Chapter Three Hanan
chapter three
hanan
I can taste the winds whipping across from the mainland, turning to ice as they reach us.
The waters of the Winter Isle are swimming with restless souls.
Death extends her fingers towards me, and I pull my thick cloak closer, clutching the dark stone talisman around my neck.
A carved triangle to represent the strength of the collective of the Temple Sisters and Mothers.
‘Do you feel it?’ I ask Malostra, closing our bedroom window.
I breathe in the lingering scent of sea salt, sweat, and fraying rope.
Malostra gets up with a sigh. ‘Save it for the Mothers, Hanan.’
I stiffen at her words but follow silently as we make our way into the hall.
Many of the other Temple Sisters are already gathered, pools of dark dresses and cloaks in the glowing candlelight, and we join them.
Above us, there is a large painted glass that depicts the Bastion, beyond which the real Bastion is visible, and we hold our dark faces aloft towards it.
The clouds that blanket the Winter Isle part for a moment and sunlight penetrates the cold glass, reflecting a dozen colours onto the stonework floor.
I’ve looked at this every morning and night since I was a child at prayers, ever-present and reassuring.
I smile reassuringly at Sister Hoss, who bites her lip and holds the trailing hem of her gown.
I remember the overwhelming awe of my first ritual: a feeling of finally being among people like me, of being part of something bigger.
‘Sisters of Aistra,’ Mother Joca intones. ‘Death has come to us today, as it does every day. There is a disturbance in the waters. Some of the strongest amongst you may have felt it.’
I can feel Malostra’s eyes on the back of my neck, but I focus intently on Mother Joca.
‘We feel the hurt of the dead, their confusion. Let us guide them to the Tree of Life.’
We fan out into the triangle formation, and I take my place beside Mother Lin and Sister Hoss. We hold hands with our neighbours, feeling the warmth of their skin on our own. Hoss’s skin is clammy, and she fidgets, trying to loosen my grip.
‘Touch is a strong bond,’ I whisper to her. ‘Do not fight the connection.’
We chant together: Blood feeds the Roots.
Salt feeds the Sea. Song feeds the Sky, our voices starting low and controlled and rising, first like furious birdsong, then like the waves crashing against the isle.
The heat between our hands becomes too much.
It feels as if all my skin is on fire. At last, we let go, and I open my eyes, bringing my palms in front of my face.
A bright green vine springs forth, pushing its way through my skin and unfurling upwards.
I watch as it stretches languidly, and a flower grows from a bud to full bloom in an instant.
It blossoms and pulses, a shimmering, vivid ocean blue.
Mother Lin laughs, and I look around as the other women display their floral offerings.
Hoss cries out in alarm at the small bud writhing on her skin.
‘You must worship it,’ I tell her, placing my hands gently on her shoulders. They lower slightly and she observes the plant, like it’s a beast that might bite unbidden.
I grab Hoss and Malostra’s hands and we form another, smaller triangle.
‘It’s the strongest shape,’ Malostra explains at Hoss’s wide-eyed expression.
The Sisters and I walk in a silent, reverent row to the temple courtyard.
The wind has died down and snow falls softly, settling on our cloaks as the Tree of Life stands proud and gnarled.
It spans the width of our wingspan several times over and is taller than the temple itself.
It’s branches and vines reach up towards the clouds, the streaks of colour running vertically up the bark.
At its base, hardy flowers such as thrift, lavender, and buckthorn vie for sunlight and resist the salt-laden breezes.
We gather in a crescent moon around the roots, placing our hands on the Tree’s petrified bark.
It pulls and sucks on my skin as I make contact, thirsty for the nutrients of the plant I’ve created.
I try to resist the maelstrom of my thoughts and focus on the background humming of the Tree, the power of my Sisters.
A man is close to death. The breath is being forced from him.
He is choking, regretting a half-life lived well but lived grasping, guzzling the small joys as they came.
He is grieving, haunted by a past from which he hasn’t moved on.
Then he becomes distant, less potent. Now I feel others: human, plant, animal, their terror and confusion like iron on my tongue and stones clashing in my ears.
‘Do you have a hold on them, Sisters?’ Mother Joca asks.
I struggle to grip their souls, each as slippery as a fish.
As we grip each other’s hands, our minds begin to coalesce, our flesh and souls entwining.
At first it is an echo, and then all the Sisters’ voices come together.
In my mind’s eye we are standing in a deep well, the roots of the Tree of Life a spiral staircase leading to the bottom.
Every Sister stands on a step, their hand on the shoulder of the Sister in front of them in an unbroken chain.
The souls are the wind in our hair, passing down through the tunnel of the staircase.
At the bottom there is an endless void, and the souls shriek out in fear.
We tell the lost souls to move forwards, to pass to the other side.
A bitter tang of a thought worms into my mind: we’re told they sleep in eternal silence in the Tree of Life, but I don’t know what’s beyond.
Why should they listen to me? What reassurance is there in the honeyed words of an ignorant?
One of the reluctant souls falls into the void.
As they descend, they pull my hand, and it’s no longer wind against my skin but cold water.
I gasp and snatch back my hand to find bright yellow hair wound round my fingers.
No, not hair – thread. Golden thread. The rushing torrent of the lost souls is sharp like calamansi.
‘Sister Hanan!’ Mother Lin cries out, her arms around me.
As I come back into my body, I realise I’m on my knees, gripping the Tree of Life. I feel the other spirits of the dead, distant and calm. They’ve passed, stepped into the void at the bottom of the well.
‘I’m all right. I just felt so—’
‘You ventured too close to the Beyond,’ Mother Joca snaps.
Mother Lin gives me a gentle look as she helps me to my feet. ‘Your empathy is a wonder, Sister, but be careful.’
It wasn’t my empathy that almost caused me to fall into the void. When that reluctant soul grabbed me, I felt their fear and then an absence, like the void itself had swallowed every feeling.
Sometimes I think the peace of death would be so delicious. It is a dark thought, which I try to quiet. We are supposed to lust for Life, but I can’t help but be tempted by the oblivion of the dead.