Maresi Red Mantle

by Maria Turtschaninoff

  Maresi, the Crone whispered on the wind. Hurry.

  “My father prayed in this grove,” Father said slowly. “He honoured and made sacrifices to the land. As did his father and mother before him. And I remember my grandmother saying that her mother had done the same, and the elder oak was already great and ancient then.”

  “Where will we make our offerings now?” Náraes said helplessly. We spoke no more. We continued towards the burial grove, silently agreeing to quicken our pace as much as possible.

  Our offering grove is used only by Sáru and Jóla. Other villages make their offerings elsewhere. But the burial grove, that is for the whole of Rovas. Those who live farther afield have various traditions with their deceased. Either they burn the bodies and bring their ashes to the grove, or they bury them close to their villages and dig them up again when only a skeleton remains, and bring the bones to the grove for their eternal rest under the canopies of the sacred silverwoods. But all who die in Rovas end their journey in the burial grove sooner or later.

  Dusk fell. We continued tirelessly under the narrow sickle of the moon. My hands and feet were like ice, but otherwise the cold did not bother me. I beat my staff into the ground. The earth heeded my call. Rovas responded and bade me hurry.

  It was long after sunset when we reached the deep valley where the silverwoods grow. Thanks to the snow, we could still find our way. The path down to the valley cuts between two hillsides. But it was no longer a path; it was a cleared road. Up on the slope of the eastern hill we saw points of light glimmering in the darkness, though we heard nothing. We could only assume that they were the woodcutters’ night camps. I held Grey Lady’s halter and led her towards the path into the valley, and prayed to the Goddess that she would not feel the urge to bray. The sleigh runners glided silently over the snow. We did not speak; we hardly dared breathe. At the edge of the valley we stopped. A cloud masked the moon, and thick darkness lay before us. I gripped Náraes’s hand. We held our breath and waited.

  The cloud drifted past and the light of the narrow moon spilt into the valley. Everything glittered and shone as though made of silver. The trees were still standing. I swallowed, and leant heavily on my staff.

  Yet as we descended into the valley, we saw that they had already begun their work. The nearest silverwoods lay felled, with branches still intact. It was too dark to find our family burial tree, so we set up camp among the slaughtered trees and lit a fire. It was a risk. We did not know what the woodcutters might do if they saw it. But without fire we would not survive the night.

  Early next morning we stamped out the embers and continued deeper into the valley. Father led us to the right tree. Akios sacrificed a chicken, Náraes hung a silverwood spoon in the branches, and I dug away the snow to expose the soil and stuck a copper coin under a tree root. I could not make so much as a scratch in the frozen-solid ground. Father scattered Mother’s ashes in a circle around the tree, on the naked soil, while we all sang the song of the earth. As we sang I looked upon the faces of my family, and knew that though we each have our own personal sorrow, none of us need bear it alone.

  Afterwards I walked three circuits around the tree, and said a prayer to each aspect of the First Mother, one with each turn. Then I stood for a while and watched the daylight brighten over the snow-covered ground and snow-white trunks and leaves, and silently thanked my mother for all that she taught and showed me.

  When Father and my siblings started to pack up, I pulled my red mantle tighter around me and slipped away unnoticed to walk back through the white, snowsilenced forest to the mouth of the valley. The cold bit my cheeks. My staff kept trying to slip out of my gloved hands, and Mother’s sword bounced uncomfortably on my back.

  The woodcutters had entered the valley by that time. A team of five men were already trimming the felled trees, while smaller teams of two or three were walking around and examining the living trees with axes at the ready. All in all, there were perhaps twenty men. I saw no soldiers.

  But I knew that they would come.

  “Blessings on your hearth,” I said. Some men looked up, and then away without answer, and I knew them to be Rovasians. They knew what they were doing, what taboos they were breaking by even carrying an axe in the burial ground of their own ancestors. The others just stared at me, with fur hats pulled low over their foreheads.

