Forty-four years
before the start of The Jewel.
SIL, age 16
My head pounds as I shove everything
I own—everything I’ve stolen—onto the flat threadbare piece of canvas.
The wind rattles the corrugated roof
over my latest refuge, a shed behind a tool-and-seed store in a tiny village in
the Farm. I hold my breath and shut my eyes, begging the wind to leave me
alone.
In the darkness behind my lids, all
I can see is the shutter, pulling loose from the green and yellow house.
Plummeting down the street. The little boy lifted into the air when it hit him
in the chest.
My fault, my fault, my fault. . . .
His mother screaming. Townspeople
running for shelter as the wind grew out of control—stronger, meaner, biting
through cloaks and stealing hats, making everyone run for cover in fear.
Except me.
My fault.
My eyes grow hot and the roof shakes
again.
I’m leaving! I want to scream
at it. Will that make you happy?
But I know it won’t. Leaving the
Bank didn’t work. The wind, the rainstorms, the fires, the earth groaning and
shaking . . . it all followed me here.
I shake my head to clear it and tie
the four corners of the canvas together. As I loop my arm through the hole, I
take a last look at what has been my home for the past two days—the shovels,
the bags of seed, the lone dirty window. Then I pull up the hood of my cloak
and slip away into the autumn night.
The wind chases me through the empty
streets. Every house is shuttered tight. As soon as I reach the edge of town,
the wind begins to die down. Whatever this thing inside me is, it isn’t
anything like the Auguries. Those hurt, but they never frightened me. Not like
this.
“You’re not frightened,” I growl at
myself, trying to be convincing. But I haven’t slept in two days. Bad things
happen when I sleep. And alone, at night, on a road to nowhere, there’s no one
to be brave in front of.
I look up at the night sky. The
stars look bigger tonight, brighter. They seem to buzz and hum for me, but of
course, I know they don’t really. They can’t, because stars don’t buzz and hum
for anyone. They’re just stupid balls of light millions of miles away and they
don’t care about a girl who almost died giving birth but didn’t and can’t
explain why.
I feel something brush against my
ankle and look down. The flowers are back, the ones that grew when I finally
made it out of the sewers into the Bank. The ones that follow me like the wind
and the rain. They’re pretty, but I don’t understand them, don’t trust them.
They’re crawling over my feet, they’re spreading out all around me.
“Go away!” I yell at them. “Leave me
alone!”
But more blood red petals bloom and
die, bloom and die, reminding me that I’ll never fit anywhere—a girl who makes
flowers grow out of nothing, who makes windstorms that hurt little boys and
starts fires that destroy stores.
I am a freak.
It’s even worse than being a
surrogate. At least as a surrogate, I had friends. At Northgate I was part of a
group, part of something bigger. I never thought I’d hate anything more than
the Jewel, but now . . . I think I do.
I hate myself. I want to tear out
whatever piece of me is doing this, I want to rip it from my chest and stomp on
it until there’s nothing left.
But that piece of you saved your
life,
a little voice in the back of my head whispers. I flex the fingers of my burned
hand instinctively, remembering the cold halls of the morgue as I searched
desperately for a way out, and then the heat of the incinerator. I was able to
put out the flames as I slid down the shaft to the sewer. But they returned so
quickly. . . .
The flowers crawl toward me, and
it’s as though they are herding me, pushing me toward the forest that lines the
road.
I turn on my heel and run as fast as
I can, which isn’t very fast what with the lack of sleep and the fact that I
haven’t eaten anything substantial in five days. Not since I stole three pear
tarts out of the batch cooling on the baker’s windowsill. My pathetic little
canvas sack bumps against my back, a stale loaf of bread I’ve been saving, a
few tomatoes I swiped this morning, and a butter knife I’ve sharpened to use as
a weapon if need be.
So far, it seems like I’m enough of
a weapon myself.
I run for what seems like
hours—until I can’t anymore, until my legs literally give out and I fall to the
forest floor, dirt clogging my lungs, leaves tickling my cheeks. The last thing
I see before I slip into unconsciousness are those damned red flowers, growing
up around me like a blanket.
I wake at dawn.
I don’t know what day it is, but the
sun is definitely just coming up. My body aches in a way that makes me think
I’ve been sleeping for a whole night and day and night again. I shake out my
arm and an uncomfortable prickling sensation runs through it.
The flowers are gone, and I wonder
if maybe I just imagined them.
But I know better.
I’m starving, but I don’t want to
eat all my food at once. I settle on a tomato, since the three I have won’t
last long anyway, and a mouthful of bread.
At least, that’s what I start out
eating. But ten minutes later, my meager stash of food is gone completely. I
didn’t mean to, I’m just so hungry. I look up at the kaleidoscope of
leaves overhead. Patterns of gold and umber and crimson, interlinking, like the
canopy over my bed in the palace of the Lake. My mouth hardens into a line. At
least I’m free now. That should count for something.
