I eventually found a large growth of women’s bicker at the river’s edge. I dug up the plants and packed them into a sack, thinking all the while about the rites of the upcoming summer offering. I was utterly absorbed in the earthy scent, the swish of thin leaves against my hands, and fantasizing about the delicious food we ate at the celebrations. This meant I did not hear Kárun approach until he was directly in front of me.
“You should listen more closely in the forest,” he said as I jumped with a startled shriek.
“I make noise to ward off wolves and lynxes,” I said indignantly, and picked up the scissors I had dropped.
“I wasn’t talking about animals. The nádor will send his men out on the summer hunt soon. They take whatever prey they can find.”
I looked up and saw the gravity in his light-brown eyes. I swallowed.
“Thank you. I will bear it in mind.”
He looked out over the river. “Have you started your school yet?”
My heart was still racing from the shock. I sat down on the damp earth with my sack on one side, and he sat down, uninvited, on the other side.
“Not yet. There is much to do on the farm, and then it will be harvest. I believe autumn is the time to begin.”
“Hmm.”
He said nothing more. Nothing about how I ought to get married, or how a school would be of no use anyway, or that the whole idea was mere fantasy. I glanced at him. That day he had tied his hair up with a leather band, revealing his jawline and his tanned, sinewy neck. For some reason, I was not afraid.
We sat quietly awhile. The river rushed past, wild with rain and mountain meltwater. I brushed earth from my fingers and skirt absentmindedly.
“I’m traveling downstream in a few days. There’s a large felled area with lots of timber ready to be transported to Urundien. The river’s strong enough now. We should reach Irindibul by the end of the summer.”
“How do you return afterward?”
“I usually stay in Irindibul for a while, taking what work I can find. Earn a little before winter. Then I go with some tradesman or other northward as they make their way to the autumn markets.”
“I see.” I did not know what to say. “Well, perhaps we will see each other again in that case.”
“Perhaps.” He rose. The sun was shining on his chestnut hair as he looked down at me. “If you could check on the White Farm sow and piglets from time to time, I’d be grateful. She’s a good mother for the most part, but sometimes she lies on her piglets and squashes them. And don’t forget to keep your ears open when you’re alone in the forest.”
And he disappeared between the trees downstream.
I am not sure why I am telling you this. It was just such an unusual encounter.
I think I will avoid walking alone in the forest for the rest of the summer hunting season.
Yours,
Most Venerable Mother,
I have a terrible confession. I have done something I could never have foreseen. I pray that you are not angry. I pray that you can forgive me. Furthermore, I pray that I can forgive myself. I believe I made the correct decision, but I cannot be certain. Perhaps it was mere selfishness.
First I must explain a little about Rovas, the land where I was born and to which I have returned. We are not an independent nation but subject to Urundien and its sovereign. Whoever the current sovereign may be rarely affects us. Local rumors have led me to believe that a new one was recently crowned. However, the sovereign’s choice of nádor, the governor of our province, does hold great sway over our lives. To Urundien, Rovas has never been more than a near-forgotten little vassal state, worthy of attention only for its good hunting grounds and easily accessible timber. Plus the river provides a good trade route for wares from the Akkade folk, as an alternative to their trade convoys. Be that as it may, we have largely been left to our own fate and suffered only minimal interference from the nádor.
Until now. The nádor who was appointed a few years ago is not content with sitting in his castle and having his enforcers collect the taxes once a year. From what I understand from snatched whispers between villagers, this nádor has a thirst for wealth—and will stop at nothing. He saw an opportunity to squeeze the Rovasians dry, taking advantage of the shortfall caused by hunger winters to sell seed on credit at extortionate rates. He lets his soldiers run wild and sees us Rovasians as little more than livestock. Father has toiled on the land harder than ever before, and yet I can see in the furrows of worry on his brow that he is far from able to pay back the loan he has taken from the nádor to see his family through the winter, and to have seed to sow in spring.
