Maresi Red Mantle

by Maria Turtschaninoff

  “Mama, I want egg 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 poorly all winter and I received word that she’d took 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 ones 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 travelling 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 got 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 leant forward and helped himself to a large portion of egg 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 he 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 rumour 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 honour 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.”

  He handed me the letters, which I took into my room at once, and I shut the door, so great was my excitement, Sister O. I could not get a single word out, nor even look at my family. I must spend the evening with you all, and no one else.

  I will write more once I have read all the letters.

  Your novice,

  MARESI

  Dear Jai,

  Thank you for your letters! I understand perfectly that you waited until you had heard from me and knew I had arrived safely before writing. And thank you for the red thread you sent! How could you know that I had ripped a hole in my cloak? Not to worry, it is very small. I can fix it with this thread and no one will guess it was ever torn.

  I will do as you say, and hold you in my thoughts every new moon, and know that you are doing the same. Thank you. It will make me feel much less alone.

  How dare you laugh at my marriage proposal! You ought to know that it was certainly the first and only of my life so I must cherish the memory fondly! In all seriousness, though, I do so wish that we could sit beneath the lemon tree and laugh about it together.

  I am terribly envious of all the books you have read in the treasure chamber! You cannot imagine how much I yearn for those books. I miss them almost more than I miss all of you! I am joking, of course.

  It is incredible to think that it was a girl who came to the Abbey for convalescence—whom you helped to care for—whose father brought your letters all the way here to me. It is difficult to imagine new novices coming to the Abbey, novices I will never have the chance to meet. I hope you make many friends among them, Jai, truly I do. Yet I hope that there always remains a small place reserved in your heart for me alone. There is, isn’t there, Jai my friend?

  Your friend,

  MARESI

  Venerable Sister Nar,

  I thank you from the bottom of my heart for all the seeds that you sent. I have greatly missed turmeric; it is such a useful plant. I will sow radishes too. I wonder what my mother will think of their peppery flavour! We have had problems with snails here—do you have any advice for getting rid of them? I am sending you a bag of honey-flower seeds. Is that a plant you have ever come across? The flowers make a delicious tea, and I believe they have an invigorating effect. If you study the properties of the plant, I would be most interested to know your findings.

  Yours faithfully,

  MARESI

  Venerable Sister Mareane,

  I now have a goat and kid to care for. Any advice you might have about caring for these animals would be gratefully received!

  Yours faithfully,

  MARESI

  Most Venerable Mother,

  Thank you for not castigating me for giving away the silver you entrusted me with. You have lifted a great burden from my conscience. I will do as you advise and try to trust the people around me, as I trusted you all when I lived at the Abbey.

  I believe the omen you received at Moon Dance foretold the death of my sister’s baby son last autumn. There have been no other deaths since, and neither have I seen the Crone’s door. She is here nevertheless, I understand that now, and I can feel her presence. She is everywhere, as are the Maiden and the Mother. Though different people give her different names and forms, we are all children of the First Mother.

  Respectfully,

  MARESI

  Venerable Sister Eostre,

  Thank you for your letter, brief though it was. I knew you would be the only one to understand. You accurately predicted Marget’s behaviour over the past year: she has withdrawn from everything and everyone, kept mostly at home, not wanting to participate in shared tasks or celebrations. No one blames her for what happened, but I believe that she blames herself.

  You wrote that the solution is simple, and that I already have all I need to help Marget. I believe I do understand, and I am ashamed that it never occurred to me before. I will do my best.

  Yours faithfully,

  MARESI

  My dear Ennike Rose,

  Thank you for all your words of encouragement. You are a great friend, do you know that? It makes no difference to me th
at you are now the Rose, servant to the Maiden. To me you will always be Ennike, the first friend I ever made at the Abbey.

  You are too funny with all your questions about Kárun! I have only met him a couple of times since returning home. He is no one, you know, just a neighbour. Well, you will see when I send the second bundle of letters—and you will be able to read about Géros and see how wrong you were! Strangely, I have not thought about Géros in several moons. The things we did together creep into my dreams sometimes, but he has been replaced with a sort of faceless man. I wish that you were here, so that we could discuss these dreams. They are the type of thing that can only be discussed with the Rose.

