“Retire to your own chamber! It is distasteful to sleep in company.”
“At home,” said Orseola in a deep voice, still facing the wall, “nobody sleeps alone. Others always close.”
“You are not with your savages now,” Meriba snarled. “You are in Karenokoi. Here people do not sleep on the floor.”
Orseola turned to Meriba. Her eyes opened wide in that special way, as though she is looking at someone standing right behind you. “The white man comes again tonight. He will eat your face before he pulls out your hair.”
Meriba paled and closed her mouth. Orseola got up, gathering her cushions and shawls. She bowed to Kabira and gave me a slight nod before disappearing into her room.
Meriba sat quietly awhile, breathing heavily. The rain was beating against the window shutters and the fire pots were spitting. I was poring over a scroll I had found in the little library about the history of Karenokoi. I wanted to learn more about Anji; if there was anything written about it or the other sources of power. At home in the clan all such knowledge was passed down the generations through story and song. I am starting to recall them more and more clearly every day since I left the new Garai behind. One of them goes like this:
Sanuel by the rocks
On one ancient leg
Beyond the shore
The great lake around
It speaks the truth
Bestows the power
Offer your red
Blood for blood bidden
Taste the life force
Sap of the earth
I wonder if this is the first time anyone has written this song down—bound it to paper. The thought fills me with a sudden unease. Certain things should not be written so that just anybody can access their secrets. Maybe I should strike it out. Although: nobody here knows where Sanuel is. Or which is the greatest lake. These are names and truths only we in the clan understand. So I will let it remain, but I must be more careful in the future.
Kabira was sitting and writing a letter at a low table some servants brought to her. I do not know who she is writing to, perhaps she has family or friends beyond these walls. I have never seen anyone pay her a visit except her sons. Meriba was picking anxiously at the sleeves of her jacket. Kabira’s brush pen was scratching against the paper. My scroll was rustling as I read. Meriba’s many bangles were clinking gently.
There was a rattle at the main door. It was unlocked and opened and in stepped Iskan. I believe it was the first time he had visited the great hall of the dairahesi. All three of us fell at once to our knees before him, foreheads to the ground. I stole a glance at him, as it was a while since last I saw him. His beard and hair were as well groomed as ever. Jacket deep blue, trousers white as snow. Fingers heavy with rings of different metals. He looked around and smiled.
“How pleasantly you live.” He stepped forward to the table where Kabira had been sitting and peeked at her letter. “Does it please my wife to write?” Kabira took that as permission to rise to sitting. Her face expressed no sentiment.
“To my cousin Neika, husband. You met her once. She has recently become a grandmother for the first time.”
“So young? She cannot be much older than you, wife.”
“Her daughter was married at a tender age,” replied Kabira.
“And you were not so young when Korin was born.” Iskan picked up Kabira’s pen and twirled it wistfully between his fingers. “Well, will you not show your husband a little hospitality?”
Kabira snapped her fingers and Estegi hurried forth to receive her bidding. Then Kabira personally laid some large cushions by the table for Iskan to sit on and set her writing materials aside. Iskan snapped his fingers at me and Meriba and we sat up again. Meriba’s face was a storm of confusion and concern. If her master had not come to take her away and gratify his lust with her, then why had he come? Kabira was the mistress this time and she never lost composure. She ordered for the fire pot to be carried nearer to Iskan and for several lamps to be lit. When Estegi came with wine and fruit and cakes, Kabira filled her husband’s drinking bowl herself.
“Thank you, wife.” He sipped the wine. “You keep a good vintage. I shall be sure to send you more.”
Kabira bowed her head.
“And we shall send a cask to your cousin’s daughter as well. A fitting gift, would you not agree? With a child in the house she is bound to receive many visitors wishing to extend their congratulations, and she must have something to offer them.” He smiled at Kabira and for a brief moment something flashed in her eyes. Confusion? Fear? Hope? She looked down and I saw no more.
