Red Mantle

by Maria Turtschaninoff

  The acorns are still green and late-summer blossoms abound. The fields we passed were yellow with stubble. We have reaped the flax, barley and rye. Now the flax must be cut and retted, which entails a great deal of work. We are hoping for a rainless moon so that everything has time to dry.

  Mother and Feira carried bags of chopped juniper slung over their shoulders. They strewed juniper on the ground behind the cart and sang the mourning song, which bids farewell and prevents the dead from wandering back into the world of the living. I heard my sister mumble something to herself in the cart. I let go of Gray Lady’s halter and fell in line with her.

  “I don’t want to stop him from coming back,” Náraes whispered to me. “There’s nothing I want more.”

  “I understand.” There was nothing else I could say. Náraes took my hand and squeezed it, then let go to grab hold of Dúlan and stop her from falling out of the cart. She sighed. She was not crying, but her face was swollen and red.

  We were deep in the forest by this time, and dry leaves were crunching under feet and boots and wheels. It smelled of the autumnal forest and decaying foliage.

  Eventually Mother and Feira stopped singing, and the only thing to be heard was Father’s ax as he chopped into the trees along the path. Dúlan slept in her mother’s lap, and Maressa was quietly eating the nuts I had picked for her.

  It is a long way to the burial grove, and the forest was bathed in twilight by the time we arrived. The offering grove where we perform rites and hold festivals is used only by the immediate villages, and other villages have their own. But the burial grove, which lies northeast of our offering grove, is ancient and used by all of northern Rovas. It is set in a deep valley where I had been only a few times as a child. The forest parted, and the valley lay before us like an ocean of white foam, set against the dark backdrop of the northern mountains.

  Silverwoods grow only in this valley. They are the most sacred tree in Rovas, and this valley is the most sacred site in Rovas. Silverwoods are entirely white, with white wood, bark and leaves. The leaves never change color and never drop. Generations and generations of my people have been buried at their roots. As soon as we started on the path down into the valley, I heard a voice.

  Maresi, it whispered clearly. It was a voice that I would recognize anywhere. It pierced my heart. My mother was right. The Crone is here too. Of course she is. I am not alone, as I had thought. The Crone’s whispers coiled around my feet, and her breath tickled my neck. We were reunited.

  That evening we committed the boy to the earth in the part of the valley where our family has laid their dead for centuries. He was buried with a copper coin and a snow-white silverwood spoon, as is our custom, and Jannarl sacrificed a chicken before lowering the basket into the hole Father had dug. It was such a small hole. Such a small grave. We filled it and I threw my flowers on top.

  The Crone continued to mutter and sigh among the tree trunks. This site is even more infused with her power than the crypt in Knowledge House. So many of the Crone’s devotees are here. So many generations have worshipped her here, though by a different name. The Crone takes her due. She is not too particular. The First Mother is not demanding. She understands that we fragile humans are confused and vulnerable in this big, wild world, and we try our best.

  We set up camp for the night under our family’s burial tree. Feira and Mother lit a fire, and we sat around it to warm ourselves and eat our provisions. There was a bounty of food following the harvest, and we had thick egg pancakes and beer and small pastries filled with green beans, salmon and egg. Dúlan and Maressa snuggled up to their father and fell asleep. Presently, Náraes wrapped herself up in a blanket and lay down on the ground by her son’s grave, with her head among the flowers I had scattered. Jannarl came to lie behind her with his arm around her waist, and there they slept throughout the night.

  The older generation lay down to sleep as well. I sat wrapped up in my bloodsnail-red cloak and stared into the embers of the dying fire. My skin tingled and crawled. The ground was humming and trembling beneath the soles of my feet. The snake ring on my finger was freezing cold. Then the full moon rose over the valley and cast her white light over the silvery forest.

  Suddenly a handful of stars detached and shot across the firmament, flying away like darting swallows. I held my breath. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, Venerable Mother. And there, under raining stars, I wept.