  Thank you for sending me more Goddess Tongue. I may need it again at some point in the future, if I choose to warm my bed with a man again. For a mother is something I never want to be.

  I can stand close to the Maiden and the Crone, but the Mother demands so much energy. Do you understand what I mean? I want to remain free to work and study. Besides, if I do not use it myself there are others I can give it to, other women who do not wish to fall pregnant again, or at all.

  Geja has grown so big! It was wonderful to receive a letter and drawing from her. Jai truly has a way with her.

  But I expect that she will forget me. For her and all the new novices, Maresi Enresdaughter will become little more than a myth. A story to tell on dark winter evenings.

  Yours,

  MARESI

  Dear Sister O,

  I saved your letters until last. I sat and read throughout the evening, paying no heed to Tauer or the evening meal or my family. I started my replies at once, writing several letters in one go, because I wanted the feeling of immediacy, as though I were truly talking to you all, in genuine conversation.

  It was very wise of you to send me more paper.

  I was most taken aback by what you wrote about my mother. With all due respect, I did take offence at your words. I am trying my best to listen to all she has to say. And I do understand that it was difficult for her to send me away. But why must it be so difficult for her to have me back? You say I must continue learning from her. Yet she taught me everything she knew during the first nine years of my life. What can a farmer’s wife from Rovas teach me, who has studied at the Red Abbey? It is your teachings that I miss!

  When I sent those first letters, which you have now received, I had not yet come across the tone that sings and resonates through the forest, both luring and frightening me. Do you know what it is? Certain phenomena occur that seem connected, but I do not understand how. The calling kite, Grey Lady’s desire to go out into the wild, that tone… It is as if they are trying to speak to me in a language I do not understand. I have prayed to the First Mother for guidance, but received no answer yet.

  I miss being able to ask you all the questions that swirl around in my mind. You have always taken the time to try to answer them. Thank you for everything you wrote in your letters, and all your guidance. I will hold it close when storms are raging, and when I feel uncertain and weak.

  I no longer feel like as much of an outsider as when I first arrived. I am sorry that I complained so much. You are right: I can never be like everybody else here because I have had experiences that no one else shares. But I will take your advice and try to use this to my benefit—if I can. Sometimes Tauer gives helpful advice. His knowledge is not of the same sort as yours, for he has not studied it in books, but he has lived a long life, seen much and helped many. He is a friend to life and death alike. That is something I also choose to be. Currently I am of the opinion that life is the more frightening of the two.

  Has the Mother Abbess told you about the vision she had at Moon Dance? The one where she saw me standing by the opened door of the Crone? I wrote to her saying that I believe the vision foretold the death of my nephew, but I fear that this may not be the case. It was not I who opened death’s door for him; it was not I who let him through. I have not seen the door of the Crone since coming here, I have felt only her breath. What do you think the vision means? It worries me.

  I agree with the Mother Abbess: you do need to take a novice. Your stubbornness is incomprehensible. I am in Rovas now. My life is here. There must always be a servant to the Crone at the Abbey, and therefore you must train a novice. You are not old, and there is time for a new girl to come to the Abbey, one whom the Crone calls, as she did me. You will teach her all you taught me about the Crone’s mysteries, and more besides, and she will be your support and your aid in all the tasks you now do alone.

  Your novice,

  MARESI

  Most Venerable Mother,

  It is late evening, but still light, as always at this time of year in Rovas. I am sitting in a room that is new to me, but which, all of a sudden, is my very own. It is mine in a way that no room has ever been before. My bare arms are covered in mosquito bites and the scent of fresh wood fills my nostrils. I love the smell. My heart is full of… I know not what, Venerable Mother. Gratitude.

  Kárun came to our homestead earlier this evening. I am sure Sister O must have read aloud the letter in which I mentioned him. I was sitting in the central yard and keeping an eye on Dúlan and Maressa while unravelling one of Father’s old jumpers. Mother wanted to re-knit the yarn into some garments for the girls. Náraes and Jannarl were on a visit to the neighbouring village and their daughters were impatiently awaiting their return.

