Red Mantle

by Maria Turtschaninoff

  Maressa and Dúlan rode in the cart with the adults walking behind them. We brought some goods to sell or exchange: a few sacks of flour; two full baskets of eggs; my goat cheese and a little boiled whey; Náraes’s pickled berries; Father’s fine wicker baskets; and a selection of my dried herbs, spices, potions and ointments. We headed to Jóla first and then farther along the paths and cart tracks to the southwest. It was a sunny day but very cold, with frost everywhere. Rowanberries hung in heavy clusters, which Tauer says is a sign of a harsh winter. Gray Lady followed the path obediently, and for once I did not have to fight with her at all. We were finally doing what she had wanted to for so long: leaving the village. As soon as we left Jóla behind I heard it. That tone. The tremble in the ground that spread through my legs and into my body and made my teeth tingle. I knew that it had been waiting for me, and it surged into me with incredible power, filling me from head to toe, and for a while I had trouble hearing anything else. It frightens me. I know that it is the sound of the Crone, and of Rovas. Perhaps they are one and the same. It is the Crone’s way of speaking to me here. I cannot hear it in the village, and I have started to suspect that this is another effect of the protective barrier I have created. It seems nothing can penetrate it. The Crone is using this tone to tell me that she wants something of me, and I have started to suspect what it might be.

  Only I do not want to face it.

  Other sounds returned before long: grass rustling under my boots; cart wheels creaking; Maressa eagerly pointing things out to her grandfather. The kite called triumphantly above us. The last migratory birds trumpeted overhead. They are heading south. My desire to join them on their southward journey is not nearly as strong as it was this time last year. The trees have shifted colors and now display red, orange and gold leaves that shine out from the muted green of the pines.

  We walked until hunger caught up with us, and then we sat at the foot of a scintillating orange rowan and ate some of the provisions that Mother and Náraes had packed. Then we continued walking. We had to cross a stream, and at one point we came to a small river that necessitated a lengthy search upstream before we managed to find a rickety old bridge.

  We walked past many fields, yellow with stubble. Later that afternoon we came to a small village of four gray wooden cottages huddled around a central yard. We saw no animals, but smoke rose from the chimneys. Mother approached one of the houses and knocked on the door while Jannarl lifted the girls out of the cart and I sat down to rest my legs.

  Mother was about to let herself in, as is our custom in Rovas, but just then the door was opened by a thin woman in a gray cardigan and unbleached linen skirt. She stared at Mother without speaking or inviting her in.

  “Blessings on your hearth,” said Mother.

  The woman in the doorway relaxed a little when she heard our ancient greeting, but she remained in the doorway and did not step aside to let Mother in.

  “Blessings on your journey,” she said quietly. “What brings you here?”

  “We’re on our way to the Murik market,” Mother said politely. “And we were wondering if we might heat some water over your hearth and let the little ones warm up for a spell.” She pointed to Maressa and Dúlan. When the woman saw them she smiled and stepped aside.

  “Of course. Excuse my rudeness, but you never know who’s on the roads these days. Do come in and warm yourselves up, but we’ve nothing to offer.”

  We all stepped inside and found ourselves in a simple room with real wood floors and worn woven rugs. Four wall-mounted beds ran along two of the walls, and there was a long table of dark wood, scrubbed clean, and two narrow benches with embroidered cushions. Everything was old and faded and tattered. I brewed some tea in a kettle the woman lent me. She had two daughters, one of Akios’s age and one a little younger. They were very beautiful, one fair and the other dark, with thick braids but skinny arms. I understood why their mother feared soldiers.

  As we drank our tea and the little girls played with a coal-black kitten, the woman and her elder daughter told us briefly about their lives. Sickness had claimed the man of the house the winter before last and now they worked the land themselves, with help from an uncle in the neighboring farm. They had no animals, not even chickens.

  “The nádor took some in taxes and we had no choice but to eat the rest,” said the woman without a hint of bitterness. She may as well have been talking about the frost—something inevitable, a force of nature. “He’s already taken this year’s taxes. I just don’t know how we’ll survive the winter.”

