Maresi Red Mantle

by Maria Turtschaninoff

  He examined the scythe’s edge and shook his head. “Not sharp yet. Well, she did. It was winter and the ground was hard with snow. I’d skied out alone to hunt. This was in the time of the previous nádor, not the one you grew up with, but his father. The one they called the chicken-hunter, because…”

  “I know why he was called that.” I could not listen to that chicken story one more time. “You skied out and the moon was full so you stayed in the forest for a while and found something in one of the traps. At first you thought it was a little bear.”

  “She growled like one,” he said, and I could hear the tenderness in his voice. “And was dressed in layers of furs. But it was your mother, so it was, and I had to spend a long time calming her down before I dared approach and free her from the snare. Then I took her home, and me and my mother took care of her until she came round and got a little meat on her bones. She was so thin, she probably wouldn’t have survived long alone in the forest. But it all worked out and we married the following summer.”

  “But where did she come from? What was she doing there in the forest in the middle of winter?”

  “I asked a few times, at first.” Father stood up straight. “But it soon became clear that she didn’t want to talk about it, so I stopped asking. And it wasn’t easy to ask her much to begin with ’cause she hadn’t learnt our language. Then, as time passed, it didn’t seem so important.”

  I stopped turning the handle. “She spoke a different language?”

  Father nodded. “But she soon learnt, and you’d never know it now. She soon learnt all of the customs and traditions of Rovas as well. I doubt it even occurs to people any more that she isn’t from here. It doesn’t to me.”

  “She never tells me anything! She knows about all sorts of things that I have never learnt about. And she has acted so strangely towards me ever since I came home—distant and cold!”

  In that moment Father looked aged and stooped in a way I had never noticed before.

  “Did you know that your mother tried to get you back? The same evening you left she rushed out, with neither hat nor cardigan. Akios and Náraes were alone in the house and told me when I came home. I ran after her, not knowing where to search. I found her the next day. She was still walking, but had no idea where she was. She barely recognized me. When I got her home she was frozen through and lay in bed for many a day. We didn’t think she’d make it. I’m not sure she even wanted to. That chill that she picked up has never really left her. When you came home to us I thought she might get better, but I think it’s too late for that.”

  He rubbed his eyes. “She blames me for sending you away. She let herself be persuaded but then regretted it. She’s never forgiven me.”

  This was another thing I had never realized before. There is so much that I do not know about my parents, Sister O. It is as if I am seeing them for the first time.

  Your novice,

  MARESI

  Most Venerable Mother,

  Summer continues, but the cooling air and darkening evenings indicate the coming autumn. Tauer has predicted a cold autumn and early winter. Yet I know that we will manage; our stores are filled to bursting.

  We will manage, but I do not know what will become of everybody else. Venerable Mother, I am continually learning new things here in Rovas, seeing things that I had been blind to before, and what I see strikes fear in my heart. I have been so intent on protecting my village that I have had no concept of what is happening in the rest of the land. I have willingly closed my eyes.

  About ten days ago a beggar came to our village and went from house to house. He came to us last, as the sun was setting. We gave him the typical beggar’s bread and then Mother served him a bowl of porridge, and I cut him a decent wedge of goat’s cheese. He sat on the bench outside the door and devoured it all greedily, though he must have been given food at the other houses as well. He was unwashed and long-haired, his beard hung down to his chest in a tangle of brown and filth, and he did not smell good. His skin was sunburnt and dirt was deeply ingrained in the lines of his face. Mother wanted nothing to do with him, but I had to shell a basket of peas to dry for winter, and preferred to sit outside so as not to make a mess inside. So I sat next to him and tried to breathe through my mouth.

