The forest rejected me long ago; it’s in the hush, the sound of the trees as they glare; the sting of ripe pine and their sharp silent words; the claw of fresh needles on skin. These trees would kill me if they could, rip me from defiled ground, wrap their roots around my lying, crying throat. Would take back every drop of stolen blood…
Best to keep moving then.

Callous wind jerks through my hair, raucous fingers without mercy or love. Harshly they judge and jeer their verdict. Guilty! Guilty! But only the trees hear the truth; hence why they trip me and play with my sight.
It wasn’t always this way. There was a time…but no, I can’t think of that now. I have too much to do.
Stubbornly I hoist the bucket a little higher. As the only child of a poor farmer, I’m well accustomed to the rigor of this chore—not the minimal labor of drawing water, but the mental endurance. Every day I walk this path, every day I feel the hatred of the trees. And every day I know this is no less than I deserve.
When I see the well, a black chill uncharacteristic of springtime settles through the air. The plants shrivel up, the pines move away, the light dies and falls with vengeful grace. I feel obliged to stop. The rotting wood and peeling paint, the creak of rust and rope—this is where my childhood ended. Now, at the top of a tattered hill, it decays to a moldy heap, a crumbling shrine to lost innocence. It deserves at least my respect.
I can only stare a moment; even if I could stay all day, nature’s anger still seeps into my blood, threatening my sanity. Quickly I start the trudge up the hill. The faster I leave, the better.
It doesn’t take long to reach the ugly wreck of a well. A knot, a toss, a splash—I tie the bucket to the rope and throw both over the edge. Now just the weight of water at the end of the cord. Slowly I turn the handle, watching the liquid’s dark gleam approach. Closer…closer…almost there…
“J-ill! Oh J-ill!”
The bucket falls back with a crash. Not now…
My reputation’s gone the moment she comes over the hill—ashes in the wake of a wildfire tongue and crooked snake smile. It’s Mary Richards, town belle, spoiled Mayor’s daughter, and the most notorious gossip this side of the forest. Golden curls glint with broken trust; deceptively blue eyes seek me out, the color of false promises and wretched lies. My heart drops to the pit of my stomach. If Mary’s come for me, I’m ruined. She’ll pry back my armor, tear out my heart, gorge herself on blood and stolen secrets. She’ll take all I am and destroy it. And then she’ll spread it through the town.
Today Mary sports a frilly frock, a flowery bonnet, and a white shepherd’s crook done up with ribbons. Around her wrist is a line of silk, and on the other end, drowning in the bow around its neck, is a little lamb. It bleats mournfully, tripping over itself as Mary throws her arms around me. “Jill darling, how are you? It’s been ever so lonesome at the mansion with the festival preparation and Papa so busy. I just had to see my dearest friend!” She sits me down against the well, descending herself a moment later. “We have so much to talk about.”
I squirm uncomfortably, itching to escape her vindictive gaze. “I’d love to Mary, but I’m late as it is. There’s a lot to do back at the farm.”
“Come now, you wouldn’t deny me the pleasure of your company, would you?” Mary pulls the lamb onto her lap. “And don’t you want to see this sweet sugar thing? He’s just perfect!” She strokes his fleece methodically, arms around him tighter than necessary. “Papa let me pick him out myself. He’ll walk with me in the New Spring parade, when I lead the entire town to the festival.” A smile pricks her lips. “Too bad he’ll be the sacrifice to welcome the season.”
I don’t say anything, but my heart is fluttering and my mouth is dry. Wherever she’s going with this isn’t going to end well for me. Briefly I wonder what stories she heard, what filthy rumors she indulged, but it doesn’t matter now. I need to get out, need to get away—but how to escape a girl with eyes and ears everywhere? How to run from someone who always gets what they want?
“You know, they say the blood of innocents holds great power.” Mary goes on as if I responded. “It’s pure and selfless, untouched by greed or hate or guile. It’s precious because it doesn’t deserve to be spilled—but it is anyways, for the greater good. That’s why it’s used to welcome spring. What better way to ensure a bountiful year than by giving the greatest of gifts?” She cups the tiny animal’s chin, considering carefully. Then her eyes, sly and cunning, slide towards me. “They also say that, shed needlessly, it’s the hardest to remove from your hands.”
My own stupidity is setting in; I swallow slowly, feeling sick. How long did I think I could keep this from her? Did I really think I could just go about my life, that she’d never find out? Days, years, countless hours spent worrying, spent making sure this conversation never happened—wasted in an instant. Oh I’ve been blind. I’ve been so ridiculously blind…
Mary’s looking straight at me now, fingers sunk so deep in the lamb I fear she’ll draw blood. “I’ve been thinking for awhile about what to name him. It needs to be something that exemplifies those qualities, reminds us of his perfection and innocence. Something sweet, something soft, something too young to die, maybe—Jack?”
Heat bursts in my ears, pounds in my throat, explodes like lightning in my mind. This is too much—I can’t think—I can’t breathe—
“Oh I’m sorry, how insensitive of me!” Mary leans closer, spitting venom, growing fangs. “Jack’s your twin brother who died six years ago! Lost his life on this very hill! Slipped and dropped to his doom, and only his sister to see it! How awful for her!” She has me and she knows it; she’s rearing in triumph, ready to strike. “The poor girl cried for weeks! Said it was an accident, that he fell, and everyone believed her—what a terrible, terrible accident. Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it? An accident? Well Jill? Was it really?”
I’m crashing, smashing, dying—and suddenly I’m there and it’s happening again. Ten years old, brother and bucket in tow, fighting the wind and rain and Jack for getting me in trouble. Up the hill to fetch a pail of water. The slick stones, sharp words, hatred towards one I called family. Hands on Jack’s shoulders, screaming and ready to shove. One insult too far. The push, the fall, the end. Jack’s desperate cry. His horrified face as we both realize it’s my fault.
I can’t stay here. In an instant I’m up, breathing fast and hard, backing away from Mary and her wildfire words. I don’t care if she ruins me, I don’t care who she tells. The shame is too much. Her eyes narrow and her smile widens. She knows. I turn to run, from Jack’s ghost and innocent blood—and my foot snags. It’s the lamb’s leash; he bleats, I shriek, and we both go down. Thrashing and lashing and slashing our skin—the trees flash by, hissing Justice! Above me the well watches, silent witness to my sins. It won’t hinder retribution’s progress.
The forest floor slams one more time and the motion stops. I lay deathly still; my bones are shattered, blood in my mouth, though there’s no pain. Around me the woodland is quiet, the hill’s shadow almost soothing. For the first time in years the trees don’t attack me. I’ve finally paid the price.
I’m prepared for death but not for my brother, trotting into sight. Frantically he paws the ground, head lifted to the sky; his coat is crimson, murdered innocence fresh on his fleece. Betrayal’s wound still mars his heart, his eyes, his voice bleating “Why Jill? Why?” What’s left of my breath catches. I have no answer. And then he’s falling, flailing, flying to the end I gave us both. Mary’s cruel laughter floats above his broken crown, and I come tumbling after—to the purity I robbed, to this precious blameless life that burns my hands. To the blood of lambs that will never fully fade.