  The younger girl had severe red rashes. I looked at them closely.

  “If you come across some oats, you can use them to relieve that rash. Cook a porridge, let it cool and put it on your skin.”

  She shrugged and looked away.

  Before we continued our journey Mother and Father exchanged a brief glance. Then Mother went out to the cart and fetched an apronful of eggs, which she gave to the woman of the house.

  “As thanks for your hospitality.”

  The woman looked at the eggs for a long time but shook her head.

  “We’ve never put a price on hospitality in Rovas. I won’t be the first to take payment for a little warmth and water.”

  “Then consider it a neighborly gift,” said Mother stubbornly. Eventually she convinced the woman to accept the eggs.

  ϖ

  We continued in silence. The girls slept in the cart, wrapped tight in furs. When it grew dark, we camped on a beautiful slope from which we could see the smoke of Murik in the distance. We were set to arrive shortly after noon the following day. Akios and I lit a fire, and Mother shared out the provisions. Gray Lady’s chewing guided me into sleep, along with the persistent murmur of the tone of Rovas.

  ϖ

  This has become a long letter—forgive me, Jai. Too wordy, Sister O would say. Stick to the point! But this is how I must write, to capture all that has happened and how I have felt. This is my nature. This letter is going to be so long that it will take several days to write. Now it is too dark and my hand is too tired. Good night, Jai, my friend. I will continue tomorrow.

  ϖ

  It is afternoon and I have some time to myself. Everyone else is out, for a change. Sometimes it feels like I can never truly be alone, except when I walk around the village to fortify the protection. I do this more than ever now. I do it so often that Mother says I am going to tire myself out. It is true that I am very tired. My legs are shaking. I would happily sleep until late morning.

  If I lived with Jannarl’s sister Selas and our cousin Bernáti I would never have any solitude. Murik is the largest village I have seen here in Rovas, with around twenty farmsteads. It is situated in a beautiful, fertile valley, which has been cultivated for so long that the forest has been pushed back and subdued. How wonderfully lush it must be in the summer! Even now, when the bare fields are dark with muddy ground, it is a beautiful region. The village itself consists of about fifty buildings, which was, understandably, an overwhelming sight for Akios and the girls! Even Náraes looked around with wide eyes as we walked among the houses on our way to Bernáti’s farm. There were also lots of people out and about, on account of the market. We could see it in the distance.

  Tables and tents had been erected on one of the stubbly fields outside the village, horses and oxen were tethered around it, and smoke was rising from the forges of traveling blacksmiths and various fires where food was being cooked. Music and distant chatter traveled on the wind.

  Maressa stood up in the cart and almost fell out in her eagerness to see better. But first we were going to see Bernáti. He lives on a hill at the edge of the village, away from the noises and odors of the other farmsteads. I knew that they had a large and lavish home, but I was still astonished when I saw it. It is like one house upon another, Jai! Can you imagine? There is another floor where the roof should be, with walls around it and windows, and then the roof is on top of that. And their compound contains so many buildings tha
t it looks like a little village in itself. They are arranged along three sides, and then there is a real fence with a gate through to the yard.

  The first thing we saw was a soldier. He was guarding the door to one of the sheds, looking bored. A sword hung by his side. We all stopped at the gate, confused. Father immediately came to stand in front of us women, and Jannarl joined him. They spoke quickly, in whispers. The soldier glared at us but did not move.

  Then the door of the farmhouse was flung open, and Aunt Míraes stepped out onto the doorstep.

  “Brother!” she called, loud and clear. So that the soldier would hear. “Blessings on your journey!”

  “Blessings on your hearth,” Father answered with some uncertainty.

  “Come in, come in,” said Aunt Míraes. “You have traveled far. And you’ve brought the little ones, Míos will be pleased! Míos is the youngest of my grandchildren. Come on then, in you get.”

