42. Then Moss
THEN: MOSS
“No, she just stepped into the god tree. You can’t see the door, so it’s very frightening for you. I should have explained.”
“But she just disappeared! Robbie! Robbie!”
“I’m fine,” I called out. “It’s just an empty tree trunk!”
Magda gave a heavy sigh. “My gods, these church girls. I suppose you weren’t raised to magic and so it does not come to you in intuition. Roberta, please just pay attention to what you can see and feel, and then tell it to me.”
“You’re alright?” my sister asked, disbelief in her question.
“I am!” I reassured her. I blinked, rather underwhelmed with having just stepped into what appeared to be the same type of natural cave-like den that many trees had.
This one was only unusual in that it was so large it seemed to almost be the size of a small closet.
I turned around, my eyes adjusting to the dark.
“I don’t understand,” I called out. “What am I supposed to see?”
“I’m going to wring her pretty neck,” I heard the old woman grumble. “Touch the godsdamn walls, Roberta.”
I did. They lit up around me, a pale greenish-blue glow suddenly illuminating around my spread palm and fingers.
I gasped and ran my hand down the stubbly, peeling inside skin of the god tree.
The light was akin to the phosphorescent moss that grew all over Nyossa in cool colors that reminded one of moonlight and gemstones.
It seemed to come from beneath the wall, and I could see no other source than the tree itself.
“It’s like a little sky of stars,” I cried.
“I assume she’s figured that part out,” Magda went on to Rowena. “You’re both very smart, but my word, your sister is so oblivious sometimes.”
Rowena gave a reluctant giggle, seeming to have relaxed about my disappearing into thin air.
My hand brushed over a small hole in the surface of the tree’s insides. I brought my face close to the opening and squinted. Inside, I could see a hollowness that seemed to stretch beyond what little I could make out. I could also see what looked like moss. I yelled all of this out to Magda.
“Very good,” she hollered back. “Now take that hunting knife and cut that hole open a little bigger. No hacking at it. Just enlarge it somewhat.”
When I did as I was told, the cut I made requiring some effort, I saw an emptiness that was the width of a handspan between what must have been the outside bark of the god tree and this strange surface that coated the inside of it.
And all along the inner walls of this hollowness grew a thick, furry moss that was neither blue nor green but a color exactly in between.
It was a radiant, uncanny growth, and I had never seen its like.
“Did you find the moss?” the midwife demanded. “We’re waiting!”
“It’s like a hidden room is between the outer and inner bark,” I called back. “An empty circle. And the inside is full of a moss. But it’s not blue or green like all the moss in Nyossa. It is another color and it glows even brighter. I think it looks very sticky.”
“Can you stick your hand into the hole now?”
“Just a little.”
“Never ever put your hand into a god tree hole that seems like it might be too small. You will assuredly get your hand stuck inside the circle chamber. That inner bark is wet and soft enough so that it does not become brittle and snap off easily. But it is hard enough to protect what it hides, which is why you need the hunting knife. It’s tough enough and sharp enough to open up the natural holes that occur.
But, Roberta, you are never to stab at the inner bark.
Take only what the opening’s reach allows for collecting. ”
“What do I do now?”
“Reach in with the hunting knife and scrape off some of the moss.”
I did so, emptying the clump of it that spilled out through the little opening into my waiting left hand. Its glow dimmed and then went out completely. I communicated this back to Magda.
“Well, as it is illegal in Sheridan, it’s handy that it does that. Best not to have contraband that actually glimmers in the dark. Keep going. Run your hands up and down the inside. Find other holes. Fill up your sack.”
I did so, and then she told me to bring the sack out and take Rowena’s empty one. Rowena cried out again when I, according to her, appeared out of nowhere.
While I worked, Magda continued to teach. “You’re not to visit the same trees twice in a row. It is best to have the forest guide you. It takes a handful of moons for the moss to grow back on its own. Best to forget a tree once you’ve harvested from it. Let the forest tell you where to go.”
The moss was damp and heavy, and our sacks were uncomfortable slung across our backs, dripping with what must have been some kind of dew or sap it produced.
While it was clearly wet and messy, leaving a washy teal green stain on my hands, it smelled like citrus and freshly overturned fields of soil rich and ready for seeds.
By the time we reached the tree line, both of us were dragging our sacks and groaning, walking at a slant.
