Naondel

by Maria Turtschaninoff

  “My name is Daera, and I stay for no one.”

  This, to me, was the most important event of our journey. Not the sudden storm that blew Naondel off-course from Terasu and far off to the south-west. Not the hunger, nor thirst, nor our flirts with death. Not when Clarás’s tears drew fish from the water so that we could eat our fill. Not how the bond of new sisterhood brought us closer together. Not even the storm that hurled us onto the rocks of the island of Menos, or our utter joy at finding ourselves safe, or the strength of the life force Garai and Clarás felt in the island, which made us realize we had found our new home. No, the most important thing was that night with the nameless boy, the night that brought me closer to life and far, far away from death.

  Kabira

  T IS SPRING NOW. OUR SEVENTH ON THE island. Yesterday Sulani caught sight of the first trading vessel beyond the Teeth—the sharp rocks that protrude skyward from the water by the entrance to our port. Merchant sailors do not dare sail here when the sea is tempestuous. Sulani and Estegi waded out and met the little rowboat, and the ship waited behind. The tradesmen are not permitted to set foot on our mountainous island. No men are. Garai says it must be so. The source of power on this island forbids it. She says she has never felt such intensity of the life force before; not even Anji can compare to the island of Menos.

  Sulani and Estegi bore the sacks of our purchases and set them down in the courtyard outside Knowledge House. It was a sunny afternoon and the stones were warm beneath my soles. One appreciates such things at my age.

  Clarás went in to fetch a pillow for me and I sat on it by the door to Knowledge House. Estegi has decorated the door with wooden engravings; it is a masterpiece. Far below the beautiful surface the wood is scarred by fire. I ran my fingers along the burnt wood. My fingertips were blackened by the soot, still loose, though three springs have passed since the men came to the island. The men whom Iskan sent after us. Three springs since they attempted to burn us alive. Three springs since we trapped and killed them all. They have no graves. We committed their bodies and their ship to the sea.

  Estegi opened the sacks. Daera laughed as she picked out a bundle of linen cloth and Garai sniffed at packets of pods and seeds. Clarás’s daughter Iana helped to lift the wares off the ground. Sulani carried in bags of salt, sugar and spices, and Orseola held up pot after pot of lamp oil. Estegi regarded me pensively and produced something from one of her sleeves. She sat on her haunches before me.

  “They brought this with them also. It is for you. The tradesman said that he obtained it last autumn from another who sometimes swapped spices with the men who sail to Karenokoi.”

  It was a scroll letter, and though it was wrinkled and weathered I immediately recognized my daughter’s handwriting, and the signet that sealed the letter. It was the symbol of the Vizier.

  All eyes were on me. Iana ran towards me and looked curiously at the roll of paper in my hand.

  “What is it, Kabira? What have you got?”

  Looking at her brown locks I thought, as I had many times before, that she had a little of my Esiko in her. They are half-sisters. “Nothing, Iana. But tell me, what did you get from your mother?”

  “Look!” she squealed with delight, holding up several skeins of golden-yellow yarn. “Mother says she’ll knit me a jumper for winter!”

  “How beautiful.” I smiled at her. She is a most lovable child.

  I read the letter alone, in the evening, once I had made sure that the others were sleeping. I lit a lamp and unfurled the scroll with trembling hands. It is stained and creased after its three-year journey. The letter is not long.

  I sat awake for a long time after I read it. And I made a decision. The time has come to stop torturing the others. I have obliged them to write down all that happened in Karenokoi. Even Sulani and Orseola, who protested. Yet I had no alternative. As soon as we could afford to purchase paper I felt the need to bind all that had happened into words. For I needed a bridge. A bridge to Esiko.

  It is two springs since Clarás and her daughter came upon the bloodsnail colony on the island’s southern side. This discovery was truly a blessing without equal. For the silk threads we dye with the bloodsnails bring us silver. And with the silver we can purchase such things as we need: salt; oil for food and lamps; rolls of paper and writing implements; fabric. Everything we had gone without for several springs. The first thing I sewed was a frock for Iana. When she was a baby she simply went naked in warm weather and was wrapped up in rags or old sacks during winter. There was nothing else to clothe her in. Her childhood was characterized by lack.

