Red Mantle

by Maria Turtschaninoff

  The women behind me combed their hair, and the wind increased in strength—a dark, unstoppable wind full of ghostly whispers. The snow began rushing down the hillside. The sun was obscured by a dark cloud.

  I stood firm and held my staff and thought of Arra the Raven-Haired, who moved an entire mountain with her song, and I knew that I could do the same if I had to. For I was not alone: I had support. The breath of the Crone was seeping through the cracks in the door. I looked straight at the commanding soldier.

  “Leave, while you still can! And bring a message to the nádor: this is what the people of Rovas are capable of. We can summon the wind. We can unleash the mighty heavens upon you. See how we conceal the very sun! We will not back down. And we demand that he comes here in person to parley. For no one harms the forest of the dead.”

  They hesitated for a moment, but the rumble of the snow was unmistakable, and when one of the soldiers at the back turned his horse around and set off at a gallop up the hill, the others soon followed his example. They just barely avoided the avalanche that came tumbling down from two directions at once. I had to leap down from the barricade to avoid it myself. But the mighty timber held. The pass between the hills filled with snow, blocking the way in and out of the valley.

  Your friend,

  Most Venerable Mother,

  We are awaiting the arrival of the nádor. Everything hangs on him heeding our summons. But something incredible is happening: many more are coming whom we did not summon.

  The whole of Rovas is here.

  The first people arrived a few days after the soldiers left. They came from villages in the south, not too far away. They crossed the fallen snow with skis and sleighs to enter the valley. They brought food and tents. Whole families are coming, with children and all. Some have a pig or goat with them.

  “Blessings on your hearth,” said an old woman among the new arrivals.

  “Blessings on your journey,” I said.

  My own village assembled to greet everyone, somewhat reservedly. Marget and Akios went around offering cups of hot tea. We have no moonshine. Once the old woman had drunk I squatted beside her in the snow and accepted the half-full cup she handed to me.

  “How did you know to come?” I asked.

  She was the type of woman whose face brings joy to all who look upon it, with round cheeks and the warmest brown eyes among all her wrinkles. She patted me on the hand, in a way that reminded me of my mother.

  “The dead called to us,” she said. “Night after night. The ones who have made their final journey to the realm below the silverwoods came to us in our dreams. The elders held council and realized that it must be a summons. The dead need us. So here we are.”

  We told them all that had happened. We decided that the children could sleep in one of the cabins we had built, to keep warm at night.

  And day after day, more people come. They have heard the call of the Crone, or the dead, or the earth itself—I could not say. But they are coming. At first it was something like a harvest festival, then an autumn market, and now it is a larger gathering of people than I have ever seen. The atmosphere is strange: somber, weighty. Everyone knows why we are here. We are here to make a stand, once and for all. To show those men who dominate, suppress and exploit where the line is. It runs right here, before the realm of the dead. Before all that Rovasians hold sacred.

  Our relatives from Murik have also arrived, reluctantly, drawn by the call. Aunt Míraes is here with her husband, Tan, my cousins Tessi and Bernáti, his wife, Selas, and their children. Bernáti had not wanted to come, his sister Tessi told me when we met. He resisted until the end, saying it was all superstition and it would be foolish to leave the farm empty and unprotected. But the dreams would not leave him in peace, until eventually he refused to sleep at all.

  “Every night when he closed his eyes he saw all his neighbors and friends who had died of starvation and disease. Silently they dragged him down with bony hands, wanting to take him below the silverwood roots. He is afraid of them.” She shook her head. “My grandmothers called me with the lullabies they used to sing to me when I was little. They sat under their burial trees and sang, so sweet and tender, and the dreams made me very happy. It was like having them here with me again.”

  Everyone has been contacted in a different way, from what I understand. But everyone has heard the call, some through love and others through fear.

  Tessi thanked me for taking care of the orphaned children that her own family had prevented her from helping. I told her that all thanks should go to my mother and father, not me. And then I wept, as I often do when I speak of Mother. I do not weep because I am torn apart by grief, but because tears lighten the burden. I am so glad to have had these last years with her. So glad that we could be together, and that I could see so many different sides to her that I never knew before. I wish that she would visit my dreams and call to me, so that I could be with her again. But it has not happened.

  Meanwhile, people are generally in high spirits, especially the young. They have never experienced anything like this before. The threat is abstract and unimaginable to them. They are meeting old friends and new, and all the conversations around all the fires flow back and forth from early morning to late at night. There has never been so much life beneath the crowns of the silverwoods. And not only is friendship blooming, but love too. I am sure that a child or two has been conceived here. So you see, Venerable Mother, all three are gathered here: the Maiden, the Mother and the Crone. They bring me strength and comfort. Whatever may come to pass, all aspects of the First Mother are here with me. I know now that they have always been here, and I never left them behind as I once thought. But now I feel it unmistakably, even physically: the ground is simmering with their power. Though it is midwinter, I feel it—it is life itself, and death, in their eternal dance.

