Page 3 of A Land So Wide
“Mistake and…” the first mate repeated, but the man did not answer.
With dead eyes fixed upon his grove of trees, Resolution Beaufort’s ill-fated voyage had come to an end.
Part I
Mistaken
If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they’re always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
—Robert W. Service, “The Men That Don’t Fit In,”
The Spell of the Yukon, and Other Verses
1
Scritch, 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.”
