Red Mantle Read online

  My heart began to race. Just as it did that time in the crypt, when the men came and wanted to hurt Heo and the other little ones. My mouth was dry and tasted of metal. I could not move. I clenched my fists so tightly that my snake ring bore into my flesh. They must not come here, I thought. They must not intrude on my family or my village.

  Akios noticed my expression. “They haven’t been seen around here for a long time, Maresi. And I have my ax. I can protect you, don’t you worry.”

  A fifteen-year-old boy with an ax against seasoned soldiers on horseback.

  But there was no time for me to stand about worrying. The wind whistled through the treetops. I have always felt safe in the forest. My anxiety soon loosened its grip. Akios had built up a sizable pile of firewood, and it took us a long time to fill the baskets efficiently. We worked in silence for the most part, and when we were finished we sat down to eat the boiled eggs Mother had packed for us.

  I inspected my hands. They were covered in scratches, and I pulled a long splinter out of my thumb with a grimace. Akios laughed and held up his hands. His skin was tough and smooth.

  “Splinters don’t bother me. You’ve spent too much time sitting around with those books, Sister.”

  “Have you seen me read a single book since I arrived?” In truth I have been doing physical work ever since I returned, just like the rest of the family.

  “No. But I know you have them with you. Why aren’t you reading?”

  I was silent.

  “I thought you loved reading? At least that was the impression you gave when you spoke of the Abbey. The treasure chamber and all that.”

  “I love to read. It is my favorite thing in the world. But . . . everybody thinks I am strange enough as it is. I have no desire to remind them that I can do something that no one else can.”

  “But they’ll know all about it when you start your school. Then you’ll have to know things that no one else does. Otherwise how can you teach them?”

  I was silent again. He was right. I have missed my books more than I realized, Ennike Rose. Perhaps I need to make some time for them again.

  Suddenly the silence of the forest was broken. My eyes darted around and I tensed, ready to flee. Akios laid his hand on his ax and pricked up his ears. A man’s deep voice came from between the trees, singing a song. Akios relaxed and smiled, relieved.

  “It’s Kárun. He sings to let us know it’s a friend approaching and not a foe. Kárun often visits to see how I’m doing. He’s a woodcutter and timber-rafter. He knows everything about the forest and how to float timber all the way to Irindibul. I’d like to try it, I would.”

  Soon the singer revealed himself. He appeared walking through the trees with long strides and an ax over one shoulder. He was shorter than the men in Sáru, around the same height as me, but broader around the shoulders than Father. He was wearing the same brown trousers and striped waistcoat as most men do in Rovas, and he had long, straight hair that fell to his shoulders, but he was clean-shaven, which is unusual among men here. He did not stop singing when he saw us, but continued until he was standing right in front of where we were sitting and peering down at Akios.

  “Is that a new song?”

  Kárun nodded. “Aye. Learned it from three woodcutters I met upstream.” He looked at the baskets filled with firewood and the pile of wood still left. “Been working hard, I see,” he said, and I saw Akios sit up a little taller. “Has your ax stayed sharp?”

  “Oh yes, ever since you helped me sharpen it.”

  Kárun glanced at me. “And who’s this? Have you found yourself a girl?”

  I frowned. I still do not like being around unknown men.

  “My sister Maresi. She’s been away for many years, but she’s home again now. She’s going to open a school to teach the girls to read and write.”

  For some reason I wished that Akios had not mentioned the school. My frown deepened.

  “I see.” Kárun looked at me searchingly. He has thick dark eyebrows, but his deep-set eyes are a very light brown. “And why is that?”

  “Because knowledge is important,” I said hesitantly. I swallowed in an attempt to rid my mouth of the taste of the fear that flashed through me once more. “Because there is much to learn about the world that no one here yet knows. And because people who know how to read and write can take control of their own lives.”

  Kárun crouched before me and listened closely.

  “Naturally. But why will your school be for girls?”