  “The world is so cruel, most venerable Crone,” I whispered. “And I am so small. There is so little I can do.”

  I had never spoken to her in this way before.

  Maresi, replied the Crone. My daughter.

  There was warmth in her voice, but there was also a caution. A thought struck me: if I truly am the daughter of the Crone, if I am hers, perhaps I am capable of more than I believe. Perhaps I am more than just myself.

  The next day I took a fallen branch from our family’s silverwood tree. I am keeping it and carving a staff. I need some support, for I have the feeling that a storm is on its way.

  Respectfully,

  Dearest Jai,

  Yesterday marked the beginning of the harvest festival celebration in Sáru. All the essentials are now harvested and preserved: dried, jammed and juiced, pickled and soured, baked and salted. Mother is beaming and says she cannot remember the last time her larder was so well stocked.

  I have been too busy to write to anyone in half a moon. When I have not been taking part in harvest labor or picking mushrooms, plants and herbs in the nearby forest (I dare not venture far), I have been walking around the village with my silverwood staff, on the lookout for signs of the soldiers. No one has come to collect the taxes yet, and the whole village is holding its breath wondering whether, as if by miracle, they might leave us be this autumn. What with all the taxes imposed on us, we just barely have time and strength enough to scrape a meager living from the rocky Rovasian soil. However, this year the weather has been kind, and the soldiers and authorities have left us alone since the summer. Everyone, old and young, has been free to work on the land, and we have finally managed to fill our larders and storehouses properly. In the evenings I comb my hair and bind the strands that come loose into a braid that grows thicker with each passing day. As I do it I direct my thoughts to the soldiers and their commander, and imagine that I am binding them hard—so hard that they cannot come here and harass us. I have the feeling that these tasks are extremely important, but I am always surprisingly exhausted after my walks. I hope I am not falling ill. Maybe I am just fatigued from all this physical work. Mother makes sure that I take my walk in the morning or evening, no matter how tired I am or how much there is to be done at home.

  “Take that cloak of yours,” she says without so much as a glance, “and go out. I’ll take care of the dishes.”

  I am grateful for the opportunity to be alone for a while. But in truth I have a suspicion, like a thorn in my heart, that Mother insists on it because she needs space away from me.

  Maressa and Dúlan have been constantly tugging at Mother’s skirt hem while she works, in the hope of being given a bowl to lick clean, a crumb of honey cake to nibble, or a jam spoon to taste. Mother lets them stay so that Náraes can have a little peace. My dear sister will not be defeated, Jai. She is getting on with her life, smiling and laughing, doing her work, cuddling her daughters and helping her husband at the mill, now that the flour needs grinding. I see what effort it costs her and adore her all the more for it. Her laughter is without heart, and she smiles with sadness in her eyes. Then she notices me looking at her and I avert my gaze. She does not want sympathy, but she does appreciate help. So Mother and I ensure that she gets it.

  The harvest festival begins with the village making a sacrifice in the offering grove as a thanks for the bounties of the earth. However, the actual festival is not celebrated there; it is too far away and too sacred. Instead the festivities are held on a common between our village and Jóla. We walked there, with Dúlan in Jannarl
’s arms and Maressa holding my hand, but Náraes chose to stay home. Akios followed us to the festival ground but then soon went off in search of his friends. It was afternoon, with a warm, dry sun and pleasant breeze, and dogs were trotting among the tables in search of scraps. The harvest festival begins with a great feast, where all the households bring something from their harvest bounties, and the tables are loaded with food. Even my ravenous appetite was satisfied! Tell Ennike that she would have loved the soup—with proper meat and thick flour dumplings. There was blood sausage, bread and pastries, preserves and crispy bacon, and salted fish and fried piggies, which are a type of Rovasian pastry rolled in ginger and cinnamon. On separate tables stood barrels of malt drink and beer and jugs of moonshine. The young men who were able had been out hunting, and had caught wild birds and hares and gleaming silver salmon, which their mothers and sisters then smoked and salted and prepared in various ways.