  Father opened the gate and we went inside. My aunt looked just as I remembered her, bony with protruding ears, like Father. She was wearing a white blouse with a high collar and red and green embroidery around the neck, a striped linen skirt and a large, impeccably clean embroidered apron tied around her waist. I never went to see her when I was little, because she and her husband, Tan, would always visit us. They had a horse and cart of their own and could travel the long road between villages in a single day. They would always bring gifts for us children: toys that Uncle had carved for us, some yummy cakes Auntie had baked. Their children, Bernáti and Tessi, were older than us and mainly spent time with the adults, but I was very fond of them. Tessi especially was very kind and always told Akios and me wonderful stories. She is unmarried and lives in the family home. She used to bring a huge lump of butter for Mother, and several cheeses she had made herself from the milk of all their cattle, and sometimes even sweet, delicious cream.

  That was all before the famine, of course.

  The soldier was watching us, still in silence, as we unhitched Gray Lady and I tethered her to a ring in a wall and gave her some straw to munch on. Then we went into the house. I will describe it to you, for it must be one of the largest farmhouses in all of Rovas. Well, in the cities they surely have larger and finer houses, but in the countryside two-story houses with so many rooms are highly unusual.

  Downstairs is the main room, with a large brick hearth and bread oven, where Aunt Míraes and Jannarl’s sister Selas do the cooking in large pots hanging from chains. Their household is large, so their pots must be too. The main room is enormous, with a great long table in the middle and benches on either side, and wall-mounted beds along two walls behind exquisite curtains, where the farm boys and milkmaids sleep. They have three lads and two girls working for them. The room is majestic, just imagine, with wooden floors and several long, striped home-woven carpets and shag rugs on the walls. There are only two windows, so it is a little dark, but very clean and neat. There is even a large table leaning up against a wall that can be folded down and used for the men’s carpentry during winter when it is too cold to work outside. Then there is a bedroom where Selas and Bernáti sleep together with their little boys, Míos, who is around the same age as Maressa, and Kunnal, who is ten. There is a cold room as well, or the milk room, as they call it, where they store food.

  From the entrance, a staircase leads up to the second floor, where my aunt and uncle have their private room. In another larger room lives Bernáti’s unmarried elder sister Tessi, and Bernáti and Selas’s daughter Unéli, who is twelve. There is also a chair loom and spinning wheel.

  Altogether there are thirteen people living in the same household. On our arrival everybody except Aunt Míraes was out at the market. She had stayed home, not wanting to risk leaving the farm unsupervised. She explained why briefly when we had sat down at the table and she had presented us with a large bowl of delicious hot porridge and a beautifully carved wooden spoon each to dig in with.

  “The salt merchant is here,” she said in a low voice with a furtive glance at the door. “That’s one of his soldiers guarding some of the salt stores while the merchant himself is at the market with the other two. As the largest farmstead in the village we’ve had to accommodate them, as usual. The soldiers have been sleeping in here with the farm boys, and the merchant sleeps in Bernáti and Selas’s room. They sleep with us, and the milkmaids have moved in with Tessi.” She looked at us somewhat worriedly. “We’ll have to move the farm boys and soldiers into the hayloft, which should be warm enough for the time being, so you can have space down here. We can’t move the salt merchant.”

  “Don’t worry, Sister,” said Father. “We’ll manage just fine.” But he and Mother exchanged an anxious glance. The salt merchant always travels surrounded by soldiers. And common folk like us want as little to do with soldiers as possible.

  “It can’t be helped,” said Mother quietly. “There’s no other accommodation to be had.”

  “We won’t need to stay more than two nights. Maressa and Maresi can sleep up with Tessi, and the rest of us can fit down here.”

  “You must be very friendly and polite to the merchant and his men, girls,” said Náraes to Maressa seriously. “Keep out of their way as much as possible, and only speak to them if they speak to you first.”

  “Yes, Mama,” said Maressa through a mouthful of porridge. “Can we go to the market now?”

  “Soon,” replied Jannarl. “How has your summer been?”