Iskan turned to me. “Come and taste, little savage. Even if you are not so little any more.”
I obeyed at once and went to sit to his right. He shook his hand free from his sleeve, reached for a piece of melon and placed it between my lips. Then he seemed truly to look at me for the first time. “Why, you have slimmed. Your cheeks have lost their roundness!” He smiled. “Have you sulked yourself thin, my savage?”
I did not know what I should answer. I had lost the new Garai’s ability to find the right words to please him. I did as Kabira did: bowed my neck and looked down. Iskan took it as confirmation. He stroked my arm.
“Now now, I will be sure to visit you again soon.” I clenched my teeth as hard as I could. In the corner of my eye I could see Meriba glaring venomously in my direction. She looked like a kawol whose prey had been snatched by vultures. “In the meantime, is there anything I can do that may offer a little solace?”
I did not look up. “Paper, Master. If it please you.”
He laughed softly. “Ever humble.” The final word was clearly directed at Meriba. “So be it.” He waved Estegi over and whispered something in her ear. She bowed and left the hall.
Iskan took another sip of wine and leant back, surveying his surroundings with relish. “It is truly pleasant here. You women certainly know about all this decorating business. Flowers and so forth. My servants do not understand such things.”
“It is Meriba, Master,” I said. “What you see was created by her hand.”
He ignored my interjection. “Wife, some more wine. And then can you not recite something for us? You were skilled in it, once.”
Kabira was mistress of herself once more. With an expressionless face she poured more wine and got to her feet. She stood quietly for a moment and gazed into the quiet shadows of the hall. Meriba was sitting a little farther away, on her pile of pillows and furs. Iskan had not asked her to join his table. I could see her battling with herself to keep her feelings under control, but they were all reflected on her face. Anger, jealousy, hatred—and fear.
Kabira chose one of the ancient love elegies that evening. What inspired her to do so, I cannot say. Maybe Iskan’s sentimental tone. Maybe an entirely different reason, known only to her. It was an epic poem about two youths who fall in love on first meeting, and fight against countless setbacks and obstacles to be able to meet a second time. It ends with them both dying, each on their own side of a wall, without ever having met again. It is very moving. I have never known such love. I have felt desire, both in the clan and on occasions with Iskan. I have loved my sisters and my mother. But a love one is willing to die for? I wonder if such love exists anywhere other than in poems.
When Kabira was finished Iskan looked pensive. Then he thanked her courteously and patted me on the cheek before leaving the hall. He had not uttered a single word to Meriba. Yet I had the feeling that this whole evening was a display for her eyes. A lesson she must learn. A threat: without my favour you are nothing. You have nothing.
Meriba has understood. Now she despises Kabira and me. Kabira ranks above her, so she cannot take revenge on her. I, on the other hand, am lower than she, and pose no danger.
She set fire to my herbarium while I was bathing. All my years of work were destroyed. All the pressed flowers, the pictures and notes. Only the private notes are left now—the secret, hidden ones. When I came back to my room
there was nothing but charred remains in the fire pot. Next to it Estegi sat crying. Her clothes were sooty and her hands covered in black.
“I tried to save them, Garai. I tried, but she wouldn’t let me in until everything was ablaze.”
I turned her hands over to look at her palms. They were burnt. I fetched water to wash them carefully, then smeared them with aloe. Estegi sobbed but said nothing more. Inside me I could feel something break loose, something that had been stuck for a long time. Far too long.
Afterwards I went out into the garden. I was given permission, seeing as Meriba was still out of favour. Two guards followed after, but then allowed me to roam freely. It was a cold day without rain, yet everything was wet. I walked to the small grove of zismil trees that grows near Anji’s hill. I know the uses of the tree’s resin, its leaves, its nuts and roots. I do not need notes to know this. The knowledge within me cannot be destroyed.
