she adored the older woman who’d lived with their family since she was a small babe—even as she realized Louise hadn’t meant it as a compliment. Still, she held her gaze with firm resolution, refusing to be the first to back down.
After their silence grew thorny, Louise turned, facing the forest beyond the flags, and offered out a deep and disingenuous curtsy.
“Thank you for the rabbits I had to catch and kill and clean myself. It was very good of you to let me work so hard. I’m wildly grateful,” she called out, her voice mincing.
“Stop it!” Greer hissed, disappointed. “What if they hear you?”
Louise choked on laughter. “It’s only you and me. No Benevolence. No Bright-Eyeds. There are no people in this valley for miles all around us.”
“Maybe not here, right here,” Greer sputtered, swallowing back the urge to remind her that the Bright-Eyeds were not people at all. “But there”—her hand rose toward the Redcaps, toward the flags—“they’re out there. All of them,” she added.
“They’re not real!” Louise said, laying out each word with heavy care. “They’re nothing but stupid stories to scare children at bedtime.”
Greer glanced into the deeper forest, her eyes darting as she tried to catch a telltale glimpse of eye-shine, certain Louise had just brought perdition down upon them. “You don’t mean that.”
Louise was always poking at things she shouldn’t, eager to argue, quick to show that she wouldn’t fall into line just because the rules dictated she should. She loved saying startling things to see how people would respond, only ever redacting them when given a sharp look from her older brother.
But Ellis Beaufort wasn’t with them now.
Louise licked her lips. “What if I do?”
“You’re just acting like…” Greer sighed, tossing the last of her words away, ready for the conversation to be over.
For the first time in her life, she wished she could snap her fingers and instantly return to Mistaken.
It was bound to be a miserable hike home with Louise in such a contrary and foul mood.
“What? What am I acting like?”
“A fool!” The words fell free before Greer could stop them. She reached out, intending to console her friend, hoping to smooth the abrasion over, but Louise looked anything but wounded.
She stared at Greer with a mix of disdain and pity and let out a bark of laughter. “That’s a fine accusation coming from a grown woman worrying about the monsters under her bed, leaving out trinkets and treasures, trying to buy approval. Do you ever stop to consider how foolish you act?”
“The gratitudes aren’t foolish.”
Louise shook her head, bristling. “They’re a waste! So much food and resources left to rot out in the woods. Do you know how even a fraction of that could benefit families in the village? Could benefit my family?”
“They’re not left to rot. The offerings are always taken. There’s never a single one left,” Greer snapped, though she knew she was skirting around the uncomfortable truth.
There were families in Mistaken whose gratitudes were a hardship, families who missed the extra bushel of apples, the side of venison, the bags of flour in the dark months of winter. The Beauforts certainly. But the gifts returned to the town well outweighed such a minor cost.
They had the Warding Stones.
They had the Benevolence’s favor.
No other outpost up or down the coast could claim such fortune.