You wake with blood on your hands.

The taste is iron. Copper. Old pennies. You lick your lips. The flavor lingers. Thick. Heavy. You are in the woods. The trees are black. The sky is a bruise. Purple. Swollen. You do not know how you got here. You do not know who you are. You wear a dress of rough linen. Gray. Mud-caked. Your feet are bare. The ground is cold. Wet. It seeps into your bones.

Who are you?

The question hangs in the air. Silent. Sharp.

A voice calls out. Soft. Distant.

Maggie.

You turn. A man stands by the fire. He is young. Thin. His eyes are wide. Fearful. He holds a stick. He does not look at you. He looks at the fire. The flames dance. Red. Orange. They jump and spit.

Maggie, he says. You’re late.

I am not late, you say. Your voice is rough. Dry. Like sand on stone. I am here.

He flinches. He steps back. The firelight catches his face. It is pale. Sickly.

You have the look, he whispers.

What look?

The look. The madness. The curse.

You laugh. It is a dry sound. A crack. Like a branch breaking.

I am not mad, you say. I am hungry.

He shakes his head. No. It is the fever. The witch-fever. It takes the mind. It burns it away.

Give me food, you say. Your hand reaches out. Your fingers are stained red. The blood has dried. It cracks. It peels.

He hands you a loaf of bread. Stale. Hard. You take it. You do not eat. You hold it. You look at your hands. The red marks. The stains.

Where is Thomas? you ask.

Thomas is gone, he says. He went to the mill. He will not come back.

Why?

Because of you. Because of what you did.

You did nothing.

He looks at you then. His eyes are wet. He is crying. He is afraid.

You burned the barn, he says. You burned it all down.

No, you say. I did not.

The smoke is still in the air, he says. The smell. The ash. It is everywhere.

You look around. The woods are dark. The air is still. There is no smoke. There is no ash. There is only the wind. It moves through the leaves. It whispers. It sings.

You are lying, you say.

He backs away. He raises his stick.

Stay away, he says.

You do not move. You stand still. You watch him. He is small. He is weak. He is a child.

Why are you afraid? you ask.

Because you are a monster, he says.

The wind picks up. The trees sway. The branches groan. It sounds like a scream. It sounds like a prayer.

You feel a pull. A tug. In your chest. In your gut. It is strong. It is deep. It is old.

It is the earth.

You close your eyes. You listen. The ground hums. A low note. A vibration. It goes through your feet. Up your legs. Into your heart.

You are part of it, you think.

The boy throws the stick. It hits your shoulder. It stings. It burns.

You open your eyes. You look at him. He is trembling. He is backing away. He is running.

He runs into the dark. He does not look back.

You are alone.

The fire dies. The embers glow. Red. Fading.

You sit down. You put your head in your hands. You remember.

Not everything. Not clearly. But enough.

You remember the barn. You remember the heat. You remember the scream. Not your scream. Someone else’s.

You remember the name. Thomas.

You remember the face. Your husband.

You remember the betrayal.

It was not a fire. It was a choice.

You stood in the doorway. The smoke filled the room. The heat pressed against your skin. Thomas was inside. He was hiding. He was afraid. He did not want to leave. He wanted to stay. He wanted to die.

You did not burn the barn. You burned the lie.

The lie that you were his wife. The lie that you were his slave. The lie that you were weak.

You pushed him out. You pushed him into the night. You closed the door. You locked it.

And you waited.

The boy was right. You did do something. But not what he thought.

You are not a monster. You are a woman.

The wind howls. The trees bend. The sky darkens. Rain begins to fall. Cold. Sharp. It soaks your dress. It runs down your face. Like tears.

You stand up. Your legs are shaky. Your head spins.

You look at your hands. The blood is gone. The skin is clean. Pale. Smooth.

You are free.

You walk. You do not know where. You do not care. You walk into the woods. The trees close in. The darkness deepens.

You hear a sound. A voice. It is not the boy’s. It is deeper. Rougher. Older.

Woman.

You stop. You turn.

A figure stands in the clearing. A woman. She is tall. She is wrapped in a cloak. Black. Heavy. Her face is hidden. A hood. A shadow.

Woman, she says. You have the scent.

What scent?

The blood. The earth. The fire.

I am no one, you say.

You are everyone, she says.

She steps forward. The rain drips from her hood. She pulls it back.

Her face is old. Wrinkled. Deep lines. Carved by time. Her eyes are bright. Clear. Blue. Like ice. Like water.

She is beautiful. She is terrible.

You are the Pale Shadow, she says.

I am not.

You are. You have always been.

You shake your head. No. I am Maggie. I am a farmer’s wife. I am nothing.

You are the sacrifice, she says.

The word hits you. Hard. Heavy. It sinks into your chest.

Sacrifice.

The truth rises. It bubbles up. It is hot. It is bright.

You did not save Thomas. You did not kill him. You saved yourself.

But that was not enough.

The world is sick. The land is sick. The people are sick. They are afraid. They are cruel. They build cages. They build walls. They build fires.

You are the key.

You are the lock.

You are the door.

You must open it.

How? you ask. Your voice is small. Broken.

You must give it up.

What?

Your life.

No.

Yes.

I will not die.

You must.

You fight the thought. You push it down. You are angry. You are afraid. You are alive. You want to live. You want to see the sun. You want to feel the wind. You want to breathe.

But the woman does not blink. She waits.

The rain falls. The trees sway. The earth hums.

You think of Thomas. His face. His fear. His greed.

You think of the boy. His tears. His fear.

You think of the barn. The smoke. The heat.

You think of the fire.

It was not anger. It was love.

A terrible love. A blind love. A love that burns.

It is the only thing that matters.

You look at the woman. You look at her eyes. They are deep. They are full. They are sad.

Why me? you ask.

Because you are strong, she says. Because you are free. Because you are alone.

I am not alone, you say.

You are. You have always been.

The wind stops. The rain stops. The world is silent.

You look at your hands. They are clean. They are pale.

You close your eyes.

You remember the earth. The hum. The vibration.

It is not a curse. It is a gift.

It is a weight.

It is a burden.

It is a duty.

You open your eyes.

You look at the woman.

I will do it, you say.

She smiles. It is a sad smile. It is a kind smile.

She nods. She turns. She walks away. She fades into the dark.

You are alone.

You stand in the clearing. The rain has stopped. The sky is clear. The stars are out. Bright. Cold. They shine down on you.

You look at your hands. You clench them. You unclench them.

You take a breath. It is deep. It is long. It fills your lungs.

You feel the earth beneath your feet. It is warm. It is alive.

You are the Pale Shadow.

You are the sacrifice.

You are the redemption.

You do not run. You do not hide. You stand still.

The stars watch. The trees watch. The earth watches.

You are part of it.

You are one with it.

You are free.

The darkness comes. It is soft. It is gentle. It is warm.

You close your eyes.

You let go.

The pain is gone. The fear is gone. The anger is gone.

There is only peace.

There is only silence.

There is only light.

You are the fire.

You are the rain.

You are the earth.

You are the Pale Shadow.

And you are free.