Perhaps it is the spring sun making the old mule act so silly. I should ask Sister Mareane about it. Now I feel like I have to leave her at home when I go out, and she gives me awfully angry looks. I am sure you doubt that a mule could make such an expression, but it is true, I swear!
Akios pointed out that I acted very rudely when Kárun gave me a pair of boots (maybe Jai read you that part of her letter?). I did not even say thank you. It has weighed on my conscience ever since, meaning the boots have not brought me as much pleasure as they otherwise would. I wear them all the time, and every time I lace them up I admire the craft behind them. Not a single stitch out of place. I think of Kárun’s large hands holding the tiny leather needle. Making shoes is no easy task, and few can do it alone. Kárun claimed that he happened to have leather “left over,” but I cannot believe that—shoe leather is not something one simply happens to have.
I knew I must give him something in thanks, so I have sewn a pair of rabbit-skin gloves made from several beautiful rabbits I caught during a hunt earlier in the year. I have turned the fur inside out and embroidered some protective words in the coastal tongue on the outside. Rovasians would think them nothing more than decorative squiggles. I finished them yesterday, then this morning I shook off Mother’s gaze and set out. I have not heard the sound of work coming from Kárun’s construction site over the winter, so I took the path directly to his dilapidated cabin. Smoke was rising from the chimney, so I knew he must be home. I knocked and entered.
There, in the gloom, Kárun was standing by the hearth stirring a large pot. He looked at me with surprise as I entered.
“Blessings on your hearth,” I said, and stamped the muddy snow from my boots.
“Blessings on your journey,” he answered absentmindedly. “Wait.”
He put down the stick he was using to stir the pot and wiped his hands on his shirt. He took down a little clay cup from a shelf and filled it from a jug. Then he came over to me and offered me the cup. I took it, looked him in the eye and drank a small sip of moonshine. He took a sip after me and put the cup down on the solitary table. He looked at me questioningly but said nothing.
“Should you not be keeping an eye on the pot?” I asked, just for something to say. He turned around, looked at the pot on the fire and laughed.
“It’s laundry,” he said. “Mother taught me to boil linen to get it truly clean.”
I pulled out the gloves and presented them to him. “Here. I never thanked you for the boots. You . . . I was so surprised. So I made these, as a thank-you.”
It was awful, Ennike; all of a sudden I had no idea what to say! I could hear that I sounded brusque, almost unfriendly, but I could not stop myself. Kárun looked in astonishment at the gloves in his hands.
“Try them on. I am not sure if they will fit.”
He tentatively pulled them on. “They fit,” he said quietly. “They’re very soft.” He looked up. “Thank you.”
His gaze drew me in. It burns its way straight through me every time. I blinked.
“Those signs are for protection, you see. Against ax slips.”
“Won’t you come in? Sit down?” He pointed to the bench. “I have nothing special to offer. A bachelor like me . . . it’s only ever porridge, and a little meat sometimes.”
“Yes, I can sit for a while.”
I walked gingerly over to the bench and sat down, still with my cloak on. I was wearing a leather waistcoat underneath but still did not feel too warm, for the cabin was chilly. The only light came from a single window and the fire in the hearth. But I already knew what the cabin looked like from all those times I had visited in secret while Kárun was away. My cheeks felt hot when I thought about it.
“I have some bread that Tauer gave me,” Kárun said, and produced a loaf and a knife that he placed directly on the table. “Helped with his father when he had to visit a patient downstream.”
He poured a little more moonshine into the cup and presented it to me. Then he sat across from me and cut me a piece of bread. I took it and chewed gratefully on the dry crust. I could not be expected to speak with bread in my mouth.
“So, how’s the school going? Are they learning?”
I swallowed the dry bread. “Some. Maressa is the quickest, but Lenna is bright too. They can already read simple phrases and write their names and some short words. They are very good at counting also.”
“And Akios?”
“He has had less time to practice than the girls, but he is progressing too.”
“You changed your mind, then?” Kárun was playing with the knife.
“About what?”
“About boys, in your school.”
“Akios hardly counts,” I said. “He is my brother.”
“I see.”
“Are you off again soon?” I asked, just to change the subject.
“No, not yet. As soon as it dries up a little I can finish my building project. Then it’s time to make timber rollers.”
“Rollers?”
“Yes, to transport the logs to the river. Once the ice is gone and the river is high, but not too wild, we roll the timber we have felled over the winter.”
“And then you transport it downstream?”
He nodded. “One team sets off first and waits at the places where the timber tends to get stuck in logjams. I belong to the rolling team, which remains until all the wood is in the river.”
“So you will spend the summer in Urundien?”
“Some of it. I expect we’ll reach Irindibul in high summer.”
“What is Irindibul like?” I asked curiously. People in Rovas rarely leave their homesteads. No one has the time or opportunity to travel. Women move only when they marry, and men hardly move at all. The timber-rafters and hunters are the exceptions.
Kárun shrugged. “Big. Lots of people, lots of soldiers. I never feel truly safe there. Never truly at home.”
“But there must be so much to see, so much to experience!”