“Oh, it’s not that heavy,” Magda groused at us once we got the sacks inside the house and hoisted them up on her worktable, making grunts of exertion.
She lit her pipe, freshly packed with her unusual blend, and took a seat at the table, indicating that we should too.
“Take up mortar and pestle now,” she said between puffs.
“Grind it all down to a paste. Here,” she said, pushing a large clay bowl towards us.
“When you fill that, let me know.” And she sat back in her chair and closed her eyes.
We only knew she was not asleep because every so often she brought the pipe up to her mouth.
The moss was meaty beneath the slick but furred texture that reminded me of otter skin. Grinding it was a trial on our wrists, arms, and shoulders. It was done quickly by leaning as much of our weight as we could into the pestles and pushing.
The result was a dark, sticky sludge that retained traces of the unusual color. The skin under our fingernails turned blue, and I was grateful I was in the old brown tunic Magda had given me.
“At least this doesn’t smell bad,” Rowena commented.
That was how we spent our day, grinding the moss, collecting the paste, and depositing it into whatever receptacle Magda would set on the table once we had filled another bowl.
“What is this for?” Rowena asked me, knowing Magda was having a waking nap and not inclined to answer.
“It’s illegal. So. A drug?”
“You mean like lightleaf?”
“Maybe? Or the mushrooms in The Life of Una that let you see visions.”
“I love that book,” Magda mumbled. “They took that book though.”
I paused in my grinding, wiped my sweaty brow, and asked, “They took it? Who took it? Why?” I was unnerved. Would someone take away my prized possession?
The midwife opened her eyes and sat forward, removing the pipe from her mouth, her face pinched. “Father Kenneth. The priest before Tibolt. He banned certain books. Anything Tintarian, of course. They came to this house and took whatever they could find and burnt it to ash.”
“But you have so many books still,” Rowena said.
“Well, I buried some of these for a long time. In a tin box by the stable. But Tibolt did away with that,” Magda said.
“He didn’t have the heart to do so much.
It takes hard work to bring a whole settlement to heel.
And so most of these are used things the tinkers brought me from Eccleston, upon my request. But The Life of Una is hard to come by this side of Tintar. ”
“Perhaps, I have your copy,” I proffered, regretting it, thinking she may want it back. “I found it in Brother Tibolt’s office. And I kept it.”
She turned to me and smiled. “Then it is yours. I have it memorized anyway.” Magda regarded me and let that pink smoke curl out from her nose.
Then she said, “It’s time for tins,” and stood abruptly.
She went to one of the shelves along the wall and brought down a crate, then returned with it to the table.
Inside was a series of small, flat, tin boxes, each made up of two halves and wedged shut by one side being slightly smaller than its mate.
Magda emptied out the crate, not bothered by the cacophony of tings as the boxes spilled forth.
“Take up a spoon and put the paste into each one, shut it and pile it back into the crate. We’ve deliveries to do tonight.”
“Deliveries?” we asked in unison.
“Alright, alright,” the old woman groaned.
“I’ll explain this part. This is mother’s moss.
It grows all over the continent inside the chambers of god trees, but you have to have a little magic in you to see the door.
It is easily made into a paste like so. Requires no long distilling or brewing.
A bit, just the size of the thumbnail, taken daily on a woman’s tongue and swallowed, will prevent her from quickening with child.
It will also make her courses more regular and come with ease.
If a woman’s back pains her when she bleeds, it will be less so if she takes the moss.
And if she is early on with child and doesn’t want to be . . .” The midwife trailed off.
“Doesn’t want to be?” Rowena asked.
The old woman frowned. “Doesn’t want to be. If it’s only a moon, she can take a whole tin of this, mixed with tansy, and it will clear out her womb. The pain is appalling though.”
I looked at the growing stacks of tins in the crate. “Do you—Have you been distributing tins of this to the women of Sheridan all this—Since you got here? I don’t understand. Is that what we’re doing?”
Magda nodded. “I want you both to learn the other’s trade and practice, as it is better to have two minds know a thing than just one. But Roberta, this will be your work as the forager. You’ll harvest, grind, and dispense. By night.”
My twin and I looked at each other.
“It’s too dangerous to keep in stock at the apothecary,” the midwife went on. “It is better that Rowena never is seen connected to it.”