With that done, I made a soup for Kárun to drink while he lay in bed. Then I looked at the expectant faces of my pupils.
“It has been a most peculiar day so far. What do you say we forget about our normal lessons and I read aloud from Erva’s collection to you and the patient?”
The children whooped with joy, and I took the book out of my bag. Then I read the story that begins: “When the serpent Keal first slithered up from the depths of the ocean, the realm of Lavora did not yet exist, and many small tribes lived in constant battle with each other. Olok, the hero, came from one of the smallest.” I am so pleased that I have some books in the children’s own language!
The serpent Keal can be a little frightening, and the elder children took the youngest ones in their arms so that they would not be scared—or perhaps so that they would not be scared themselves. Kárun lay perfectly still in bed and listened too. I would have thought he was sleeping, he was so still, but I saw his eyes shining. He did not take them off me.
When I had finished the story I sent the children home, and told them not to come the next day so that Kárun could rest. Marget tidied away my herbs and dressings and cleaned the mess I had made cooking soup.
Then I made sure that Kárun ate a little.
“Your tea helped the pain,” he said once he had eaten. “But the story helped even more. You read well.”
“I am glad your pain has lessened. You cannot have slept much last night.”
“No.”
I looked at him closely. His cheeks were so pale that I guessed he was still in great pain. All at once I found I could hardly stop myself from reaching out a hand and stroking his forehead, his hair, his rough cheeks.
“You need sleep more than anything else. I hate to leave you alone.”
“Send Akios. He can help me if need be.”
I blushed. It had not occurred to me that Kárun would probably need help to relieve himself.
Akios willingly packed a blanket and a few things and set off in the twilight to spend the night at the school and help Kárun. Then I visited this morning and made breakfast for them both. On arrival I seemed to interrupt a serious and intense discussion between them. I have tried asking Akios about it but he skillfully dodges my questions.
Kárun insists that I must continue with the school.
“I didn’t build this house for it to become an infirmary,” he said in that earnest way of his. “When winter comes into full force the children will have to stay at home. You have half a moon at most before their parents keep them indoors. So let the children come. It doesn’t bother me. I might learn a few things.”
So the children will come, and the school will continue.
ϖ
For ten days now I have been teaching with Kárun in the schoolhouse. It was difficult at first, but I have gotten used to it now. Used to his eyes permanently locked on me, and the way it makes me feel.
His gaze has an effect on me. I can admit that to you. You predicted as much in your most recent letter. How could you know something that I had no idea about?
Sometimes my knees go weak just from being near him, I have to sit down, and there is a buzzing in my ears that barely allows me to hear what the children are saying. I want to be close to him, for the same reason I wanted to be close to Géros, but for other reasons too. My body desires him, but beyond that I want . . . I am not sure what I want. I like taking care of him, making sure that he eats properly, has clean sheets on his bed and that he is well. But more than that, I simply want to be with him. Talk to him. He has told me all about his childhood. After his mother died little Kárun had to take care of himself. When he was old enough to tend the fire, his father would often go out logging and hunting in the forest and leave him alone for lengthy periods. On these occasions Kárun would wander far and wide. “I got lost so many times throughout the year that I learned never to get lost again,” he said once. He always felt at home with Tauer, and it was Tauer and his wife who made sure he was clothed as a boy. I asked him once if he ever felt lonely, and he smiled at me. He is slow to smile and it reminds me of the sunrise over the forest edge, gradually illuminating his serious face, more and more, until the sun transcends the treetops and suddenly bathes everything in a golden light. I feel as though I light up inside as well. I am always hoping to make him smile. “I am never alone,” he answered. “I am surrounded by the trees. The birds, the animals, the wind and sun. I always have the best of company.” He can recognize every bird by its song, every animal by its paw tracks, teeth, claws and droppings. He has even made friends with some animals, and his voice becomes soft and warm when he talks about the doe that showed him her fawn one spring, or the hedgehog that visited him every evening when he lived alone in his cabin during the first year following his father’s death. When his voice warms like that, I wish that he would continue talking forever.