  “Why not?” A rush of anger prodded me to meet his gaze, and he seemed less threatening now that he was no longer towering above us. “Why should girls not learn knowledge and skills?” I wished he would leave me alone. I have learned much in the Abbey, from Sister O and Sister Ers and Sister Nar, from the Mother Abbess herself and everybody else. But I have never learned about men. I do not know how to look at them or talk to them. I cannot understand their jokes and gestures and movements.

  It is not so with Akios. His body is a part of my body, and despite his beardy tufts and deepened voice he is still my brother, not a man. Do you see the difference?

  This man, this Kárun, he is not really much more than a boy. He is a similar age to Náraes. But he sat before me and looked at me with a man’s gaze, and questioned my school, and showed no signs of relenting.

  I stood up and brushed the eggshell from my skirt.

  “I am going for a walk in the forest,” I announced, and hastened away without looking back. I hope they did not notice that my legs were trembling. I heard them talking behind me. Akios asked something, and Kárun muttered a response. He really has an uncommonly deep voice, even for a man.

  It occurred to me that I should pick some forest thorn, which Sister Nar taught me can be very useful. It is an unremarkable little plant but it can both stanch blood and fortify women who have just given birth. It might come in handy when Náraes’s time comes. I do not trust that old man Tauer and all his superstitions. I removed my headscarf and filled it with shoots. The forest was full of birdsong and the late-spring scents of budding life and damp moss. Slowly my galloping pulse was soothed.

  Akios found me before long.

  “Why did you go off like that? Kárun was only curious about your school.”

  “No, he was not.” I tied the ends of my scarf together and stood up. “He just wanted to tell me how I should run my school.”

  “He was asking me all sorts of questions after you left.”

  “Like what?”

  “Where you’re going to hold it. What you’re going to teach. If you’re going to build a dedicated schoolhouse. If it’s only for the children of Sáru or for the children of other villages as well. For the girls of other villages.”

  I glared at him, but then I saw that he looked sad. Offended.

  “I’m a man. If I were a child you wouldn’t want to teach me to read.”

  “You’re no man!” I playfully punched his arm, but he did not smile. “Do you want to learn to read?”

  “I don’t know what use it would be for someone like me. I have to take over Father’s farm and work the land. But . . .” He gazed into the forest. “When you talk about all the things you’ve read in books, of all the worlds you can visit through those black marks on paper, it makes me wish I could go on those journeys too.” He smiled at me uncertainly. “It’s beautiful here, don’t you think? Are there forests like this on your island?”

  I looked up at the tall, whispering trees above our heads. I felt the great boundless expanse of the forest stretching to the east and north and south.

  “No. The tallest trees on Menos are not half as big as these. There are some narrow cypress trees that can grow quite high. And then there are harn trees, knotty with gray leaves. And olive trees and lemon trees, but you would call them bushes. The soil on Menos is not robust enough for giants like these.”

  “I like trees. I like being in the forest, working with an ax, being alone. If only I had brothers I coul
d’ve become a timber-rafter, like Kárun. He’s helped me a lot over the past few years. Shown me which wood is good, taught me how to make a tree fall where you want. Have you seen the cabin by the stream where he lives? His father built it, and he has plans to build a new house, but something always gets in the way, he says. Kárun does what he wants, when he wants. I wish . . .” Akios trailed off. “It sounds like a good life,” he concluded feebly.

  “Grandmother always said the life of a timber-rafter is the hardest of all. They have no crops to eat so they must always trade or hunt. When the winds and the currents are going in the right direction they must work day and night, almost without rest, to take the felled timber downriver. The rapids are terribly dangerous, and logs get stuck and have to be pried loose. Rafters often die in rivers. Many cannot even swim.”

  “Kárun can. He’s going to teach me this summer, as soon as the river is a little warmer. Kárun hunts when he isn’t timber-rafting, and he sells the furs. He picks berries and sells them to the castle for a good price. He travels all around the forest and knows all its secrets. Sometimes he works for a few moons in Irindibul, once he’s floated his timber down there. I think that must be freedom.”