  We have passed the longest night of winter and the light is returning. There has been some sunshine and milder weather. It is good. The shelters keep out the worst of the cold. I have even heard birdsong on the sunniest days. The snow crust is hard enough to go out hunting, so teams have been heading into the woods for game, and we are getting by. This is the Crown’s forest, of course, but necessity knows no law. Deer and hares and various wild birds are roasted over open fires by teams of cooks. Several porridge pots hang over other fires, and everybody helps themselves as they need, and adds a little flour or cornmeal to the pot in exchange.

  But the most magical, wonderful part of all of this, Venerable Mother, is that the parents bring their children to me in the morning.

  “If the children of Jóla and Sáru are learning all that reading and writing, then our children certainly won’t be worse off,” they say.

  I have more than a hundred pupils now. It is a miracle! After such initial struggle to convince even people I had known all my life to send their children to my school, I now have more pupils than I can manage! I have divided them into several groups, so that they can all get at least some benefit. One group for the more advanced students, one for the very tiny ones, one for the middle, and one for the elder children. Akios helps me to teach a basic introduction to the world of letters and words. I teach them letters, to write their own names, and to read each other’s. I also read aloud to them, and the grown-ups often join us. The whole forest quiets down to listen to my voice.

  Venerable Mother, when I speak, everybody listens. Old and young alike. Can you believe it? Do you remember when I first came to the Abbey, clumsy and ignorant and childish? Could you have envisioned this back then? I certainly could not! The strangest part is that I feel like exactly the same girl now as I did then. I am always a little afraid of making a mistake, of exposing myself, and of people realizing that I am just a child and nobody they should listen to with such attention. It helps to know that the First Mother is with me. But only a little.

  So this is the current situation of life in the valley. Nobody’s needs are going unmet. But waiting is difficult, and not k
nowing what will happen when the wait is over is more difficult still.

  Respectfully,

  My dear Ennike Rose,

  Kárun arrived yesterday. His leg has healed enough for him to safely put weight on it. A group of people from Murik passed the schoolhouse with a horse and sleigh and he asked if he could ride with them. I did not go to greet them. I stopped doing that a while ago. So many people have been coming that we have had to take shifts to welcome the newcomers, show them where to build their shelters, explain to them what has happened and how everything works in the camp. There are shelters stretching far in among the silverwoods now.

  He came looking for me at dusk. I had withdrawn, in need of just a grain of solitude, and climbed up on the barricade, which is hardly necessary now that the snow from the avalanche almost reaches the top. We are building no more defenses. If the nádor comes with an entire army then ordinary defenses will be of no use. We have a different plan altogether.

  I enjoy straddling the highest log and watching the sun sink behind the trees on the southern hill (now during winter the sun goes down in the southwest rather than directly west), and then watching the stars compete to be the first to shine. The Black Star is this evening’s winner. The Crone’s eye among all the darkness. I was sitting up there when someone coughed below me. I sighed inwardly, for I truly need these periods of solitude to cope with all the responsibilities placed upon me during the day. Uvas and Náraes have taken charge of the running of the camp. I am not sure how my sister became the one to take on this role, but she fulfills it very well. She rushes around all day giving out orders and making sure that the different shifts and cooking teams are working and that everything is running smoothly. She seems to be enjoying herself. Father and Jannarl and Jannarl’s parents take care of the girls while she is busy.

  Anyway, when I looked down I saw a man in a leather waistcoat supporting himself on a crutch. His breath hung in the air around him like white smoke, so I could not see his face straightaway in the shadow of the barricade. Of course it was not difficult to find or recognize me: no one else has my blood-red mantle. Then he said my name.

  “Maresi.”

  I almost fell to the ground. I had to hold on with both hands. His deep voice pierced straight into my stomach. And deeper down.

  Now I must be honest: I have been thinking about him constantly since coming here. I have tried to ignore it, tried to suppress the image of his eyes and his hands, and memories of the few times we have touched. To no avail. Something about those memories makes me feel strong. He has shown me such incredible care from the very beginning. No one else has ever cared about me like he has, my dear Ennike Rose.

  “Yes?” I said, so softly that I had to clear my throat and repeat my response a little louder.

  “Can you come down?”

  “One moment,” I called. I took a few deep breaths. Then I climbed down.

  The wrinkles around his mouth when he smiles are so beautiful. How could I never have noticed that before? He reached out a hand to help me down, then paused mid-movement and realized that this was not a wise idea. I jumped down without help.

  “How’s your leg?” I asked, and inspected it. He chuckled softly.

  “Well, I can walk. But I could never have gotten here if I hadn’t been given a ride.”

  I forced myself to look in his eyes. It is not just that they are kind, Ennike. Oh, I cannot describe them. Neither can I describe the feelings that flow through me when I look into them. I feel happy, and scared, and hot, and heartbroken, all at once.

  “My mother and father called to me. In my dreams. I knew that I must come.” He looked away. “I just wanted you to know that I’m here. If you need me.”

  He remained standing there as though he had more to say. My mouth was dry. I wanted him to say it. But when he spoke, they were not the words I wanted to hear.

  “I am but a humble woodcutter, Maresi. I know that. I have nothing to offer you. Not like . . .” He trailed off. “But I will try to give you anything you need. Just ask.”

