Maresi Red Mantle

by Maria Turtschaninoff

  “So, Enresdaughter,” he said slowly and sat down on the chopping block by the grindstone. His forehead was glistening with sweat, which he wiped off with his arm. He sat with legs wide, sure and comfortable in his body. I fiddled with the hem of my cloak.

  “Are you chopping firewood for winter?” I asked, looking up at the starry sky. I tried to find as many constellations as I could recognize: the Red Bear, the Burning Star, the Long Dance and the Roebuck and Faun.

  “Winter is harvest time for a woodcutter,” answered Kárun. “Time to head into the Crown forests again. The new nádor is a greedy man. I expect he wants to stay on the right side of the Crown by being the governor to bring in the most taxes and provide the most riches from his province.” It was the most I had ever heard him speak. I tore my gaze away from the stars. It was so dark that I could not see his face clearly, but he was looking directly at me. “But before that I’m going to start building a new house.”

  “Yes, your cabin has seen better days,” I said, but he just hummed in answer. “Where will you build it?”

  “I was thinking of the hill beyond the South Field, you know? Where three paths meet.”

  “A visible place,” I said, and looked at the old grey cabin nestled by the stream, half hidden in greenery.

  “Easy to find from several directions. And near the forest. As a woodcutter and timber-rafter for the Crown, I can take timber for my own use.”

  “Did you go to Irindibul last summer?”

  “Yes. I stayed for half a moon, taking work where I could. Earned a few coins too, for nails and tools.”

  “You never thought of staying?” The stream gurgled over the stones and a magpie squawked irately from a bare birch tree. The moon had risen above the treetops now and Kárun’s yard was bathed in a pale light. He brushed a little sawdust from his trousers, which I noticed were patched at the knees. He did not spend his earnings on new clothes, that was for sure.

  “No.” He looked at me. His gaze is always so earnest. I find it hard to look away. “I can’t live without the forest. Cities are fine to visit, but it’s only in the forest that I can breathe.”

  That is exactly how I have always felt! And I have used those very words to describe the same feeling. Before I had time to respond he got to his feet.

  “Shall I walk you back to the village?”

  I shook my head. “No, thank you. I can manage fine on my own. The nádor’s men have not been seen in these parts for a long time, and in the darkness I can hear them coming before they catch sight of me.”

  “As you wish, Enresdaughter,” said Kárun. “Thank you for your help with the grinding.”

  I nodded to him and walked back up towards the path. When I turned around again the yard was empty and the door was closed, but still no light peeked out.

  I walked home slowly. I was not in the least bit afraid to be alone in the dark woods. I know the path well enough to walk it even in darkness. When I am surrounded by trees I can breathe. I am not seen, not weighed on a scale and found to be wanting. I am just myself: Maresi of Rovas. This forest has witnessed the growth and life and work of my father and his parents and their parents, and it knows me profoundly.

  Yours,

  MARESI

  Winter

  Venerable Sister O,

  I have not written in a while. Life is uneventful in Sáru during winter. It is cold and snowy, and we mainly sit inside doing tasks such as spinning, weaving, sewing, embroidery or repairing tools and utensils. I have never much enjoyed being inside. I am happiest outside on the seashore or mountain slopes of Menos, or in the forests of Rovas—with the exception of the treasure chamber, of course.

  You cannot imagine how much I miss books here! I have read the ones I brought with me so many times that I know them off by heart. At first my family thought it was strange that I spend my winter afternoons reading, but this is the time when there is enough daylight to forgo candles. I have my spot by the window where I drag over a stool, wrap up in my cloak to protect from draughts, and read. The books I brought with me were mainly chosen for their benefit to the school: one each about the history of the coastal lands, agriculture, constellations, mathematics and healing. Then I also brought some of the poet Erva’s collected legends and tales from his travels through Lagora, Lavora, Urundien, the Akkade plains, Rovas, Devenland and all the other lands along the southern coast. I have read this one over and over again.