  We started back toward the glade. It had never occurred to me that my brother might have a dream, or at least a dream of something other than what was expected of him. That is so unusual here. At the Abbey we are encouraged to discover what we are good at and follow our own paths. But in Rovasian villages all paths are mapped out from the moment you are born. Boys take over the farm from their father, get married and have children, then their sons take over the farm. Or you work at the castle and follow in your father’s or mother’s footsteps as a scrubber-woman, cook, washerwoman, cowherd boy, stable boy or guard.

  Nobody here has dreams. Perhaps that is why they have so much difficulty understanding the point of my school. Life is tough and there is no point in moaning and groaning. Nothing can be changed, not even through hard work, because everyone already works hard from a young age. Life is what it is, and you should consider yourself lucky if you do not die a drawn-out, painful death when your time comes.

  Not everyone is so lucky.

  Akios interrupted my thoughts.

  “You know, Maresi, if you insist on being so contrary and unfriendly to people who take an interest in your school, you’re going to have a hard time finding pupils.”

  Akios is right, of course. I must get used to talking to men. And I must learn not to immediately assume that all questions are challenges and attacks.

  He was quiet for a moment. “It was Kárun who killed that deer we were given to eat just after Anner died, remember?” I shook my head. “His father had just died. He was around the age I am now. He risked his neck to save the lives of everybody in Sáru. He brought meat to Jóla as well. If the nádor’s men had caught him he would have paid with his life.”

  We worked together to attach the panniers to Gray Lady’s back and tie more bundles of wood on top. She was heavily laden, and I felt a little sorry for her, but she was sparing Akios several days’ work. It did not seem to bother her; she was more interested in the green leaves on the branches Akios had lopped off when felling the trees. We set off homeward. The rain has relented over the past few days and now the ground is not nearly as wet. It was afternoon and the sun would soon sink into evening.

  “I ought to have practiced,” I said. Akios looked at me questioningly. “Teaching. I have never taught anybody to read. Could I possibly practice on you?”

  Akios looked at me dubiously at first, but when he saw that I was serious he smiled widely.

  “You’re a sly one, you are. How can I say no to helping out my sister?”

  “And how could Mother and Father object?”

  He gave me a friendly shove that almost sent me straight into the nearest ditch. He has grown strong, my little brother. I think you would like him. He has a warm and sunny nature, like you.

  Missing you is made a little easier in his company.

  Yours,

  Venerable Sister O,

  I have found a potential location for my school: very close to the village in a common pasture that is hardly used now that livestock is so scarce. It cannot take too long for the children to walk there, else their parents will be reluctant to excuse them from farm work for a sufficient length of time. The field is on the western side of the village, so eventually the children of Jóla will be able to come too. I intend to begin after harvest, and hire workmen using the silver the Mother Abbess gave me. We have access to free timber from the forest, but there are other necessary materials, not to mention paper and writing implements. Of course, the children can practice on planed boards to begin with. We will need books too, but we can manage without for a while. We will need a hearth to heat the school, and enough firewood to see us through winter. There is much to be obtained and arranged, but I believe I have enough silver.

  I have a clear and detailed plan—I am grateful that we discussed it so often and so thoroughly during my final year at the Abbey. I will slowly gain the villagers’ trust, and show them what benefit my knowledge may have for their children. At first they will find it difficult to understand what purpose it serves, but I must not be discouraged. I will pray to the Crone every evening for strength and tenacity.

  There is another thing bothering me, which no one can help me with. I miss the routines of the Abbey terribly. The comfort and familiarity of greeting the sun every morning, together as one. All the festivals. Our lessons. Though this is my homeland, I do not feel at home here, not yet. Sometimes I even forget to call it “home.” I feel like a ship with neither anchor nor harbor, bobbing through unknown waters, braced to hit land at any moment.