  Before Knowledge House was completed we lived in a cavern beneath it, where it was dark and cold. But for the most part there was sufficient food to eat. Clarás taught us all how to harvest mussels and snails; how to fish with fishing lines; how to catch squids with hooks; find seabirds’ nests and collect eggs—but always to leave one egg in each. Little Iana is already more skilled in these tasks than any of us. Water is her element and she moves through it like a seal—plump, swift and certain. I am too old to climb around hunting for birds’ eggs, but on warm days I like to wade along the shores to harvest mussels. Garai is my companion, claiming that she is afraid I will fall and break a bone. “Such things are slow to heal for an old woman like you,” she says and insists on accompanying me. As though she is much younger than I. Old women, the two of us. We must entrust ourselves to the younger ones. I do not wade so often. I prefer not to take Garai away from her garden, which she started to cultivate as soon as Knowledge House was completed. She gathers seeds from the entire island and we obtain whatever else she needs from the tradesmen, if indeed they are obtainable. Garai is never truly at peace unless she is kneeling with her fingers deep in the soil, muttering about fertilizers and irrigation. I prefer simply to sit on the bench Sulani built in the south part of the garden and offer Garai sound advice, which she ignores. Yet I know she appreciates my company.

  Sulani built Knowledge House. We very soon made the decision to stay, and not to voyage out on the ocean again, in search of Terasu. The risk remained that we would be captured at sea, by pirates or Iskan’s men. And Naondel, our beautiful boat, had crashed so brutally against the rocks that it was quite impossible to repair her. So we created a new home for ourselves. For all of us. Estegi and Orseola helped with the construction, but it was Sulani who, with arms full of Anji’s strength, lifted and carried the great stones. She says she will build another house so that we may have one for sleeping and one for work. I think it is unnecessary, but Orseola nods. “To house those to come,” she says, but she often says such strange things. Anji’s power protects her mind, Clarás explained, otherwise our dreams would have driven her to madness long ago. Clarás can see such things. It is her gift. Orseola still cannot avoid our dreams, and in them she experiences all that we suffered in Karenokoi, over and over again. When we wake up and our dreams fade, she continues to live them, time and again. She bears a great burden, I understand that, yet I do not know how to help her. I have asked Clarás whether she might pose a danger. “She would never harm the child,” was her response, and I had no choice but to be satisfied.

  Sulani has built a little stable for her goats as well. The warmth of their bodies was a great joy when we lived in the underground cavern. It was always cold, however many fires we tended. Garai said it was because the life force is at its strongest down there. And, just like with Anji, it contains power for both darkness and light. It was thanks to this power that we were able to defeat Iskan’s men. When they besieged us in Knowledge House we went down into the cavern and hid Iana there. Garai spoke with the life force, committed a blood offering, and then we escaped along the mountainside through one of the paths running out from the cave. We were all overflowing with the life force then—even my arms were strong—and we hurled stones, enormous boulders, down onto the men. It was a cascade of rocks, and every last man was crushed to death.

  Then Sulani used the rocks to build a wall
around our house. For protection. But now Sulani must wait awhile before building anything new. Her belly is already large, and Garai says that she will give birth in the summer.

  I must have been the only one surprised by her pregnancy. Garai, who cares for us all when we are sick, already knew. Orseola sees our dreams, so nothing can be hidden from her. Even Clarás seemed to have known. It was Daera who explained it to me, one evening as we sat alone and sewed. She was sewing a garment for a baby, and I had to ask about Sulani’s condition. Daera looked up from her sewing, full of surprise.

  “Estegi and Sulani have long been lovers, Kabira. You know that.”

  I scoffed. “And yet where I come from two women cannot beget children.”

  “But Estegi is no ordinary woman. Did you not know?”

  I tried to hide my stupefaction. “You mean to tell me that she is a man? Garai has said that no man is permitted on the island.”

  Daera laughed. “No. She is a woman. In her heart, and that is where it counts. But her body is not really that of a woman. Or of a man. She has a little of both.”