  We ate until we could barely move, the girls and I, and all three of us took equal delight in eating our fill without having to worry about minding our portions, for once. Dúlan fell asleep on her father’s lap with a piece of cake in her hand. Maressa leaned on me with a contented little sigh, and I pulled my headscarf over my forehead to shade my eyes from the sun. Everybody sat around, talking and digesting, and Dúlan was not the only one to fall asleep.

  Once the sun had sunk a little and the air had cooled, we stirred to help clear the tables and put away the leftovers so that they would not spoil. The village folk do not always understand that certain foods must never sit out in the warmth. They must be put away in cool cellars or stored in bowls of cold stream water as soon as possible. Neither do they understand that they are poisoning themselves by heating up the same meat soup day after day until they fall badly ill. They usually blame it on a curse someone has put on them.

  Today there is a market in the hills, and I am so looking forward to it! I hope traveling merchants come, and that some of them might bring books. What I wouldn’t pay to read something new! Now that the harvest is over I might even have time to read.

  There is also the small chance that some merchant has come traveling from the south, and that letters from a distant island Abbey might have found their way here. I am bubbling with excitement and anticipation!

  ϖ

  Evening:

  What a disappointment this day has been! Here I am in my room, close to tears. No merchants came. Not a single one. Such a thing has never happened, according to old grandmother Kild, who managed to join in the celebration despite her injury. No books, no letters. I miss you, Jai. I miss everyone so much my heart is fit to burst! It feels like an eternity since I saw you last, when the boat sailed out of the Abbey’s little harbor and all the sisters and novices stood on the steps and cliffs and sang me off. I watched your fair hair flying in the wind, and Ennike’s brown curls, and little Heo’s straight black tresses. That was the last I saw of you.

  Your forgotten friend,

  My dear Ennike Rose,

  The market has been quiet today, and was quiet yesterday. The villagers have had to make do with trading their wares among themselves, paying in kind. I set up a small table where I displayed my herb clippings and the little jars of salves I have been making when I have had time. I had a salve for swollen, aching joints that I traded for paper, which Péra’s grandfather was once given as payment for a piglet but never had any use for. Then I traded an herb mixture that aids digestive trouble for several beautiful beeswax candles, which I will use this winter when I write to you in the dark. Other than that, most people walked past my table with polite smiles.

  The same could not be said for Tauer’s table. He stood there with his jars and pots and herbs, and people flocked around him. They paid with eggs, pastries, a live rooster, an ornate knife and even salt. When it became apparent that I would sell no more, I packed up my things and placed the sacks next to Gray Lady, who was munching on a shrub. When I passed Tauer’s table, I heard him doling out his medications accompanied by the most ridiculous prescriptions. “Speak not a word before taking this each morning,” he said to a pregnant woman, “and then walk, still without talking, three circuits around your garden.” “Stand at a moonlit crossroads and rub this into your wart,” he said to a young man and handed him a little pouch. “If your heart is pure the wart will disappear within a moon.”

  Now that the harvest is over I will make sure to pay Tauer a visit and ask him to teach me what he knows about herbs and healing. For he does have some genuine knowledge—I have witnessed his tinctures help people. I want to know how and why.

  I walked home afterward. There will be a dance this evening to conclude the harvest festival and growing season, and to salute the coming of the darker season that is spent mainly inside, when we occupy ourselves with all our hundreds of indoor chores. Yet I had no desire to take part; I was missing everyone at the Abbey too much. Instead I walked aimlessly through the fading daylight along the fences and streams. The air was cool and the night is bound to be cooler still, but I never feel cold in my red mantle.

  I happened to pass Kárun’s cabin. Smoke was rising from the chimney, so I already knew from a distance that he had returned from his travels. As I came closer I saw Kárun standing outside and whetting his ax. He was barefoot, wearing trousers and a shirt with rolled-up sleeves. As I approached he caught sight of me and called me over.

