Naondel

by Maria Turtschaninoff

  She gazed out of the window, at the bare floor, the undecorated altar, the paint that had flaked off the door. The whole temple had been desecrated through unconcern and neglect.

  She picked up the athame, removed the last tacks and unfurled the velvet cloth. She laughed out loud.

  “Well aren’t we lucky,” she said to the skull.

  The cloth was folded several times and was more than four times larger than the cushion itself. She could even wrap herself up in it at night. But first she would give the temple the devotion it deserved.

  With the water in the skull and the velvet cloth she cleaned and polished the windows as well as she could. Then she washed the cloth and laid it out to dry on the rocks by the temple. It lay like a giant red flag shining in the sun. If anyone from Matheli came sailing past to see whether the offering had been fulfilled, they would see what she had done from far away.

  She opened the temple door and climbed on it to get up to the roof. As she struggled to her feet, her hunger and thirst made the world spin around her, and she had to sit down. Once the dizziness had subsided she stayed standing a moment and just looked. The ocean was sparkling, and infinite in every direction. There were no other islands to be seen. She was alone in the world, alone with her fate. Until that moment she had been too focused to see what was around her. Nothing had been of any importance but the temple and her tasks. She turned her attention to the roof.

  She had hoped that a depression somewhere might have collected water from the recent rains. None had. She fought back tears. A sea-snatcher dived past her, very close, and landed in its nest. Suddenly she saw that camouflaged against the grey roof were dozens of nests filled with eggs.

  The birds fought back, swooping at her with beak and claw. She did not take all the eggs from the same nest. She sucked them raw, sitting on the roof among the angry birds and falling feathers. They tasted wonderful.

  The eggs made her strong again. There were mussels in the sea, and sea urchins, if she could catch them without hurting her hands. But she was not ready to enter the water again. She no longer knew if she was ready to die. She sat with the skull in her arms on the lee side of the temple, waiting for the velvet cloth to dry.

  The skull looked at her with its empty eye sockets and Iona went back to wondering what her name might have been. It felt important that she had a name, that she was a person. She had never named anything before, not even one of the temple hounds. Now she could give her predecessor a name, and therefore an identity as someone more than just the offering, the chosen one, the skull. It was difficult. She did not know how names were chosen. She tried to invent an original name, but it felt ridiculous. She ran her fingers along the jaws of the skull, along the smooth surface of the cheekbones.

  She was so fragile and small. And so dead. She had entered into death long before Iona. As had Iona’s sister, about whom she remembered nothing but her name.

  “Mizra,” she said, and Mizra smiled at her with her bared teeth.

  So passed Iona’s third day on the island.

  The wind continued for several days. The surf crashed against the island in a steady rhythm, like the beating of a heart. There were no more birds’ eggs. She could not catch the birds themselves. The salty meat of mussels only worsened her thirst. There was no rain on the horizon.

  She wrapped herself up in the velvet and went down to the beach with Mizra and the athame.

  She had come here to die. But now she was slowly perishing of hunger and thirst—a prolonged death wholly unlike the one she had been prepared for. When she had found Mizra she had started to fear the monster. Now she welcomed it. She wanted to die as Mizra had: a quick, honourable and meaningful death.

  Looking into the empty eye sockets, Iona hoped with all her heart that that truly had been the nature of Mizra’s death.

  She raised the athame. At first the blunt blade did nothing more than scratch her palm. It is difficult to consciously hurt oneself. She made contact and pressed firmly until the skin yielded and red blood trickled forth. She squeezed as much as she could into the sea.

  “Here I am!” she cried into the wind. “Come and take me!”

  She licked the last drops from her palm. She hoped that the blood would be bait enough. She had surely bled more when she had been swimming and found Mizra, yet that had lured nothing out from the deep. Perhaps what was needed was a purposeful offering. She did not know. Alinda had never said anything about it. In her stories the chosen one came to the temple island, performed the proper rites with the remains of her predecessor, and then her death arose from the sea.

  Could it be because she had not smashed Mizra, and therefore the circle was incomplete? Iona still could not bring herself to do it. She had named her. Mizra was hers now. She no longer belonged to the island. They belonged to each other.

  Iona gazed out to sea. She pulled a corner of the cloth over her head to shelter her eyes from the glare of the water. There, far off on the horizon, she could see a dark speck. The first thing that had broken the uniformity since the day she arrived.

  She sat down with Mizra in her lap and the athame in her hand, and waited for her monster.

  * * *

  He came in a boat. He did not look as she had imagined. He was not a giant, with teeth longer than she was tall, and talons as sharp as scythes. He was an ordinary man, in clothes of silk, and with gold on his chest. He did not even appear to bear any weapons. His boat was small, with a single sail and a canvas stretched over the bow.

  She sat motionless and waited for him. Once he had reached the island he cast his anchor, jumped into the water and waded the last way into land, dragging the boat with a rope before mooring it to a rock.