  So Sulani is with child, and we will have another baby in our midst. I am looking forward to it. My time is limited. I cannot have much life remaining and it does not bother me. I have long since welcomed death. I no longer seek death as an escape, but neither does it frighten me. I have seen enough. Done enough. Though it does make me happy that new life will be born on this island. New children who will be free in a way we sisters could never have imagined.

  We perform our tasks, and life here follows its natural course. It is hard work, but all is well. Garai sees to our nourishment and cures our ailments with her herbs and concoctions. Clarás and Iana do the fishing and the laundry. Estegi and Sulani take care of the goats, and gather wild plants for us to eat. Estegi manages our little kitchen and refuses to let anyone else prepare the food. Orseola soothes us when we are plagued with memories and haunted by night terrors. Daera dances and laughs and sings for us, sews clothes and paints beautiful pictures on the walls of Knowledge House, carves items from wood, helps Garai in the garden, and helps Sulani and Estegi gather berries and other good things to eat.

  Only I have no purpose. The others scoff or laugh at me when I say so, each according to her nature. They call me Mother and say that I am the one who holds us all together. I do not believe this is necessary. The life force from Anji and Iona’s offering is what binds us together. But I let them be. I devote my time to organizing and interpreting Iskan’s secret scriptures, to writing down all that has happened, and encouraging the others to do the same. So that nothing is forgotten. This is what I have told them.

  However, it is not the whole truth. It has also been to keep Esiko present with me. How I have worried about her. What did Iskan do with her after we escaped? What has her life become? Is she even alive?

  Now I am holding her letter in my hands. Now I know. I shall write no reply. It is time I let go of my daughter.

  Esiko’s Letter

  OST ESTEEMED MOTHER, MAY YOUR eyes remain sharp, your hands steady and your mind clear.

  As I write this I am sitting at a table in Serenity House. The sun is hanging low and shining through the large windows, and dust is flying like little lanterns in the golden light. By my elbow rests a bowl of wine and a dish of fried weja. The smell of them and their thin sprinkle of sugar sparkling in the sun make me think of the evenings we spent together in your chambers. They were quiet times, filled with soft shadows, sweet pastries and peace. With Father everything was quick, sharp, outlined with razoredges. You were the soft one. We had our secret and it bound us together. It felt as though you were holding me by threads of spider-spun silk wherever I went. Thus, thanks to your gift, I have enjoyed more freedom than you or any other woman in Ohaddin ever has. I will never forget. It is by virtue of this gift that I write to you now, Mother. There will be no other letter after this. For there is much I cannot forgive you, and my gratitude for this freedom does not heal all wounds.

  Most heinous of all is the loss of Anji.

  Three years have passed since you murdered Anji. I feel the loss as a burning pain in my heart every day, the very moment I awake. You will never understand how it feels. You believe that you do, and I can well imagine your reaction as I write these words, scoffing and shrugging your shoulders, that irritating wrinkle that appears in your forehead, certain you know all there is to know about Anji because you grew up as her guardian and friend. Yet Anji was my twin; she was a part of me and I of her. She was with me since before I can remember. I cannot comprehend that she is gone. A part of me died with her, and I do not know how I shall bear it. Father does not understand either; Anji has never meant the same to him as to me. And whatever he may think, she never spoke to him as she spoke unto me. I understood all she said effortlessly. She whispered it directly to my heart, my blood. She was a part of me from before I was born. Your experience cannot compare.

  It is not only I who suffers, who feels the pain and loss of what once was. The whole of Renka has collapsed. No crops grow. There is nothing to harvest. I believe that the earth will recover, gradually—that is what I have deduced from reading Father’s scrolls about other places that have lost their heart. For Anji was the very heart of Renka, and Father recast her as the heart of the entire realm of Karenokoi.

  The labourers were the first to leave when they stopped receiving food and payment. They travelled eastward, for the most part, if they did not find work on trading ships. Some have become highwaymen and pirates.