  Mother is not best pleased about me sitting idle, as she sees it, and Father—well, Father rarely says much. He busies himself greasing boots or knotting baskets or repairing tools. Then one afternoon when Náraes and the children were visiting and everybody was occupied—Mother was patching a pair of trousers, I was knitting a pair of socks for Akios, Akios and Father were weaving baskets, Náraes was nursing Dúlan and Maressa was playing with leftover yarn—Father said something quite unexpected.

  “It sure would be nice to know what’s in those books you read, Maresi.”

  Mother looked up.

  “I agree,” said Akios. “I can already read a little, but it takes me a long time. And some of them are written in a language I don’t know.”

  “Would you like to hear?” I looked with surprise at my family.

  “Oh yes!” Náraes’s face lit up. Seeing her excitement, there was no way Mother could object. She has had a difficult autumn and we have all done what we can to ease her burdens and bring her a little happiness. I put down my knitting and fetched Erva’s collection. It is the book containing all the most ancient legends of Lavora: Landebast, who founded the capital and named it after his white-haired daughter Laga; the hero Olok, who slew the terrible sea monster Keal; Unna the Seafarer; and Arra the Raven-Haired whose song brought mountains crashing down on her enemies and who went on to become Lavora’s most beloved queen. It is the same story that Heo always used to ask you to read, Sister O. I decided to start with that one.

  I sat by the window, wrapped in my cloak, crossed my legs, placed the book on my lap and started to read aloud.

  I read and read and read and no one in the room uttered a word. I read until the light outside began to fade and the words became harder to see. Then Mother got up from her seat, lit two candles and placed them on the table. I moved into their light and read on while Mother prepared the evening meal. Once the food was served I looked up in a daze, my head swimming with the blue-and-white mosaics of Lagora, and Arra’s nocturnal meetings with Prince Surando.

  “I can see the pictures in my head,” said Náraes. “It’s like I’m there in the forest, and in the city, and at the harbour, and in Evia’s house.”

  “It’s like our ballads,” said Father thoughtfully. “You can know things that happened in places you’ve never been.”

  “And long ago, besides,” I said. “The legend of Arra is very old.”

  “Nobody could remember such a long song,” said Mother. “But in those black marks it’s preserved for ever.”

  “Some songs are very old too,” I said. “But they change over the years. Every singer adds their own touch.”

  “Carry on, Maresi!” said Maressa. “More!”

  “We’re eating now,” said Mother. “Come and sit down, everybody.”

  But once we had finished eating, Mother lit another candle so that I could continue reading.

  Now I read aloud from Erva’s collection every day. Náraes and Jannarl come with the children when the day’s tasks are done, and then the whole family sits together while I read. It makes me happier than anything—maybe even happier than sitting in the treasure chamber and reading alone, because when I read aloud we experience the events of the story together. We can discuss it afterwards. And I love looking up from the book and seeing Maressa sitting with her mouth agape, hanging on every word, and seeing my mother bent over her sewing yet so engrossed in the story that she looks up the moment I stop reading and silently demands that I continue. This is the closest we have ever been. It makes me wish that the winte
r would never end.

  Yet I cannot sit inside interminably, although this is how Rovasians traditionally spend the long winters. It is not in my nature. I do go out as well, in the morning when the sun sparkles on the snow and casts long, bluish shadows. Of course, that just makes me all the more peculiar in the eyes of others. Apart from Mother, strangely enough, who hands me my socks and gloves and makes sure I go out every day, whatever the weather. I have gloves that I knitted myself and woollen socks and felt boots and my lovely warm hooded cloak. I have whittled a staff to lean on when I get tired during my walks, and I am in the process of engraving it with shells and snakes, apples and roses, and all the phases of the moon. It is no masterpiece, but it is a good thing to have.

