Red Mantle

by Maria Turtschaninoff

  Father returns to the same place every winter, a whole day’s ski from the village. It is not far from the offering grove. He built a little shelter there long ago, situated close to the river but far upstream, where few pass. It is good hunting ground, and one can fish in the river too. Night was falling by the time we arrived so it was too late to fish or set traps. We pulled off our skis and Akios removed the pack from his back. Akios and I fortified the shelter with fresh, dense fir branches, and Father chopped wood and cleared a place for a fire in front of the shelter. Then he took some dried kindling from his sled and before long we had a lovely blazing fire. I took the little kettle out of our pack, filled it with snow and hung it over the fire, then once the snow had melted I dug out some herbs to make tea. It was wonderful to sit by the fire warming our hands on the wooden cups we had tied to our pack, while steam rose from the brew, darkness tightened around us and bright winter stars lit up one by one. Our breath hung like clouds around our faces, and the fire crackled and fizzled as it melted the surrounding snow. My toes were cold in Father’s old boots and the air nipped my nose, but I was content sitting on an old hide rug between my father and brother, nibbling on rye bread. It was like old times, when I was little and knew nothing of hunger winters or travels away from my family. For that time I was simply Maresi Enresdaughter, on a winter hunting trip with my father, and it felt good, Jai.

  Sometimes I wish I had never gone to Menos. I have not dared admit this to anyone else, but I think you might understand. Yes, the Abbey gave me so much—safety, food, knowledge, reading, and the chance to meet all of you—but at the moment it is making my life so difficult. So . . . convoluted. Before I left, everything was much simpler. I used to fit in. Now my head is too full of thoughts and questions that I would not have, had I never gone away.

  Writing this, an even more painful thought just struck me. Perhaps I do not regret being sent to the Abbey as a child. Perhaps I regret leaving it, and all of you, behind. Still, it is too late for regrets now.

  ϖ

  I know that you have never slept in a snowy forest, Jai, so let me indulge you. First we laid out a dense mat of fir branches in the shelter. Then we spread an animal hide on top and slept tightly snuggled together with a second hide over us. It was as warm and cozy as anything. We put wood on the fire before going to bed, and Father woke twice in the night to feed it, to keep wild animals at bay. I was awoken when he stirred, and lay for a while listening to the crackling fire and the murmuring tone resonating from the ground before sinking back into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  We rose before the sun. My hood was stiff with frost and both Father and Akios had icicles in their beards, but none of us had felt cold during the night. We shook the frost from the hides, and I made us some more hot tea.

  “Let’s lay the traps first,” said Father, “so we can collect the catch this evening, if there is any. Not likely though. More likely to get the first catch tomorrow. But we can spend the day fishing.”

  We scooped snow onto the fire and set off each in our own direction. Akios has been hunting with Father several times and knows all the best places to set traps. I was nine years old the last time I went out hunting and had no memory of where the animals tend to go. The hard snow crust revealed no tracks as clues either, but I chose three places that looked promising and set up snares.

  The day was sunny and cool, and melted snow dripped from tree branches, but the crust held out well and I did not fall through it once. I hate breaking through the crust, as it is difficult to free oneself again. I skied down to the river and found Father already fishing with a long line through a small hole he had cut in the ice. I borrowed his ax and cut my own hole in the ice a little upstream, then found a small tree stump, dragged it onto the ice and sat down. Then it was just a case of sinking the hook into the hole and slowly pulling it up again, over and over . . .

  Though I enjoy sleeping in a wintry forest, I do not enjoy ice fishing. Sitting still is unbelievably cold and boring—especially if you get no bites, which I did not. Akios joined us a little later in the day and immediately caught a trout and two big fat female perches full of roe. I caught nothing. The hum of the earth was intensifying in my body and making me squirm where I was sitting. Eventually I tied my line to the stump and called to Akios.

  “You can keep an eye on this. I have to ski to warm up a little.”

  He raised a gloved hand in answer.