  “Seven generations of a Murik family rest below that tree,” I said, and pointed at a tree that two of the men had just been inspecting. “And that cluster is the final resting place of every single inhabitant of the small village of Isto in southern Rovas.”

  “Leave us be,” said a beardless man of short stature wearing a knitted neckerchief over half his face. He took a few steps towards me, and fingered the axe that hung in his belt, but came no closer. I posed no threat.

  “I command you to stop,” I said, and planted myself firmly with both hands resting on my staff before me. “This is sacred ground.” I raised my voice so that everyone could hear me. “This is the forest where everyone in the whole of Rovas has been buried since time immemorial. Thousands and thousands of bodies rest beneath these trees. The ashes of just as many are scattered on this sacred land. This is death’s realm. Turn back and never return, and may you be spared the wrath of the Crone.” Then it occurred to me that none of these men were familiar with the Crone. I searched my memory for what I knew of Urundian belief, and the beliefs of my own people. “Great is the wrath of the ancestors,” I said sternly. “And the bird Kalma does not guide a traitor true on his last journey below the roots of the silverwood.”

  The men whom I had guessed to be Rovasians backed away from the trees and exchanged anxious glances. They lowered their axes.

  “We’re not afraid of some biddy, young or old,” said the man who I assumed was the foreman. He spoke calmly and without anger, though bordering on irritation. “We’re just doing our job. The young lady should get home. It’s cold in the forest today.”

  “I cannot do that,” I said. My voice was also calm. I turned to the Rovasian woodcutters. “This is the sacred ground of Rovas, and you are Rovasians. Shame on you who would raise your axes against the trees of your ancestors. Will you cut down your own mothers’ and fathers’ trees too? Will you follow orders blindly?” I turned back to the foreman. “This is death’s realm, and this realm is mine. The dead are my people and I am their guardian.”

  Then I saw the door of the Crone. It stood to the left of the men, high and glistening and silent. All I had to do was walk over and open it. I knew that it would obey my hand. I knew that it would accept the offering. The burial grove is the Crone’s dominion, just like the crypt beneath Knowledge House. She would devour the men, just as she did when I opened her door before at the Abbey.

  “Oiman, we can’t do this,” said one of the elder men. The Rovasians had gathered in a group now. They looked at each other and then at the foreman. “It’s more than just bad luck to harm a silverwood.”

  “Now look here,” said Oiman patiently. “The nádor said to cut him down some silverwoods. He gets a phenomenal price for them in Urundien. And silverwoods grow only here—we know this. So this is where we fell.”

  “Then we can no longer work for the nádor,” the woodcutter said solemnly.

  Oiman shrugged his shoulders. “Fine, but you’ll forgo payment for the whole winter’s work, mark my words.”

  The men muttered among themselves, but did not move.

  “Suit yourselves.” He turned around and pointed at a group of Urundians who were standing by a fallen tree. “You lot can start felling instead.”

  The man who had answered for the Rovasians shook his head. “We can’t let you do that.” The Rovasian men spread out into a semicircle in front of the tree, their hands on the shafts of their axes. Oiman’s expression grew stern.

  “It’s like that now, is it?”

  He stepped towards the men who remained loyal to him, and they briefly conferred. The Rovasians were all staring at
me. I heard another mumble of voices and turned around. Behind me, among the trees, were my family, watching on. Náraes stood holding her hands protectively over her belly, and Father and Akios wore stern expressions. They were waiting; they would not leave me alone.

  Eventually, without a word, Oiman and his men packed up their tools and ropes and bound everything tight to their timber-horses. Without looking back they set off up the path and disappeared out of sight. Náraes rushed over to me, with Father and Akios close behind.

  “You did it!” She grasped my hands. “You drove them away!”

  Father went over to the woodcutters and greeted them with a nod.

  “They’ll be back, won’t they?”

  “Yes,” said a man, a younger one this time, with fair hair and kind blue eyes, but a severe expression. “And more will come.”

