Page 31 of A Land So Wide

N ight descended swiftly in the woods.

Without the lights of nearby cabins, candle tapers, and oil lamps, without bonfires and hearth embers, the darkness fell over Greer and was not pushed back.

Even the moon and stars hid from her, obscured by an ominous blanket of clouds that smelled like the promise of snow.

“Please don’t,” Greer beseeched the sky.

Snow would cover every trace of Ellis’s tracks. He’d already had an entire day’s head start. How could she follow a trail she could not see?

Before the last trace of twilight expired, she stopped and opened the pack.

Right on top, as if Louise had anticipated exactly what Greer would need and when, was an oil lantern—blessedly full—a piece of flint, and a small hatchet. Lit, the lantern’s golden glow pushed back the night and allowed her to continue after Ellis’s prints.

“Follow his footsteps,” she said, speaking aloud. Her voice sounded strange and muffled, as if she’d caught the echoes of something trapped in a deep well. The scream had done something to her ears. She prayed it was temporary.

The Bright-Eyeds weren’t the only creatures she needed to worry about in these woods. Wolves and grizzlies roamed here. Lynxes and great horned owls. That white bear Gil Catasch had seen. How could she keep herself safe from such predators if she couldn’t hear them coming?

“Doesn’t matter,” she muttered, coaching herself with firm tenacity. “Just follow Ellis’s tracks. Just find him.”

If she kept her eyes trained on the ground before her, if she kept her focus on this one task, Greer wouldn’t have to think about why her ears were both ringing and terribly numb.

She wouldn’t have to remember how she’d felt when that scream had ripped free of her throat, of her chest, of her very soul.

She wouldn’t have to think about how it had picked up Lachlan and shoved him back, back, back, how its potency had caused everything around her to retreat, as if she was a destructive force of nature, as if she was the very wind itself.

And she certainly wouldn’t have to think about how still Lachlan had remained once the scream had stopped.

No.

Hessel was with him. Lachlan was fine.

Maybe.

And Greer had Ellis’s tracks to follow.

She would keep her mind focused, and only after she found him would Greer allow herself to remember the way Lachlan’s leg had stretched away from the rest of his body, its angle so terribly severe.

She winced. “Follow the trail. Just follow the trail.”

Without the moon, it was hard to tell how much time had passed. Her lantern threw out only enough light for her to see paces ahead of her, and she began to feel she was passing by the same series of trees, again and again.

Was she going in circles? What if Ellis’s path was nothing but a giant loop, doomed to be repeated over and over until she found him sprawled facedown, dropped dead of exhaustion or torn to bits?

“You’re not going in circles,” she told herself, as if putting the words out into the night would be enough to make them true. “Keep going. Ellis did.”

Greer held out the lantern, brandishing its light as far as she could throw it, and studied the surrounding forest with sharp, discerning eyes.

The uniformity of the pines made her feel as if she were caught in an illusion, like the time she and Louise had lined up two mirrored plates so that their reflections echoed back and forth in an unending cycle, a break in logic and reason.

She’d never seen these trees shrouded in such moody nocturnal shades before, and her throat caught at the singular beauty of the moment. Freed from the Warding Stones’ grip, she, Greer Mackenzie, was witnessing something entirely new, that no one in all of Mistaken could lay claim to.

Overcome with a dizzying sense of wonder, Greer dropped to her knees, reached out to the tree nearest her—a black spruce—and bowed her head. For an uneasy moment, her words would not come, too entangled in her lingering sense of guilt that she’d not thought to start her journey with a prayer.

As she waited for the right ones to surface, she closed her eyes and sank into the moment, acknowledging its marvel. She hoped that the Benevolence would feel her reverence, understand her thankful heart, and bless her.

“Guide my steps and keep them swift,” she whispered. “Keep the Bright-Eyeds far from me, and please”—she squeezed the bark of the spruce, trying to impart the earnestness of her plea—“ please, keep Ellis safe and bring us together again soon.”

A sharp whistle cut through the canopy overhead, and Greer opened her eyes to look up. The sound was high and keening, enough to even break through her muffled fog, but unlike any birdcall Greer had ever heard. She froze, remembering the bats that had come on Reaping night.

“Just an owl,” she promised herself. “It’s just an owl.”

Another cry pierced the night, but this time Greer recognized it.

It was a wolf’s howl, coming from somewhere to her south. At first there was just one, but then another joined in, and a third, then a fourth. A whole pack. Their notes lingered in the icy air, the mournful pitches sending shivers of fear down Greer’s spine.

She pictured them poised on the edge of a cliff, surveying their kingdom with wide chests and massive paws, heads full of yellow eyes and sharp teeth.

Trappers who had wandered into Mistaken, becoming caught within the Warding Stones, had said the wolves around their cove were different from the ones they’d hunted before.

They grew bigger. Meaner.

But the thing that scared the trappers most was the wolves’ intelligence.

“Certainly smarter than me,” Baptiste Moreau had once warned, seated at a campfire while Mistaken celebrated a Hunter’s Moon.

Lachlan had scoffed it off, saying that—by his estimation of Baptiste—that wasn’t a lot.

Giving the tree one final touch, Greer set off, quickening her pace.

She hiked for hours. Her knees throbbed, and the pack’s straps were just uneven enough to cut welts against her shoulders. Her eyes ached from squinting against the lantern’s light.

Still, she went on.

She stumbled up more embankments, tripped over unseen tree roots and leaf-covered rocks.

Only when she came upon the remains of a fire circle did Greer pause. She studied the area, hungry for details. The campsite looked fresh and undisturbed. Ellis had stopped here, this small clearing edged in fallen logs, and built up a fire. His prints were all over the ground.

