“That was me?” I whispered.
“Did you learn nothing in that abbey? Of course it was you. You have more power inside you than anyone I’ve ever seen, Maresi. And with your steps and your staff you’ve pushed a protective barrier deep into the ground around the village. No merchants could even find us last autumn, don’t you remember? You’ve hidden the entire village from the world.”
“That is why you have chased me out every evening. That is why you have been looking at me so strangely.”
Mother’s face softened. “Have I?”
I nodded, unable to speak.
“It’s frightened me, that’s all. All the things you can do. I’ve seen it before, as a child. It frightened me then, too. I thought it was something they taught you at the Abbey.”
“No. Not this. I thought you wanted to be rid of me for a while every evening.”
“My daughter.” Mother took my hand. “I’d never want that! I never want to lose you again, you must understand that.”
We sat quietly for a long time. Eventually I remembered that Mother had mentioned the comb.
“What am I doing with the comb then?”
“That I don’t know. But when you comb your hair it feels as though something’s being bound very tight. Sometimes I find it hard to breathe.” Mother coughed, as if the memory alone constricted her chest.
I thought about how I imagined binding the nádor’s men tight with all the strands of hair I wound into the braid beneath my pillow. “I believe I am binding the nádor’s men,” I said slowly. “Holding them tight. That is a part of the protection.”
Mother nodded. “The protection waned during summer. I don’t know why. Then you made it all the stronger after the soldiers beat that boy so badly.”
“It was because of Géros,” I said, and felt my cheeks go hot. “I stopped doing all those things when I was with him.” Mother nodded, without looking angry. “But Mother, how do you know all this? You knew that the frost was coming, you were the one who made me go out to meet it. How can you sense what I am doing, when I never understood it myself?”
Mother released my hand and turned away. “I learnt to recognize these things when I was very little. It was a matter of survival.” She pulled a cardigan over her shoulders, still facing away from me. “Time to shut the chickens in for the night. I’ll do it tonight so you can get to bed.” She hurried out before I could ask her any more questions.
Today I walked to the schoolhouse Kárun gave me, and saw the children coming up the hill. Every single child in Sáru and Jóla over the age of five was there, timid and wide-eyed. There were ten of them altogether, boys and girls. I admitted the boys too, for what else could I do? I still had no table or benches, so the children sat cross-legged on the floor, and I gave them all planed wooden planks and pieces of coal, and the sun poured in through the open window shutters, and thus my school began.
Your novice,
MARESI
THIRD COLLECTION OF LETTERS
Summer
Dearest Jai,
Not long after the Iron Night, one of Tauer’s grandchildren rushed over to tell me that a trade convoy from the Akkade plains had been spotted in the north. I hurried to the crossroads with the standing stones, but there was no one there. I was terrified of missing “my” merchant, so I set up camp by the stones with Akios for company (and protection, I must admit), and there we slept and lived on foraged birds’ eggs, and some cheese and bread Akios had packed, and felt right at home. It was a welcome break from the endless chores of village life.
On the second day the convoy arrived, trailing horses and mules fully loaded with high, swaying wool bales. I found my merchant friend and gave him my letters. He refused to accept payment, and gave me a sack of the finest lamb’s wool instead. And since then, well, I have been working harder than ever before.
I run the school for four days, and then close it for two so the children can take part in necessary tasks at home, and then it is four days of school again. I try to mirror Sister O’s methods, teaching the children to read and write and think. But it is difficult to teach them to write without proper writing implements. The wooden planks and coal soon became impractical because one cannot rub out what has been written. I show them the letters, and teach them to sound them out and put words together. I read aloud often because most of my books are in a foreign language and I have to translate as I read. Only Erva’s book is in the local tongue. We do a little simple counting as well, with stones and fir cones. Many of them are very good at counting, because they have herded pigs and goats in the woods and know how many animals they have on their farms. I am frustrated, not at their pace of learning, but because there is so much I would like to teach them and do with them, but cannot because I lack the tools. Sometimes we go out into the forest and I teach them about different medicinal plants. I teach them to wash themselves as well, and that cleanliness is essential for one’s food, household and body in equal measure. I know that this is not always popular among their families, but it is one of the most important things we had to learn when we first came to the Abbey, wouldn’t you agree?
Maressa and Lenna are not best pleased about having to share me with all the other children, and Maressa in particular is getting up to all sorts of mischief to show her discontent. Several of the children have a very difficult time sitting still and listening, because it is not something they have ever done before. But there is one boy called Édun, Tauer’s grandson and elder brother to little black-haired Naeri, who is my special favourite. I know that a teacher should not have a favourite pupil, but you could not resist Édun, Jai. He has big, brown, almost completely round eyes and curly brown hair, and though he rarely speaks he never takes his eyes off me. He can already read better than both Maressa and Lenna.
Akios is somewhat disappointed that he cannot join in the school. There is far too much to do on the farm. I practise reading with him in the evenings, if I have the energy.