  “Mostly good,” said Míraes, who was still standing at the head of the table to make sure we had everything we needed. “Some of the fields were affected by the late frost, but only the small ones. We’ve had a good harvest, and healthy piglets have survived from all three of my sows. There are more soldiers in the village than just the salt merchant’s, of course,” she sighed. “They do take their taxes—I lost nine piglets. Not to mention the flour they took. Year by year it’s becoming more and more arbitrary how much the Crown thinks we ought to be taxed. This household has a lot of mouths to feed and it looks like a bleak winter ahead.” She shook her head. “We’ll manage, but it’ll be a tough winter. And there are many who are not as fortunate as we.”

  “Has the harvest been worse for others?” asked Mother.

  “No, not exactly. But many still haven’t recovered from previous hunger winters. And with these harsh taxes recovery is impossible for most. You’ll see for yourselves at the market.”

  “Shouldn’t you be a little careful, Sister,” Father said quietly. “Don’t voice your discontent so loudly with the nádor’s men in earshot.”

  “Oh, but it isn’t the nádor who has decided all this,” said Míraes, surprised. “He is only following orders from the Crown. The Sovereign of Urundien is the true extortioner.”

  Once we had eaten we went to the market. We were tired, but the children were eager, and we had only two days to fulfill all our tasks. We left our wares at home with Míraes and walked into the flurry of sounds and scents.

  The market was wonderful—until I saw what was happening at the edge. But up until that point, I was able to enjoy all the festively dressed people, the delicious smells and the wonderful products displayed on tables. There was fabric, yarn and thread for sale, and lots of pots and pans. There was a metalsmith and a blacksmith, each with an anvil. There were basket-makers, musicians, jesters, medicine men, spice merchants, and there in the middle of the crowd was the salt merchant’s stall with its blood-red canopy and a soldier stationed at either side. There were plenty of soldiers moving through the crowd, taking what they wanted without paying and staring at all the beautiful young girls. I was in constant fear of seeing the ones that had been in our village. The ones that took my silver and defiled Marget’s body.

  We moved as a group, Maressa on her father’s shoulders, Dúlan in her mother’s arms. Like a little flock of rural chickens we made our way through the stands. Náraes was the first to notice something strange.

  “See how hardly anyone is selling livestock. And f
ew are selling food either.”

  It was true. We found one man with a few skinny young pigs for sale at a ridiculous price. One woman was selling duck eggs and another was selling chicks. A merchant from the southwest had various smoked sausages on offer, and there was a large, red-cheeked woman selling aromatic fried piggies. Father said he had never seen food so expensive at a market. Everyone feared the coming winter and their stores were sparse. And sheep, which Náraes was after, were nowhere to be seen.

  “I suppose I’ll just have to buy wool then,” my sister said disappointedly. “I’d so hoped I could start keeping my own sheep.”

  I found neither paper nor ink. I suppose I should not be surprised. Literacy is practically unheard of in Rovas.

  It was as we were walking along the edge of the market, where the few animals that were for sale were kept, that I saw them. A group of soldiers were taking aim at something small that kept poking out of a rubbish heap with weasel-quick movements. One soldier threw an apple core at the moving figure, and a mop of dark hair disappeared into the pile. Soon it was back, and another popped up beside it.

  They were children. More than two. Emaciated children in ragged clothes, swiftly rummaging through the waste in search of something edible. I saw one—I could not say if it was a boy or a girl—nabbing the scrap the soldier had thrown and swallowing it in two bites. The soldier swore and picked up a stone, a big one. He threw it, and it hit one of the children on the leg. The child did not make a sound, but just crawled away and stayed out of sight.

  I had my staff, but no silver door appeared for me to open. The soldiers were many, and we were unarmed. I looked at the soldiers and I cursed them, summoning the Crone’s wrath and the Maiden’s curse and the Mother’s spleen. One of them turned around.

  It was the one who took my silver that first spring, the one wearing finer garments than the others. I turned my head quickly and hid my face in the hood of my cloak, but not before I saw him frown, as if trying to recall something. I positioned myself behind Mother, but he followed us with his gaze as we made haste to disappear into the throng of people. My heart was pounding—with rage and with fear.