Naondel
Page 32
Yet Father cannot. When he found out that the men had failed to recover the stolen articles his mind became definitively broken. He lost all hope of reawakening Anji, for that was the knowledge he believes is hidden in the stolen scrolls. He had not yet read them all, not solved all the mysteries, and neither had I, so I do not know whether what he says is true. Now he sits beside the lifeless water and mutters to himself. He even sleeps there. But Anji has been muted and does not respond. His mind is broken, he is like a babbling little child, and the years have suddenly caught up with him. His hair is white, his skin slack on his bowed body, his hands shake and all strength has deserted his limbs. I have stopped visiting him, because when he sees me he usually mistakes me for Izani, his mother. Sometimes he calls me Lehan and grabs for me with lustful hands. I have no wish to see him in this state.
He can no longer do any harm, Mother. Neither with the power of the life force nor with his own human hands. Nobody fears him any longer. I see to it that servants bring him food and that he has shelter from the elements, but that is all. I do not believe he will survive the next winter.
I thought you ought to know. You need not fear him or his vengeance. You can live out the rest of your life in safety and peace.
I know why you believed you must kill Anji, Mother. I understand your decision. Perhaps in your place I would have done the same—what do I know about having a daughter? All I know is that Anji was closer to me than you or Father ever were. I understand, but I cannot forgive.
Sometimes I believe that some of her life force lives in me still, and it is thanks to this that powerful men obey my orders. Perhaps the loyalty I inspire in my soldiers is a remnant of something that emanated from Anji as she died. Do you ever feel as though you received a gift from Anji?
No, do not answer. I do not want you to write to me. I do not want to know whether you are alive or dead, Mother. I want to retain my image of you on the island where you and the other women have made your new home, with the ocean winds in your hair, hoary and strong as the mountain itself. I know that you have survived. And now you know that I have, too.
The glow of the fire pot has died down and an evening chill has crept in through the windows. A blackbird is singing outside. My eyes are heavy and my bed is calling. Tomorrow is another long working day for the Vizier of Karenokoi. There is so much to be done. I love it.
And I love you.
Farewell, Mother.
Esiko
Daera
AM SITTING AND WRITING THIS HIGH UP IN the mountain we call White Lady. Houses are good for rains and storms, but on a beautiful summer day such as this I want to feel the sun on my skin, and see Menos stretched out before me, and be dazzled by the glittering blue sea. After nigh fifty years, I am still overawed by the beauty of this island. Was there ever a more beautiful place? Mighty mountains reach for the sky, their slopes covered in olive trees and cypresses, and blanketed white with flowers in spring. I have walked every path along these mountains, and, though it is not my duty, I like to lead the goats out to pasture. I love the new novices; I love their laughter and their exuberance, and their very existence. Still, at times nothing can compare to aromatic thyme and rosemary under my feet and the screech of the koan birds as I tread these beloved paths yet again.
Iona was supposed to die on an island. It is a fitting destiny for me. My death is not far off now. I am the last who remains of we who sailed to Menos in Naondel. Orseola passed on last year, already an old woman. I will not reach such old age, but it does not matter to me. I have had a fine life. A real life! A life that came as a surprise and a gift. My bones will lie in the crypt with the others’ someday. But I have asked them to bury my skull high on the mountain where I now sit. Then I will become Iona once more, and finally she will find peace.
After Estegi and Sulani passed away, Iana set out on a long voyage to find their son Taro and give him word that his mothers were gone. When she returned, alone with a babe at her breast, she became the third Mother of our little abbey.
New novices arrive all the time. The rumours and whispers of an island only for women have spread around the world, perhaps from the fishermen and tradesmen who visit us. The stories have made their way to girls who have been beaten, persecuted, tortured. They have endured great dangers to find to us. It is good that all we have built here will not fall and be forgotten. We have created something new, the like of which exists nowhere else in this oft dark and troublesome world. Here the girls find peace, safety and knowledge. Here they learn that they are valuable and strong. Perhaps the ripples of change we spread from this island could one day subvert everything.
I will commit this text of mine to the Abbey’s secret chronicles, where we safeguard the scriptures stolen from Ohaddin. May these be the final words written by the first sisters of Menos. May this be the start of something new.
Name List
HIS CHRONICLE TELLS OF KABIRA OF Ohaddin, Garai of the Meirem Desert, Estegi of Areko, Orseola of Terasu, Sulani of the River, Clarás of the sea, Iona of the sacred isle of Matheli, and Daera of Naondel. I, Kabira, have noted the following names as they are important to our story.
Ohaddin
Esiko—Kabira’s mother
Malik—Kabira’s father
Tihe—brother
Lehan—sister
Agin—sister
Aikon—loyal old servant
Areko
Iskan ak Honta-che—son of the Vizier
Honta ak Lien-che—the Vizier
Izani ak Oshime-chi—Iskan’s mother
Orlan—eldest son of the Sovereign Prince
Ohaddin, later
Korin—Iskan’s first son
Enon—Iskan’s second son
Sonan—Iskan’s third son
Orano / Esiko—Iskan’s fourth son
Meriba—concubine
Aberra—concubine
Amdurabi (district)
Eraban ak Usti-chu—district governor
Hánai ak Eraban-chu—daughter of Eraban
Terasu
Aurelo—boy
Oera—Orseola’s sister
Obare—Orseola’s brother
Menos
Iana and Taro—children
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thank you Nora Garusi and Anna Gullichsen who gave me their houses so I could write undisturbed. There is a strong presence of Dönsby and Solhem in Naondel. Thanks to The Secret Badger Society and Ordmördarna for your help with all possible details in the manuscript. Thanks to the whole gang at Fantastisk podd, a wonderful and incredibly inspirational community to be a part of. Thanks to Nora Strömman, who quaked in terror along with me at a haunted house in Stockholm as I was rewriting Sulani’s perspective. Thanks to Monika Fagerholm, who provided me with the inspirational exercises in Leros that helped me to find Iona. A big thank you to Nene Ormes, who was Naondel’s first reader and who helped steer me away from a lot of bad habits and slip-ups in style and form. What’s more you did it with tact, and with the right balance of praise and a firm hand. Thanks to Saara Tiuraniemi, who encouraged a text she had never read and provided insights that were of great help, and to my Finnish editor Anna Warras, who helps me keep the faith when I have forgotten how. As always, thanks to my editor Sara Ehnholm Hielm, whom I follow through thick and thin, because without her I would not be the writer I am today. And thank you Travis, for supporting, believing in, and discussing ideas with me. This book, like all the others, is just as much yours as it is mine.
Copyright
Pushkin Press
71–75 Shelton Street
London, WC2H 9JQ
Original text copyright © by Maria Turtschaninoff, 2014
Translation copyright © A.A. Prime, 2017
Original edition published by Schildts and Söderstroms, 2014
English-language edition published by agreement with Maria Turtschaninoff and Elina
Ahlback Literary Agency, Helsinki, Finland
This translation fir
st published by Pushkin Children’s Books in 2017
ISBN 978 1 782691 34 1
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission in writing from Pushkin Press.
The translation of this book was supported by a grant from the Finnish Literature Exchange
www.pushkinpress.com