But there is so much else to be done—as if the school were not enough in itself! Since the Iron Night the villagers’ attitude towards me has changed. I worried that they might fear me or consider me even more of a freak after what I did that night. And it is true that they certainly do not see me as one of them, but now they are glad of my presence. Many who previously turned to Tauer now come to me with their ailments, injuries, pregnancies, lame goats and whatever else. I help them as much as I am able. Sometimes I really can help, while in some cases the best I can do is provide a little comfort or sound advice. I am understanding more and more what an important role all Tauer’s strange prescriptions and rituals play in his work to help others. My little herb garden is in constant use and I spend a lot of time weeding and caring for it, because I foresee needing a lot of dried herbs this winter. I try to find time to make concoctions and salves as well, to keep in store, but it is difficult to fit everything in.
It has been a fine summer, with enough rain and plenty of heat and sunlight, but I have not had much time to enjoy it. I barely took part in the summer offering this year; I contributed only a little nut bread that I had baked (which came out nothing like Sister Ers’s nadum bread) and went home early. Géros is betrothed to Tunéli now. The wedding is to take place in autumn after the harvest. I saw them dancing together before I went home. I wish them all the best. Personally, I was too tired to dance. Honestly Jai, I swear, I felt no sorrow, nor even wounded vanity! It is only that I am so very tired all the time.
I am happiest in the early mornings when I go to my little schoolhouse and the grass is still damp with dew and the birds are so full of life that it seems the whole forest is singing. Then, for a while, I can enjoy the beauty of the Rovasian summer. Mowing season grows near, and the school will have to close its doors for a while, for the children are needed at home on the farms. I must say that I am looking forward to it, for I have so much to do all the time that it will be a relief not to have to think about the school, at least for a while.
I have my mule and goats to look after as well. They provide me with fertilizer for my garden, and I have become skilled in milking the elder goat and making delicious cheeses. Mother said recently that I make better cheese than she does, which is no small praise. Some days ago Akios and I were out in the forest collecting birch branches to dry as winter feed for the animals. I took the opportunity to pick some wild plants as well, both the edible sort and those with healing properties. The school was closed so we were free to stay out all day. Grey Lady was with us, loaded with panniers, and once again she was being impossibly obstinate and trying to drag me out into the forest. But people say that there are soldiers in these parts, so we dared not venture far. They still have not found us, thanks to the shield I have created.
In the evenings I still walk around the village, however tired I may be, with my white wooden staff in hand, beating protection into the ground.
Your friend,
MARESI
My dear Ennike Rose,
I am writing this at the edge of the forest, where I have come for a little peace and quiet. I can see the village from here, slightly below me on the other side of the stream and fields. I do not believe anyone can see me. My brown trousers and unbleached linen shirt blend in with the pine-tree trunks. The afternoon sun is blazing and I have pulled my headscarf over my eyes, just as Sister Loeni always used to chide me for. My skin has turned very brown from all this summer sun. A warm, dry, spicy smell is seeping out from the grass all around and from the smooth yet rough bark of the pine behind my back. I am trying to save paper by writing in small letters—I hope you can read my writing.
You are welcome to read this letter aloud to Sister Eostre. I specifically want to tell you both about what has happened with Marget.
I am ashamed of my behaviour towards her. I feel I have betrayed her. She was my friend before I left Rovas. Why did I turn my back on her?
So I have started visiting her more. She has been glad of my company, I believe, for she has mainly stayed at home since she was taken by the soldiers. I have not been able to think of anything redemptive to say to her, no way to erase what has happened. But we have spoken about everything imaginable. She has shown interest in my time at the Abbey, and I have told her about our lessons and so forth. It has been beneficial for me also. I miss you so much, my sisters.
She never speaks of Akios any more, nor do I see her embroider anything for her bridal set. I asked her cautiously about it one evening after the Iron Night, when we were doing laundry together in the stream, because I was concerned that perhaps she feared that he would reject her because of what happened.
“I can’t bear the thought of any man,” she said simply as she pensively wrung out one of her father’s shirts. “I mean no offence to Akios, but I find men vile now.”
“I felt the same way when I first left the Abbey,” I said slowly. “Men’s voices scared me. They still do at times, if I am honest.”
“What was it that happened there?” she asked, and brushed her damp hair from her forehead.
So, for the first time, I recounted in detail what happened at the Abbey when the men came, when the Goddess used the Rose’s body as her channel to spare the other sisters and novices from the men’s violence. I told her about the men in the crypt who meant the junior novices harm. I told her about the man who stabbed me, about the blood, and the door to the realm of the Crone.
She listened calmly, without taking her eyes off my face. Around us the summer birds were singing from the green birches, the sun seemed not to move from where she hung above the forest edge, and our laundry lay forgotten on the stones. It was wonderful to talk about all of this with someone who listened without judgement.
When I was finished she leant forward and took hold of my hands. Her brown eyes looked steadily into mine.
“I felt it, as we walked around the fields, Maresi. I felt an immense power in you, and in the earth. No one can withstand such a force. No soldiers. No one. I want to learn about it, Maresi. I want to be able to do all that you can do.”
