Page 14 of Strange Grace
“He is a saint!”
“If people see this monster, they’ll be even more afraid.”
Mairwen looks at Arthur’s burning pale eyes. “This isn’t John’s fault.”
“But something is very wrong. This is unnatural, even for the Devil’s Forest.”
“Poor thing,” she says, eyes dropping back to the malformed body of flesh and vines. Arthur is right: The bargain is broken, or so weakened it cannot even bind the monsters inside. “Let’s roll it back across the threshold.”
Arthur bends and grabs the neck and shoulders, grimacing at the torn mouth. Mair picks up the back end by the ankles, lifting and dragging.
It’s not nearly as heavy as it should be. Like its insides have dried out or been eaten away.
They manage to heave it to the edge of the forest, where the rising sun still can’t penetrate. On count of three they roll it fully into the shadows, then stand there panting, staring at its bulk, just hidden in the thick, rotting deadfall, less than a foot from the light.
A shuffle of tall pasture grass behind them warns them somebody’s coming. Mair darts up the hill in time to see Rhun easily hop over the stone wall even with what appears to be little Genny Bowen in his arms. All Mair’s urgency falls away at the sight of him. Rhun Sayer with a baby girl. She thinks of her father, Carey Morgan, the saint who went into the forest not knowing he had a daughter on the way. Rhun would be a wonderful father.
Mair makes some noise of sorrow as Arthur joins her. “Damn,” he whispers, sad and furious and thinking the same thoughts as Mairwen.
But Rhun smiles at them, a boyish, wide smile, and lifts Genny’s chubby hand to wave.
“Go to the creek and wash off your face,” Mairwen says.
“He, at least, should know.”
She hesitates, then nods and trudges up toward Rhun, who says, “Morning.” As if compelled by unseen forces, he steps close. Even with Genny between them, he kisses her.
It’s such a welcome thing to Mairwen, who feels her heart quiet, her bones stop their anxious vibrations, as always when Rhun kisses her. She becomes rooted to the spot, like a trembling willow tree. Genny puts a warm hand on Mairwen’s cheek.
“Kissing where the devil can see?” Arthur calls with poison in his tone.
They part, though Rhun remains intimately near. She slides Arthur a glare just as Rhun asks, “What happened?” with horror building in his tone. His brown cheeks are rough with a spotty young beard, his lips tight with strain.
“Hello, Genny,” Mairwen says calmly, taking the baby.
“Arthur?” Rhun eyes the blood on Arthur’s face.
“Mama is sick,” the little girl tells Mairwen.
“Then it’s good,” Arthur says, pointing his hand north, “there’s blood on the Bone Tree.”
They all look, and there, rising from the deepest center of the forest, the Bone Tree spreads its barren branches and a scatter of red buds catch the sunrise like a scream.
“So,” Rhun says, voice thick, and he can say no more.
Dread hardens inside Mairwen, like she swallowed old yellow bones.
It’s Arthur who puts his hand flat and solidly on Rhun’s shoulder, scowling at the bloody flowers. “Tomorrow night, then,” he says.
•••
BY THE TIME THE FIRSTof the town arrives, Arthur and Rhun have been to the creek and back, the former to wash and relate the brief morning’s adventure to the latter. Mairwen holds Genny, both of them all awkward elbows, and she sings softly to the little girl. It’s a song about the Bone Tree, about three little squirrels who try to make a nest in its branches and one by one grow wings, antlers, and fangs. Mairwen can’t recall where she learned it—from her grandmother maybe—or if she made it up on her own during long hours cleaning bones to carve for combs and needles.
Fortunately, Genny seems to like it, and as the townsfolk gather, Mairwen sings it again, louder. They stare at her, this strange saint’s daughter, including the Pugh sisters, the shepherds and bakers, the families who ask her blessing and those who think it strange she dances at the edges of shadows and boils bones despite her holy father. There’s Gethin Couch, Arthur’s father—and the town leatherworker—standing with some brewers and watching his son from the same distance as always. Lace Upjohn, who sent her son in last time. She must come closest to understanding how Mairwen feels. John himself isn’t here. Devyn Argall arrives carrying a stool for Cat Dee, the oldest woman in town, to rest upon. Mair sees her friend Haf Lewis, a pretty girl with a rosy smile, tan cheeks, and sleek black braids, who does not think Mairwen is strange, only Mairwen.
Her voice fades, and Genny wiggles to be let down. Mairwen bends to set her on her stockinged feet, and the girl stumbles and rushes to her father, who’s come with her mother cradled in his arms in order that both might see the scarlet leaves crowning the Bone Tree and know soon Liza Bowen will heal, because blood leaves are proof that the bargain can be re-formed with a new saint’s run. Mairwen wishes she believed it. Something is wrong, so maybe everything is wrong. She looks for her mother, and finds the witch standing opposite in the crowd. Aderyn’s mouth softens when she sees her daughter, and she beckons.
It’s time for the first ritual to begin, and together the two witches go into the herd of horses and choose a healthy one. He’s a dark roan, still young and strong, but with a son of his own to carry his qualities on so they won’t lose the power from the herd. Aderyn turns him over to the rest of the women, who brush him to a shine and braid his mane and tail with red ribbons, put a wreath of thistle and holly around the beast’s neck. Then the men anoint the horse’s brow with a blessed salve, and each boy who might run approaches. One by one they grip the wreath, hard enough the pricking holly and rough thistle draw blood, and whisper their name into the horse’s ear.