When I read aloud, I am reading to him. Recently I read the love poem “Unna the Seafarer,” and every word pulsated between us.
But more than anything, I like the way he looks at me. Whenever possible, his gaze lingers on my face or body for the briefest of moments. The feeling it ignites in me . . . I have no words for it, Ennike. I know that he desires me. I am not so naive. I could surrender to this weakness throbbing in my body, and he would not protest if I joined him in his bed. I dream about it, every night alone in my own bed. His broad chest, his strong arms—I want to feel them around me. I want to feel his skin beneath my fingers and lips. I want to inhale his scent deeply.
I am blushing as I write this. But you are the Rose, so you understand. You know what power is hidden in the body and desires of a woman.
Yet it is not the Rose I serve. I belong to the Crone, though I never officially became her novice. Being with Kárun would be different from how it was with Géros. I would not be satisfied with only his body. I would fall into the trap that Náraes made me promise not to fall in. I must not let anything distract me from my calling.
I am writing about this only to you, and not to Jai, because she would not understand. In her latest letters it seems as if she wants me to choose a different path. I wonder if it is because she is so fond of children? She does love looking after the junior novices. I have never felt that way about children. Of course I adore the little ones at the Abbey as well, not because they are children, but because they are themselves, if that makes sense? Especially Heo. But she is more like a sister to me than a daughter.
My choice is no great sacrifice or sorrow, believe me. But it is with a certain melancholy that I gaze upon Kárun and know that that life is not for me. Maybe it is wrong of me to embrace the pleasure of being close to him, of taking care of him and listening to the tenderness in his voice when he talks of the forest that he loves so profoundly. The pleasure of trying to make him laugh, and that flash of happiness when I succeed. I do not want to hurt him, or lead him to believe that there is a chance of something more developing between us.
Soon he will be healthy again. He will resume his solitary life, and I mine. This is only right and proper. Still I cannot help but feel, my Ennike Rose, that when this happens, my world will be grayer for it.
Yours,
WINTER
Venerable Sister O,
Mother is terribly sick. It has become impossible to ignore. Tauer and I have both tried to treat her cough with all the brews and concoctions we know, but they have brought her only brief respite, and even that is getting harder to achieve.
Winter has come and snow has fallen. School is closed because it is difficult for the children to get there, but I would have canceled school in any case. I do not want to leave Mother’s side for long. I leave her only to walk around the village with my staff, and Father and Akios stay with her when I do. For several days now she has been too weak to leave her bed, and I fear that soon she will be unable to get up at all. She eats meager portions, and often cannot even keep those down. She had very little extra flesh to begin with, and now she is
so thin that I can count her ribs when I wash her with a moist rag and help her into a clean chemise. I try to coax her into eating by preparing the same kinds of food she used to make when I was little. I flavor them exactly how she used to, but it makes little difference. She only takes a few spoonfuls anyway. She has tried—she is so incredibly brave—but it simply is not working.
“It can’t be much fun to be mothering your own mother suddenly,” she said the other day and patted me on the hand. “I know what it’s like to watch a loved one transform into someone you don’t recognize.”
“You cared for me when I was little,” I said, swallowing back the tears. “Now it is my turn to take care of you. And you are just the same as you have always been. You are still my mother. Nothing can change that.”
I fear that she will die, Sister O. I believed I no longer feared death. I believed that the Crone was my friend, and I had overcome the terror that affects most people when they stand before her door. I was wrong, Sister O, how terribly wrong I was. I was young and stupid and full of arrogance! It is only my own death I no longer fear. Losing a loved one is a different matter altogether. I have only just got my mother back, after so many long years apart. I refuse to let her go now. I feel that if only I can sit by her side day and night, the Crone cannot come for her.