  “Don’t stray too far,” said Father. “I saw the scratch marks of a bear on a pine trunk to the north of here.”

  “So I will ski to the east,” I said. Then I pulled on my skis, picked up my staff and crossed the river. The way up the riverbank was tough, despite the squirrel skin providing some grip on the underside of one of my skis. I had soon left my family and the river behind me and was skiing directly eastward. There was a humming vibration in my feet and ears. Soon my blood was pumping faster and I began to warm up. The sun had just about cleared the treetops to my right. I heard my breathing resound between the trees as rhythmically as ax chops. A kite surprised me with a sharp shriek overhead. Then suddenly the forest ended.

  I looked out across a long, treeless hillside where I was dazzled by the sun glittering on the snow. On the far side, at the forest’s edge, I saw a handful of working men and a large, shaggy horse attached to a cart. I had forgotten that winter is the time for felling timber, when logs can be easily transported to collection points along the river to be moved downstream when the ice breaks up. These were not the nádor’s men, but ordinary woodcutters like Kárun; yet my body tensed with alarm. Woodcutters are often freelanders, living alone and traveling from one timber-felling area to the next. Unknown men, unaffiliated with village or province. I became aware of how lurid my red cloak must be against the white snow. The kite circled above the men and screeched several times in quick succession. It felt like a warning. I had to flee at once.

  As soon as I regained control over my shaking legs, I turned around and skied faster than I have ever skied before, back to Father and Akios.

  Father looked with concern at my flushed cheeks as I swooshed onto the icy river.

  “Bear?”

  I shook my head and caught my breath. “Woodcutters. Not far from here, to the east.”

  “Did they bother you?”

  “No. I skied away as soon as I saw them.”

  Akios had come over to boast about his recent catch, but when he overheard, a wrinkle appeared in his frost-white brow.

  “A timber-clearing area this far north?”

  “Hasn’t happened in living memory,” Father said slowly.

  “Awfully close to the offering grove,” said Akios.

  “And the burial grove.”

  “But this land does not belong to the Crown,” I said. “They cannot fell trees here.”

  “All of Rovas belongs to the Crown, Maresi,” Father said coolly. “The only rights we have are those issued to us by the Crown.”

  ϖ

  After that I found it difficult to relax. The strange men were so nearby, and it made my skin crawl. We had caught a decent amount of fish—or rather Akios and Father had. I had no luck with the fishing at all. Akios and I skied back to our camp with the catch while Father did a circuit to check the traps. We spent the afternoon cleaning the fish and removing their spines to make them easier to hang up to dry once we got home. I lightly salted a medium-sized trout and then Akios grilled it over the fire while Father and I flayed, skewered and cooked a hare from one of his traps.

  As darkness fell we sat down to eat delicious, oily trout with our hands. Suddenly something moved at the edge of the sphere of firelight. Father’s hand flew to his ax and Akios leaped to his feet. I had no time to think at all, because the appearance of a fur-clad figure directly in front of us filled me with fear.

  “That smells good,” came a voice, and Akios visibly relaxed.

  “Kárun!”

  Kárun came to a halt, leaned on his ski pole and peered down
at us. He was on skis, and dressed in a fur hat and waistcoat that looked like wolf skin.

  “Blessings on your hearth,” he said, and smiled. The skin around his brown eyes wrinkled amiably.

  “Blessings on your journey,” answered Father. “What brings you here?”

  “I saw Maresi in her red cloak earlier today so I knew you must be nearby.”

  “Sit, please!” said Father, scooting over. “Plenty of food to go around.”

  Kárun removed his skis and leaned them against a tree. My heart was still pounding from the shock and my mouth was all dry. I took a piece of fish, my hands shaking, and passed it to Kárun once he had sat down between Father and Akios. He took it and looked me in the eye.

  “Did I frighten you?”

  “A little. I saw the woodcutters today and I thought . . .” I trailed off. Kárun nodded.

  “Sorry about that. But they are good men this year. Rovasians, no vagabonds. The foreman is from Urundien, of course, with orders from the nádor. But you have nothing to fear from them.”