I lay on my back beneath the trees. Nobody was watching me. The garden was silent. The birds were sleeping with their heads tucked under fog-dampened wings. The insects were seeking shelter in the moss and bark. The earth was moist beneath my jacket. I plunged my fingers into the wet earth, feeling twigs and leaves crumble apart. There was a powerful odour of life and decay. I shut my eyes. I heard water gently dripping from the branches of the trees. Mist crept slowly over my cheekbones, my eyelids. A barely perceptible breeze rustled through the crowns of the zismil trees. My breathing was calm and even. There was a pulsing murmur in my blood. I surrendered my body. I was completely free. Nothing was tying me to this place. My spirit became light and I started to rise into the air. First I saw my body way down on the ground, then it became obscured by the canopy below me. I saw the ocean in the south, Areko in the east. The fields and spice plantations in the south and west. Paths like narrow ribbons streaking across the green landscape. A flock of geese stained the sky with their black bodies, and I followed them northward as they flew. Mountains, lakes, rivers below us. The wind beneath our wings. I veered off to the east and left the geese behind. In search of my sisters, certain I would find them. They drew me towards them like beacons. I travelled far, I saw everything, and the sources of power all over the earth were burning like torches below me. Mountains, springs, rivers, lakes. The very arteries of the earth. I found my sisters, one by one. Different lives they lived, both good and bad. There was only one I could not find. The littlest. The youngest. Guera, with her skinny arms. She was nowhere to be found.
I returned to my body as I felt somebody shaking it. I opened my eyes to see the two guards bending over me. They reeked of sweat and their expressions were stern. Each had a dagger in his belt. All of a sudden, with the deftness of a kawol, I snatched one of their daggers. Rolling out of reach, I made an incision in my left arm before they could stop me. I let the blood trickle down into the roots of the zismil trees. Roots extending deep into the earth. For this is the uniqueness of the zismil: it can grow even in arid parts because its roots find water hidden far below the surface. Water that other plants cannot reach. The crowns of the trees swayed as they accepted my offering, and as the guards dragged me away I could feel my blood conversing with the roots, and I could feel the roots carrying my blood into the depths of the earth, to the primeval origin of their power. Far below, where springs also source their flow.
Anji has tasted me now. The life force is reaching out to me. The zismil trees have become my sacred offering grounds. I go there when I can, and the trees whisper me truths and imbue me with strength. I dress only in brown now. I do not wash my hair. Everybody avoids me, even Kabira. Meriba believes that she broke my sanity. Little does she know that in truth she set me free. The only thing I have left now is these notes, and the paper Iskan gave me when Meriba was briefly out of favour.
She is his favourite again now—he summoned her once more and then presented her with a hair ornament containing threads of black pearls and ivory. Now he has travelled away; there is war in the east again and the Sovereign has sent him to deal with it. Two moons have passed since he left. The Sovereign’s sons cannot have succeeded in subduing those who must be subdued, or slaughtering those who must be slaughtered—I do not know which. More and more of my old life is coming back to me now: I fast on the sacred days, sing the sacred songs and dance the sacred dances. Some must be danced at night, but I cannot be outside under open sky as I ought to be, so I dance in my room instead. This morning Kabira took me to one side.
“Garai.” It is not often that my name passes her lips. She looked at me with a serious expression. On her hands I noticed the first appearance of age spots. They are subtle, but reveal the years that have passed. How long have I been here? Sonan, Kabira’s youngest, was born soon after I arrived. Now he is already nine years old. It is difficult to fathom that so much time has passed. It means that I, too, am no longer young.
That is good. An old wisewoman is more powerful than a young one. The older I grow, the more my knowledge deepens.
“Garai, do you hear me? You must cease with this. Meriba will tell Iskan of your transformation the moment he returns.”
I looked up, perplexed.
“He will not stand for it. Do you understand? A madwoman in his dairahesi and household.”
“Madwoman?”