She still has strength to speak, though she is often silenced by severe coughing fits, and she likes to hear me talk. I read aloud to her and tell her about my time at the Abbey. She listens now in a way she did not before.
“I was devastated when you left,” she said one evening as I sat massaging her feet with sheep fat. Her voice was weak and I had to lean in to hear her. “A part of me died. Then when you came back, full of all these things I’ve never seen or experienced, and calling another woman Mother, I found it very painful. You had experienced so much without me. You were entirely your own person. It felt as if you no longer needed me.”
“I do need you, Mother! I always need you—I cannot manage without you!” I could say no more. I weep anytime she starts speaking this way.
“Of course you can,” she said. “And it’s a great comfort to me to know that. That’s what Leiman said to me before he died, and I understand now what he meant. You should know that I don’t regret letting Father send you away. Not anymore. Because otherwise you wouldn’t be the woman you are today. I’d be worrying about you, and wondering if you could take care of yourself. But now I know that everything will be fine.”
Then she started coughing, and I told her to speak no more. She soon fell asleep. It is a relief when she sleeps, for I know that she is not in any pain. I went inside, where Father was sitting before the fire with a knife and some whittling work in his hands. But he was not whittling. He was just sitting and staring into the shadows. I sat next to him and leaned my head on his shoulder.
“She has lived a good life,” he said slowly. “She has said so. She said that she’s been happy with me. She doesn’t blame me for anything.”
“She will continue to live a good life,” I said. But then Father sat up straight and turned to face me.
“Maresi, you are blind. She is dying. You must realize that. All we can do now is help her to have as good a death as possible.”
I could not believe that he would say such a thing. My own father!
“We can’t just give up!” I cried.
“You think this is a battle you can fight,” said Father, putting his arm around me. “But it’s not. There is no one to fight against.”
He is wrong, Sister O. Tell me he is wrong! I drove away the frost. I can fight against the Crone. She shall bow to my will. I have no intention of letting her in. I walk around the village and beat my protection into the earth, and I know that I can keep her at bay. I sing songs—Rovas songs and Abbey songs—and I feel in my guts and my bones how impenetrable the protective shield is.
This time I am the one who decides.
ϖ
Several days have passed since I last wrote. Mother has stopped speaking, and it is an effort for her to breathe. I feel powerless. If Sister Nar were here she could surely cure her, but my knowledge and abilities are not enough. All I can do is sit with her. I spoon-feed her water now. Drop by drop.
Akios can hardly bear to come into her room any longer. He goes out, despite the bitter cold. I do not know where he goes, but he takes Silla and Berla with him, for which I am grateful. It is difficult having outsiders in the house right now. Náraes comes to visit every day. Sometimes she brings the children with her but usually she leaves them at home. She wants them to remember their grandmother as she was before, she says. That makes me angry.
“Why do they need to remember her at all? She’s right here! She’s not dead!”
I expected Náraes to be angry and to argue with me. I wanted an argument. But all she did was take me in her arms and hold me. She said nothing.
Outside a terrible snowstorm is raging. It is beating down on the house so hard that the walls are shaking. It is the worst we have had all winter. Sometimes I think I can almost hear the voice of the Crone on the wind and in the icy drafts that creep in through the cracks in the walls. But I do not see her door, and I cannot hear her calling for Mother. Father and Náraes and Tauer are all wrong.
Father and I take turns to stay by Mother’s side. Right now she is sleeping in my bed. Akios sleeps on the ledge above the fireplace and I feed the fire to keep the cold at bay. Sometimes I have to step out of the room awhile, for it is so torturous to hear Mother’s gasping, strained breath. Her limbs are ice-cold and no matter how much I rub and massage them I cannot make them warm. I have a pot of water over the fire where I brew various herbal teas, weak ones, that I feed to her. But nothing seems to afford her any relief.