  “Ain’t had such fine food all summer,” he said, and slurped down the hot porridge. “These here houses have given me more to eat than I managed to scrape together from ten villages.” He peered at me from over the edge of his bowl. “I could barely find this place, you know. The paths that I knew should be there in the forest had faded and disappeared. But my wife’s mother was from Sáru, so I knew the village was here, oh yes. I didn’t give up. Followed the river I did, and then on to the west. Kept pushing on slowly. There was something resisting, but you can’t keep out the likes of me. No soldiers have bothered me here, oh no. Not like on the country roads. Not like in them other villages.”

  I wanted to get up and leave. I wanted to block out his truths. Deep down though, Sister O, I already knew. Something prevented me from leaving, and I continued husking peas without looking up. “Are there many soldiers on the roads then?” I asked, almost managing to maintain composure in my voice.

  He scoffed, but it sounded almost like a laugh. “Many? An honest man can’t walk from one crossroad to another without bumping into them, being ridden down and struck with the broad side of a sword. They tend to leave the likes of me in peace though. They’ve already taken everything I got. The nádor took it all.” He spat on the ground and I looked up in surprise. Nobody dares criticize the nádor openly. One never knows who might be listening. “He took my farm and my animals when I couldn’t pay my taxes. But the harvest had failed—what could I do? So we took to the road, my wife and daughter and I. Spring before last, it was.”

  I quickly looked down at my peas again. The husks were green and healthy, and the peas I squeezed out of them were round and sweet. The pig and goats would get the husks, and I would dry the peas by the hearth, where the animals could not reach them.

  “Now I’m the only one left. Does the young lady have any more of that cheese?”

  I got up, spilling pea husks from my lap, and ran inside for more cheese. When I came out again I could not sit down and remained standing with arms crossed. The beggar gobbled up the cheese in several large bites and then carefully picked every crumb out of his beard.

  “Life is hard in the villages, you know. Soldiers hound them. Count every hen, measure every field, weigh every sack of flour. The taxes are gonna be brutal this autumn. Mark my words.” He peered at me with shrewd eyes. “But not here. No, the young lady sees to that.”

  “And what do you know about that?” I snapped.

  “I may be old and I may be poor,” he said, and sucked air through his teeth in a particularly unpleasant way. “But there ain’t nothing wrong with my nose. The young lady smells, she does. Can’t hide the smell from the likes of me.”

  I did not understand what he meant at the time. But one night, as I was lying awake, it struck me that Mother had also sniffed me on occasion. My powers, the things that I do, leave a scent on me, and Mother, who is clearly aware of much more than I gave her credit for, has recognized it. I always thought she was smelling the lavender that I keep with my clothes. Now I know the truth.

  Others recognize it too, and not only women. It is a great surprise—but I see now that there are many ways in which I have been mistaken.

  My homeland is suffering, Venerable Mother. Suddenly everything is overwhelming and difficult—the world is too vast. There is so much to be done. I was feeling content with my school, but now I see that it is not nearly enough.

  I ask myself: what would Sister O do? What would the Venerable Mother advise me? And the answer is here somewhere, very close. For I know that you would do something and not simply crawl into a hole and hide, like the hare that hopes the fox will carry on by.

  The fox is approaching ever nearer, already sniffing the mouth of
the burrow, as I lie inside quivering with fear.

  Respectfully,

  MARESI

  Autumn

  My dear Ennike Rose,

  The harvest is over, and soon it will be time to open the school again. Many families remain busy with various tasks, and the harvest festival is still to come. But when all that is done, finally I will be able to stand on the crest of the hill again and see my little students come traipsing up the grassy slope. Frost has started to cover the grass in the mornings. Autumn certainly is coming early this year, and, alas, the frost took all our winter apples. They did not have enough time to ripen.

