Louis Hannibal Nez
Marie kneels on the wooden porch.
The notebook lies open a few yards away. The wind turns its pages, exposing unfinished sentences, dates, and words she no longer needs to read. She knows enough.
Marie looks up toward the opposite hill.
Smoke is still rising from the cabin. The sun makes it difficult to see, but she can make out orange flashes behind the windows. Fire spreads through the building with extraordinary speed. She does not know who set it alight. Nor does she know whether anyone is still inside.
For a few minutes she stays motionless. She could remain here, wait for the authorities, or seek help on the road. Yet the thought of leaving seems impossible. The bridge still lies before her, spanning the stream like a wound of stone.
Marie thinks of the woman she saw at night: the white nightgown, the motionless body at the center of the bridge, the face the darkness would not let her see.
She rises slowly. Her legs are numb and her body exhausted, but she manages to stand. Before going inside, she picks up the notebook and tucks it under her arm.
She goes up to Sunny’s room.
The girl is still lying on the bed.
Marie approaches and rests a hand on her shoulder. Her skin is cold. For a moment Marie hopes to feel a movement, a faint breath, anything that will give her hope to cling to. There is nothing. She bends down and kisses her daughter’s forehead.
“Forgive me.”
She can barely get the words out.
Marie goes downstairs again. She takes a blanket, a flashlight, and the keys to the SUV. Then she steps back onto the porch and looks at the bridge.
She cannot take Sunny with her. She cannot leave her here. But neither can she stay in a house where Joseph has turned their family into a lie. She walks toward the slope.
This time she knows the way. She descends more quickly, pushing branches aside and forcing her way through the shrubs without stopping. The stream roars beneath the bridge. Sunlight reflects off the current, turning the rocks white.
When she reaches the bank, Marie stops.
The smoke has thickened. Part of the opposite cabin’s roof collapses, and a burst of flame leaps into the sky.
Marie looks toward the stone structure.
The symbols carved into the arch look different in daylight. Some resemble human bodies trapped among misshapen animals. Others seem to depict two figures facing one another, separated by a vertical line.
Marie runs her fingers over one of the marks.
The stone is hot.
She pulls her hand away.
Then she hears a voice on the other side of the bridge.
“Marie.”
She freezes.
The voice does not come from the burning cabin. It is behind her.
Marie turns slowly.
A woman stands among the trees on the slope.
She wears a white nightgown. Her clothes are soaked and covered in mud. Her hair hangs over her face. She stands several yards away without moving.
Marie feels her body go rigid.
“Who are you?”
The woman does not answer.
A gust of wind cuts through the space between them. The tree branches remain still. The stranger’s hair does not move either.
Marie takes a step toward her.
“Are you the woman who was on the bridge a few nights ago?”
The figure raises a hand and slowly draws the hair away from her face.
Marie stops breathing. There are no eyes, no mouth, no nose—only a pale, smooth, empty surface where a human face should be.
The woman tilts her head. Marie backs away.
“No.”
The figure takes a step forward.
“You crossed,” she says without lips.
Her voice seems to come from everywhere at once.
Marie looks at the bridge. Across the stream, flames are still devouring the cabin. Smoke drifts down over the water, partly shrouding the stone structure.
“What do you want from me?”
“You already know.”
“I don’t know anything.”
The woman tilts her head again.
“You always say that.”
Marie feels her stomach tighten.
“Always?”
The figure takes another step closer. Now much less space separates them.
“You’ve crossed many times.”
Marie looks at her own hands. They are trembling.
“I’ve only crossed twice.”
“That’s what you remember.”
The woman raises her arm and points toward the burning cabin.
“Each time you try to return, you find another part of yourself.”
Marie does not understand.
“What parts?”
The woman does not answer. Instead, she turns her empty face toward the bridge.
Through the smoke, Marie makes out a second figure standing at the center of the arch. She wears the same white nightgown. She is the same height as Marie, with the same hair and body, but her face too is a smooth, expressionless surface. Marie puts a hand over her mouth. The woman beside her whispers:
“The first died beside Joseph.”
Marie looks toward the other figure.
“And the second?”
“She’s still trying to return.”
The figure on the bridge begins walking toward them.
Fear holds Marie motionless. The air grows heavy. Her chest begins to burn, just as it does whenever she crosses from one side to the other.
The faceless woman holds out a hand.
“Come.”
Marie looks toward the cabin. She thinks of Sunny, Joseph, the notebook under her arm, and everything she has lost in this past week. Then she watches the figure approaching across the bridge.
She does not know whether she is seeing her future, her past, or a version of herself she has never managed to become. But she recognizes the nightgown. And she understands that the woman she saw that first night was not looking toward the cabin. She was waiting for her.
Marie backs away to the water’s edge.
Behind the faceless woman, flames rise above the hill.
The bridge begins to disappear into the smoke.