Red Mantle

by Maria Turtschaninoff

  In Sáru we held a council in Jannarl and Náraes’s home and decided to donate what we could to our neighbors in Jóla. Thus our stores are not as well filled as they were at the beginning of autumn, but we will manage.

  Now I walk around both villages morning and night. I slam the protection down into the earth so hard that my whole body vibrates for a long time afterward. I comb my hair so vigorously that it is starting to feel a little thin, but my protective braid is thick and long. I am frightened, Sister O. I am frightened for the future of my homeland—of this world. And I do not know what I can do about it, or whether I even can do anything other than protect those nearest to me.

  I have reopened the school, which is good, for it gives me something else to think about. It is much easier to teach the children to read and write now that I have the sand table for them to practice on. I fear that the nádor may hear tell of my school. I know that he would not allow it. I am quite sure that he has learned my name by now. Maressa revealed my name, and the fact that she can read. I managed to divert their attention, but the soldiers may yet have realized that she really was reading what was written on the notice. My hope is that they themselves cannot read, or at least not very well, and that they were simply given the paper and an indication of what it said—or rather, what it did not say.

  I dare not think about what might happen if the nádor finds out that there is someone in his province who not only can read, but is teaching others how to read as well. I do not believe the salt merchant’s lies. The nádor is not an innocent intermediary; he is the root of the people’s suffering. He will show no mercy to those who try to lift the Rovasians from their ignorance.

  I have three new pupils in the school: Silla, Mik and Berla. Mik is overjoyed to be freed from responsibility for his younger sister for part of the day and is making a genuine effort to learn. Silla disturbs my other pupils a great deal, but I have hope that she will calm down with time. Berla mainly sits quietly and stares out of the window, but she has started to answer questions when asked and, strangely, it always turns out that she has been listening and, if she chooses to answer, she is always correct.

  Yours,

  My dear Ennike Rose,

  It has become truly cold now. It is still autumn, but the weather is oblivious to this, and not only are the nights frosty but the days too are bitterly cold. The wind is unusually strong as well. Every morning the schoolhouse is freezing, and even though I go in as early as possible to light the fire, the children still have to wear their outside clothes for half the school day to keep from freezing. And still their fingers are chapped and red as they hold their sticks and practice writing letters. I make them run several times around the long table now and again, to keep their body temperatures up.

  Marget has a way with Silla, and since the two have become friends Silla has calmed down and stopped distracting the others as much. Often Silla goes home with Marget after school and helps around the house. Sometimes she stays there for the evening meal as well.

  Marget accompanies me on my walks around the villages sometimes. She does not disturb me, but having her there does make it different. When I asked her what she was doing she answered: “Listening. Learning.”

  She wants to understand how I am guarding the villages, how I drive my energy into the earth. I wish I could explain, but I have no words to explain it. Naturally this would be the thing she finds most fascinating. For the first time since returning home, I feel like I have gained a true friend. She wants to be my friend not simply because we knew each other as children, but because of who I am now: Maresi, banisher of frost, wearer of the red mantle, teacher, foreigner.

  Marget spends the evening at our cottage sometimes, and helps with whatever I am doing: repairing a garment, boiling whey, grinding roots for some concoction. If I read aloud to the family she sits at my feet, wrapped up in a large cardigan that used to belong to her father, listening intently. Her eyes glisten with emotion, even when the text is not sad. It is almost like having Heo here. I like it.

  ϖ

  I walked past Kárun’s cabin in the first light one ice-cold morning, before the sun had risen and when it was still gloomy beneath the trees. I saw that several shingles were missing from one corner of his cabin’s roof. It must have been that way for a while, but I had never noticed it before. It was still early so I knew he would be home. Without thinking, I walked straight up to the door, knocked and entered.

  It was not much warmer inside than outside. Kárun was in the process of lighting a fire, but I saw that the water bucket by his door had iced over. He must have just risen but was fully clothed, in a leather waistcoat and boots. I suspect that he sleeps in his day clothes. I quickly shut the door behind me but still felt drafts being drawn in through the cracks.