  “Enresdaughter! Come and crank the grindstone for me.”

  Cranking the grindstone is hard, tiring work, but I knew it must be difficult for him to keep his tools sharp on his own. Sharpening scythes and other tools is a two-person task. Without a word, I took hold of the grindstone’s handle and started to turn. Kárun sharpened his ax, tested the edge and then sharpened it some more. I was getting hot and had to push back my hood. His eyes flickered to me and then back to his hands. I did not stop turning until he had finished with both axes. Dusk had deepened, but I saw no warm yellow light spilling out from his cabin. The stars above us began to ignite.

  “So, Enresdaughter,” he said slowly, and sat down on the chopping block by the grindstone. His forehead was glistening with sweat, which he wiped off with his arm. He sat with legs wide, sure and comfortable in his body. I fiddled with the hem of my cloak.

  “Are you chopping firewood for winter?” I asked, looking up at the starry sky. I tried to find as many constellations as I could recognize: the Red Bear, the Burning Star, the Long Dance and the Roebuck and Faun.

  “Winter is harvest time for a woodcutter,” answered Kárun. “Time to head into the Crown forests again. The new nádor is a greedy man. I expect he wants to stay on the right side of the Crown by being the governor to bring in the most taxes and provide the most riches from his province.” It was the most I had ever heard him speak. I tore my gaze away from the stars. It was so dark that I could not see his face clearly, but he was looking directly at me. “But before that I’m going to start building a new house.”

  “Yes, your cabin has seen better days,” I said, but he just hummed in answer. “Where will you build it?”

  “I was thinking of the hill beyond the South Field, you know? Where three paths meet.”

  “A visible place,” I said, and looked at the old gray cabin nestled by the stream, half-hidden in greenery.

  “Easy to find from several directions. And near the forest. As a woodcutter and timber-rafter for the Crown, I can take timber for my own use.”

  “Did you go to Irindibul last summer?”

  “Yes. I stayed for half a moon, taking work where I could. Earned a few coins too, for nails and tools.”

  “You never thought of staying?” The stream gurgled over the stones, and a magpie squawked irately from a bare birch tree. The moon had risen above the treetops now and Kárun’s yard was bathed in a pale light. He brushed a little sawdust from his trousers, which I noticed were patched at the knees. He did not spend his earnings on new clothes, that was for sure.

  “No.” He looked at m
e. His gaze is always so earnest. I find it hard to look away. “I can’t live without the forest. Cities are fine to visit, but it’s only in the forest that I can breathe.”

  That is exactly how I have always felt! And I have used those very words to describe the same feeling. Before I had time to respond he got to his feet.

  “Shall I walk you back to the village?”

  I shook my head. “No, thank you. I can manage fine on my own. The nádor’s men have not been seen in these parts for a long time, and in the darkness I can hear them coming before they catch sight of me.”

  “As you wish, Enresdaughter,” said Kárun. “Thank you for your help with the grinding.”

  I nodded to him and walked back up toward the path. When I turned around again the yard was empty and the door was closed, but still no light peeked out.

  I walked home slowly. I was not in the least bit afraid to be alone in the dark woods. I know the path well enough to walk it even in darkness. When I am surrounded by trees I can breathe. I am not seen, not weighed on a scale and found to be wanting. I am just myself: Maresi of Rovas. This forest has witnessed the growth and life and work of my father and his parents and their parents, and it knows me profoundly.

  Yours,

  WINTER

  Venerable Sister O,

  I have not written in a while. Life is uneventful in Sáru during winter. It is cold and snowy, and we mainly sit inside doing tasks such as spinning, weaving, sewing, embroidery or repairing tools and utensils. I have never much enjoyed being inside. I am happiest outside on the seashore or mountain slopes of Menos, or in the forests of Rovas—with the exception of the treasure chamber, of course.