Yes, I know, I am babbling. Forgive me. I was supposed to tell you what happened this morning, but it was so embarrassing! Kárun emerged from behind our house just as I returned to the central yard. I was damp from the fog, and hot and tired after my long, brisk walk around the fields. Mother had silently remade my bed shortly after I had made it, and I had gone out to calm the irritation smoldering inside me. In other words, I was not in the best of moods.
Kárun’s long hair was damp and clinging to his head. He had not shaved in several days and his chin was dark with stubble. I came to a halt, taken aback.
“Have you been out dancing?” he asked, and I could feel my face boil all the way up to my scalp.
“That is none of your business,” I said, and stared at him with cheeks ablaze. Can you imagine how I felt? Yet again I was being taunted for my nighttime dancing. I wonder who gossiped to him. Could it have been Akios? Or perhaps he saw me himself that night! I wished I could disappear into the earth.
“It’s none of theirs either,” he said seriously. I saw that there was no hint of laughter or mockery in his eyes. “Whenever a person is different, or doesn’t follow exactly the same path as everybody else, all the villagers begin to talk. You must learn to pay them no mind.”
“Do you manage to pay them no mind?” I asked, raising my chin.
He smiled softly. “Sometimes.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked. In hindsight I realize this was probably unnecessarily hostile.
“Helping the White Farm sow give birth. She’s had trouble in the past, but last night it went well.”
Then he left. I watched his broad back as he disappeared into the dispersing morning mist.
Now I will sleep, my Ennike Rose. Sleep and dream. I hope I can find a way to send these letters to you, and soon.
Dearest Jai,
I am not quite sure how to recount what happened yesterday! I have laughed until my stomach ached, but I must admit I am also rather pleased.
It was evening, and now that the weather is warm and fine, we usually sit together out in the yard after the evening meal. Mother sews or spins and Father mends some tool or other. Náraes often visits around this time and lets Maressa wreak havoc on her aunt and uncle while Mother and Father play with Dúlan. Pregnancy is exhausting Náraes, even without two children. Jannarl sometimes comes too and sits quietly. He is not much of a conversationalist, my good brother-in-law, but his silence is amiable. I expected to dislike him. Another man—one of these strange creatures I do not understand—who has taken my sister from our home and impregnated her. Yet Jannarl is so kind that it is impossible to think badly of him. Perhaps that is why Náraes married him. It is certainly not for his beauty! He still has the same blemished skin and skinny frame as he did in boyhood. He says little and is neither fun nor interesting, but he does everything Náraes asks of him, and he is a loving, patient father. In fact, he reminds me of my own father. He has the same kind, calm eyes. I have never heard him raise his voice or say a bad word about anybody, just like my father. The only person Father ever criticizes is the nádor, and even that is very seldom.
Jannarl was not with us yesterday evening, but Náraes and the children were. Akios and I were sitting in the central yard on the bench along the outside of our house with our planed planks and coal. He already has a sound knowledge of the alphabet. Maressa came running over and asked what he was doing. She is a lively child who rarely sits still, but she watched attentively and said she wanted to try. She learned three letters before she lost interest, took a plank and started drawing on it. Dúlan was toddling around and stuffing various leaves and twigs in her mouth while Mother shadowed her and pulled them out again. The cool evening air was filled with the smell of smoke.
Evening is the time for visits, so it was no surprise to see a figure approaching from the other side of the yard, but we were somewhat surprised when we saw that it was Árvan from Streamside Farm. He is the one who lives alone with his mother here in the village.
Mother and Father exchanged a brief glance. Náraes looked at Árvan and then at me, and a crease appeared between her eyebrows, though I did not understand why at the time.
“Blessings on your hearth,” said Árvan.
“Blessings on your journey,” Father replied. “Sit down, Árvan.” He moved his tools so that Árvan could sit next to him on the graying wooden bench.
“Can I offer you something?” asked Mother. “We have a little soup left over from supper.”
“Thank you, no.” Árvan raised his eyes to the sky, then lowered them to the ground. He looked in every direction other than at the bench where Akios and I were sitting. Árvan’s hair is very light brown, which is unusual for Rovas folk. His eyes are pale too, and the spring sun has sprinkled his long, narrow nose with freckles. Náraes scooped Dúlan up in her arms and positioned herself in front of me.
“So, how’s everything on the farm?” she asked, almost angrily. I looked up at her, but she had her back to me so I could not see her face.
Árvan looked up, surprised. “Oh well, it is how it is. We’ve got the spring sowing done anyway. And Mother’s back isn’t troubling her quite so much now.”
“Has she been to see Tauer?”
“Oh yes. She was given an ointment that needs rubbing in every night. Then it’s complete silence until sunup. It’s really helped.”
I scoffed. This is exactly the sort of quackery the old man uses to fool the villagers. Complete silence—as if that would make a difference!
“What is the problem with your mother’s back?” I leaned forward to try to see Árvan past Náraes. “Perhaps I could—”
“Jannarl was wondering just the other day if you could help him to repair a shaft in the mill,” Náraes interrupted me. “He needs an extra pair of hands.”