  Kárun brushed the bark from his hands and shut the smoke hatch.

  “Is all well with the school?” he asked.

  He has a very deep voice, and I can almost feel it vibrate inside me. I quickly averted my gaze from the hole in the roof. Rain must leak through it into his house.

  “All is quite well. The table you built makes it much easier to teach the children. I have three new pupils now; maybe you heard about the children we brought home from Murik?”

  “Yes, your father mentioned them when we met in the forest the other day. That was a good thing you and your family did, Maresi.”

  “It was Mother and Father’s idea. They could not stand back and watch children starve.”

  “They are good people, your parents. It’s no surprise that you turned out as you did.”

  There was tenderness in his voice and it made my cheeks hot.

  “The books you gave me come in useful daily, and the abacus likewise,” I said suddenly. “Only . . .”

  “Yes?” He came a little closer, for it was dim in the cabin and difficult to see properly in the half-light. I took one step closer to him as well.

  “It is cold in the mornings. I have to light the fire long before the children come, and still it is so cold that I struggle to hold their attention.” I wriggled my toes inside the boots he gave me. My feet are never cold when I wear them.

  “I’ve done all I can to seal the gaps,” said Kárun. He withdrew from me a little. Suddenly I was very aware of the growing distance between us. Everything I said was coming out wrong. That was not at all what I had meant to say.

  “It’s not that,” I stammered. “I was just wondering . . . it would be a great service and kindness to the children if you would consider moving back into the school. Then you could light the fire in the morning and it would not be so cold when we arrived. You are out working during the day anyway, which is when we use it.”

  He looked at me questioningly. “I won’t say no to that,” he said slowly. “I haven’t had time to do up the cabin here as much as I’d have liked before winter. The rain and wind get in.”

  “What a blessing it would be to arrive in a ready-warmed building,” I said, suddenly aware of how formal and stiff I sounded.

  “As long as I’m not in the way,” said Kárun. I shook my head but could not bring myself to look at him. I was in no hurry to leave, but could think of nothing else to say, so I backed out of the cabin with a few mumbled words.

  Yesterday the school was closed so that the children could rest. Then, as I was going to school this morning, I saw smoke rising from the chimney from a long way off. There were footprints in the frost on the stone staircase up to the door, and when I came inside it was warm and cozy and smelled faintly of porridge and smoke. I think he lives on porridge, Kárun. Up against the wall was a roughly hewn bed. It was neatly made with the linen I had given him.

  I think I will bring him some food from time to time, as a thank-you. He cannot manage for long out in the forest on nothing but porridge day after day. Even after sharing our stores with the villagers of Jóla, we have enough food to survive. Mother will not miss a sausage here or a piece of bread there. And my goats are still produ
cing good milk, so sometimes we have cheese. Sometimes I wonder whether we will have to slaughter my goat kid this winter—well, she is hardly a kid anymore. It would be wonderful to have two goats to milk in the future.

  Yours,

  Venerable Sister O,

  Your letters have arrived! They came to me via a most unexpected route—I had not dreamed I would receive letters from you twice in the same year! Kárun was waiting for me outside the school one day when I opened the door to send the children home. He grinned, revealing deep smile lines. It was plain to see that he had something special to share with me but that he was waiting until all the children had gone running down the brown hillside. Then he entered and retrieved something from his coat sleeve.

  “I was given this by one of the fur-trappers traveling upstream from Kandfall,” he said, handing me a thick roll of papers. “The ice hasn’t formed yet. He got it from a merchant who had sailed north, he didn’t say where from. It’s for you.”

  I was overcome with such joy that I had to sit down, because I knew at once what it must be, and I took the roll and pressed it against my cheek. To hear from you again, and so soon! Kárun smiled at me.

  “Welcome news, I see.”

  I nodded happily with tears in my eyes. “Letters from home,” I whispered.

