Chapter Six Hanan
chapter six
hanan
Silence is supposed to make us pensive, at one with the world.
But I don’t want to hear my body, and the other Sisters’ shaky, reverent breaths as we turn the pages and dip our bone quills into ink.
From my desk in the temple library, I’m almost eye level with the Tree of Life, and I follow the winding ropes of the branches as they punch through the stonework of our temple.
When I was a novice, one of the older Sisters had lied to me and told me that this was how Aistra was formed.
Imagine my gasp of incredulity when I first apprenticed with Mother Lin and saw illuminations of the truth: we built this place on holy ground around the sacred tree.
I watch Mother Lin now as she bends over her parchment, lips in silent incantation as she reads. She blinks in the candlelight, bringing the lamp closer to peer at the scrawls and then gently setting it down on the edge of her desk, careful not to upend or cause any sheaves to catch alight.
‘Shall I fetch you more supplies, Mother?’ I ask in a hushed whisper, standing gratefully and uncurling my spine from the stiff wooden stool.
Mother Lin startles from her reverie. She examines her desk and gives me a curt nod, before returning to her musings.
I gather my skirts and quicken down the tower stairs to the courtyard, where the Tree looms above me, stretching like a majestic haribon into the sky.
The clouds part, and my eyes try to remember daylight.
The mosaic tiles of our sun altar glisten and I touch my talisman to my lips.
The queen must be smiling at us today. I catch my own image reflected in the glass casement protecting the skull of Priestess Anossa and stare for a moment.
Then I pinch the soft skin of my inner wrist, glancing at the white, raised scars.
Do not compare yourself to those honoured ones.
We are the waters that only reflect the shimmer.
I hurry on my way, flashing the woven belt that indicates I am on scholarly duties, but the Sisters all keep to themselves as I pass by.
My footsteps echo off the vaulted cloisters and I swing myself round a stone pillar, nearly colliding with a pair of Sisters coming from the refectory.
The smell of food, something pungent with garlic, wafts from the kitchens.
The chapel and its coloured glass entices me near the exit from the main temple building, and I follow the courtyard around towards the outbuildings.
The rookery is beyond them all, at the edge of the cliff, tall and narrow with tiny slits for windows and a shuttered roof to release the birds. I almost bump into Mother Ossin as I head up the narrow stone staircase.
‘Sister Hanan, you’re not on duty here today.’
‘I know, Mother. I’m on an errand for Mother Lin.’
She nods and I retreat to let her pass.
‘You’re wild today!’ I greet the birds, refilling their bags of feed, seeds and berries scattering as they excitedly hurry to their treats. I let out a loud whooping laugh. Here is my sanctuary, one of the few places I can speak freely, shout when compelled, or sing above a hush.
‘Wait your turn,’ I try to no avail, moving a large kestrel so a sunbird can dip its curved beak into the feeder. She tries to claw into the handling gloves as I usher her back to her perch, checking the damage to the linen lining.
I press my nose into the drying flowers that hang around the upper level, warding off the stench as best we can.
They sway in the cold breeze that blows in through the aperture with its casement hinged back, the unbroken ocean visible beyond.
The vellum sheets are on the wooden racks, bound in place with twine, ready to be turned into parchment.
I take the lid off one of the barrels, releasing the trapped steam and foul smell of cleaning bones.
Bird bones are perfect for quills because they are hollow; it allows them to fly and allows us to write.
It makes sense that creating something so rare and beautiful would require so much death and decay.
I take some of the prepared parchments from a drawer and fold the sheets carefully, so they fit in my satchel. When I return to the library, Mother Lin is fastening her travelling cloak, preparing to leave. ‘Parcel up these tomes, Hanan. I’m taking them to the mainland.’
The Mothers make the trip regularly. They never say why, but I’ve caught glimpses of strange parcels, scraps of errant missives with someone named Morna in Umasa.
There is no boat to the mainland. All I know is that Mother Lin’s cloak is always damp when she hands it to me after her return voyage.
It’s a mystery, one that eats away at me.
Most of the books here are documents for posterity, at least for those who read: other Sisters and Mothers who will come after us, the stewards of the towns, the priestesses and the royal family in the Bastion.
They are ancient, remnants of crushed insects and dried flowers in between the crumbling pages.
As I package up the volumes for Mother Lin, I see a letter has been left open as the ink dries.
I read surreptitiously: The king is dead. Long live the queen.
I compose my face. If the king is dead, then the last priestess must have failed.
One in a long line of recent acolytes to serve the king and queen.
And if she has failed, she will have followed in the footsteps of her fallen monarch.
Traditionally one monarch pair would be served by one priestess.
The king is dead; a new priestess will be appointed.
We haven’t been told this yet, and with this secret knowledge, I have an advantage over the other Sisters.