The event I must recount took place five days ago in the daylight of the early evening. The men of the village were coming in from a long, full day in the fields. We awaited their return in the yard as we usually do: women, children and old folk; dogs, cats and chickens. Once the men had returned, the housewives served them bowls of fresh water from the stream. It had rained earlier that day, but only a light summer rain. I was on my knees, weeding my herb garden—most of my herbs are growing very well!
At first I felt a tremor in the ground. It must have been hoofbeats, though it is inconceivable that I could feel the vibrations so distinctly. My body trembled with them, as though hundreds of ants were scuttling all over my skin. I rose and tried to brush them off, but it did not help. A sudden chill made me shudder. Gray Lady, who had been standing tethered to an apple tree lazily flicking her ears, suddenly pricked them up toward the edge of the forest in the northeast. She stamped one front hoof on the ground, and the sound merged with the approaching tremors and spread throughout my body. I knew I desperately needed to react somehow, but I simply did not know what to do.
The men were brushing the worst of the dust and mud from their clothes, and readying themselves to retreat indoors for their evening meal. Gray Lady and I stared at the edge of the forest.
Maressa looked up from her game, which consisted of trying to herd all the chickens into one corner.
“Someone’s coming,” she said, and looked around.
At the forest edge, on the path that leads toward the river, there appeared four men on horseback. When I saw the evening sun glint upon objects hanging by their sides, it was as if my heart stopped beating, Venerable Mother. It reminded me of the moment when the men’s ship emerged through the Teeth and I saw the morning sun’s first rays reflected in the men’s drawn weapons as they sailed toward the Abbey. I wanted to crawl into the soil and disappear. Go, I breathed. Go away. The horses slowed a little, and I saw one of them shake its head. Gray Lady stamped her hooves, and there was a ringing in my ears. The rest of the village had noticed the riders by now, and all was quiet in the central yard.
The horses neither stopped nor diverted their course. I pushed myself up against the outside wall of our house, wishing to melt into the rough gray planks. With a rattle of bridles and swords they rode into the yard. Everyone stepped silently and anxiously to the side to make way for them. Mothers picked up the littlest ones while fathers tried to hide the elder children behind their backs. There were three soldiers on horseback, dressed in the colors of Urundien: black, white and gold. Their shirts each bore the royal symbol of the crowned tower. Their muscular brown steeds were foaming at the mouth. The men’s black beards were clipped short in the Urundian style, and they were tall—we Rovasians are short in comparison to Urundians. Though they had not drawn their swords, their hands rested on the hilts as they watched us coldly. Then there was a fourth man; he was not a soldier. He carried no sword and was elegantly dressed. His thick fingers were heavy with rings.
The well-dressed man produced a scroll of paper from his cloak and read it aloud.
“Ádon, Jannarl, Haiman and Enre,” he read in an authoritative voice.
The four men took one step forward in silence. I saw Marget and Lenna, standing behind their father, Ádon, reach for each other’s hands. Náraes gripped Dúlan even more tightly. Mother held Maressa
closer. The man looked down at the villagers who had stepped forward.
“You are behind on your loan payments, every one of you. The nádor, in his infinite benevolence and mercy, has granted you respite from repayments over winter, to spare the need to eject you from your homes and farms into the winter cold. However, the period of respite is at an end. Three years have passed. It is time to pay.”
“We’re working the fields as much as we can,” said Ádon in an exhausted voice. “It’s the weather—it’s not been favorable.”
The unarmed man on horseback appeared not to be listening, but one of the soldiers was looking intently at Ádon. Then his gaze passed to Ádon’s daughters standing behind him, and there it stayed. I could not breathe. My mouth tasted of metal and ice. Though I could not see the Crone’s door, I felt its presence, Venerable Mother.
The leader continued to read. “Ten Urundian silver coins due from Jannarl and household. Five silver coins due from Haiman and household. Seven silver coins due from Ádon and household. And thirteen silver coins due from Enre and household.” He looked up from his paper. “Now the time has come to pay.”