  He turned around abruptly and limped away on his crutch.

  I remained by the barricade for a long time. The place where he had stood smelled of resin and smoke. Or perhaps I only imagined it.

  I have not seen him since. The camp is large. Perhaps he is also keeping himself withdrawn. But just knowing that he is here, close by, keeps me awake at night. My whole body feels aglow. My heart starts to race every time I catch a glimpse of someone who even resembles him among the crowds.

  Your friend,

  Beloved, Venerable Sister O,

  This letter will be a long one. I am exhausted to my very bones, but you taught me that I must write things down while the memories are fresh. Any detail might be of importance, and human memory is so fallible, especially with things that are painful to remember. This can be a blessing for ordinary women, but a curse on a chronicler. And I have realized that this is the role I continue to fulfill; these letters are the chronicles of Maresi Enresdaughter’s return from Menos to Rovas. Moreover, I know that you will add these letters to the Abbey’s archives. So it is as chronicler that I now write, and I will endeavor to do so as lucidly and clearly as I am able.

  I will begin with the dogs.

  ϖ

  Thirty days after the soldiers’ departure from the valley, the nádor arrived. I could not say exactly how many people had gathered in the valley camp, but I would guess it was in the thousands. An unfathomable number. Our situation had become very difficult and food was scarce. Yet no one complained, and, as far as I know, nobody gave up and went home. Of course, we were all very conscious of the possibility that we might not have homes to return to. Who knows what the nádor has done with our deserted farmsteads.

  We were on our guard; we had been the whole time. Yet the sound of a bugle early one morning took us by surprise. This was three days ago now. Nothing could have prepared me for the events of the past three days. I have had nothing to hold on to, no good advice to follow. I have acted entirely on instinct, and I still cannot be sure whether I have done the right thing, or if I could have done better. We all came out of our shelters and log cabins and looked to the southern mouth of the valley. High above us, against the white of the snowy hills, was the outline of hundreds of figures on horseback. Weapons glinted in the sunshine, and there was a brilliant display of colors: bright red, deep green, midnight blue, gold and silver on banners and shields.

  I turned to my people, poised to instruct them to herd the children into the cabins, as we had agreed long ago. But before I could utter a word the bugle sounded again, and its note rang out loud and clear through the valley. And then another sound: dogs.

  They came surging down the slopes, fifty dogs or more, with gaping jaws. The snow crust held firm beneath their swift, light paws. I had no time to react, no time to act; my heart was beating so hard that I could barely hear their baying, and my mouth was too dry to speak a single word. The hounds were streaking toward us, I could see their wide-open red mouths, their long, sharp fangs. I heard screams from behind me as mothers tried to usher their children inside or up into the trees. I thought about my nieces. I thought about my pregnant sister. But mainly I was thinking of myself, Sister O, and the feeling of those teeth sinking into my flesh.

  Thankfully, not everybody was as helplessly dumbfounded as I. Fathers, brothers and sons rushed forth to the barricade, armed with bludgeons, rocks, clubs or even just silverwood branches. They would not let the dogs near the women and children without a fight. Women were among them too. Grandmothers with nothing to lose, with long gray braids and home-knitted cardigans, stood wide-stanced and determined, awaiting the attack armed with bludgeons and brooms.

  The dogs spilled around the barricade, slipping and sliding on the snow. Our barriers were built to keep out men and horses, not dogs.

  “Stop,” I whispered. Where I found the strength to speak is a mystery. It was an effort to utter that single word. I had no comb, n
o staff, no sword. Only my own voice.

  The dogs halted. They all turned their muzzles to me and regarded me with shiny black eyes. They stared at me for a long time. Then they changed direction, padded over to me and sniffed at my hands. Their tails were calm and still. Then they simply lay down, rested their heads on their paws and whimpered softly.

  Standing in a sea of dogs, I looked around. There was a dense silence. Not even the birds were singing. I saw the men waiting up on the ridge, with their bright colors and shining weapons. Nobody knew what to do next.

  They had hoped the dogs would chase us away. They had not planned on a mounted attack, for it is too difficult to ride down into the valley on the precarious snow crust. Our defense was not great, but they could not see our preparations from up there. They must have seen that we were a large gathering from the many smoking fires, shelters and people, though most were hidden beneath the white-leaved canopy of the trees. Nevertheless, they surely understood that we were ordinary folk and no warriors.

  The soldiers and brightly colored riders retreated. We paused to breathe and regroup: We got the children to safety as far away as possible and armed everyone who was willing to fight in a possible battle with all the weapons we had: clubs, axes, a few bows. The dogs remained lying in the snow, following my every movement with their dark eyes. It was deeply unpleasant. I was in conversation with Uvas about what to do next when the message came. A messenger was skiing his way down into the valley.

  As I walked toward the barricade I saw my family among the people preparing to fight. Only Náraes and the children were not there. Father gave me an anxious look, but then smiled encouragingly. Akios raised a hand. His pale eyes flashed with anticipation. I saw Kárun too. He watched me climb up the barricade and station myself at the top next to Uvas. I stood up tall.