ϖ
It is one day since Mother stopped speaking. She is so thin that her skull is clearly visible below her sparse hair. Náraes and I have cut it short, to stop it from tangling into knots. Mother lies with open, unseeing eyes, though sometimes her eyes seek mine and it seems that she is trying to ask me something. I know not what.
I barely remember the last time I slept properly.
I have little appetite myself. Father cooks porridge and Náraes brings bread, but I cannot eat. Walking around the village is becoming harder and harder, not only because of the storm that refuses to relent, but because I am so weak. It feels as though something out there, the Crone’s murmuring tone, is pressing down on me in the gray winter light.
Father and Akios are busy building something out in the woodshed. I know what it is. They go out shortly after daybreak. Planing and sanding, sawing and nailing. It infuriates me, but there is nothing I can do. Just keep Mother alive. That is what I am doing. She is alive. Everyone says that she has not long left, yet she lives still.
ϖ
Later.
Náraes came to sit with me this evening, when Father was tending to the animals and Akios was out somewhere, I know not where. I was sitting with my porridge bowl in front of me, and she nudged the spoon closer to my hand.
“Eat now. You mustn’t grieve yourself to death. Maresi, Mother has led a good life. Not as long as some, but good all the same. She’s had Father and us. Let go, Maresi.”
I saw that Náraes was crying. Her tears looked so unfamiliar. Everything inside me hurt. I wished I had tears to cry, but my eyes were dry.
“I miss her,” whispered Náraes. “I miss my strong, vital mother. That’s how I want to remember her. Not as she is now. All I wished her was a quick, good death, but it doesn’t seem that she is getting that.”
I pushed the bowl aside and stood up. I could not listen any longer. Mother’s room was filled with the sound of her short, wheezing breath. She was lying under several animal hides, yet she was so thin that the bed looked almost empty. When I sat on the edge of her bed she looked straight at me. She uttered a noise. First I thought it was only a whimper, but when I leaned nearer I heard that she was forming a word.
“Out,�
�� she moaned weakly. “Out.”
“You want to go out, Mother? There is a storm outside. It is too cold.”
She looked at me pleadingly. Then I understood what she wanted. By Goddess, the realization cut through me like a knife. It hurt a hundred times worse than when I was stabbed in the belly in the crypt. I was the cause of all of this suffering. The fault was mine, and no one else’s.
“Yes, Mother. You can go.” I was crying so hard that I could barely get the words out. “Forgive me. You can go.”
My tears spilled onto the ring on my finger—the ring you gave me. It glinted like the metal on the door of the Crone. The door that I had not seen, even though Mother was on the brink of death. She had been on the brink for a long time.
I got up and picked up my staff from where it was leaning against the wall. I went out. It was a clear, starry, ice-cold night. The cold struck me like a blow, permeating my nostrils and my chest with every breath. I could feel the protection I had built up during all these moons of walking around the village, like an imprint in the air. It extended down into the earth, among the tree roots deep below. The very air tasted of it: metal and soil. I raised up my silverwood staff to the black sky, high above my head, and I struck. Again and again. With each blow my carved staff met the barrier. The wall. The protection I had made. It was strong, Sister O. It was forged of all my fear of hunger and starvation, my fear of the nádor’s men, all my fear of losing everyone I had only just been reunited with. It was forged of my knowledge, of the symbols of power on my staff, of the ancient magic of colors and hair, and the life force of the First Mother. When my staff met the protection and I could feel how robust it was, I understood that it was not constructed by my power alone. No such thing could come from an ordinary human. It was the boundless power of the First Mother and I was merely its channel. It is the same as the power of Anji, the spring that bestowed gifts upon the First Sisters; it is the power that Arra invoked when she sang forth the wind and fire and mountains, it is the energy that Heo’s foremother traveled through to restore balance to her people. It is the energy that helped me to open the Crone’s door in the crypt and slay all those men. It is a force far greater than any one person: it is the life force behind all things.
Red Mantle Page 23