Greer spotted a bower of branches, its shape formed too perfectly to have been tossed there by the wind. Several limbs were propped upright, creating a protective lean-to. Ellis had made this nest and rested here, sleeping upon a bed of pine needles.

She knew she should press onward, knew she would be able to catch up with him sooner if she didn’t stop. But the bed looked so tempting, and the remnants of his fire invited her to set it ablaze once more. He’d already done the work. She just needed to create one small spark.

Only once the fire was going, its flames big enough to warm Greer’s chilled limbs, did she begin to look through the rest of her pack.

Besides the flint and hatchet, there was a loaf of bread wrapped in brown paper and twine, as if Ellis had just brought it home from the bakery, and some sort of jerky—Greer sniffed and guessed it might be venison.

There was a small set of cooking tools—a pot, a plate, a metal cup—and a canteen of water, already filled.

Greer took a long, grateful swig. Squashed at the bag’s bottom was a cache of clothing, including a spare set of mittens and a heavy flannel shirt.

It was a dark blue-and-green plaid, her favorite of Ellis’s.

She removed her cloak and slipped the shirt over her dress.

It was far too big, but felt soft and warm and smelled of Ellis.

She snuggled in its comforting familiarity for a moment before throwing her cloak over it.

The rucksack’s inner pockets contained a small knife, a compass, and—to her great delight—an extra set of socks. She scrunched her fingers into the plush wool, smiling as she imagined Mary knitting these, wholly unaware that Greer would one day use them to go after her son.

As exhaustion set in, Greer fell into the bed of pines, stretching. She shifted back and forth, trying to find a comfortable position. She would rest for only a few hours, and then head out.

Something rustled beneath her.

Her eyes flashed open, and she rolled over, pawing at the branches.

There, nestled in the greenery, was a folded square of paper.

As she flattened it open, Greer’s breath caught.

It was a map, the one Ellis had gotten off the merchant captain only days ago. The one Greer assumed had been lost forever in the chaos of the barn-warming night.

Ellis had saved it.

Ellis had taken it with him.

And, against all likelihood, Ellis had used it to leave her a note.

She scanned his penciled words with hungry eyes, devouring each syllable. It felt as if he was speaking directly to her. She could almost hear the rich warmth of his baritone.

Greer,

I hope that one day these words will make their way to you.

I hope they bring you comfort. I pray they do not cause grief.

I have ventured off into the northern wilds to serve as a sacrifice for the Benevolence.

I do this for the town, yes. For the people of Mistaken, certainly.

But more than anything, I’m doing it for you.

The Stewards have explained everything to me, the way the pact with the Benevolence was formed, what they expect of us, and all the terrible dangers that can come when our side of the bargain is not met.

Don’t mourn me, Greer. I go willingly. I go for you.

All I’ve ever wanted was for you to be happy and loved and safe.

You’ve always had my heart. Now you’ll have my protection, too.

I’m leaving this here because I know you well enough to be certain you’ll come looking for me. I want you to find and read these words, and then I want you to turn around and go home. Don’t try to save me from my decision. It was freely made, freely given.

I’ve written this on a map to show that, though it might feel as though we’re worlds apart, here on this paper it’s only a matter of inches, just the spread of a hand. I take comfort in imagining that I will be able to hold out my hand and feel yours reaching, too.

Be happy, Greer, and, please, after you read this, forget me. Forget me and live the best life you can. For both of us.

Ellis

Hot tears welled in Greer’s eyes but fell cold, freezing in the icy air and sobering her thoughts. She read through the letter once again, then a third time, trying to lessen the sting of his words with repetition.

He didn’t want her going after him. He told her to turn tail and go home. Told her to forget him. As if that would be so easy. As if she could simply choose to exist without her other half.

“I can’t, Ellis.” Her whispered breath steamed around her in the frosty air. “I can’t forget. I will never give up. I’m coming for you.”

She turned her attention toward the map, squinting as she tried to place where she was now. Mistaken was in the lowlands, sandwiched between the Great Bay and the start of the Severing Mountains. Their elevation rose gently at first, then by leaps and bounds.

Worry quickened within her. If Ellis was headed into the mountains, it would be nearly impossible to follow him. She had no snowshoes, no ropes, no spikes for her boots. Could she catch up with him before he ventured past the foothills?

On a good day—traveling through areas of the forest that she knew—Greer could cover twenty thousand paces, if she left Mistaken’s border the moment the sun rose and slipped over it again just seconds before Third Bellows sounded.

But Ellis did not often go on these expeditions with her.

Ellis would not know these woods. He would be moving slower, searching for the best path, drawn toward… what exactly?

She thought of the great black-and-white geese that flew overheard with the changing of seasons. Even before experiencing a migration, they were pulled south, following an urge, ancient and unescapable. Did Ellis feel that now, that tug toward the Benevolence?

She took out the compass and looked into the darkness where the red arrow pointed. Ellis had said only a matter of inches separated them. Wistfully, she reached out her hand, wishing it was that easy. Greer squeezed her eyes shut and imagined his hand stretching to hold hers, too.

For one wondrous moment, it felt as if fingers wrapped around hers, as warm and big and enveloping as Ellis Beaufort’s heart, and Greer sobbed, knowing it was only her imagination.

“Ellis?” she dared to ask anyway, and tightened her grip, wanting to hold on to this phantom trace of him forever.

Horrifyingly, the fingers around hers squeezed back.

With a gasp, Greer’s eyes flashed open, but her hand was as empty as the sky above.