  Speaking of which, do you know what I have been missing of late? Lemons! It is far too cold here for lemon trees. I remember how you and I used to grimace when Jai would sink her teeth into the sour yellow rind, but lemons add a wonderful flavour to cooking. Sister Ers’s succulent whole-roasted chicken stuffed with lemons, olives and thyme! Oh, sometimes I long for Abbey food so intensely that my mouth waters. We always used to get so many delicious treats in the autumn. Well, you still do, of course. Sister Ers’s honey and nut cakes! And that fish stew with mussels and korr-root and masses of spices…

  As thanks for relieving Feira’s toothache enough for Jannarl to help pull her tooth out, Haiman gave me some coarse brown linen that I am trying to sew into a pair of trousers for myself. Mother refuses to help because she is still of the opinion that I ought to wear only skirts and braid my hair. She has come to terms with everything else by now, but not my appearance. At least she has stopped picking on me for it. She has become very fatigued over harvest time; her cough shows no signs of improvement and none of the teas I make her help. Sometimes there is a nasty wheezing sound when she breathes. I wish Sister Nar were here to advise me. And how I wish Jai were here with her nimble fingers! She would have finished sewing these trousers long ago. I have been struggling with them every evening for several days now. There is always a point at which the frustration becomes too much for me, and I toss my sewing in a corner and swear never to touch it again. And yet I must have a new pair of trousers, for my old ones are too worn and will not survive another winter.

  However, this was not at all what I intended to write about. Yesterday, early in the morning, I went to my little schoolhouse for the first time in a while. I wanted to check that all was as it should be before leaving it unattended for the first time. My parents are going to the market that takes place after harvest festival in the village of Murik, and they want me to go with them while the school is still closed. My father’s sister married into a large farmstead in Murik, where her son Bernáti has taken over the farm. He is married to Jannarl’s sister, so Jannarl and Náraes want to come as well.

  Murik, which lies two days’ walk to the west, is a much larger village than Jóla or Sáru, and its market attracts tradesmen from near and far. Seeing as no one can find their way to our villages these days, we are in want of certain things. Father needs a new axe head, Mother a new kettle. Náraes hopes to buy some sheep, for we are in desperate need of wool for clothes. I want to buy more paper and ink, as usual. A little sugar would be nice, if there is any to be found, and our salt supply is nearly finished. Salt can only be bought from the nádor’s official merchants, whose store is strongly guarded by soldiers. I feel a little uneasy about this journey, but I understand that it is necessary.

  Anyway, I was going to write about what happened yesterday. Off I went to my school through the frosty grass, past wild-rose bushes heavy with rosehips. I must try to find the time to pick some rosehip: dry it and grind it and it makes a restorative flour, Sister Nar taught me. I was wearing gloves that Mother had knitted for me, and my red mantle, and my boots.

  The rays of the autumn sun fell on my frost-covered schoolhouse, making it glitter like the palace of Irindibul. To my surprise, smoke was streaming from the chimney. I hurried over and threw open the door.

  “Hello? Who is there?” I called sternly.

  The room smelt of smoke and fresh timber. I stopped in the doorway, astonished. In the centre of the room was a long table with benches, yet it was a most peculiar table, with a raised edge all the way around, like a shallow box.

  “It’s only me Maresi,” came a quiet voice.

  Kárun was standing over by the fireplace and stacking firewood. He brushed bark from his hands and smiled at me. He was wearing a new shirt, a blue one, which he must have bought in Irindibul. It made him look foreign. Like a blue bird that flew here instead of south for the winter. His shirtsleeves were rolled up. I had forgotten how broad his shoulders are. The blue brought out the warm colour of his eyes. I was happy to see him, I must admit. I misjudged him when I met him that first spring. He is a good man.

  “Kárun!” I exclaimed. “You are back!” I beamed at him, which immediately made him smile too.

  “Well, I’ve been back a while already, but been busy here. Wanted to arrange a few things before it was time for you to open the school again.” He nodded at the table. “It’s not really finished yet.”

  “It is very handsome!” I said, and admired the beautiful light-wood table. “But why is the edge like this?”

  “I heard tell that the rich boys’ teachers in Irindibul have them practise their writing in sand. So I got a few sacks of fine sand, from the riverbanks down by Lady Falls.” His enthusiasm was growing as he spoke. “And that’s why I built these edges. You can fill the space between them with sand, and then the children can write with sticks. And I’ll build a couple of light covers for it, so the table can also be used as normal when they’re doing something else.”