  When she saw his eyes she knew her time had come. They did not belong to a human, nor an animal. They were nearly wholly black; they were the eyes of a monster. She stood up and let the cloth fall to the ground. She bared her breasts and let the athame fall with a clanging sound against the rocks. Alinda had not given her any words with which to meet her death.

  “Greetings,” she said.

  He looked her up and down. She understood then that this monster needed neither talons nor teeth. He was equally dangerous without them. She could see hunger in his eyes, a hunger that no offering in the world could satisfy.

  “Well met,” he replied, and smiled. He was neither old nor young, beautiful nor ugly, yet his smile was that of a primeval predatory beast.

  He did nothing, however. He did not approach her, he raised no weapon, he did nothing to enact the offering.

  It filled her with uncertainty. She did not want to wait any longer. She bent down and picked up the athame, took a step forward and handed it to him.

  “Here. Do it quickly.”

  She closed her eyes. She was not so brave that she could meet her death with eyes open. Hunger and thirst were making it difficult for her to stand upright any longer. Soon her legs gave way.

  Arms caught her and laid her down on soft velvet. When she opened her eyes her gaze met his. His eyes were dark and, if possible, even more filled with hunger. Yet he made no attack.

  “Wait,” he said and disappeared from sight. She shut her eyes again. Against one of her hips, hidden under the velvet, she could feel the lump made by Mizra. She was giving her strength to endure whatever might come.

  Soon a shadow fell over her. “Here,” said the voice, but she could no longer keep her eyes open. What good would it serve? Something pressed against her lips. She parted them, and cool, fresh water trickled into her mouth. She coughed, then drank, long and deep.

  He gave her bread, but she could not eat much. She was so tired. He moved to and fro between the boat and the temple, carrying something. Then carrying her. She clung to the velvet, and to Mizra inside it. He laid her on the temple floor, but this time there was something between her and the floor, something warm and soft. He pulled the velvet over her.

  She slept.

  When she awoke she was given more
to drink. She ate something, maybe fish. And something else sweet and juicy: some fruit. She slept. He did not touch her.

  When she awoke the monster was crouching by the door and looking at her. She sat up and drank more water. She was naked: there was no point in hiding her body. He had already seen it. It belonged to him.

  The eyes of the hungry one were shining. Iona tried to suppress her fear. She tried to keep her heartbeat as steady as the tide. She tried to meet her fate with pride and strength, as Alinda had taught her. She had diverged from the path, broken the circle, but it had reclaimed her and sent her fate in a form she could never have imagined, yet which now seemed inevitable.

  “Do you feel better now?” He got up and stood before her, as a tower obscuring the light.

  “Yes. Thank you.” She understood why he had helped her to convalesce. An exhausted prey was no challenge. She was glad. She did not want to be weak.

  “Have you been here long?” He turned to look out of the window.

  “How long have I been sleeping?”

  “A day and a night.”

  “Then I have been here for… I do not know exactly. Many days.”

  “Without food or drink?” He shaded his eyes with his hand and looked out over the sea, as if he were searching for something. Her search was over. This was what she had been waiting for.

  “I ate birds’ eggs and mussels.”

  “In my land there are tales of your creed. That you sacrifice virgins to a beast on a barren island in the middle of nothingness. I did not believe it was true.”

  “I am committing myself to The Eternal Cycle,” she said. He laughed.

  “I mean no offence. But you do understand that there is no monster? That the girls come here and slowly starve to death?” He looked up at the temple. “But still there is a presence… an energy. It drew me here. I am interested in sources of power, you see. All the stories I hear about springs with the power to heal, about mountains that bestow wisdom, about rituals that grant eternal life”—he looked at her askance—“I must investigate. Most are untrue, or contain fragments of what was once true. Some, however…” He looked distracted, as though dreaming. “Some turn out to be true. And I see to it that I make the true sources my own. Else I destroy them, so that nobody else may utilize their power.”

  “You make mountains your own?” She tried to understand what he meant.

  “If need be. An area can be conquered. Streams can be staunched. Knowledge can be recorded and removed. Objects… I have a library full of scrolls containing knowledge the rest of the world could not dream of.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  She could not help but ask, though she knew the answer. He was here to take her life. He could deny that he—the monster—existed all he wanted. She recognized a monster when she saw one.

  “I have sailed a small fleet of ships east from my land in search of more sources of power. The spring from whence I draw my power is not sufficient. I have discovered vulnerabilities.” He tensed his jaws a moment and was quiet. Iona waited. He turned to look out of the window, to gather himself before continuing. “We sailed to Matheli to learn more of your creed. I received confirmation and moreover was told that a fresh girl had just been sent here to die. I left my ships in Matheli, so as not to attract attention, and sailed here alone.” He smiled at her, baring all of his white teeth. “And I found you.”

  His fangs were visible as he bent over Iona. She exposed her neck, like prey. Yet he began groping at his trousers, his hands fumbling with the drawstring. His breathing became heavy and his eyes misted over. He took out his member; it was engorged. She understood at once what he wanted and it was not her death.

