Grace looked out over the beach, where large pieces of driftwood lay
scattered like bleached and broken bones. On her way down to the water’s
edge, she picked her way through glossy ribbons of bladderwrack and
decomposing fish carcasses. Why have I come back here?

An unexpected gust of wind kicked sand into her face, which felt like a
personal affront. She hadn’t been back to this beach since the day Jack
asked for a divorce. She spat on the ground. Why can’t I accept that t
marriage is over? Why can’t I move on?

With a strong wave of emotions moving through her, she longed for the
safety of a sheltered place to sit down and process her thoughts.
Remembering that, as a child, she loved making huts out of waterlogged
branches, she set to work creating a makeshift refuge. But once she got
inside the rickety structure, she was overwhelmed by the scent of damp
decay, which only made her feel worse.

With her chin resting on her knees, she closed her eyes to listen to the
waves. But what she heard instead was heavy breathing, raspy and
asthmatic. Alarmed, she looked up to see a woman marching across the
sand toward her. The stranger, who wore a blood-red sari, had kohl-lined
eyes and vermilion sindoor smeared across her forehead. She waved at
Grace and flashed a toothy smile. And then she raised her sinewy arm and
knocked down the driftwood hut.

Surrounded by the fallen pieces of wood, Grace sat motionless in the sand,
transfixed. The fierce woman produced a ball of red yarn from her pocket
and began walking in a clockwise circle around Grace, unspooling the wool as
she went. Finally, she raised her arms to the sky, invoking the names of Grace’s
maternal ancestors, “Berthe, Cora, Ellen, Sophie. Lend your courage and strength
to break the chain.”

Then, with a gleeful chortle, the woman struck a match and lit the ring of
fire. Grace shook as an intoxicating fury seeped out of the pores of her skin.
While the woman clapped and cheered, Grace raged, slashed, and screamed
at all the bitter memories that haunted her, occasionally stopping to vomit
up a dark brew of undigested anger. Wilder than the wind and more
dangerous than a riptide, she had become a bearer of destruction. This is it.

I am being totally and utterly annihilated.

The flaming sun crashed flamboyantly into the darkening sea. Grace fell
down on the sand. Very slowly, the sea advanced, gathering up her body
in its white, foamy fingers. The tide rocked her in its healing arms until
the first light of dawn when it gently deposited her wet body back on shore.
With saltwater and fire pulsing through her veins, Grace raised her dripping
head to thank the wild woman who had saved her life by introducing her to
the transformative power of sacred rage.

Excerpt from The Well of Truth by Elizabeth A. Gould. Copyright ©2022, Elizabeth A. Gould. All rights reserved. SparkPress