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 fulfil 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 sidetrack 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 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,
MARESI
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.
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 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 to best 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 got from Akios. He took it all very well, said nothing and just breathed through the pain.
With that done, I made a soup for Kárun to drink while he lay in bed. Then I looked at the expectant faces of my pupils.
“It has been a most peculiar day so far. What do you say we forget about our normal lessons and I read aloud from Erva’s collection to you and the patient?”
The children whooped with joy and I took the book out of my bag. Then I read the story which begins: “When the serpent Keal first slithered up from the depths of the ocean, the realm of Lavora did not yet exist, and many small tribes lived in constant battle with each other. Olok, the hero, came from one of the smallest.” I am so pleased that I have some books in the children’s own language!
The serpent Keal can be a little frightening, and the elder children took the youngest ones in their arms so that they would not be scared—or perhaps so that they would not be scared themselves. Kárun lay perfectly still in bed and listened too. I would have thought he was sleeping, he was so still, but I saw his eyes shining. He did not take them off me.
When I had finished the story I sent the children home, and told them not to come the next day so that Kárun could rest. Marget tidied away my herbs and dressings and cleaned the mess I had made cooking soup.
Then I made sure that Kárun ate a little.
“Your tea helped the pain,” he said once he had eaten. “But the story helped even more. You read well.”
“I am glad your pain has lessened. You cannot have slept much last night.”
“No.”
I looked at him closely. His cheeks were so pale that I guessed he was still in great pain. All at once I found I could hardly stop myself from reaching out a hand and stroking his forehead, his hair, his rough cheeks.
“You need sleep more than anything else. I hate to leave you alone.”
“Send Akios. He can help me if need be.”
I blushed. It had not occurred to me that Kárun would probably need help to relieve himself.
Akios willingly packed a blanket and a few things and set off in the twilight to spend the night at the school and help Kárun. Then I visited this morning and made breakfast for them both. On arrival I seemed to interrupt a serious and intense discussion between them. I have tried asking Akios about it but he skilfully dodges my questions.
Kárun insists that I must continue with the school.
“I didn’t build this house for it to become an infirmary,” he said in that earnest way of his. “When winter comes into full force the children will have to stay at home. You have half a moon, at most, before their parents keep them indoors. So let the children come. It doesn’t bother me. I might learn a few things.”
So the children will come, and the school will continue.
For ten days now I have been teaching with Kárun in the schoolhouse. It was difficult at first, but I have got used to it now. U
sed to his eyes permanently locked on me, and the way it makes me feel.
His gaze has an effect on me. I can admit that to you. You predicted as much in your most recent letter. How could you know something that I had no idea about?
Sometimes my knees go weak just from being near him, I have to sit down, and there is a buzzing in my ears that barely allows me to hear what the children are saying. I want to be close to him, for the same reason I wanted to be close to Géros, but for other reasons too. My body desires him, but beyond that I want… I am not sure what I want. I like taking care of him, making sure that he eats properly, has clean sheets on his bed and that he is well. But more than that, I simply want to be with him. Talk to him. He has told me all about his childhood. After his mother died little Kárun had to take care of himself. When he was old enough to tend the fire, his father would often go out logging and hunting in the forest and leave him alone for lengthy periods. On these occasions Kárun would wander far and wide. “I got lost so many times throughout the year that I learnt never to get lost again,” he said once. He always felt at home with Tauer, and it was Tauer and his wife who made sure he was clothed as a boy. I asked him once if he ever felt lonely, and he smiled at me. He is slow to smile and it reminds me of the sunrise over the forest edge, gradually illuminating his serious face, more and more, until the sun transcends the treetops and suddenly bathes everything in a golden light. I feel as though I light up inside as well. I am always hoping to make him smile. “I am never alone,” he answered. “I am surrounded by the trees. The birds, the animals, the wind and sun. I always have the best of company.” He can recognize every bird by its song, every animal by its paw tracks, teeth, claws and droppings. He has even made friends with some animals, and his voice becomes soft and warm when he talks about the doe that showed him her fawn one spring, or the hedgehog that visited him every evening when he lived alone in his cabin during the first year following his father’s death. When his voice warms like that, I wish that he would continue talking for ever.
When I read aloud, I am reading to him. Recently I read the love poem “Unna the Seafarer”, and every word pulsated between us.
But more than anything, I like the way he looks at me. Whenever possible, his gaze lingers on my face or body for the briefest of moments. The feeling it ignites in me… I have no words for it, Ennike. I know that he desires me. I am not so naive. I could surrender to this weakness throbbing in my body, and he would not protest if I joined him in his bed. I dream about it, every night alone in my own bed. His broad chest, his strong arms—I want to feel them around me. I want to feel his skin beneath my fingers and lips. I want to inhale his scent deeply.
I am blushing as I write this. But you are the Rose, so you understand. You know what power is hidden in the body and desires of a woman.
Yet it is not the Rose I serve. I belong to the Crone, though I never officially became her novice. Being with Kárun would be different from how it was with Géros. I would not be satisfied with only his body. I would fall into the trap that Náraes made me promise not to fall in. I must not let anything distract me from my calling.
I am writing about this only to you, and not to Jai, because she would not understand. In her latest letters it seems as if she wanted me to choose a different path. I wonder if it is because she is so fond of children? She does love looking after the junior novices. I have never felt that way about children. Of course I adore the little ones at the Abbey as well, not because they are children, but because they are themselves, if that makes sense? Especially Heo. But she is more like a sister to me than a daughter.