The men stared down at the ground. I saw shame weigh heavily on their shoulders. Resignation. Thirteen silver coins is an enormous sum, Venerable Mother. The nádor is demanding a staggering interest rate simply because he can. Who could stop him? There was no way for Father and the other men to understand the payback rates attached to their loans. They cannot read. They did not know what was written on the papers before they signed them with crosses.
One after the other the men shook their heads.
“Then I have no choice but to seize all that is yours, and in exchange you may walk free from your debts. Thus spake the nádor, in his merciful justice.”
“Everything?” Jannarl asked slowly. “The animals?”
“The animals, the tools, the farms.”
“But won’t that make us homeless?” cried Jannarl’s mother, Feira. “My husband’s father’s father built this farmstead with his own hands. He burned the ground and cleared the fields. These farms are ours by right.”
“And now they are the nádor’s by right.” The man spat disinterestedly on the ground. The phlegm almost hit my father, but he did not move.
“Where will we go?” asked Seressa from White Farm. Only the women asked questions; only they dared. The men were crippled with the shame of not being able to protect their families. “Are we to wander the streets like beggars now?” She raised her chin high. She held the soldiers’ gaze.
“I have my orders,” said the man, and his indifference was as harsh as a smack in the face. “The loan must be paid, and it must be paid now.”
I watched the soldiers ride into the crowd and scatter everybody, like Maressa’s chickens. I watched my father fall to the ground. Dúlan was crying. One of the soldiers charged straight toward Marget and Lenna. Their grandmother, Kild, saw what was about to happen and leaped in the way of the horse. She was trampled. The soldier leaned down and lifted Marget onto his lap. His hands wandered over her body, hard and hungry, right there before everybody’s eyes.
After what happened in the crypt at the Abbey, I never thought that I would experience such terror again. But the same fear gripped me this time, Venerable Mother. I was so afraid that my legs refused to obey me, just as in the crypt. Gray Lady stamped her hooves, and the impact set me in motion. I slipped along the wall like a shadow. In through the open door of our cottage. Into my bedroom. I opened the chest by my bed. Pulled out the purse you gave me. Counted the remaining silver. Stuck two coins into a crack in the wall. Pressed the heavy purse against my chest.
When I reemerged I could smell smoke.
“We would have permitted you to move in peace,” shouted the leader. “But such displays of obstinacy evoke the wrath of the nádor.” He had lit a torch and thrown it onto the roof of the barn. The wood shingles caught fire immediately. Women were screaming. Inside the barn I could hear the pigs squealing. One of the soldiers had dismounted and opened the barn door, so all the pigs and one cow came rushing out. They saved the animals because they could be sold. Our homes and barns were of no value to the nádor and his men.
“Stop!” I screamed, but neither the villagers nor the soldiers heard me. Gray Lady stamped her hooves. I was trembling. I closed my hand around my snake ring and felt the hard metal against my skin. The woven belt Mother gave me was heavy around my waist. I stamped on the ground as well: once, hard.
“Stop!” I screamed again. This time my voice resounded across the yard and made the horses rear in shock. The leader twisted around in his saddle. His gaze stung. I held up the purse.
“Here is your payment. For the whole village. Thirty-five silver coins.”
I threw the purse at him. He caught it, opened it abruptly, and counted. I did not look at the villagers: not at Marget sobbing on the soldier’s lap; not at Lenna and Seressa, bent over Kild where she lay on the ground; not at Náraes with desperation in her eyes. I looked only at the man on the horse.
“Where did you get this from, girl?” He pulled the purse strings slowly shut.
“I have been away to teach. This was my pay.”
“It certainly was a lucrative teaching post.” He smiled scornfully. “And you can count.”
“You must write a document to say that you have received full repayment of all loans. Otherwise you will no doubt return demanding more silver.”