  “From home,” he repeated, and looked down at his hands. He turned and walked outside, toward the forest.

  I was grateful for a place to read in peace. But this time I have not started my replies straightaway; I am savoring the prospect instead. I know that these letters will have to wait until after winter to be sent. I have plenty of time. You all write such long, beautiful letters! I am so ashamed of my sprawling, incoherent scribbles.

  Your letters are a special treasure, Sister O. I can feel your encouragement about my school and the importance of inclusion. As I have already written to you, I have accepted boys from the start. You are right, Rovas is a very different place from Jai’s homeland. It is not that knowledge is withheld from women here—it is withheld from everyone. Men and women have always done everything side by side in these parts. It would have been very silly of me to exclude boys from the school, I see that now. I suppose that was simply the way I was used to picturing education: schools are for girls; knowledge is for women. But I am learning. I am learning all the time, Sister O.

  I have thought a lot about what you wrote about focusing on uniting rather than excluding. Do you mean that I am wrong to protect the villages as I do? But what would have happened without my protection? Your words have fed my concerns, Sister. You said that you cannot advise me or tell me what is right or wrong, for the ways of the Abbey are not the only correct ways. Nor are they necessarily appropriate for a place like Rovas. You are right about this, of course. Yet I believe that I must also recognize my own limitations, must I not? I certainly cannot protect the whole of Rovas from the nádor. That is impossible. I am but one woman and my power is not so great. I wonder if even the Crone’s power is great enough. By “uniting,” do you mean that I should gather all of Rovas here, within the boundaries of my protection? If only I could speak with you and ask for your advice!

  Your letter said to find wisdom within the scriptures, but I do not understand how. I have read everything I brought with me many times over, as well as the books Kárun gave me, but I find no answers.

  And yes, I am praying to the Crone, but she is silent. Or perhaps she is speaking from a distant place, beyond a wall, and I cannot hear her words, only a murmur that makes my teeth ache.

  My sister is with child again, and I feel nothing but a strong warmth exuding from her. None of the Crone’s chill this time. I believe it is the warmth of the Mother aspect I can sense. It glows red on the insides of my eyelids. Meanwhile my own mother’s health is deteriorating. The sound of her coughs tears me apart from the inside, and Father has developed a new worry line on his thin face. Sometimes Mother goes to bed in broad daylight to rest. That has never happened before.

  Thank you for the paper! It was the best gift you could have sent me. I am always in desperate need of paper.

  Thank Heo for her message. Her words were so wise that I barely recognize my little Heo. I suppose she is not little anymore, and novice to the Moon besides. The Moon need not choose, she wrote, and I understand what she means. She means that the Moon carries all three aspects of the Goddess: the Maiden, the Mother and the Crone. But I am not the Moon, nor the First Mother. I am only Maresi, and my path is narrower.

  Now it occurs to me that Kárun must have paid that fur-trapper for the letters. Someone like that would never have done a service without asking for something in return. I must be sure to repay his expense.

  Your novice,

  Dearest Jai,

  Thank you for your three long, heartfelt letters! It felt as though you were here beside me while I read them. I intend to reread them often, whenever I feel lonely. My longing for the Abbey is different now from when I wrote to you last autumn and winter. It has neither disappeared nor lessened, but I have learned to live with it better. After what I did for the village on the Iron Night, and after finally starting my school, I have found my place here. I even have a new shadow: Marget. Though no one will ever take your place, Jai!

  She sounds nice, that Tsela. Strange to think that someone else has come to the Abbey who loves to read as much as you and I! I am sure that you are right: she and I would be fast friends. But you will make certain that she is very careful with the oldest scrolls, won’t you? Sister O is extremely protective of them, as you know. It makes me slightly anxious to know that Tsela is particularly fond of reading them. Are you certain that Sister O does not mind her going into the treasure chamber so often?