“Oh yes, certainly I can. Will I come by tomorrow? I’m sure Mother can do without me for a bit while she takes her midday nap.”
“Náraes,” Mother said with a warning tone in her voice. She turned to Árvan. “Was there something on your mind?”
Náraes spoke no more, but her tensed shoulders told me that it was an involuntary silence.
Árvan wiped his palms on his brown trousers. “Oh well, there was one thing. It’s about Maresi.”
“Me?” I stood up to get a better view of him past Náraes. “Does it concern your mother’s back? I am sure I have some herbs that could help.”
“My mother?” Árvan looked up and accidentally locked eyes with me briefly, which made his neck flush a deep scarlet. “It’s not to do with my mother. Oh well, it was Mother’s idea that I should . . . that is, it’s time I ought . . .” He cleared his throat. “Streamside lacks a housewife. Mother can’t manage much anymore, and I’ve got my hands full with farm work and there’s no time for anything else: the food and clothes and animals . . .” He swallowed, utterly befuddled.
It slowly dawned on me where this was going, and I retreated, aghast.
“Árvan,” I began to protest, just as he finally arrived at his point.
“Yes, well, I was wondering if Maresi might want to marry me.”
The yard fell deadly silent. Maressa looked up from her drawing.
“Why do you want to marry Maresi? She’s not pretty.”
“Oh well, she’s healthy and strong. And not altogether unpleasant to look at.” Árvan’s entire face was now bright red.
“Are you gonna get married then?” Maressa looked from Árvan to me.
“No, we are not.” I raised my hands, appalled at how bluntly I had blurted out the words. “What I mean to say is: thank you for your kind offer, Árvan, but I cannot accept.”
“We’ve a fine homestead.” Árvan’s eyes were downcast, but there was a certain determination in his chin. “Not large, I know, but well kept. It will provide just fine for a small family. I’m soon to be debt-free.”
“You’re a good man, everybody knows that,” Father said, and patted him awkwardly on the shou
lder. Father can never bear to see anyone sad or disappointed.
I wished I could run away and hide, like Heo does when Joem scolds her.
“You see, I do not ever intend to marry. But thank you once again for asking.”
Then I sat back down on the bench with a thud, picked up the wooden board where Akios had written his letters, and stared at it as though it were the most interesting thing in the world.
Árvan thanked us politely and slunk away across the yard while I hid my face in my hands.
“That was the worst thing that has ever happened to me,” I whimpered. “How could he get such an idea in his head?!”
“He’s a young unmarried man, with a farm and a sick mother to care for. There’s nothing strange about it,” said Mother.
“The village girls have been fawning over him for the longest time,” said Akios, poking me in the side. “Now you’ve missed your chance!”
I glared at him as fiercely as I could.
“Does no one in this village understand that I have no intention of getting married? I have work to do: I am going to found a school—I have said so from the beginning!”
Mother looked at me seriously. “Do you really mean to stay unmarried for the rest of your life, Maresi? Who’ll take care of you? What will you live on, and where? And who’ll take care of you in your old age if you have no children? It isn’t possible, you must understand. You don’t have to marry the first boy who asks. But if you did marry Árvan you could stay here in the village, and we could see each other often. That would make me so happy, after all these years apart.”
“You sent Maresi away for nothing then?” Náraes hitched Dúlan a little higher up on her hip. I could see her face now, and rarely have I seen her so angry. Her entire body was shaking. “Eight years she has been away; for eight years I haven’t known whether my sister was alive or dead. And all this time she’s been getting an education that no one here could even dream of. I would have done anything for such an education. But no, it’ll all be for nothing, she’ll get married and start squeezing out babies and taking care of a hypochondriac tyrant of a mother-in-law to boot. So what was the point of sending her away? What was the point of sending Maresi away?”
Dúlan started to cry, frightened by the anger in her mother’s voice.
Mother and Father stared at Náraes. “Oh, my darling daughter.” Father stood up but did not know what to do, so he just stood there with his arms limp by his sides. “I never knew that you wanted to go.”
“You never asked. No one asked me. You just decided, you and Mother. And it was only right that Maresi was chosen. I know you could afford only one journey, and Maresi always wanted to learn about the world. She was always the curious and inquisitive one, whereas I was always happiest at home.” She had started crying silent tears that rolled almost unnoticeably down her cheeks. I stood up and wrapped my arms around her. “I’d never have been brave enough to go anyway,” she sniffed. “I’m too afraid of anything new. But she mustn’t waste everything she’s fought for, everything we have fought for.”
Mother took Dúlan in her arms and comforted her. Her expression was cold and hard, and she said nothing to me or my sister, but her gaze lingered on Father, and there was something in her eyes that frightened me.
I held my sister, inhaling the scent that always clings to her: babies, cooking fumes, flour and sweat.
“I will not waste it, I promise,” I mumbled into her hair. “Never fear.”
“For my sake?”
“For your sake. For Maressa’s and Dúlan’s too.”