I stand and brush the dirt off my
pants. Free to do what, though?
“What do you want from me?” I shout
at the forest. This isn’t the first time I’ve yelled at nothing, but it is
the first time I’ve been free to shout as loud as I want. It feels good. A tree
behind me groans. “What?” I cry, whirling around to face it. It’s an aging
sycamore, its bark chipped and weathered, thick roots poking up from the
ground.
And then, I swear on the Exetor’s life,
it moves. Branches lift, reaching toward me, and my confident shout
turns to a pathetic squeak. I grab my makeshift knife, the only possession I
have left, and make several slashing motions at the branches.
“Get back!” I say, but my voice is
breathy and trembles, and it makes me scared.
I hate being scared.
I’ve been scared for too long—when
the Duke beat me and threatened me, when he tried to get me to kill off one of
his own children growing inside me. When I discovered I was in a morgue and not
a hospital. But I have never been as scared as in this moment, with a sycamore
reaching toward me, and then the dogwood beside it, and the oak. They all start
groaning and creaking, branches stretching out for me like many-fingered hands.
I imagine them wrapping around my throat. I picture them dragging me
underground to some hidden tree lair, where I’ll never escape, where I’ll drown
in dirt.
Without even thinking, I take off
again. My feet pound against the forest floor and every tree I pass reaches for
me, their branches and roots on my heels, twisting into grotesque versions of
their former selves. Brightly colored leaves spray up into the air like the
confetti I saw when I attended the Exetor’s Ball. Like with the flowers, I feel
as though they are pushing me, corralling me, but I don’t know where to or for
what purpose. I find a crevice between two lichen-covered boulders and squeeze
myself inside, hunched and shivering.
I stay hidden there for the rest of
the day, until the light dims and the first stars come out, and my stomach
cramps so painfully that I’m forced to find food and water.
I always think the night will keep
me safe.
And I’m always wrong.
The next day brings more of the
same.
I’ve taken to eating nuts and bark
and leaves. I find a stream around midday and nearly cry at the gurgling sound,
the fresh scent of water. The water is clear and freezing. I drink my fill and
wash myself as best I can. As I stand and take stock of my surroundings, I feel
it.
A small tug, like someone’s thrown a
hook around one of my ribs and pulled it gently. I’ve never felt anything like
this, and against my better judgment—without using any judgment, really—I
follow the pull. A big cypress groans at me as I pass and I pick up my pace. I
wind through the trees and the tug grows stronger, sharper. Part of me is
thinking this is crazy, that I should turn around and find shelter, that I
should not be following this mysterious feeling because mysterious
feelings haven’t been working out well for me.
But there’s something so satisfying
about this pull. Something that reminds me of my grandmother’s voice, calling
me and my brothers inside for dinner. It’s my friend Carmine’s laugh, the
happiest sound that ever graced the halls of Northgate. It’s desire and fear
and hope, all wrapped up around my insides like a fist.
I don’t know how long I walk. Time
loses meaning. It’s just me and this feeling and the trees that shudder as I
pass.
Then the trees stop, as abruptly as
the pull.
I’m standing at the edge of a wide
clearing, overgrown with yellowing grass and weeds. Sunlight reflects off a
pond just beyond the ruins of an old, red brick farmhouse. A decrepit barn
looms off in the distance.
For a moment, I just stand there,
drinking in the silence. The forest is utterly still around me, for the first
time since I entered it. Like it’s holding a collective breath. Like it’s been
waiting for me to find this place.
I approach the crumbling farmhouse
warily. A porch made of rotting wood juts out from the front door, a withered
garden curling around it. Several windows are shattered or missing, and the
door hangs off its hinges. Inside I see only dust and cobwebs and broken
furniture.
I stand and stare at the old ruin
and my heart sags. How could I make a home out of this place? It’s broken. It’s
in shambles. I don’t know how to fix a house. I don’t know how to do anything.
I was raised to make a baby and die. I’m not supposed to be here.
A single tear clings to my lashes. I
blink and it tumbles down my cheek.
I look around me again, and from
within the very center of the dead garden, life emerges. A lone flower rises
up, its stalk a bright, spring green, its petals unfolding before my eyes, the
purest white I have ever seen, like new fallen snow on the roof of Northgate.
It’s a rose. A white rose. And in
this moment, I know it’s for me. That this place, this forest, has given it to
me. A sign of life.
A sign of hope.
I reach out and stroke the petals.
They are softer than rabbit’s fur and they open even more at my touch. But
unlike the red flowers that follow me everywhere, this rose doesn’t scare me. I
look at the ruined farmhouse again and see possibility. I see a life for
myself.
The trees behind me twist and sway,
and for the first time I think I hear something in their rustling, and it’s not
frightening but welcoming. Maybe this forest wants me here.
Maybe I’ve finally found the place
where I belong.