  The landowners remained the longest, reluctant to surrender their ancestral plantations and the graves of their forefathers. Yet now they too have left. The crop failures are so severe that they cannot purchase food even with pure gold. And gold does not satisfy hunger. Where they go and how they will survive is a mystery. Perhaps those who have collected enough gold and jewels can create a new life for themselves in other lands. Perhaps not. They may return when the earth is fertile once more. Who knows.

  I am fully occupied with efforts to help the needy. On my orders, food from the Sovereign’s repository has been shared out through the winter. I have bought in more supplies with what resources I have. However, little money remains after the war, and even less remains to purchase. No one is willing to lend to Karenokoi after Father’s expansions. I cannot raise taxes in the other districts, as the people are already living on their knees. I do not want to be hated and feared, as Father was. My people shall love and fear me.

  The Sovereign’s palace stands empty. I could inhabit it, but am content in my customary quarters. I have brought Sonan’s wife and daughter here to live with me and I find the company does me good. I play with the child in the evenings. She shows great intelligence and her mother is a savvy woman who is already teaching her to read and write. Perhaps she will be my vizier when she comes of age. We make offerings in memory of Sonan, Mother, and of Korin and Enon. As long as I live, their spirits shall be honoured and remembered. I hope this knowledge affords you some peace. I have also begun to burn incense and offer coins for the souls of my sisters. The ones to whom life was denied. Though I do not know how many they were, and though they are nameless, I honour them all through remembrance.

  I make sure there are fresh flowers in the throne hall in Glory’s Abode every day. The cult Father built up around the Sovereign is serving me well, and it is thanks to this that I am now able to govern Karenokoi. We are continuing to honour the spirit of the Sovereign on the day of his passing, and at harvest. We organize grand processions and share out alms and food for the poor. I grant all the servants, Sovereign’s officials and labourers a day off so that they may honour and offer to the Sovereign, and to their own dead. In these ways I have taken the place of the Sovereign’s eldest son.

  There are some who oppose this. You can certainly guess who, though it matters little. Some men at the court. They say that I am not a man. Their talk does not worry me. I know so much more about Karenokoi than they do. I d
o not need Anji’s oaki to keep them at bay, keep them calm and afraid. The soldiers love me. I have ridden into battle with them, fought by their side, proved myself worthy of their respect. They are loyal to me, even when the palace lapdogs start whimpering. I am sure to give the soldiers generous provisions and great respect, and to remind the palace lapdogs of such during the parades, when I ride out with my army instead of the courtiers.

  I mean to govern this realm, and fortify the borders Father drew up for Karenokoi, and all the historians shall tell of Esiko, the first woman to rule Karenokoi. This is what Anji showed me before you killed her. I have decided to remain Esiko, though I could have called myself Orano. Yet as Esiko I act as Orano did, and am in all ways as Orano was. I will take a husband, someone with great wealth or perhaps an important position in one of the vassal states. In Nernai there is a governor’s son, and I might make the Governor understand what an honour it would be for his son to wed the Vizier. For I am vizier now, I use the signet and enjoy the privileges of vizier, and all the vizier’s servants and courtiers follow my orders. Though I have not killed my father for the position, as my father killed his, may his spirit rest in peace.

  Father was enraged when you killed Anji, Mother, and all the more so when he discovered that you had stolen so many of his most secret scrolls. The injury Iona inflicted upon him kept him bedridden for a very long time. Once he was back on his feet and realized that Anji truly was dead, and that his library had been plundered, madness took him. I believe it was not long before he dispatched a ship to locate you all. I knew nothing of it, Mother, I swear. I believed all were loyal to me, but clearly some remained whom Father could bribe. I first heard of the expedition when we received news that it had failed. No survivors—how did you do it, Mother? I wonder about it sometimes. But then I see you all before me, gathered around Anji on that dreadful night, and I think of all that passed there and all that followed, and I wonder no more. Together you are capable of anything. You alone are capable of anything. You believe that I take after my father, but it is not so. Father has been driven by uncertainty and fear his whole life. Hence his need for Anji. You, however, were able to break free entirely by yourself. That is the strength I carry within me. That is how I know that I can survive without the spring, even though I grieve.