Chapter 12

After spending a frosty night curled beside a boulder, I hiked east for two hours and found a collapsed, one-lane bridge.

Fifteen feet was the only thing separating my side to the other. I tried to remember the last time I jumped so far. What was my furthest jump? Five feet, maybe? Nothing came to mind, but it wasn’t fifteen feet. Still, I couldn’t find anywhere else to cross.

The riverbank receded several feet overnight and created pockets of swirling water next to a white birch plot with cattails. I dropped my fishing line off the edge of a rocky overhang, and within an hour, I caught three of the most splendid yellow-green fish in the world. They were at least a foot long with funny mouths and thick bodies.

A backflip, a cartwheel, a twirl in the sky—I wanted to perform them all. Instead, I curtsied to my birch date, and we talked. A first meeting a century ago, with me, a southern belle, and he, a charming man with a deep voice and gentle smile.

“My, you shouldn’t have.” He brought flowers. Pink Azelia and Dogwood. Someone must have told him.

“I only wish they matched your beauty.”

I excused myself momentarily under the guise of placing them in a vase, taking out my fan, and cooling my face. When I returned, my birch branch suitor took my hand and twirled me on full display. My ball gown spread and floated down after he released me.

“Your dress is fitting of a princess. Was it imported?”

“Why yes, father bought it as a gift in France. Mother had the staff fit it for tonight.”

“You are absolutely stunning. Shall we go? The hour grows late, and I dare not allow rumors to develop.”

White carriage and white horses—the slow ride was silent, but the smiles and glances said everything.

I looped the straps on the back of my hiking bag through the gills of the fish and secured them. I’d smell, but I wouldn’t starve. Half standing and half crushed to the muddy ground, I ran my hand through the trees and peeled the loose bark.

Mom had white birch holders for Christmas—red and green candles on the fake mantle. She said Santa needed to find our tree, and since we didn’t have a chimney, we had to light the way, so he knew where to go.

Lia asked how he got in without a fireplace, and mom’s answer terrified us for years. I still avoid rear doors.

Once I collected enough bark to start a few fires, I searched for the largest fallen tree. The gap on the bridge wasn’t long, and I wasn’t heavy. The birch trees would hold. I found one caked in mud, at least six inches wide and 30 feet long; it was perfect, so I removed the branches to create an obstacle-free pole and dragged it to the bridge.

After 45 minutes of failures, I walked the tree up and flipped it over the gap.

Fifteen feet was only a few steps. Steps I had no way to walk across. I wasn’t a tightrope walker. The yellow line on the road was already tricky. But I had a six-foot rope, so I tied it around my waist and the tree, hoping an eel didn’t jump up and grab me.

In my head, sliding across the tree sounded easy. In reality, my body flipped over, and I found myself upside down. The rope caught my vest and dangled me like a piece of bait. I looked down at the river, the rapid brown water I couldn’t see through, and pulled with my essence fueled arms. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t hold myself up long enough to wrap my leg over the tree.

A cracking noise filled my ears, and I stopped breathing. My heart quit beating, and I swung my body in an attempt to catch the trunk with the back of my knee or ankle. But the center of the birch tore, and I sagged closer and closer until I fell.

The current pulled me under, but the tree didn’t move. Wedged between both sides of the bridge, it bowed, and I couldn’t break free. My helmet filled. My hands numbed. And my mind went blank. What was I supposed to do? How could I break loose? I kicked my legs, but against the flow, it did nothing. I screamed, but there was nobody to hear me.

It hurt. My lungs hurt. My arms hurt. The rope slid up my back and dug into my skin, but the vest prevented my body from slipping free. I pulled my knife from my waistband and cut. And cut. And cut. The edge was dull, my hands were cold, and I lost my grip. The river took the blade.

I pressed every bit of essence I had into my arms and yanked. My head came above water and the helmet drained. I gasped for air and coughed out the water that entered my lungs. A burn like someone filled my insides with gasoline and lit a match.

With each pull, I dragged my body closer to the birch and wrapped my arms around once it was within reach. My mind raced, and my breath fought to catch up. I needed to get out, to leave the river before I drowned or became food for something.

Hooking my arm around the tree, I slid the now loose cord until I found the knot. Tight. The rope was tight from the yanking and jerking of my weight. My numb hands struggled. My fingers wouldn’t bend the way I wanted them to, but I didn’t dare remove my helmet to pull with my teeth. My helmet kept me alive, and I couldn’t afford to lose it after losing my knife.

I used every bit of essence I had and pressed it through my arms into my fingers, warming them, but stinging them simultaneously. I didn’t have a lot, but my body was weak. By condensing the particles in my hands, I damaged them.

Slowly, I wriggled the rope loose. Three knots. The only knot I ever learned was the one I used to tie my sneakers, and three of them together sounded strong enough.