Strange Grace

  “That we know of?” Haf suggests with a wince.

  Mair grits her teeth, longing for the cold shade of the forest’s edge. “Exactly. I want to know.”

  “But how could you discover it without risking everything breaking?”

  “There’s no rule keeping anybody from going into the forest any other night of the year. We just don’t, because we’re afraid of the devil.”

  Haf’s eyes widen. “For good reason.”

  Bree says, “You can’t.”

  “That’s what everybody says,” Mairwen cries.

  “Maybe,” Haf says softly, “try to find something you can do. That won’t risk the saint, or the bargain.”

  “Like make pastries and bless the saint shirt. John had all those things.”

  “And John survived.”

  “The bargain didn’t.”

  There’s nowhere else to take the argument. Everything comes back to the same: Mairwen is not allowed to do anything useful. She’ll make her own charms for Rhun, she thinks, to protect him.

  When the pastries are all pinched, full of sweet meat and gooseberries, they load them into a basket, layered carefully with linen, and carry it toward town. Windows are flung open in the houses they pass; chatter and laughing spills out into the muddy lanes. Children run freer than usual, unleashed for the afternoon to play devils and saints or mirror the older boys’ games of shooting and strength and balance. The tiniest Rees cousins have braided their hair together and gallop past, giggling and shrieking like a six-legged beast. Older boys dash after, arguing who will slay the red dragon of Grace Mount. Mair decides to shuck this dark, dour mood if she’s able, as her mother suggested. For the runners.

  As they approach the square they sense a shift in the air: still celebratory, but tenser, heavier. Haf says she’ll deliver the pastries for baking and join Mair and Bree to watch the boys.

  Five paces later Mairwen stops at the corner of the Royal Barrel. The bonfire is finished: dead branches piled against each other, stacked and leaning, twice times her height. Evergreen boughs decorate it like fur, and sprigs of thistle and rosemary and burdock, too. Fennel and leeks surround the base, some dried blooms and some bulbs, for prosperity and luck.

  It’s magnificent, and will burn for hours.

  The runners cluster in the south curve of the square. They’ve hung the wreath from the stallion upon the bonfire wood. About an arm length wide, it suits as an archery target. All the boys hold their bows and use a communal quiver, though Mairwen recognizes the leather tooling as Rhun’s. Per Argall stands at the chalk line, aiming with very decent form for the youngest of them. Just fifteen last month. It seems half the boys already shot, and though all hit the target, none are too near the center, meaning Rhun has yet to shoot.

  Per looses his arrow. It flutters past an evergreen sprig at the edge of the target and disappears into the pile. Beside Mair, Bree claps. As do the rest of the spectators scattered about the square, some chuckling at the bashful way Per flops his hair over his face. He’ll never be a saint, Mair thinks.

  His older brother shoots next, only marginally better, and then Rhun and Arthur Couch look to each other. Rhun shrugs one shoulder and smiles, stringing his bow in an easy motion. He takes an arrow, rubs the fletching down his cheek as he’s wont to do, and notches it, aims, looses it casually, as if merely swiping a drink of beer. His arrow flies true and buries itself three fingers off the center of the wreath.

  Mairwen can’t help her prideful, tight smile.

  Arthur steps up, six previous arrows waiting and only Rhun’s to beat.

  He takes more time than Rhun for his turn, relaxing into his pose gracefully instead of with Rhun’s casual skill. Mairwen notes the rise of his shoulders and slow, slow fall as he sighs into the shoot.

  The arrow hits true, a single finger off-center.

  A loud cheer swirls around the square, led by Gethin Couch, and even Haf murmurs her amazement from beside Mairwen. Rhun grins and claps Arthur around the shoulders, saying something merry but too quiet to hear from the edge. Mairwen smiles too, as Bree applauds, joining in with the rest of the boys, and the long arc of spectating men slapping their hands to their thighs. Too bad for Arthur all these tests aren’t the real way saints are made. They’re only a show, to bring all the candidates together and keep them out of trouble. Tradition.

  “It could be him,” Haf says, clutching the basket of pastries to her belly. Mairwen darts a sharp look to her friend. It sounds as though Haf means that to comfort Mair.

  “Weren’t you to take those to the bakery?” Mair asks.