“Not really. We toil from dawn to dusk with few breaks. Even the nights are short, for timber must reach Irindibul before the river has lowered.” He raised his little liquor cup thoughtfully. It was almost engulfed by his huge hand. I thought about that hand working on my shoes. Holding them. “When we reach Irindibul there’s no need to even step inside the city. We’re paid at a collection point. I usually stay in the sawmills around there, work a little, earn a few coins. I only enter the city to buy necessities. Salt, a new grindstone, an ax head, some fabric for clothes. That sort of thing.” He rubbed his chin. I like that he shaves, unlike most men here. He does not hide behind a beard. “Then it’s a case of finding a boat to take me back upstream. Or a cart to ride in. It’s too far to walk.”
“Yes, but . . .” I did not know what to say, so I said nothing more.
“But you, you have really traveled,” said Kárun, looking at me. “You’ve seen things, learned things. You’re like no one else in Rovas, Maresi.” His eyes were deeply dark in the gloom of the cabin.
I sighed and looked away. I will never fit in. I stick out. I am strange and different. Mother is not the only one who thinks so.
“Yes, so it is. Many thanks for the shoes, Kárun. I wear them every day.” I rose.
He looked up at me. “I’ll wear your gloves every day.”
“Soon it will be too warm for them,” I said, for no intelligible reason. I pinched the edge of my cloak in my hands. “Thank you for the bread.”
I trudged out and slammed the door shut behind me. My heart continued pounding until I was halfway home. I was pleased to have my staff with me. I ran my fingers along the hard wood.
Missing you.
SPRING
Venerable Sister O,
Yesterday I began work on my herb garden. The soil is exposed now, but it is not yet time to start working the land because the earth below remains frozen. But my little garden along the south wall is frost-free. White Farm’s sow has been in there, snuffling around and eati
ng roots and the like, while also contributing fertilizer to the soil, so now it is well processed. I went out after breakfast and started hacking up the final clumps and evening out the soil, and when Mother was finished with the washing she came out and helped me.
It was very pleasant. It is still cold in the shade, but the sun warmed our stooped backs as she climbed higher in the sky. I pulled my headscarf down to shade my eyes from the dazzling light. Snowdrops and other early spring flowers had sprung up here and there, and the air was filled with birdsong. Mother had her old brown cardigan on, carefully patched several times over. Her thick braid swung in time with the blows of the hoe. We worked in amicable silence. She coughed from time to time. This cold winter has been tough on her health.
When we had finished, Mother stood up straight. “We have a lot of chicken droppings from winter that should make good plant food. What are you going to grow?”
I was pleased that Mother was showing interest in my garden.
“I have seeds saved from last year, so I am going to grow the same things. The perennials are still there in that corner, where I made a little fence to keep out the sow. There is mint and parsley and other such things. I was planning on lots of herbs and cabbage, and plenty of beans this year, as they store well.”
“True. Carrots are good to have also. Onions?”
“Yes, and garlic.”
Mother grimaced. “Ugh, I’ll never get used to the taste.”
“I know, but it has medicinal qualities. And Father likes it.”
“He likes all the strange things you brought back with you,” Mother said shortly. Then she stepped forward to the edge of the garden. “We could extend it here. I liked those sweet peas. Do you think they could be dried and saved?”
“Good idea, Mother. I think I have enough saved from last year for a small patch. But then we will have to construct some sort of support for them to climb up.”
“We’ll need a fence all around as well,” said Mother, glancing at the sow sunbathing in the middle of White Farm’s yard. “She’s to give birth soon, and I’m worried the piglets might chew everything up.”
“Father and Akios brought home a few fence poles over winter, so we can start right now if you have time.”
Mother nodded, and we spent a good portion of the remainder of the day building a sturdy fence. When we were finished I made us tea with the herbs I know are to Mother’s taste: mint, raspberry leaf and sweet honey flower. We sat inside at the table and drank, with earth still under our nails.
I looked at my mother, still so youthful with her thick brown hair and kind eyes. She is the same age as Sister Ers, I believe. She still wears the same cardigan as she did when I was little, and has the same braid, same chapped hands. She saw me looking at her, coughed and reached out to pat my hand.
“It’s good to have you home, Maresi. My daughter.”
I smiled. “It is good to be home, Mother.” And I really meant it. It is rare that I feel that way, but in that moment all was right with the world.
Mother leaned back and drank deeply from her cup. “You’re a great help also, I can’t deny that. The food your garden provided last summer helped us through the winter. You get a lot done, despite that school of yours.”
There it came, the jab, the little thorn that destroyed my good mood. But nothing could have prepared me for the next blow, or how painful it would be.
“You know, I’ve started looking forward to having a stay-at-home daughter, despite everything. It’s a comfort to know that Father and I will not have to age alone. Náraes is close by, but she is fully occupied with her own family and household, of course. Akios will likely bring home a wife in due course, but it is never the same as having a daughter of one’s own.”
I stared at Mother, and she waved her hand in mild irritation.
“Yes, yes, I know you’ll have your school and all that.”
“But . . . what are you saying, Mother?”