  I swallowed and felt the tension melt from my body.

  “You’ve come very far north.” Father wiped his mouth with a gloved hand.

  “Yes.” Kárun popped a piece of fish into his mouth. “And I don’t like it. The land here is sacred. The nádor is sinking his teeth and claws ever farther into Rovas. But we would never raise an ax against a sacred tree, you know that, Enre.”

  Father poked the fire. “Are they paying well this year then?”

  “The pay has remained the same for many a year. I manage. I’ve no one else to feed.” He swallowed the last of the fish and gave Akios a friendly shove. “And how are you? Has it been a long winter?”

  “Not as long as usual. Maresi’s been reading to us, and it feels like we’ve traveled the world from our own home!”

  Kárun smiled. His face changes a lot when he smiles. It becomes lighter, more likable. Akios gestured in my direction with his gloved hand.

  “And Maresi has a school now!”

  Kárun looked at me. “Now, that is good news!”

  I squirmed. It was difficult to receive praise for a failure. “It is only my sister’s eldest, Akios and Lenna who come,” I muttered. “I teach them to read and write and a little counting. It is hardly a real school.”

  Father poured some of the tea I had made into his cup and handed it to Kárun, who took a sip.

  “I’ve come on far with my building project,” he said. “I got the roof on before the snow came. Last spring all I had was stripped logs and uncleared ground.” He looked straight at me, and it felt as if his eyes burned right through to the heart of me. I can still feel it. “Then I laid the first log.”

  Father smiled. Akios yawned, and Kárun set his cup down in the snow.

  “Well, I’d best leave you now. I still have a way to ski to our night camp.” He got up and tied on his skis. As he took hold of his ski pole it seemed that something occurred to him. “I almost forgot,” he said, and reached for an item that was bound to his back.

  It was a pair of boots. Brand-new and thick-soled, made of fine, soft leather, with buttons of white bone.

  “You’ve been walking around in your father’s worn-out boots,” he said quietly. “I had some tanned leather left over, and I inherited my mother’s cobbler tools, and maybe a bit of her knack as well.”

  “She was deft with the leather needle,” Father agreed.

  Kárun handed me the shoes. They smelled pleasantly of leather and shone in the firelight. Kárun had greased them well.

  “Been working on them by the fire through the winter evenings. We can’t fell trees after dark, so there’s plenty of fireside time. When I saw you today I rushed to finish them off.” He rubbed his cold-chapped hands together.

  I have not had footwear of my own since I left the Abbey, where we only ever wore sandals. I looked up at Kárun with my jaw dropped.

  He cleared his throat. “Well, I’ll be off then.”

  Kárun turned around and skied away between the snow-covered firs. He was gone.

  I thought that my father would make some sort of pointed comment, but he just washed Kárun’s cup out with a little snow.

  “Remember last hunger winter?” he asked my brother. “Kárun brought game to all the homes that were struggling, until the snow made hunting impossible.”

  Akios nodded. “He never asked for anything in return either. Even though he has so little himself.”

  “His father was a terrible man. Wicked toward wife and son alike. As long as he lived I wouldn’t let your mother go to Jóla alone, because that meant passing Eimin’s cabin, and you never knew what he might do. Remarkable that Kárun turned out to be such a decent fellow.”

  “How did his mother die? He doesn’t like to talk about it.” Akios washed the fish from his hands in the snow.

  “She was sick. His father refused to call for help, and when Tauer came to their house Eimin chased him away with bludgeon blows and foul words. Kárun was only young at the time, not much older than Maressa.”

  I looked down at the boots in my lap. There was so much work behind them. To get all that leather together. To cut everything just right. The even, patient stitching. I thought of him as a little boy, alone with a violent father. I quickly blinked away the tears before Akios could notice and tease me for them.

  Later, as I lay between Akios and Father, beneath fragrant fir branches, wrapped so tightly under the hide that only my eyes and nose peeked out, Akios whispered in my ear.

  “Do you realize that you didn’t even say thank you, Maresi?”