  “With soldiers too,” another man added. “Many soldiers.” He pointed at my staff. “Are you the frost-banisher?”

  I nodded.

  “What do you intend to do now?”

  I looked over my shoulder at my family. “I think I will send them home, and stay and do what I can.”

  “Send for supplies from home in that case. Food, blankets, furs. Weapons.” He turned to the other men. “We can build a barricade here, with the felled trees. This is the only path down to the valley. Marek, you and Lessas are in charge of moving our equipment down from the hill—if the others haven’t taken it. Biláti and Merran, you build shelters for us and the frost-banisher.”

  But first, the men all stood around the felled trees, and the elder man, whose name was Uvas, led them in an awkward prayer for forgiveness.

  Then they set to work.

  * * *

  Three days have passed. The men worked swiftly to build a decent barricade with the trunks of the felled trees. They have put up three shelters. They wanted to build a separate one for me, but I persuaded them to let me sleep in one of theirs.

  “You are my brothers,” I said, “and I trust you as brothers.”

  They hummed and scratched their beards, looking humbled and rather pleased. There are five of them. Marek, with the fair hair and kind blue eyes, is the youngest. He and Lessas come from a village in southern Rovas. I believe they are related somehow, cousins perhaps. Biláti is from the west and has three children at home: one son and two daughters. He misses them terribly and talks about them at every opportunity. Then there is Merran, with a beard all the way down to his chest and a large scar across one eye, who comes from a farmstead very close to Murik. Uvas, who led their discussion, has worked as a woodcutter and timber-rafter his whole life and therefore does not consider himself the inhabitant of any one village. I asked if he knew Kárun, which he did. He holds Maresi, friend of Kárun, in higher esteem than he held Maresi, banisher of frost. Kárun has a good reputation as an honest, hard-working man. Uvas said he has worked in the same timber-rafting team as Kárun for many summers.

  Father and Náraes were not best pleased about being sent home, and took a great deal of persuasion. Akios flatly refused, and when it became clear that my brother would stay by my side, Father finally agreed to do as I asked. Then today both Father and Náraes returned with the supplies I had asked for, packed on Grey Lady’s sleigh. However, it was not only food and furs they brought with them—the whole village had followed, and Jóla too. Can you believe it, Sister O? They all came! Even the little children were there. Only Kárun with his broken leg and the most immobile old folk had stayed behind. The Jóla horse pulled a sleigh piled high with supplies and little children. Náraes held me in an extended embrace, and I leant on her, grateful to breathe in her familiar scent. It was almost like an embrace from Mother.

  Almost.

  Then Marget rushed over and hugged me tightly.

  “Náraes told us what you did,” she whispered in my ear. “How brave you were. How strong. But you needn’t face it all alone, you know. Whenever you need help, you must say so. We do know a thing or two as well.”

  “I know, Marget,” I said. “Though perhaps I never realized it before. For a long time I believed that the Abbey’s teachings were the only kind of knowledge that mattered. I was convinced that I had to do everything myself. But you have all shown me that I was wrong. I am so glad for your help.”

  It is time I put a stop to all this exclusion: shutting out friends and family from my life; and the world from our village. Instead I will open myself to those who would help me. And, what is infinitely more frightening, I will open myself to the world. I will not look away. I will at least try to change things. Make things better. It feels terribly presumptuous to write this down—I probably sound ridiculous. In which case please forgive your former student. Write it off as the foolishness of youth, if you wish. But I believe I have finally understood my true calling.

  Your novice,

  MARESI

  Dear Jai and Ennike,

  I am writing to you both together now, because paper and time are scarce. We are building a proper camp in the burial grove. How long we will stay here, we cannot say, but letting the children sleep in the open air night after night is simply not an option. The woodcutters have decided to stay. They are helpful, hard-working men and they have helped us build two log cabins. They are very simple, unsealed constructions of unstripped logs, with fireplaces directly on the ground and a smoke hatch above, like in the olden days. Still, it is better than exposure to the elements. The woodcutters sourced the logs from the hills above the valley, of course. No one raises an axe to a silverwood any more. I have even seen several of them seek out their families’ trees and make offerings to their ancestors.

