Chapter Two Ris
chapter two
ris
Biba is trying to help again. She’s a small figure in her dark dress among the white sheep, the scant streaks of golden wool catching the light.
I watch her from the open door of the barn, pausing my work at the loom.
There’s a warm sun today, but a tickling breeze moves through the trees, bringing salt spray up from the coast.
‘Fetch, this way,’ Biba tells the dog, running after him as he does the real work of getting the sheep to their pen.
She runs up to me, panting, dog at her heels. ‘Look, this one has gold in it.’ She shows me a scrap of wool, which one of the sheep has shed. ‘Only the finest Spring Isle wool,’ she says in such a serious tone that I can’t help but laugh.
‘Even if it is to wipe that mewling maw.’
Her eyes go wide.
‘Aistra bless their birth,’ I mumble quickly.
There’s to be a baby at the Bastion, the only possible heir now that the king has passed. That will be my task for later: weaving this wool into a pattern fit for a royal blanket.
Biba stares at the wool, holding it up to the weak sunlight. She frowns. ‘Why is there so little?’
I sigh. ‘I don’t know, my love. But we must make do with what we have.’
I take a deep breath and survey the farm: the cottage at the top of the hill and the shed where we shelter the vegetable garden, and at the bottom of the hill the hardy orchard firmly away from the sheep’s pen.
My ancestors built the farmstead from two robust golden sheep, impressing the royals with the lustre and quality of the work we produce.
We’ve kept the home fires burning for generations.
But some kind of sickness is taking hold, and everything I’ve tried has failed.
We switch positions, with Biba in the barn and me in the fields.
The hours pass quickly as Biba cards the wool, brushing out the clumps and knots to create a soft, flat layer for the spinning wheel.
I keep an eye on her from the field as I shear the sheep, the rhythm of my work lulling me into a focused trance.
Fetch disturbs me every once in a while, for belly rubs.
My body knows the way, years of daily toil.
Biba’s about the age I was when I took on the trade.
It took time to remember my father’s words, to find my own way of teaching her hands to hold steady.
But I was nothing like her, nothing extraordinary.
I make my way back to the barn with the meagre basket, my mind already on the loom in the corner and the next months of labour.
The queen is still early in her pregnancy, but a babe arrives whenever it sees fit.
Hopefully we’ll be done before Magliyab festival.
Biba is catching on fast, but teaching an apprentice means half the work gets done in double the time.
Fetch slinks in behind me, whining at Biba and sniffing at her pockets.
‘I’ve nothing for you,’ she says. He knows treats have been off the menu for months now, but I suppose he’s a hopeful dog. We all have a hunger in our eyes these days.
Biba is holding something small and furry in her arms. Fetch jumps onto his hind legs, trying to lick it.
‘Down, Fetch. Bad dog.’
He huffs and whines but gets back down on all fours.
I approach Biba and feel the marbled tufts under my fingers. An otter-cat. Stiff but still warm.
‘Where did you get this?’
‘In the field.’
I look over at the basket of carded wool. It’s not as thorough as if I had done it, but I can’t reprimand her for shirking her duties. There is so little of my time for her, and the guilt weighs heavy on me.
I examine the creature again – it’s not much more than fur and bones. ‘It probably starved. There’s not much food. Even the fisherfolk are bringing in smaller catches.’
Her shoes and dress are muddy, a tear where the hem has caught on something. I sigh and add it to my mental task list.
‘You must leave the dead in peace.’
She scrunches her face. ‘I don’t think it is dead.’
I smooth her hair down. ‘It is – just look at it, my love. I’m sorry.’
‘No, I can feel warmth. There’s part of it still in here.’
She strokes the dead thing tenderly, petting its smooth head and whispering incoherent soothing sounds.
It’s a grotesque spectacle. I reach out to stop her hand.
The otter-cat thrashes suddenly in her arms, desperate to get out of her grasp.
It yowls and jumps down, landing feet first on the floor.
After a moment’s hesitation, it bolts out of the house and into the trees at the edge of the field. Fetch gives chase, barking in alarm.
‘Fetch, heel boy!’
The dog stops in his tracks but keeps an eye on the marble blur, now halfway to Alev.
‘See!’ Biba claps her hands in triumph.
I glance around, but only the sheep are watching. The otter-cat was dead; it was definitely dead.
I watch Biba sleep that night. She runs warm, cheeks red as apple blush, sweat plastering her dark hair to her face as she swipes at invisible enemies in her dreams. When she was a baby, I told myself this was for her, that it was safer for me to keep her close in case anything happened in the night.
I’m still unmoored by the emptiness in the bed, where he used to lie.
Sometimes I think I feel him, hear his laughter rippling across the fields.
I hope he is as unmoored as I am, drifting forever between worlds.
The guilt stabs at me but it isn’t as sharp as my rage towards him, even after all this time.
Biba is so much bigger now and I can barely fathom that six harvests have passed since she was born.
She strives towards independence every day.
It was no comfort when she started to walk.
Now I can barely keep track of her, coaxing her out of her hiding places in the woods.
One day she will carry herself clear off the Spring Isle.
I’ve returned to the warmth of my bed when a tapping penetrates my uneasy slumber.
There’s a dark mass outside the window and I grab the wooden rod for the shutters, bracing.
Once my eyes adjust, I see it’s the otter-cat, yellow eyes catching the moonlight.
It meows gently and I hesitate. It rolls over onto its belly.
An invitation for pets. I open the window and rub the soft fur until it purrs blissfully, eyes rolled back in pleasure.
The purring gets louder and faster, an intense vibration as though the creature’s belly is full of bees.
I snatch my hand back. The otter-cat writhes, yowling, its belly spurting blood.
It falls off the windowsill and onto the rug with a sickening thud, no longer moving.
I clap my hand over my mouth and try to contain my shock. The blood pooling on the rug smells sweet, like sheep’s milk left in the sun. I turn to see if I’ve woken Biba. She’s sat up in her bed in the corner of the room, staring wide-eyed at the gruesome scene. I leap back when I see her.
‘Did I do that?’
Her tone is strange, a combination of remorse and morbid curiosity.
‘No, my darling. The otter-cat was sick.’
I will not linger on it, lest I make it true. This is an unspeakable power. Holy Aistra, I cannot let them take her from me.