  That was unforgivably rude of me. I have to visit Kárun next time he is in the village and thank him properly. To think that I got new boots made specially for me! I have tried them on and they fit well, but there is also extra space inside for thick woolen socks. My feet will never be cold or wet in these. I will wear them as I walk around the village, wander in the forest and work in the garden and fields. It is a greater gift than he probably even knows. I can hardly believe that he made them just for me. It has the marks of a proposal gift, but without the proposal. We have only spoken to one another a handful of times. And he has never made an attempt to approach me in the way a man does when he desires a woman. As Géros clearly did.

  He truly is a peculiar man, that Kárun.

  ϖ

  We came home with masses of fish and a fair bit of game, and have been busy hanging fish to dry up on the barn roof where the animals cannot reach. It is perfect drying weather. The snow crust is no longer holding as firm, so that was our last hunt. Timber-felling must also come to an end now, and the woodcutters are making their way home in anticipation of the breakup of the ice, when they can float their timber downstream. We have dried some of the game, but we gorged on most of it in delicious roasts and stews. I showed Mother how Sister Ers taught me to prepare birds, stuffed and skewered, and for once she let me prepare the food my own way. We ate three whole white grouse, and Father boasted that it was the most delicious thing he had eaten in a long time. Akios poked me in the side and said that I would make a fine housewife someday. It made me angry.

  “Have I not made it clear to you and the rest of the village that I do not intend to marry? That there are other things I must do?”

  “I was only joking,” said Akios grumpily.

  “Well, I am not joking.”

  “Your school doesn’t take up so much of your time,” Mother said coolly. “There’s time for other things as well.”

  “This is only the beginning of my school,” I said despondently. “It is only the first stage. You will see.”

  I am not sure I even believe my own words, Jai, but I want to believe. I want to believe that I will make the school a success.

  Only, I do not know how.

  Your friend,

  My dear Ennike Rose,

  The sun is warming my cheek as I sit by the window and write this. Icicles are dripping from the roof and the stream is gushi
ng wildly under its thin cover of ice. Small flecks of bare ground are already appearing near the southern facades, and the birds are beginning to return from their winter homes. Birdsong is ringing out from the leafless branches around our house. It is afternoon. Father and Akios are outside investigating the ditches that need clearing now that the snow is melting. I am writing at the hearth table, where Mother is also standing and kneading dough. It smells faintly of sourdough, and Mother has rye flour all the way up her arms. She says nothing, but I know she thinks I ought to be helping her. There is no need for her to say it out loud. I can see it in her tensed lips and jerky movements and deliberate avoidance of me. She thinks I am being lazy when I read and write, except for when I am reading aloud for the whole family. Father thinks I should be left to my own devices, so she has stopped saying anything. I have tried reading her excerpts from my letters in the hope that she might understand. But it only makes things worse. A sadness appears in her eyes, and she looks at me as if I were a stranger. So I have stopped trying.

  The weather has been sunny and fine for a long time now, and everything speaks—no, sings!—of spring. There is still a lot of snow, but it shrinks with each day the sun shines. It is coarse and crunchy and impossible to walk on now, but I continue my walks around the villages along the paths I trod during winter. I always bring my staff, which keeps me from getting too tired.

  When I was out hunting with Father and Akios I heard a tone being sung by the forest, or by the earth itself, but I have not heard it at home. It appears in my dreams. It calls to me, luring me out of the village and into the forest, where some terrible thing is waiting and drawing me in—some nameless thing with teeth and claws—and my heart pounds and I wake up breathless and sweaty and am too afraid to go back to sleep.

  Gray Lady has become completely impossible. I often bring her on my walks, at least where there are tracks already trodden in the snow, but she acts wild and keeps trying to pull me off the paths and into the forest. She lumbers astray, headstrong, and there is nothing I can do to make her turn around. What does she think she will find in the forest? A handsome stallion? I would rather avoid the forest. I think of my dreams about the formless danger lurking in there, and keep to the paths.