  Haf’s mouth twitches and her fingers tighten on the basket’s handle. “I forgot! Yes, of course I’ll go.” She laughs at herself, and knocks her shoulder into Mairwen’s arm before skipping off. Bree nudges Mair too, and uses her chin to point across the square to Ifan Pugh, whose eyes track Haf’s progress.

  Mair can hardly take her own gaze off the boys, especially Rhun and Arthur as they organize a race, debating obstacles and directions. Men call suggestions from the sides, for hurdles and traps. Mairwen sweeps out, offering herself and Bree and Haf as race markers, to hold ribbons the boys will have to carry from one to the next as proof they’ve gone the whole way. It’s set, and so they spend the rest of the daylight: playing games to echo the final night of the Slaughter Moon.

  • • •

  AS THE SUN SETS, ALL return to the square, flushed and dirty. Rhun is hot with laughing and the race, trailing behind everyone as they chatter and argue over who won. Mairwen received a kiss from every boy who ran: gentlemanly hand and cheek kisses from Bevan Heir, the Argall brothers, and the Parry cousins. Arthur kissed her on the mouth, but swiftly and with a tight sneer that mirrored the shape of Mairwen’s and left her breathless. Rhun picked her up by the ribs and kissed her long enough to make her smile again. So long it lost him the race.

  Falling behind not from nerves or sorrow, but the weight of gladness for all he has, Rhun is the one to see John Upjohn walking a parallel path to town, and he angles his route to meet up with the saint.

  John Upjohn is the only person in Three Graces who never smiles at Rhun, though Rhun’s been told the saint has a sweet smile, with dimples on either side of his mouth. How Rhun would like to see that smile tonight. “John,” he says, almost bashful.

  “Rhun Sayer.” Deep wrinkles pull at his eyes, as if John were twice his true age, and the corners are reddish, a sign of his poor sleeping. Mairwen has told Rhun that John still has nightmares, still sometimes comes to the Grace house in the middle of the night as if its hearthstone is the only thing that soothes him enough to rest. The saint is wearing the usual costume of a hunter: wool trousers and leather jerkin over a wool shirt, though he’s without a hood tonight. His stubbed wrist is tucked into a shallow pocket in his jerkin, and in his only hand is a sprig of dried flowers for the bonfire.

  They walk in silence, drawn toward the crowd in the square, to the flicker of torches already lit. Rhun worries his tongue at the back of his teeth, unsure how to make the saint smile. What to say on a night like this, to someone so haunted by it?

  Two houses before they reach the square, it’s John who stops. “I remember your cousin, ten years ago. I was only eleven, but I remember him, how bright and happy he was the night of his bonfire.”

  “I remember, too,” Rhun says.

  “It helped me during mine. To have that memory. I’m sorry you’ve got me and memories of me in the way.”

  “No!” Rhun reaches out and grips John’s arm, to reassure him. “I’m not sorry.”

  The saint makes a smile that is more of a wince, no dimples anywhere. “You will be.”

  A chill grips Rhun’s spine, but he shrugs it off as if fear is a choice. “It’s what I’m for,” he says.

  “Is it?” John Upjohn shakes his head and pulls his stump out of its pocket. The sleeve of his shirt is tied off so there are no scars to see. “You can choose,” he says finally, echoing Rhun’s thought
s.

  Rhun lets his hand slide away from the saint’s shoulder. “It’s worth it.”

  Expecting John to immediately agree is a mistake Rhun knew he was making even as he made it. When John slowly, reluctantly nods, Rhun apologizes: “I’m sorry. It must be impossible for you, tonight of all nights.”

  The saint smiles helplessly, and there they are: two long dimples making John’s face more handsome for a moment before the smile falls away and John says, “You’re facing your best and worst night, and apologizing to me. I’m the one who’s sorry, Rhun Sayer. You’re too good to survive it.”

  Unsurprised by the sentiment, only the bluntness of someone saying so aloud, Rhun lets his mouth fall open, and for a moment he’s at a loss. His cousin was the best, and didn’t live: Rhun never expected to be better than Baeddan. “I don’t have to survive it, to fulfill the bargain. I just have to run.”

  “You should want to survive it, though.” The haunted blue of John’s eyes catches the last sunlight as he steps nearer to Rhun.

