Sawkill Girls

by Claire Legrand

That was a common affliction of hers—not being able to find the voice for things. Mountains couldn’t talk, anyway, could they? No, voices were for birds and wolves and the wild, wild wind. Mountains watched, taciturn and solemn and bearing the weight of the ancients, while the world careened and howled on by.

Theirs was not a world that was often kind to women. And if Deirdre had decided to sell her soul for a bit of comfort, an illusion of safety, power she had long been denied? Well, thought Val mutinously, maybe that’s the world’s fault.

“when a predator hunts, it seeks out the vulnerable. The desperate.” Zoey’s laugh was bitter. “Oh, and we poor delicate girls are vulnerable and desperate, is that what you’re saying?” “What I’m saying,” Marion said, now looking right at Zoey, her gray eyes bright, “is that girls hunger. And we’re taught, from the moment our brains can take it, that there isn’t enough food for us all.”

“Which makes me wonder if the Hand of Light would even care about hunting down these monsters,” Zoey muttered, “if no one else but girls were ever in danger. How much do you want to bet the Hand of Light formed because some old rich men figured out these monsters could develop a taste for man-flesh and wanted to protect their own asses?”

“Even these extraordinary girls are susceptible to the same weaknesses that plague their entire sex. They want this. In their heart of hearts, they want to destroy each other.”

“God understands,” Briggs called out, “that these beasts are not supposed to be here. He has, in his wisdom, sent these girls to us. These girls whose power is contentious and self-defeating—except for in the hands of those strong enough to wield it. Our hands, my brothers. In our hands, these girls will be lifted up. Their sacrifice tonight will help us trap the beast while he is still bound to his queen. Their sacrifice tonight will ensure the safety of the world that depends on us to protect it.”

Men stealing the credit for magical powers they don’t even have. This books is G E N I U S.

Marion couldn’t imagine a God like the one she’d grown up hearing about—some man sitting in the clouds, maneuvering the pieces of the world to suit his whims because he, of course, knows best.

“Screw that book,” said Val. “It was written by men.” She held out her free hand to Marion. “We’re rewriting it.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Zoey had never heard Valerie Mortimer’s voice sound so unfinished. “None of this is necessary—” “I will decide what is necessary!” howled Briggs, his grip tightening painfully around Zoey’s arm. “This is the way it is done. This is the way our fathers taught us.” “Your fathers,” Val replied, “were full of shit.”

Please. Please understand. I am a small rock. I am a great Earth. This is only one monster. This is one of many monsters. You are a small girl. And you are a small girl. And you are a small girl. You are mighty. You are one, and one, and one. You are fragile. You can move mountains. You are breakable. You will never break. This power is mine. And now is it yours, too. You must keep fighting. You must never stop fighting. You must light the path for others to find their footing.

Marion, there are tons of monsters, all over the world. Dad and Briggs said so, and they may have lied about some things, but I don’t think they lied about that. Even if we get rid of this asshole, more will still be out there!” Her tears spilled over. Impatiently she dried her face. “It’s not our job to save the world. It can’t be. That’s not fair.” “If it’s not our job,” Marion asked quietly, “whose is it?”

I cannot get over how brilliant this giant metaphor of a book is. *Chefs kiss*

Maybe the Hand of Light wasn’t once made of men who wouldn’t listen to reason, who would lead girls to slaughter if it meant their rituals were validated and their truth absolute. Maybe, Val thought, somewhere in the world was a Hand of Light chapter composed of women, or kindhearted men. Maybe there were other ways to slay these beasts—many other ways—and none of them would require the world to give up its bravest girls in sacrifice.

Hope, she thought, breathing with the tide, was a choice that only those with resolute hearts dared to make.