  “Kárun!” I exclaimed, too amazed and astonished to say anything else.

  “Is it a very silly idea? Perhaps that’s not how you teach writing at all.” He crossed his arms over his chest. I rushed over to him and touched him on the arm.

  “It is a wonderful idea,” I said, unable to prevent the tears from welling up in my eyes. “It has been such a headache figuring out how they might practise writing letters and words. This is perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

  Kárun looked down at my hand on his arm. I quickly removed it. We were standing very close to one another. I could feel the warmth radiating from his body. I could clearly see the beard stubble on his chin. He looked at me, and I felt my cheeks start to heat up. Suddenly I wished I had left my hand where it was.

  “I built some shelves over here,” he said, without breaking eye contact. “And there’s a few things I bought in Irindibul.”

  I looked over at the woodpile. Behind it stood a slender, chestnut-brown bookshelf. On one of the shelves was an abacus with brightly coloured beads, painted in the typical ornate patterns of Irindibul. But I paid little attention to that, for beside it were two books! I let out a cry and rushed over to them. Two leather-bound books, Ennike! I was speechless as I ran my fingers over the spines. I carefully pulled out first one, then the other, opened them and read the beautiful hand-written title pages. One was entitled Sovereigns of Urundien and their Reigns and the other, thinner book was called Four Plays by Andero and a Selection of Ofoli Wisdoms and Aphorisms. Brand-new books. Books I had never even heard of—that not even Sister O knows of. I could hardly wait to sit down and start reading.

  But you know the price of a book, Ennike. You know how much work goes into every single page.

  “There wasn’t much to choose from,” Kárun said from behind me. “I hope these can be of some use.”

  I swallowed a few times before turning around.

  “This is too much,” I said, and looked up at him. “You must have spent all your earnings on these books, and the abacus. I cannot accept them.”

  “They’re not for you,” he replied, looking me straight in the eye. “They’re for the school.”

  And I could not argue with that.

  “Besides, they weren’t all that expensive,” he said softly, and started pulling on his leather waistcoat. “Now I’ll go out and make a cover for the table. If you thi
nk it’s a good idea.”

  I am convinced that he was lying about the books not being expensive, but I did not say so. I told him that the sand-filled table was an excellent idea, and I would be very grateful if he built a cover. He pulled on the gloves I had made him and went outside. It felt remarkably cool inside, despite the fire. Taking a look around, I discovered something I had not seen before. Next to the far wall, by the fireplace, a mattress was laid out on the bare floor. A coarse blanket lay on top of it. Was Kárun sleeping in the school? And if so, why? But I had no time to think about it. I grabbed the books, hugged them to my breast and rushed home with such haste that I stumbled several times and nearly fell. I hid in my room and sat reading late into the night, and I have been reading all day today. Mother and Father can say what they like. To read a book I have never read before, to see completely new words and discover new thoughts and worlds—I have missed it so much, Ennike! I must write and tell Jai about it also, for I know she would understand how I feel. Or maybe you could read her that last part about the books, so that I can continue reading now instead.

  But you could leave out some of the things I wrote about Kárun.

  Yours,

  MARESI

  Venerable Sister O,

  I have two new books! Or rather, the school has two new books. They are from Irindibul and are written in the language shared by Rovas and Irindibul. One is a rather thin volume containing four short plays by a man named Andero who I believe lived around a hundred years ago. They are entertaining as stories. I am pleased to have some plays to teach my pupils about drama, and perhaps even stage a little performance. But the second section of the book is of greater interest to me because it contains the aphorisms and wisdoms of a man by name of Ofoli, with exquisite illustrations. Have you heard of him? I am studying them carefully, for it seems that a greater, more complex truth is hiding among his often banal and commonplace maxims.