“Well, you’ve made it clear that you won’t marry and have a family of your own. So you’ll stay where you are, here.”
ϖ
And I had no response to that, Sister O. I could think of nothing whatsoever to say.
I had not given it any thought, if I am honest. About where I will live, how I will survive. In other words: what to do with my life. I knew that I would found a school, but my plans never stretched beyond that. I have not dedicated a single thought to what shape my own life will take. I cannot live alone—it is too difficult in a land and climate such as Rovas. One needs other people. But does that mean I must live at home? Here with Mother and Father until I grow old and die? Taking care of them while Akios and his wife run the farm and I live in some tiny little room, on charity?
That vision of the future does not appeal to me at all, Sister O.
But neither can I envision another to replace it.
Your novice,
Venerable, missed Sister O,
Tauer was the bearer of the good news. It is a miracle! He spoke nothing of it to begin with. He came to see us this evening, the customary time for visits, and was met with the respect and courtesy due to men and women as wise as he in Rovas. Father pulled up a stool by the fire, for the evenings continue to be chilly, and Mother set about taking out the best that the house has to offer. Stores are sparse at this point in spring, but the hens are laying, and Mother had made a fresh batch of cream cheese with milk she had gotten from Árvan’s mother, and Akios went over to Náraes with word of the visit and she soon arrived with some bread. I brewed an herbal tea that I know Tauer likes, and Father went out to the storehouse for the smoked sausage Árvan had given him in exchange for help during the planting season. Maressa and Dúlan sat wide-eyed, watching all the delicacies being served.
“Egg!” whispered Dúlan excitedly. There is no limit to how much egg that girl can eat.
“Mama, I want egg and cheese on bread!” whined Maressa, to which Náraes snapped: “Guests first.”
“It’s good to see children with round cheeks,” said Tauer. “Not like years past. I’ve seen far too many little ones wasting away.” He drank deeply from his cup of tea. “Do you see how far spring has come now? The thimbleweed is in bloom—the sign of a long and fine summer.”
“That would be a blessing,” said Father as he sliced up the sausage. “If all goes well, this promises to be the best harvest we’ve seen in many a year.”
“If only the nádor allows us to keep it this time.” Tauer furrowed his brow. “No one collected the taxes last autumn. I fear that this year they may demand double.”
“Our villages have been extraordinarily guarded from harm over the last year,” said Mother.
She looked at me for an extended time and then away. I noticed that Tauer was also looking at me more keenly than usual.
“Have you heard from that Abbey of yours, Maresi?” he asked, wiping his mouth.
“No,” I responded sadly. “Not a word.”
“Oh, well perhaps there’s something in here,” he said, and produced a thick roll of letters from inside his waistcoat. I stared at him in astonishment. His eyes glittered.
“My son-in-law Gézor went to visit his parents in his home village of Arik—that’s two days’ walk west, did you know?—because his mother has been doing poorly all winter and I received word that she’d taken a turn for the worse. Well, by the time he arrived she was recovered, so he only stayed a day and a night before setting off back home. But on the way he came across a group of soldiers and made a big diversion to the north to avoid them. He came to the old crossroads, the one where the council would meet once upon a time.”
“The one by the standing stones?” Mother asked as she put out the final dish. She sat next to Náraes and started to slice more bread.
“The very same,” confirmed Tauer. “Anyway, when he arrived there was a group of traveling merchants from Devenland.”
My heart was pounding. I could not tear my eyes away from the roll of letters.
“He greeted them courteously and helped one whose horse had gotten a stone stuck in its shoe. Gézor is good with horses, as you all know. His father’s father kept horses since Gézor was a lad.” He leaned forward and helped himself to a large portion of eggs with cheese. “Well, when they were finished with the horse the merchant asked Gézor if he knew one Maresi Enresdaughter of the Red Abbey, for he had a delivery for her. And Gézor said he did indeed. Then the merchant handed over these very letters, and a little something extra that I have in that bag over by the door.” Tauer pointed to a small pouch he had brought with him, which I had barely noticed. “Gézor regretted that he couldn’t pay the merchant. He’s got a head on his shoulders, my son-in-law, despite his many faults and shortcomings—pride, for one—and he knew that if he paid well, the rumor would go around that deliveries to Maresi of the Red Abbey pay better if they reach their destination than if they’re sold to the highest bidder. But the man said he wanted no payment, for he considered it an honor to ensure that the letters reached their intended recipient. He was from a small village by the coast, he said, and last summer he sent his young daughter to the Abbey in the hope that they might rid her of the ailment that had plagued her throughout her childhood, and lo, she returned with the autumn wind, healthy and strong. He also said that he was on his way to the Akkade land beyond the mountains to buy their spring wool, and would travel back down to Valleria around midsummer. So if you have letters to send south, he said he can take them when he passes through, and you are to seek him out near the standing stones when the liverleaf blooms, he said.”
He looked at me and laughed in a way that made his eyes almost disappear among his wrinkles.
“Yes, yes, you can have them now. Stop looking at me with those hungry eyes.”
Red Mantle Page 15