  “No!” she screamed and crawled back onto the sleeping mat. “You must not defile me, must not sully the offering!”

  He was down on his knees, already between her legs, groaning and panting.

  “There is nothing to make an offering to,” he said. She thought of her people and the drought of recent years and knew he was wrong. She kicked and tried to clamp her thighs together but he pried them apart with his strong legs. He was the monster, everything a monster should be, and yet it was wrong, this was not how it should be.

  “You are supposed to kill me!” she screamed. He sneered, saliva dripping onto her belly.

  “If you insist. Afterwards.”

  He was ruining everything—this was the moment she had been waiting for her whole life and he was taking it away from her.

  “No!” she screamed and fought all the more wildly. He pushed her, hard, and as she fell backward her hand found Mizra’s skull under the cloth and a new strength flowed through her.

  He recoiled, gasping.

  “What was that?”

  Her fingers found their way underneath the cloth to the smooth bone, into Mizra’s eye sockets. She became completely calm. The monster receded and before her there was but a man with a slackened member.

  “You do not touch me,” she said. It was not a command, but a certainty. He retreated farther, until his back was pressed against the far wall.

  He nodded. Looked at the lump under the cloth: Mizra. “Such power.”

  “Go now.”

  He left her.

  Iona wrapped the velvet cloth around her and bound Mizra in a fold at her hip. The athame lay on the floor next to her, perhaps because he had thought to use it when he was finished with her. She tucked it into the cloth at her waist, and wrapped the stone from the altar into the hem. She looked around her. Now all that was left was the sleeping mat, his wineskin and the little altar table. A bare room that had seen so much suffering. Then she stepped out into the sunshine and closed the flaking door behind her. The man was nowhere to be seen. With one hand on Mizra she walked around the temple, inside the white circle. She wondered whether he had spoken the truth. Had all the chosen ones starved to death? All those girls before her? Or had their monsters come? The crack in the ocean floor where she had found Mizra—was it natural or ripped open by some unspeakable horror? Had Mizra’s death been a part of The Eternal Cycle, or meaningless?

  Death is always meaningless, whispered Mizra between her fingers. Iona contemplated this. Perhaps it was. Or perhaps Alinda was right. Yet she knew one thing for certain: she did not intend to die of thirst and starvation on this island.

  She went down to the boat. He was sitting in the stern and securing the load.

  “Take me away from here,” she said, with her fingers in Mizra’s eyes. He looked up. She could not read his expression.

  “Now?”

  She nodded. She let him help her up into the boat. She sat there as he gathered his belongings from the temple and lashed his bundle onto the boat. She stared out to sea. It was clear-blue. Her mother’s eyes were the same colour, Iona suddenly remembered.

  When he pulled up the anchor and she looked at him she knew that the monster had not disappeared. It was only biding its time. Without Mizra she would be utterly defenceless.

  Coiling the wet chain into the boat, he addressed her suddenly.

  “Your name?”

  “Iona. And yours?”

  “Iskan.”

  That was the name of her monster. And he possessed her death.

  Clarás

  NE MORNING I HAD GOT UP EARLY. Spring was coming, and I sat by my window watching birds fly. A swan flew past on heavy wings. Starlings ran about below my window, pecking at worms. I saw no sea birds, but I could make out the sea as a far-off shimmer. A southerly breeze carried with it the smell of salt and seaweed. The man had been away for a long time on his travels. We had assembled a good deal of provisions. Very soon it would be time to leave. I had decided how we would escape, despite Sulani’s protests. We would gather in the great hall at night and lure the guards in, perhaps by breaking something, or some other way of attracting their attention without waking the other women. Two of us would wait hidden in the shadows with heavy objects. We would then catch the guards unawares, strike them uncons
cious, take their keys and escape. The guards had never met resistance from the women of the dairahesi before, so they were not prepared for it. If we succeeded in surprising them it would not be difficult for three women to strike down two men. Estegi would be waiting outside the doors with the provisions. We would take all we needed and run, under cover of darkness. Naondel awaited us. The ocean awaited me. We had to set off on our voyage when the north-east winds began to blow. They would take us to Terasu in ten days, or a little longer. There were islands along the way where we could stop for supplies. But it was still half a moon before the right winds would come.

  So we waited.

  And the man returned.

  It was Estegi who brought the news. Garai and I were sitting by the little pond in the courtyard. More than anybody, it was probably Garai who most missed the freedom to visit the Garden of Eternal Serenity when she wished. She was sitting with one hand in the water and looked to be listening with concentration. I was sitting on a bench facing the sun and the southerly winds. Estegi came out through the archway, knelt and bowed, first to Garai, then to me.

  “The Vizier of Karenokoi wishes to assemble his entire household in the great hall,” she said. I shuddered. I had forgotten about him. Naondel had been filling my thoughts so much that I had almost forgotten why we must flee.

  “When did he return?” asked Garai. Her long white hair hung like a shawl over her slender shoulders. She had been bought, as had I. I knew that. But she had been sold against her will.