ϖ
I never knew that my sister envied me. I have been so self-obsessed that I never even considered the possibility. Now I know. That evening I asked Akios if he had also wanted to go away. He did not take my question lightly. I like that about him. Though we bicker and he teases me often, he does take me seriously.
“No, I don’t think so,” he answered. “I was so young, I probably wouldn’t have wanted to leave Mother. Besides, it wasn’t an option. In all the songs about the Red Abbey, in all the tales and fragments of legend that have found their way here, it’s abundantly clear that only girls and women are welcome there. So it didn’t really cross my mind.”
“There are other places for boys though. Monastic schools, apprenticeships in Irindibul.”
“The only son of a farm leave his parents to take an apprenticeship? It’s impossible, you know that.”
I knew he was right. “Men have come to Menos several times in the history of the Abbey. But only when they needed help and protection, and even then, they were not allowed to stay long.” I looked at Akios for a long time. It is not right that he never had a chance to leave. I have to think this over carefully, Jai. There is so much to think about that I have never considered before.
Still, someone proposed to me! Can you believe it? It is utterly ridiculous. Akios and I laugh about it every time it comes up in conversation. Poor Árvan! It must have taken him a long time to summon the courage to come and propose, and we really should have treated him with more courtesy and respect. I hope no one else asks for my hand, but Mother says that it is a possibility. There are unmarried young men, and older men besides, both in our village and the other villages nearby. Now at least I am somewhat prepared and will try to respond with more dignity if anyone else ventures to Enresbacka Farm to woo me.
There is something I must admit, Jai, my friend, before I blow out the candle and snuggle under my blanket. Sometimes I do think about what it would be like to have a husband. To have a man lying in my bed at night, waiting for me. I am not sure what to make of it. It is frightening—and quite exciting.
But that is not my path, so there is no need to speculate more on the subject. I have had an education. I have to prove myself worthy of it.
Your friend,
Venerable Sister O,
I have come up against an unexpected problem. I have started teaching my brother Akios letters, but I learned to read and write in a different language from the one we speak here in Rovas. The sounds that the letters represent do not entirely correspond to the sounds we have in our language. We also have sounds I do not know how to spell. These are the issues I have to contend with now, as I lay Akios’s foundations. I am glad to have realized this early on, before opening my school. If you have any sage advice, please write and tell me! For example, we have a short u that does not sound like the long u we use at the Abbey. How can I represent it in writing?
Your novice,
My dear Ennike Rose,
Summer is coming in, and the villagers say it is the most beautiful early summer in many years. There is sunshine nearly every day, and enough rainfall to keep the crops well watered. Everything is growing at a tremendous rate. My little herb garden is doing very well, and I have started digging up a new patch of ground for more plants that I plan to transfer from the surrounding forest. This way I will not have to walk so far every time I want forest thorn or wild catmint. I spend as much time outside as possible. I missed the Rovasian early summers when I was on Menos: the sustained, luscious greenery, when all things are in bloom, and the air is thick with fragrance and alive with the buzz of bees. Náraes, who tends to several beehives, is delighted. If all goes well she predicts a record yield of honey. The apple trees are blossoming, and they look just as I remember: a sheer, cascading river of petals behind our compound. I take every opportunity to sit beneath the trees and feel the caress of the falling petals in my hair.
Mother is still having difficulty coming to terms with my refusal to braid or bind my hair. Unbound hair is not forbidden, but it is simply not done. She comes out with little comments: that it looks ugly; that I have a beautiful neck and if I only tied my hair up people could see it. I have a headscarf that keeps my hair away from my face, like we wear at the Abbey, and that is all I need.
We are grating on each other’s nerves more and more, Mother and I. When I first came home it was so wonderful to be mothered again. I
had missed her so. And she enjoyed making a fuss of me. But it is becoming more and more difficult to conform to the daughter mold that she has created for me. I have my own thoughts and ideas, and when I express them she enters into a steely silence that can last for several days.
ϖ
I met that Kárun again. I went to the forest to dig up a few women’s bicker plants. The roots of the women’s bicker are an excellent way to bulk out meals to make provisions last. We have less flour than we did at the Abbey, due to several meager harvests in recent times. So I grind the roots and mix them with our flour rations to make dumplings for soup. There is not enough flour to bake bread. Father laps my soup up, whereas Mother eats very little of the food I prepare, and says nothing of it. Was she this closed-minded and contrary when I was a child? I have no memories of her acting this way.
Akios was busy working the land so I had to go alone. I took Gray Lady with me, not because she would provide any help or protection if I encountered trouble, but for the company. I found no women’s bicker at first and had to delve deeper into the forest than was my intention. This did not bother me, for I love walking in the forest. There is always much to see and hear. I feel the presence of the First Mother there, just as I always did on Menos when gazing out across the ocean. All my worries about the school, about Mother’s cough (for which even raspberry-leaf tea is no remedy)—in other words, worries about all the things I have no control over—simply disappear. It is easier to breathe in the forest. It is easier to hear my own thoughts. It is only the knowledge that other people, other men, make it unsafe that makes me anxious.
Red Mantle Page 7