  Do not be so harsh on Náraes. She was right! I do need to ensure that I fulfill my task and mission. Ever since I told you about the promise she asked of me, I have succeeded in keeping it. I gave up my little dalliance with Géros (which, by the way, could have ended very badly for everyone because I was not protecting the villages when I was with him!) and founded my school. With help from Kárun, of course. I am doing what I came here to do, and a little more besides: I educate and I protect. But this does not seem to satisfy you, nor Sister O. You are both scolding me, and I fear that you are angry with me. Don’t be angry, please, Jai. I could not bear the thought of disappointing you in any way at all. Especially when I cannot even understand why! You would not want me to marry my first suitor, surely? Like Árvan? You cannot imagine the life of a married woman here. Or, perhaps you can—think of your own mother, with her household and children. Did she have time to spare for anything else? Anything of her own? Could she have run a school, and taken care of sick people, studied and continued learning? No, you know that she could not. And these are all things that I want to do.

  Of course there is a part of me that dreams of life with a man as well. After all, I have had a taste of it now, with Géros, so I know what I am denying myself. But it is not so important. And as for children, well, I have my nieces. They are more than enough. My sister is with child again and will soon have a newborn to take care of, so she will need more help than ever. Besides, the children in my school need me.

  I am so glad that you light a candle for me every night. Sometimes I am afraid that everyone on the island will forget about me. Others are taking my place, like Tsela. But now I will think of the candle in your window and let that flame warm me in my longing.

  Your friend,

  My dear Ennike Rose,

  Your impressions of Géros seem funny to me now. The summer I spent with him has become a distant memory. It feels as though it happened to a different Maresi. I am not in the slightest bit ashamed of what happened, nor the things we did. Everything we shared brought me closer to the Maiden and her secrets, I know that. You describe it so beautifully: “akin to prayer.” Those experiences have given me a greater understanding of men and women, the strength and power of the physical body, how these forces can affect people, and
their significance for life itself. It is invaluable knowledge to gain, for I believe that I could easily have made a foolish decision.

  ϖ

  When I came to the school half a moon ago, to my great surprise Kárun was there. The schoolhouse was cold and dark. I came in to find him lying in his bed, pale and with eyes shut.

  “Are you sick?” I cried out with worry. I stamped the frost off my boots (it still had not yet snowed) and came to his bedside. He shook his head.

  “My leg,” he said shortly. “Broken.”

  I immediately lifted the blanket, though he tried to stop me.

  “Which? This one? Where?”

  “The shin,” he murmured.

  I examined him, just as Sister Nar taught me, and felt a distinct fracture. He made no sound but a sharp intake of breath. His leg was a little warm, but I was thankful that the break felt clean and the bone was not crushed. I did not ask how it had happened. He is a woodcutter: there are a thousand ways he might injure himself in the woods.

  “How did you get home?” I asked instead.

  “Walked,” he squeezed out.

  “I’ll give you something for the pain, and to prevent fever and infection. And then I had better make a splint.” I carefully laid the blanket back over him, and hastily went to light a fire in the hearth. “You can explain to the children. I’ll be back soon.”

  He tried to say something as I left but I closed the door on his protests. I met some of the village children on my way home, and told them what had happened and that I would be late. Once home, I scrambled together the necessary herbs and a few odds and ends before rushing back. I am so proud of my pupils—they had brought in more firewood, and water from the stream, and Péra and Lenna had put water in a kettle on the fire so there would be hot water on my arrival. I took the opportunity to teach them about medicinal herbs, and how best to utilize the plants’ various qualities when preparing tinctures and salves. My friend Marget paid close attention to everything I did and was a great help. Kárun was given a brew to drink to keep pain and fever at bay. Then I showed the children how to make a splint for a broken bone, if it is as cleanly broken as Kárun’s, and explained how to set the bone straight if it is crooked. Marget helped me to wrap Kárun’s leg in soft wool that I had brought from home, and then we splinted it with two thin planks I had gotten from Akios. He took it all very well, said nothing and just breathed through the pain.