  Rovasian late-spring evenings are truly special, Venerable Mother—the light, the lingering warmth from the day’s sun, the scent of the soil and slowly awakening summer. Mosquitoes were buzzing around us, the sow and her piglets were grunting and snuffling around the yard, and Maressa was practising writing the names of all the members of her family. Náraes is the most difficult. She just writes “mama” instead.

  Kárun appeared at the gate just as Mother came outside to empty the dishwater. His words of greeting were almost swallowed by the pigs’ eager grunts as they rushed over to see if Mother was throwing out anything edible.

  “Blessings on your hearth,” he said.

  Mother peered at him with wariness and suspicion.

  “Blessing on your journey,” she answered curtly. She does not think much of woodcutters and other solitary folk. She says she does not trust them. “Akios isn’t home.”

  “I have a matter to discuss with Maresi,” said Kárun quietly. I looked at him in surprise. He was leaning against the gate with his shirtsleeves rolled up, and the sun-bleached hair on his forearms glinted gold in the evening sun. His deep-set eyes gazed at me with absolute earnestness. He was not mocking or playing with me. His hair was tied back and his skin was already brown from the spring sun.

  “Will you come with me? I have something I want to show you,” he said. “If your mother can spare you.”

  Mother looked disapproving as I put down the jumper.

  “Would you look after the girls?” I asked. She bobbed her head in answer and did nothing to stop me. Then she turned around and marched straight into the house, only to return a moment later with my staff. She handed it to me without a word. I gave her an appeasing smile as I took it.

  “No need to worry, Mother. He is a friend of Akios. He is no threat to me. I will be back before long.”

  But I know that it is not violence she fears. She sees Kárun as a suitor—regardless of my feelings on the matter—and does not wish to see a daughter of hers wed to a poor woodcutter without farm or field.

  Kárun led me along the path towards Jóla, and I asked no questions. It was pleasant to walk, pleasant to move. I have spent most of my time at home recently, re-reading your letters, milking my goat, experimenting with making cheese and cooking the whey into whey cheese. The garden also needs much attention at this time, when everything is sprouting, including weeds.

  The trees have started blooming, and the forest was a marvel of beauty: shiny-white tree trunks under a thin veil of pale green. The stream surged, joyful and wild, to the left of the path, as melodic as an
instrument, and to the right there grew a dense carpet of snowblues, which is a small spring flower in the shape of a bell. It is common in these parts and gives off a divinely fragrant nectar.

  “I heard you got letters from your abbey,” said Kárun. “That must’ve made you happy.”

  “Yes.” I smiled to myself. To this day your letters make me happy whenever I think of them. “It was good to know that everybody back there is well, and that they are thinking of me and have not forgotten me.”

  Kárun peered down at me. “And are there really only women there?”

  “Yes. Is that so strange?”

  “Quite strange. I’m not used to men and women being divided in such a way.”

  “You freelander types who hunt and fell trees and float timber are exclusively male,” I said.

  He nodded and thought for a moment before answering. “True, but many have wives and children waiting for them back home in a cabin somewhere. They long for home and talk often of their families. They have mothers and sisters. Perhaps I don’t go among many womenfolk myself, but I certainly wouldn’t like it if I never saw any of them. Any of you.”

  “I had to reaccustom myself to men when I came home,” I said hesitantly. I had never spoken to a man about this. About how strange I felt on first hearing male voices again and seeing men everywhere on a daily basis.

  “It can’t have helped, what happened to Marget,” said Kárun.

  I glanced at him. Nobody talks about it openly. He is the first person not to avoid the subject.

  “It is true. But it started long before, with things that happened at the Abbey. Wicked men did us harm. Great harm.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “I killed them.”

  I did not intend to say it, Venerable Mother. It simply slipped out. The only person who knows about those terrible events is Náraes. I cannot even bring myself to tell my parents about what happened with the door and the Crone and my blood. I regretted the revelation at once, suspecting that Kárun would see me in a new light. I realized in that moment that I did not want to lose that searching, serious look he always gives me. I looked down at the ground, stumbled over my own feet and swallowed the lump stuck in my throat.