Page 166 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
Who Is Your God
Now?
T
he moon is low in the sky as I traverse the woods, settling at Azaire’s tree. The rift I made in the world sits before me, and I stare into the abyss. Would darkness be better than life?
I twirl my fingers through the grass, soaking in the life left. Before the boy, this was my company. Nature. When it all became too much, I would feel for her—Zola, the goddess of balance, present in every inch of the ground.
I pull the grass from its roots and grow it again, twice as strong.
No matter how many times I do it, it offers no peace of company.
In the end, I close my eyes, searching for the boy.
In my mind, Azaire’s tree is vibrant, bright. A beacon of light. Even in my soul I cannot escape the destination of my mourning.
The boy stands before the tree, nearly blending in.
His gaze meets mine, offering a solemn nod.
“You’re unsure,”he says.“If you are going to kill her or not.”
I inch back, angry at having the question voiced so simply. To kill or not to kill—it isn’t so clear cut.
The grievances that others feel by my power are understandable. My ability sees what should be kept concealed.
“Yes,”I answer.
The boy takes a deep breath, stepping forward as he takes me in.“Death stains a soul.”
“I know.”
“For as many woes as this life has dealt you, you have handled them with grace.”
The boy offers me a hand. I take it, and he begins walking toward the cottage.
I stop as quickly as we started.“I don’t want to go in there.”
“We must.”
It’s against my will that we enter the house. Walking past the purple kitchen, up the colorful stairs, and to the second story, with the stained-glass window and the tree growing through the floor. Hundreds of memories here turned to two deaths. Thousands of smiles turned to one frown.
“When it comes, you will put up a fight. Promise me,”the boy says.
I stare, as if I don’t know what he is saying. But it’s there—the burning in my lungs, stealing my words.
“When what comes?”I ask.
“You feel it. You’re ignoring it. But that burning is arriving, and you are stronger in a place with emotional roots.”The boy pats the top of my hand.“That’s why I brought you here. You have moments. Fight, Wendy.”
My eyes open against my will. It’s so rare for the boy to send me away—it’s only happened once before. Normally, I push him out. But the moment the thought passes, something else arrives.
The burning. The anger. The disgust. Something is approaching. I gaze out the window, waiting for a sign.
A tall, dark creature appears in the woods. Unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
Its skin is blackened like charcoal, cracked with glowing red veins. Boils and cysts throb across its arms and shoulders—some burst, leaking a dark sludge.