  “I—I do,” Rhun says, though he rarely has thought of any future past the night of his run. All his future thoughts have been of the four more years he was supposed to have between now and then. The moment the blood appeared on the Bone Tree this morning, Rhun’s future vanished. He knows in his heart, in his gut, this is his second-to-last night.

  “Good,” John says sorrowfully, as if he knows Rhun doesn’t mean it but can’t bring himself to challenge it.

  The saint and almost-saint pause together in the narrow cobbled alley, though Rhun is broader, with more bright tension in the way he stands, and John Upjohn holds himself as still as stone.

  “I’ll be all right, John,” Rhun says, and though he hates lying nearly as much as he hates secrets, he adds, “I promise.”

  “Just remember,” the saint says, moving away from Rhun, glancing back over his shoulder, “you must have something to focus on, besides the devil. Besides the run. Something outside, something . . . good. A person, or hope for yourself. Something to pull you back out.”

  “What did you hope for?” Rhun calls softly.

  John lowers his head and holds out his arm with the missing hand. He doesn’t answer.

  Before Rhun can press, the saint hurries toward the village square.

  • • •

  THREE YEARS AGO, WHEN ARTHUR was nearly fifteen, his best friend, Rhun, stopped them along the narrow deer path they’d been stalking along, and kissed him. The moment before, as he leaned in, Rhun’s eyes were bright with happiness, so much so that Arthur started to smile back before he realized what was happening.

  Then Rhun’s mouth was on his, warm and soft, and Arthur stumbled away, his boots tangling in the spindly autumn grasses so he had to fling his hands back against a tree to catch himself. The bark scraped his palms, burning all the way up his arms to spark like fury in his skull.

  Rhun laughed and grasped Arthur’s shoulders. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I just—”

  “Don’t touch me,” Arthur cried hoarsely and low.

  “What?” Rhun pulled his hands back, shock widening his eyes.

  Arthur shoved away from the tree, turning his back to Rhun. “I’m not a girl,” he said.

  “I know that?” Uncertainty put the question in Rhun’s words.

  All Arthur could see were crowns of flowers and petals catching fire, hear the laughter of boys and that pitying look in the eyes of men. He was shaking. He made his hands into fists. “Don’t do that, ever. I’m not a girl.”

  Rhun couldn’t help it; he reached out again. He was afraid and Arthur could see it in how his brow pulled into a solid black line. “I wanted you to know,” awkward, fourteen-year-old Rhun said. “Next time it’ll be me, and I wanted you to know.”

  “Next time?” Arthur’s voice was pitched high with hysteria. “There can’t be a next time!”

  “The Slaughter Moon,” Rhun whispered.

  Arthur fell silent, though his chest heaved. Two days before that one, John Upjohn had charged out of the forest, so they had seven more years of bounty. He stared at Rhun, horrified still, and his lips burned. He wiped them roughly with the back of his hand, glaring at Rhun the whole time.

  Rhun grimaced but didn’t look away. “I know you’re not a girl, Arthur. I only . . . want to kiss you anyway.”

  A wind blew golden-brown leaves between them and shook the bare branches overhead. They were still, both shorter than they’d soon be, and slimmer, but Arthur hadn’t chopped off his hair in enough months it brushed the sharp cut of his shoulders in smoothing layers. The wind fluttered it against his neck where it tickled and itched.

  “You can’t,” Arthur said, and added with vicious finality, “It’s disgusting.”

  Rhun shook his head sadly, and the shape his mouth and crooked nose and dark eyes and strong jaw made all together was a shape of something Arthur couldn’t understand. “There’s nothing disgusting in our valley,” Rhun said. “There can’t be. Everything here is good and right.”

  “Not me,” Arthur sneered, and tore away, stomping, then running, then racing through the cutting forest, up and up away from the valley, up to the mountain peaks, where there was nothing but rough heather and jutting chalk cliffs.

  Next time is all Arthur can think of now, three years later, as in the final slash of daylight, Sy Vaughn and Aderyn Grace bring the torches to the pyre.