  I am finding it incredibly difficult to apply myself to my great task, Sister O. The days come and go, and I am doing far less for the school than I ought to. So much of my energy is spent navigating the expectations put upon me, and finding my place in my family and village. I did not count on this, and it is frustrating me.

  Your novice,

  My dear Ennike Rose,

  I have been thinking about the Maiden a lot this spring. Everything is burgeoning and new: seeds are awakening; buds are bursting. It is the season of the Maiden, so I carved out a little labyrinthine Maidendance in the mud by the stream and danced there alone one night. It was not the real Moon Dance—the time for that is long past. Besides, I am not servant to the Moon, and the Moon Dance must be led by one whom she has called upon. Neither could I undress, for fear that someone might see. So I danced my own dance instead: a dance for the Maiden and the spring and all things budding and new. But it felt strange, almost wrong.

  I serve the Crone, even though I never officially became Sister O’s novice. The Crone’s domain is the opposite of the Maiden’s—it is endings, death and decay. In many ways springtime feels awkward and contrary to me. Or else it is I who am awkward and contrary, but I prefer to blame the season.

  Inevitably someone did see me dancing. It was a new moon, yet the night was not dark enough, and I should have been more careful. You cannot imagine how much gossip there is now. It is not as if I blended in particularly well before, with my “men’s clothes” and unbound hair, flame-red cloak and talk of schools—but now! Maresi Enresdaughter making a spectacle of herself, alone outside at night! Seressa and Feira lean in close to whisper when they see me. Mother returns from visits to friends’ houses with a furrowed brow. She says nothing, but I can see her lamenting that her daughter should be so eccentric and odd. Generally, it seems that the warmth she showed me on my return is beginning to cool. She talks to me less, and I often catch her watching me with an expression I cannot interpret. Once I saw her touching my cloak, but as soon as she noticed me she quickly turned away.

  But not quickly enough to hide the tears in her eyes.

  At the Abbey everything was so simple because we always did everything together. Nothing felt remarkable or strange when we all took part in t
he same tasks and rites. I took it for granted that I would naturally continue in the same vein here in Rovas.

  However, nothing here is simple or natural. Nothing at all. Everything about me is freakish and wrong.

  I have started taking walks around the village at night in an attempt to rediscover the person I once was when I lived here, and recreate the feeling that this village is the whole world, and that I have my own natural place within it. I walk a wide circuit, between the forest and fields. I breathe in the scent of wet earth and moss, marshland and softwood forest. I listen to birdsong and the calls of the bucks in the woods. The stream burbles and gurgles, and the trees’ young leaves whisper in the wind. I discover flowers I have not seen, or even thought about, since I was little. My boots get stuck in muddy ditches and twigs snap where I tread. I walk and I try to remember what it felt like to be just Maresi Enresdaughter, one of the village children, in no way remarkable.

  Yet now I know that the world is so much greater than Sáru—greater than the whole of Rovas—and the place I once occupied has become overgrown without anybody noticing.

  The absolute worst event of late was today at dawn, when I encountered that Kárun man as I was returning from my early-morning walk. I often go out in the mornings, when no eyes are on me and I can be alone. Besides, during the day I always have so much to do, and in the evenings I sit out in the yard with Akios and practice teaching. I hate to complain about my mother, for that is not good daughterly behavior, and I am aware of how many of you at the Abbey have lost your mothers, or live in the knowledge that you will never see them again. Still—my mother wants me to do everything her way. I learned a lot at the Abbey and have performed many household chores there. I have my own methods now, and Mother has hers, and both are equally valid. But Mother refuses to recognize this. Every time I make soup, I have to take careful note of where the pot and the ladle are kept so that I can return them to exactly the right place. Then I have to spice it exactly how Mother does, and make sure it tastes the same, and wash the dishes using her method and not the method I was taught by Sister Ers. It means that everything takes a lot longer than necessary. If I make the smallest deviation, Mother says: “Why did you put the pot here?” or “I wouldn’t use so much chervil” with a pointed tone.