  First I usually walk one circuit around the village, wearing Father’s felt boots, and then stop in to see Tauer in the neighbouring village. I have taken to assisting him with his daily tasks. Many people turn to him for help, but few offer a helping hand in return. They give him gifts in gratitude, and those gifts are his sustenance. When I was there at the end of autumn he gave me a young goat, one of his own goat’s yearling kids. I believe I grew in Mother’s estimation when I came home with the animal. At last I am contributing something substantial to our table!

  When I came here last spring I thought that Tauer dealt in mere quackery and willingly deceived the poor village folk. Now I know better. He has very patiently taught me what he knows, and explained his methods. There is certainly one area in which Tauer’s knowledge is far greater than mine, and that is about the people of Jóla, Sáru and other villages nearby.

  He gives them what they need to cure their ailments if he is able—herbs, ointments, good advice—but then he flavours it with a little mysticism.

  “It tends to help more if there’s an element of magic,” he explained to me the other day. “Rubbing ointment on a wart is nothing, but if I tell them to go out at midnight and wait at a three-way crossroads, then they feel like they’ve really done something worthwhile.” He chuckled. “Then, if the wart-sufferer happens to be a particularly uncouth young man, I might add that it only disappears if his heart is pure. Then I give him a weaker salve and when the wart is slow to disappear, it might encourage him to examine his conscience just a smidgeon.”

  He is wise in a way that I did not see before. He makes use of everything he knows about the villagers and their families, like with Árvan’s mother. He gave her a salve for her bad back which contained many of the same pain-relieving herbs and roots that I have learnt about. But he told her she must apply it in the evening and then stay absolutely silent until dawn.

  “And that wasn’t for her sake so much as for that son of hers,” he smiled. “So that his poor ears might get a little respite from her nagging and whingeing, at least at night.”

  Once finished at Tauer’s, I leave the village and resume my walk. It has not snowed much yet this winter, so walking is not too difficult. I can be alone with the wind and the animal tracks and the cawing of ravens and crows, in sun or cloud. I often walk through the forest. How I love the woods in winter. Frost on the branches, green patches under the densest trees, the translucent winter sun filtering through the branches.

  The only human sounds I hear are the chopping of Kárun’s axe and the blows of his hammer, coming from the construction site. He is building himself a new house on the hill between Sáru and Jóla. Sometimes, when I hear that he is up there I sneak into his cabin. Naturally, it is never locked. Kárun has nothing that anyone would want to steal. I do not know why I go there, but it feels so exciting and forbidden! My heart beats wildly and I jump at every tiny sound, even though I know that he is busy building.

  His cabin is very simple. It is made of unstripped, unsealed logs. His father built it, or so I heard from Akios, who knows all sorts of things about Kárun. There is a wide bed in one corner, without any curtains. It must be where Kárun’s mother and father used to sleep. I do not know where he slept as a child. Maybe with them. The bed has a straw mattress with a coarse linen cover. Kárun has no bedsheets, only a thick woollen blanket to cover himself with and another, smaller blanket folded up as a pillow. The house is sparsely furnished: a table and bench; a small clothes chest; a home-woven mat on the floor. Perhaps his mother made it. A fireplace, some pots, a bucket, a drum of salted fish. A few circles of rye crispbread hang from the ceiling. Timber-rafters are indeed even poorer than farmers. In winter they chop down trees, in spring and summer they float the timber on to cities and boatyards and other places where wood is needed. They get paid, but not much. Kárun only lives in his house for part of the year. The cold part.

  Sometimes I sit on the bed and listen to the wind whistling through the cracks. I wonder why he has remained in that draughty old cabin for so long.

  My fingers itch to tidy up for him. Wash the mat. Scrub the pots until they shine. Bring some bedsheets. Of course I cannot, because then he would know that I had been there. I am careful to erase any traces that I have even sat on the bed.