  Together the young lord and the witch cry the names of the prospective runners, and together they light the blaze. Together they spill wine for the saints and for the devil, for God and his angels, for the king and the bishops, and for their grandmothers and grandfathers, until both bottles are splashed entirely onto the evergreen sprigs and thistle. Vaughn is like a holy saint himself, smiling and handsome, while Aderyn is dangerous and strong, her twisting curls tinged nearly red by the fire in her hand. They thrust their torches deep into the pyre. At first only the inside flames: burning hot, a pulsing heart inside the bonfire shell. Arthur knows that pulse too well.

  Then evergreen boughs flash aflame, and everyone cheers. The thistles and smallest branches catch, and they cheer again.

  As one by one the mothers of the potential runners walk or stride or creep to the fire and toss in their son’s charm, the town falls quiet. The mothers stand side by side to watch the charms burn. Except Arthur’s mother is gone, left a decade ago, and Nona Sayer can’t cast his charm because she cast her own son’s. Nobody thought of it, clearly, since nobody thought of Arthur Couch’s potentiality really mattering at all. He lets his lips curl, even as Rhun knocks their shoulders together enthusiastically.

  Mairwen darts out of the crowd suddenly, wrinkling her nose as if irritated. She makes big eyes at Arthur and shows him the bone charm in her hand. It’s a string of teeth, all shapes and sizes, deer and rabbit and sharp mountain cat and small fox and goat and sheep. Someone says her name, and a few others say his, and Mairwen throws the teeth into the pyre with a violent thrust.

  Arthur’s entire body clenches and he bites his teeth together too hard, pretending to bite her, to kiss her with the same violence. Rhun’s fingers dig into his shoulder, grounding him in just exactly the right kind of pain. Rhun knows. Rhun always knows.

  Drums come out, and whistles and three fiddles. Women bring the platters of pastries, to join the roasted pig that smoked and cooked all day long in a pit. There are cakes and pies, so much dripping meat, laughter and music, and the dancing begins when the moon rises.

  This moon is nearly full, fat-bottomed and perfect: a spot of silver to compete with their roaring bonfire. That fire spits up red sparks against the black sky, so bright they consume the stars. But the moon beckons everyone to dance.

  Arthur eats and drinks, dances with Haf Lewis and her sister, with Hetty Pugh, who stares narrowly and with amusement the entire time. He drinks more, snatching sips from his partners’ cups, and an entire flagon from Braith Bowen the smith, and snaps morsels of food from offering fingers, for he
is one of the prospective runners, even though everyone knows—knows, assumes, presumes—the saint will be Rhun. Only that scathing dick Alun Prichard asks Arthur to dance, bowing and calling him Lyn. Arthur grabs the front of the young man’s shirt and drags them together. He bashes his head into Alun’s nose, then thrusts him away.

  The gasps of nearby dancers hiss into shrugs and head-shaking when they see it’s only Arthur, as usual.

  There are Mairwen and Rhun, dancing too closely. They spin and Mairwen clings to Rhun, dread widening her features. She suddenly stops dancing in the middle of the square, causing him to trip gracefully. She shakes her head and Rhun turns her right into Arthur’s arms.

  He catches her as she leans in. Arthur’s short pale hair spikes around his head, alight as a saint’s halo, and his lips spread over his teeth. “Mairwen Grace,” he says, unable to help himself, “rather dancing with me than Rhun Sayer.”

  Mairwen shrugs and spins. She skips and turns, lets her head fall back and her hair shake loose. The world spins, too, the bonfire blazes, the people around them laugh and dance, and Arthur cups her elbows, then her waist as they turn and turn. He pulls her closer, their bodies pressed into one, at the center of all this wild dancing, and the full moon streaks her tangled hair with ghostly light.

  “I’m dancing with all the runners,” she says.

  “It could be me chosen,” he whispers into her ear, and Mairwen laughs. She laughs so free and loud it draws heads and gazes around them. She puts her hands to Arthur’s neck and smiles.

  “I would rather it be you,” she declares, laughing still. Sparks flash off the fire, making shapes more scattered than constellations, and dangerous as goblins.

  Fury burns through Arthur and he jerks her closer, as if to slam his head into hers as he did to Alun Prichard.

  “You’ll have to cut your hair again,” she whispers, “violent boy.” She toys at the ragged tips with both hands, and his earlobes, too, causing him to shiver. Her touch leaves cold impressions, driving straight down to his loins. He tears away, shoving through the crowd, away from the fire and pulsing drums.