“I will teach you all I can,” I said solemnly. “Not even I know how I do it all, nor whether it can be taught. But I will try.” I smiled at her, and it warmed my heart to think that I might be able to help her. “Sister Marget.”
Since then Marget has followed me everywhere. She has become my shadow, just as I was yours when I first came to the Abbey. I am doing my best to be as good to Marget as you were to me. She seems filled with some new energy, like a strong wind that knows precisely which direction it is blowing. She has started coming to my school. There are many who raise their eyebrows at this, and I know that her parents are far from pleased. Marget is not of school age—she is of marrying age. She ought to be sewing linen and embroidering aprons and visiting the neighbouring houses that are home to young men of the right age. But Marget does not care about what she ought to be doing. And I am glad of her company.
Now I must return home and help Mother with the cooking.
Yours,
MARESI
Venerable Sister O,
We have had a good summer. The weather has been favourable for the harvest, after the Iron Night. I have been extremely busy with work, and we have had plenty of food to eat. More of Mother’s chickens have brooded and our flock has grown. We ate the cockerels, which was a rare luxury. My garden has provided us with beans and peas and an array of vegetables, and I am now the person the villagers turn to for advice concerning ailments and worries, which means my family is always receiving gifts (a basket of eggs, wild strawberries from the forest, a small firkin of salted meat, a freshly caught trout, a few cubits of home-woven linen fabric). I have taken on many responsibilities that I never imagined when I left the Abbey: draining abscesses; pulling shoulders into alignment; brewing anti-wart medicine; alleviating severe moon-blood cramps; helping women prevent further pregnancies; helping others to conceive; smearing ointments on the aching backs of old men; helping to bring a child into the world. However, the most difficult cases are when I have been unable to help. I had to tell Péra’s and Tunéli’s grandmother that there was nothing I could do to save her sight. Árvan cut himself badly with a knife, and though I prevented him from bleeding to death, I could not save his finger.
Tauer is pleased to share the burden of responsibility for the villagers’ health. His elderly father takes up a lot of his time, and the people of Jóla still rely on him for advice rather than me. He has enough work as it is.
Now it is harvest, which means I have closed my school for the time being. I am delighted with the school, though it has cost me a great deal. I want my school to become the equal of yours. I want to think that you would be proud of me. You always maintained composure, answered all of our questions, and knew how to teach us. I use the same methods as you: reading or reciting to the children, then asking them to relay what they have just heard, and discussing it together. I spell out words and have them repeat them back to me. I try to help them see things contextually and holistically. Though I struggle to stay as calm and collected as you when the littlest ones have trouble sitting still and start running around chasing bees that have erred into the schoolhouse, or pulling each other’s hair, or crawling around pretending to be kittens.
Today a shipment arrived at our farm from Jóla. All the households whose children I have taught gathered together two sacks of rye flour, a jar of honey, two chickens, four skeins of wool in grey and green and—the most precious thing of all—a score of beeswax candles. Our own village also paid handsomely for my teaching, and even included payment for the education I am expected to give this winter, weather permitting. Mother and I have been busy all day packing everything and organizing the storehouse and larder.
Our relationship is different now that I know that I am protecting the villages with my walks. Mother no longer speaks ill of my school. She can see that I have continued protecting the village, and she is pleased that I am contributing to the food stores. But I am bur
sting with unanswered questions. How did Mother know what I was doing when even I did not understand? And why does she avoid my questions on the topic? She only coughs and turns away.
I spoke to Náraes about it not long ago. She knows Mother better than I do, after all; they have been together this whole time. Mother and I lost a lot when I travelled away. Náraes was sitting and sewing Maressa’s trousers (she has asked to wear trousers now, like me) and raised her eyebrows when I brought up the subject of Mother.
“You know she’s always been a bit of an odd one,” she said with a shrug. “She isn’t from these parts after all, so she’s never really fitted in. I don’t think she wants reminding of her former life. She always says that what’s done is done and there’s no use dwelling on it.”
Mother is not from Sáru or any of the nearby villages. I always knew that, of course, but it is not something that I often think about. Her hair is a lighter brown than that of most Rovasians, which Akios also inherited. We have never met our maternal grandparents or any of Mother’s relatives.
“Where does she come from?”
Náraes snipped off the thread and inspected the trousers critically. “Maressa wears out the knees quicker than I can sew them up. It wasn’t like this when she wore skirts! Mother comes from somewhere in the west, but she’s never said where.”
Náraes was not especially interested in discussing Mother, so I brought my questions to Father. I wanted to talk to him in a place where Mother would not hear, so I sought him out that afternoon as he was sharpening his scythe and axe behind the woodshed. He was grateful for help with the grindstone.
“I found your mother in the forest, you know that,” he said, and smiled at the memory. “You all loved hearing the story as littl’uns.”
“But surely that was just a story,” I said. “She cannot have appeared out of nowhere.”
Maresi Red Mantle Page 18