How I mustered these self-confident words and commanding tone, I could not say. It was almost as though the Crone were working through me for a brief spell.
He looked at me with disdain. Then he scoffed, dismounted smoothly and opened his saddlebag. He took out a quill and paper and scribbled down a few words using the horse’s side to lean on.
“Never let it be said that the nádor would deceive his people.” He handed the paper to me.
Slowly, with all eyes on me, I walked over to him. I was close enough to smell the sweat and horse and metal. Or else the hint of metal was a taste in my mouth. I looked at the paper. It was not all that easy to discern his handwriting, and I was unaccustomed to reading in my native language, as opposed to the coastal tongue of the Abbey. After a while I looked up.
“You have written that we did not pay and that you will return next moon.”
The man squinted. He had laughter lines around his eyes. Hence he was capable of laughter. I could not imagine such a thing.
The burning barn roof crackled. Ash drifted down on the yard and all the people in it. My hands trembled as I handed the paper back to him.
With jerky movements he wrote a new document and tossed it at me. Then he remounted his horse. He did not take his eyes off me. I am watching you, they said. You cannot hide from me. Then he rode away from the village, in a southerly direction, and after a moment’s hesitation the soldiers followed suit. The last man was holding Marget in a tight grasp at the front of his saddle—even though I had paid, even though I had written proof—and there was nothing we could do, Venerable Mother, nothing at all.
ϖ
We quenched the fire, but the barn will need a new roof. Kild is alive, but badly injured from being trampled by the horse. The next day Marget came walking along the path with her skirt ripped and a broken look in her eyes. We all know what happened to her. Nobody speaks it out loud.
I do not know why the man wrote a real document for me. He was not compelled. Perhaps he thought it made no difference. He can return anyway. He can do as he pleases, and there is nothing we can do about it. Perhaps I sacrificed all the silver you gave me for nothing, Venerable Mother. Yet if there was the slightest chance that I could help my family and my village, what could I do but try? We need not leave our homes, and we still have our animals and fields. You told me once that I must protect the little ones and take care of them. I believe that is what I am doing. However, I do not know what will become of the school now, Venerable Mother. I do not know what will become of us. And I cannot shake o
ff the look in that man’s eyes, the look that said: I am watching you; I know where you live; you cannot hide.
Respectfully,
Venerable Sister Eostre,
I am writing to you as the former Rose, servant to the Maiden. I could have written to Ennike, who currently serves as the Rose. But she is my friend, and always has been. Besides, she is young, and has not experienced the things you have. I hope you do not mind my asking you to keep this letter a secret from the Rose. I know that your affinity lies more with Havva, the Mother aspect of the Triple Goddess, now that you have borne a daughter. But you channeled the Goddess on that occasion when the men landed on Menos and penetrated the Temple of the Rose. With your body as her instrument, she saved us all.
Now there is a young girl in my village who has undergone a similar ordeal. She was carried away from our village, and at least one man forced himself upon her. I do not know exactly what happened—nobody does. She refuses to speak of it. She is the same age as me, Sister, and this burden is destroying her. She no longer leaves her house. She does not show her face when visitors come to her home. Nobody gossips about her in the village, and I have heard no one speak ill of her, yet everybody averts their gaze at the mere mention of her name. They become silent. They do not know what to say or do.
Rumors are spreading among the other villages, however: that she was asking for it; that she smiled at the soldiers; that she did not fight back, or that her resistance was feeble.
I must help her, Sister Eostre. There must be a way. Tell me how. These men must not be allowed to determine her fate forever. How can I help her to reclaim her body?
Every evening I comb my hair with the Goddess comb that you bequeathed to me. I gather all the hair that comes loose and bind it into a braid. The braid is thin but long. Strong. As I braid, I think of the soldiers that harmed Marget. I bind them tight and hard to prevent them from returning here. I place the braid under my pillow at night. The knowledge that it is there affords me some comfort.
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