My choice is no great sacrifice or sorrow, believe me. But it is with a certain melancholy that I gaze upon Kárun and know that that life is not for me. Maybe it is wrong of me to embrace the pleasure of being close to him, of taking care of him and listening to the tenderness in his voice when he talks of the forest that he loves so profoundly. The pleasure of trying to make him laugh, and that flash of happiness when I succeed. I do not want to hurt him, or lead him to believe that there is a chance of something more developing between us.
Soon he will be healthy again. He will resume his solitary life, and I mine. This is only right and proper. Still I cannot help but feeling, my Ennike Rose, that when this happens, my world will be greyer for it.
Yours,
MARESI
Winter
Venerable Sister O,
Mother is terribly sick. It has become impossible to ignore. Tauer and I have both tried to treat her cough with all the brews and concoctions we know, but they have brought her only brief respite, and even that is getting harder.
Winter has come and snow has fallen. School is closed because it is difficult for the children to get there, but I would have cancelled school in any case. I do not want to leave Mother’s side for long. I leave her only to walk around the village with my staff, and Father and Akios stay with her when I do. For several days now she has been too weak to leave her bed, and I fear that soon she will be unable to get up at all. She eats meagre portions, and often cannot even keep those down. She had very little extra flesh to begin with, and now she is so thin that I can count her ribs when I wash her with a moist rag and help her into a clean chemise. I try to coax her into eating by preparing the same kinds of food she used to make when I was little. I flavour them exactly how she used to, but it makes little difference. She only takes a few spoonfuls anyway. She has tried—she is so incredibly brave—but it simply is not working.
“It can’t be much fun suddenly to be mothering your own mother,” she said the other day and patted me on the hand. “I know what it’s like to watch a loved one transform into someone you don’t recognize.”
“You cared for me when I was little,” I said, swallowing back the tears. “Now it is my turn to take care of you. And you are just the same as you have always been. You are still my mother. Nothing can change that.”
I fear that she will die, Sister O. I believed I no longer feared death. I believed that the Crone was my friend, and I had overcome the terror that affects most people when they stand before her door. I was wrong, Sister O, how terribly wrong I was. I was young and stupid and full of arrogance! It is only my own death I no longer fear. Losing a loved one is a different matter altogether. I have only just got my mother back, after so many long years apart. I refuse to let her go now. I feel that if only I can sit by her side day and night, the Crone cannot come for her.
She still has strength to speak, though she is often silenced by severe coughing fits, and she likes to hear me talk. I read aloud to her and tell her about my time at the Abbey. She listens now in a way she did not before.
“I was devastated when you left,” she said one evening as I sat massaging her feet with sheep fat. Her voice was weak and I had to lean in to hear her. “A part of me died. Then when you came back, full of all these things I’ve never seen or experienced, and calling another woman Mother, I found it very painful. You had experienced so much without me. You were entirely your own person. It felt as if you no longer needed me.”
“I do need you, Mother! I always need you—I cannot manage without you!” I could say no more. I weep any time she starts speaking this way.
“Of course you can,” she said. “And it’s a great comfort to me to know that. That’s what Leiman said to me before he died, and I understand now what he meant. You should know that I don’t regret letting Father send you away. Not any more. Because otherwise you wouldn’t be the woman you are today. I’d be worrying about you, and wondering if you could take care of yourself. But now I know that everything will be fine.”
Then she started coughing, and I told her to speak no more. She soon fell asleep. It is a relief when she sleeps, for I know that she is not in any pain. I went inside, where Father was sitting before the fire with a knife and some whittling work in his hands. But he was not whittling. He was just sitting and staring into the shadows. I sat next to him and leant my head on his shoulder.
“She has lived a good life,” he said slowly. “She has said so. She said that she’s been happy with me. She doesn’t blame me for anything.”
“She will continue to live a good life,” I said. But then Father sat up straight and turned to face me.
“Maresi, you are blind. She is dying. You must realize that. All we can do now is help her to have as good a death as possible.”
I could not believe that he would say such a thing. My own father!
“We can’t just give up!” I cried.
“You think this is a battle you can fight,” said Father, putting his arm around me. “But it’s not. There is no one to fight against.”
He is wrong, Sister O. Tell me he is wrong! I drove away the frost. I can fight against the Crone. She shall bow to my will. I have no intention of letting her in. I walk around the village and beat my protection into the earth, and I know that I can keep her at bay. I sing songs—Rovas songs and Abbey songs—and I feel in my guts and my bones how impenetrable the protective shield is.
This time I am the one who decides.
Several days have passed since I last wrote. Mother has stopped speaking and it is an effort for her to breathe. I feel powerless. If Sister Nar were here she could surely cure her, but my knowledge and abilities are not enough. All I can do is sit with her. I spoon-feed her water now. Drop by drop.
Akios can hardly bear to come into her room any longer. He goes out, despite the bitter cold. I do not know where he goes, but he takes Silla and Berla with him, for which I am grateful. It is difficult having outsiders in the house right now. Náraes comes to visit every day. Sometimes she brings the children with her but usually she leaves them at home. She wants them to remember their grandmother as she was before, she says. That makes me angry.
Maresi Red Mantle Page 23