  I am writing to you all, but it feels like nothing more than shouting into the night sky. Nobody hears me and I receive no reply. The winter is relentless, never-ending. I have been home for nearly a year, and I have done nothing. I used the Mother Abbess’s silver to pay off the village’s debts to the nádor. But that is not what I came here to do. I wanted to open windows and doors. I wanted to show the people of Rovas that the world is wide, that their lives are not predetermined and their futures are in their hands. Yet I am unable to influence or help even my own family. Náraes lost her son. Akios is learning to read, but for what purpose? He is destined to take over the farm. What good will literacy do him? I have become a storyteller, a stay-at-home daughter who turns down marriage proposals, ever waiting. For what? I do not know. I no longer know anything. I feel lost and alone.

  Forgive me. I probably will not send this letter. I do not want you to know of my failures. Maresi, who was supposed to go forth and change the world, has accomplished nothing. My whole being is one big failure. All I can do is entertain my family with tales, teach Maressa and Akios to read, and make cabbage soup. According to Mother, I cannot even do that right.

  Géros has a new girl, Tunéli. It comforts me to know that whatever he felt for me was not true love. He was driven by lust, as was I. Driven by the desires of our bodies. I am glad, because it means neither of us are suffering. Still, I do feel a little prick in my heart when I see them together in the afternoons, not because I miss him but because it is a blow to my vanity, every time.

  I enjoyed feeling desired for a while.

  Here is the reason why I am so downhearted: one evening Father suggested that I should open up our home as my school. We could gather the village children at our hearth during the times of the year when their work is least needed around the farm. Mother said nothing to support or contradict the idea. So I visited each local farmstead in turn and asked if the families would send their little ones to our house for three afternoons a week. None came but Maressa.

  On the third afternoon little Lenna from White Farm appeared too. She stamped the frost and snowy grit from her boots and slammed the door shut.

  “Well, is there a school here or not?” She looked around. Maressa was sitting by the window writing letters on a board. She has become very good at it now, and can write her own name.

  I stared at her. Lenna was the last person I was expecting. She is practically a little housewife already. She cooks and sews and embroiders and is interested in gossip and hairstyles.

  “Of course. If you… if you could just sit down next to Maressa.”

  “She has already begun learning?”

  “I have been teaching her letters since last summer.”

  “Well, I’m older, I’ll catch up. Where can I hang my cardigan?”

  Lenna has proven to be a very enthusiastic pupil. She thoroughly enjoys learning, but has very little patience and wants to be able to do everything at once (just like Heo!). She chatters inc
essantly, but asks all sorts of questions with equal zeal. Sometimes I feel like you must have felt, Sister O, when I used to ask you at least a hundred questions per day. I am trying to show the same patience as you always did, and to answer all the questions I can.

  However, two pupils—one of whom is my own niece—is no school. It is nothing. Lenna and Maressa are my pupils but I only teach them to read and count, and I cannot bring myself to take any payment.

  The villagers suspect that I want to fill their children’s heads with intellectual nonsense of no practical use that only takes time away from their real work.

  There are so many things I need to talk about that no one here would understand. On the occasions when I have tried to speak about what I did in the crypt, or how I heard the Crone’s voice on Menos, and again in the burial grove, Mother withdraws from me. She changes the subject. She turns away. I wonder if she might be afraid of me. Sometimes I think she is. Once, when I was telling Maressa about life on Menos, about the bloodsnails and the morning wash and the sun greeting and other entirely normal things, Mother stared at me for a long time.

  “I can hardly believe that I bore and raised you,” she said. “Who are you, Maresi Enresdaughter?”

  Her words hurt terribly. I have asked myself this ever since. Who am I? And why is Mother so angry? Or is it that she is afraid?

  So there are certain things I keep to myself.

  Mother is disappointed in me too, both because I am so strange, and because despite all this strangeness I achieve nothing.

  “If they aren’t coming to your school,” she said, “maybe you should consider making some changes to your behaviour here in the village.” She did not look at me as she said this. “Act a bit more like everyone else. Like Náraes or Péra. Then once they’ve got used to you maybe they’ll send their children to your school. It’s not as hard as you think, to change yourself, to imitate others and fit in.”