She shook her head impatiently. “You sing at all hours of the day and night, in some unintelligible tongue. You do not bathe. And I hear frightening noises from your chamber in the middle of the night. If it is a new moon on his return, be on your guard. Do you understand?” She turned and walked away, with her dark head held high. I turned to face Orseola, who was sat mending her sandals.
“A madwoman?”
“Not all know wisdom when they see it,” she said and bit off a thread. “Nor evil.” She sighed. “The Sovereign Prince is very sick again. I believe it is because the Vizier is away. He does something to the Sovereign before he goes away. Then the Sovereign is weak and sick and cannot make decisions without him. Many bad dreams.” She shuddered. “They stick.”
“The water,” I said to myself, but Orseola pricked up her ears. Her dark eyes widened.
“Yes, in the water. The Sovereign drinks the spring water for health. The Vizier adds something?”
“The moon is waning. He does not need to add anything.”
“Mysteries. Only mysteries.” Orseola got up, exasperated, and turned on her heel.
“Wait.” I held up a hand. “It is the water itself that is harmful. The spring, the sacred spring behind the locked door.” I pointed out into the garden. “It is sometimes harmful and sometimes good. It is a source of power. The Vizier uses the water to do his bidding.”
“The Sovereign must be warned!” Orseola looked horrified.
I looked at her and shook my head.
“You cannot. You are still but a dreamweaver: a slave. The Sovereign would ask Iskan, and put his back against the wall. With the power of the spring’s water he could render you harmless in the blink of an eye.” I saw her questioning expression. “Kill you. He has been the Sovereign’s Vizier for a very long time, and he has corrupted him in body and mind. The Sovereign would never take your word over that of his adviser. And you would gain nothing but your own death.”
I could see that she was considering it; that death was not an entirely unwelcome outcome.
“But do not worry. The Vizier will not kill the Sovereign. He wants him here so that he has someone whose strings he can pull. He wants to be the one to stand in the shadows and make everybody dance to his tune.”
* * *
Iskan is still away and Meriba is pregnant. She is even more demanding now: special dishes at ridiculous hours, oils to massage into her swelling belly. Her moods are dreadful and all the servants are afraid of her. She is hoping for a son, of course. It would heighten her rank and place. Kabira’s sons will always take precedence over sons born to concubines, but all sons raise a man’s status, regardless of who may bear them. And they can fulfil important function
s in the plots and intrigues of the palace.
Kabira is keeping a careful watch on Meriba’s changing figure. I often catch her eyeing her belly with a thoughtful expression. Is she really so threatened by the idea that she may have a son? As wife her position is safe, although she and Iskan rarely seem to have contact these days.
It is all the same to me, in any case. The goings-on of the dairahesi are no longer my concern. Because every day I am moving further and deeper into my old self. The trees are answering my call. They bend their branches towards me as I approach. The life force throbs beneath my skin now, and my scars shine white as snow.
* * *
Early yesterday morning Iskan returned. There was a clamour of horses and men as they rode into the stables in the west. Meriba wandered impatiently from window to window and waited for her master to call for her, but the day passed and no word came. She went into her room often to change her clothes and jewellery, only to continue her pacing. I have not seen her on her feet that much since she fell pregnant.
Orseola was sitting alone in a corner, muttering to herself. Sometimes the dreams overwhelm her. I have started boiling her a brew of sowane and aulium. It delivers her into a deep and dreamless sleep. But I cannot help her when she is awake and plagued by everybody else’s lingering dreams. She has tried to describe it to me. She says that sometimes she wanders around in the Sovereign’s dreams for days after seeing them. Or in ours. And if there is a servant who was up through the night and sleeps during the day, she has trouble ridding herself of their dreams, too. Her dreamsnares afford some relief, but Ohaddin is filled with dreamers. They cannot capture every dream. I suggested once that she should tattoo a dreamsnare on her forehead, but she only let out a desperate laugh.
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