  It is not right to take up residence in the burial grove. This is sacred ground, forbidden for anything other than burials and for anyone other than the dead. Here we should speak with hushed voices, make offerings to the deceased and then depart at once. The elder folk, in whom old customs and traditions are deeply entrenched, say that there is a chill here that penetrates their bones to the very marrow. It keeps them awake at night. I feel it too—the Crone’s iciness. It is making me sluggish and slow. But we cannot leave the valley unprotected, unguarded, even for a short time. So I have had to help my neighbours get used to living and sleeping among the dead. It has not been easy, for they fear the spirits of the departed. I told them the story of the wolf that ran with its pack, and only when it lay dying did it realize that the others had been ghosts the whole time. It is an old Rovasian ballad that most locals have heard since they were little. I have used it as a tool to illustrate that the dead harbour no evil intent towards the living. Making offerings at the burial trees has also helped. Kild, who is now the eldest in our village, has led everyone in several offerings, to our ancestors and to these trees and this soil. This also seems to have brought people comfort.

  We have shelter from the cold and wind, and we have food, and we are waiting. We do not know what we wait for, or how long it will take. Uvas, leader of the woodcutters, Grandmother Kild, Kavann, the eldest of Jóla and I have taken to gathering in the mornings to discuss what we think may happen, and what we must do.

  “I can defeat whoever comes,” I said during one of our first councils, and nobody questioned me. They believe that I am capable of anything I claim.

  “Then more will come,” said Uvas, scratching his beard. “The nádor will send more and more.”

  “And we cannot guard this place for ever. Not even you can do that, Maresi,” said Kild.

  “You are right. So what shall we do? I can create another protective shield to hold them at bay—at least, I believe I can—but it must be maintained continuously.”

  “We have little understanding of your abilities, Maresi Enresdaughter,” said Kavann slowly. “But we must give the nádor enough of a fright that he never attempts to lay claim to this forest again.”

  “Then it won’t be enough only to frighten his soldiers, or even to kill them,” said Kild.

  She was sitting very straight, with he
r crutch beside her. She has not been able to walk without it since the soldier’s horse crushed her hip. Her wrinkly hands were resting on her embroidered skirt, and she looked like the epitome of an old Rovasian woman at the end of her life, when nothing is expected of her other than spinning by the hearth, surrounded by children and grandchildren. Yet there she was making plans with me and the two men. The Crone is strong in her. I am glad to have her by my side. Our side.

  “We must show the nádor himself what we are capable of. What you are capable of.” She looked at me, determined and somewhat exhilarated.

  “Soldiers will undoubtedly come,” said Uvas. “And they’re bound to send word to the nádor. Can we take advantage of that? We must bring him here.”

  “I believe I know how,” I said.

  Then I told them about the comb and the storm and everything that happened on Menos that spring. It felt good to speak about it. I could see that the men grew scared, though they tried not to show it. They stole glances at each other and then looked down at the ground. We were sitting around a little fire under one of the smaller silverwoods, where the woodcutters had rolled over some tree stumps for us to sit on. It was our place for council. The elders’ place. And mine.

  Kild chuckled in delight when I had finished my story. “That’s what we’ll do then,” she said several times and nodded. “Just like that.”

  “But these men cannot die,” I said. “They must live and tell the nádor of what they have seen.”

  “So shall it be,” said Kavann.

  * * *

  We have been waiting for ten days now.

  We have improved our defences, built a higher barricade and made a plan for how the villagers can escape, if need be.

  I have started holding short school sessions every day in one of the two cabins. Many of the adults come in, sit down and follow the lessons for a while. I am pleased that they can see what I am teaching their children. Particularly when I read aloud, whether from one of the school’s books or my own, the cabin is chock-full.