Chapter Twelve Hanan
chapter twelve
hanan
Malostra’s been cold with me, wearing scarves to prayers until the bruises fade and acting like nothing happened until we’re in our room.
Then it’s a silence, hanging thick and loaded.
Our beds are pushed against their separate walls, the distance between them an ocean of space.
I don’t think she knows how to articulate what happened, but something snapped inside Malostra.
I have tried to apologise but she says she doesn’t believe me.
I don’t know what to say to that, what I can do to show her it was simply a step too far.
At least having Malostra ignore me makes it easier to focus in classes.
I make my way out of the temple and into field, clutching my woollen cloak close to me.
The field is flat and barren of trees, with the wind too wild for anything other than the mighty Tree of Life to withstand, and it is partly sheltered by the temple’s courtyard.
The plant life out here grows close to the ground, and I take the worn path around the rows of hardy vegetables and admire the brief clearing that shows me the silhouette of the mainland in the distance.
A cluster of buildings that make up Umasa, our nearest port town.
It looks so close and yet the waters churn ice cold and inhospitable, with nowhere to safely dock lest you get splintered on the rocks.
I shiver and hurry to the stone shelter where I can see the rows of Sisters in their long dark cloaks, huddled around the dirt plots of the more delicate herbs and vegetables.
Even once inside there is little respite from the wind.
It may do a decent job protecting the crops from the elements, but it does little to shelter us.
‘Today, we focus on plant lore,’ Mother Lin announces. ‘We will be dissecting and studying the properties of our garden and meadow.’ Her eyes roam over us. ‘What are the main crops that thrive in our climate?’
‘Leeks, parsnips, kale.’ Nusi’s face is young and eager. She keeps her hair shorn so she can commune better with nature. She’s really taken the suffering-as-strength edict to heart. She beams at Mother Lin’s nod.
‘And who can name three uses for this herb?’ Mother Lin holds up a sprig of lavender, crushing it gently and sniffing it.
‘Sleep, fertility, and pain,’ Malostra says.
‘Elaborate,’ Mother Lin encourages.
‘Tinctures and tonics – you could create a salve—’ Malostra stumbles, trying to get her thoughts in order. The wind whips up our cloaks and dresses, and we break out in audible gasps at the cold.
Mother Lin gives a tight smile; clearly, she, too, is ready to get back inside. ‘That is correct. Your task, Sisters, is to create a remedy for abdominal pain. It must be effective, but gentle. Mother Joca and I will judge your efforts and decide the most satisfactory remedy. You have three hours.’
Our cloaks billow around us as we stream into the field and scatter across the isle.
Malostra and I eye each other, veering as far away as we can.
She goes off in the same direction as Sister Nusi and her friends, and now everyone knows that something is amiss.
The women sneak glances at me, heads tilted close as they whisper against the wind.
No matter. I will forge my own way, as I always do.
I find my favourite cove on the south side of the isle, my own private sanctuary where I go to hide.
It is a great unburdening, when the waves drown out my screams. I’ve been here more often recently, sitting on a piece of driftwood I dragged here years ago, staring out at the ocean.
Strange things have washed up on shore: cargo from foreign trading ships, translucent fish, and most recently a dead otter-cat.
Today I’m not here to clean up the debris or rest in quiet contemplation. My place has its useful secrets.
On the edge of a cave, I find the sad, almost bare branches of a sea buckthorn. I grasp the prickly stems firmly and pluck the last orange berries, placing them gently in my pocket.
Next, I seek out the tufts of beach wave, or thrift, which use rocks to shelter from the buffeting winds and salt-laden tides.
I pick the flowers and bundle the pink petals into my pocket, ensuring the needles aren’t digging into my skin.
I scramble up the cliff, following the grooves I’ve worn into my route over the years.
I used to think of inviting Malostra down here, but it was beautiful to have something just mine.
We are so rarely alone here; to stand and watch the waves come for me, to slowly take me away, is a secret pleasure.
The other Sisters are running frantically, their focused murmuring just audible on the wind.
Everyone has split off now; there are no alliances anymore.
I spot Nusi with an armful of lavender, clumps of soil trailing her as she rushes back to the temple.
The fool has pulled up whole plants by the root. Has she no respect?
I head to the garden and hide in the now empty stone shelter as the chaos unfolds.
It’s easy to blend in when you’re not drawing attention to yourself.
Animals have learned this, as have plants; I mimic them, my movements slow and deliberate as I kneel on the ground, the wet mud soaking through my dress.
Parsnips cure stomach ailments. The dirt nests under my fingernails as I gently extract a plant from the soil.
The leaves are full and verdant green, and the tuber is fat and a deep burnished orange.
Malostra is right about lavender: it is good for sleep, fertility, and pain, among other things.
I gather that last, once the other women have foraged the best from the coastal meadow.
I’m left with the meadow’s scraps, but I think that it is enough.
Through the gaps in the stones, I spy women darting back and forth from the kitchens, their faces red from the heat of their experiments.
I slink inside and make to grab a pot. A sharp elbow digs into my side. It’s Malostra.
‘All the burners are occupied,’ she says coldly.
I look around and see that it’s true. There are women waiting eagerly, glaring over their neighbour’s shoulders as they finish up, as if their eyes could make their Sisters’ remedies fail.
I take the pot from the fixture and dash outside; afraid someone will take it from me. It’s the ill-favoured vessel, one prone to sticking, misshapen from being dropped too many times. It will have to do, for I have no other.
I return to the cove, finding driftwood and piling it to create a small fire.
If the burners are occupied, I suppose I’ll make my own.
I know how. It is not a skill we use frequently but when I read about it in the temple library, it kindled a memory.
It was before I was taken to Aistra, so I must have been very young.
It’s a smudgy remembrance of woodsmoke and a warm voice.
Two big strong hands with dirt under the nails, sparking two stones together, showing me the best shape and texture.
The stones catch and the spark jumps into a fireplace. A deep laugh.
I look for suitable stones and copy the motions in my head.
I spark two stones, and the fire smokes the kindling.
I put my face on the rocks and blow to encourage the embers.
Eventually it catches, but not until after I’ve a lungful of smoke and soot on my cheeks.
I hang my pot from a branch over the fire and slowly add all the ingredients, stirring frequently lest it stick to the bottom of the pot and burn.
My hands are covered in the sticky residue of my ingredients.
I hold beach stones, rubbing my fingers across the whorls and patterns, listening to the soothing clink of them against each other.
I can hear the voices of the dead above me.
I’m directly below the Tree of Life, and when I touch the walls of the cave, I can feel the roots reaching out, twitching inside the soil.
The murmuring whispers are white noise, mingling with the sweet shush of the waves.
I fall into a reverie as I stir, watching everything melt together into a salve.
Give of yourself to the remedy.
The voices coalesce to a command. I listen again to the instruction and feel a sting on my thumb. I’ve caught it on the sharp corner of one of my stones. How hard had I been pressing down? A bead of blood wells to the surface and I make to put my thumb in my mouth, to suck away the dark liquid.
Give of yourself.
I hold my hand over the pot and watch the bead of blood fall into the mixture.
I stir it in, the streak of crimson disappearing into the mixture.
It takes me a moment to recognise the bell above the waves.
The temple bell, which usually calls us in for prayers.
I look out across the water. The sun is much lower on the horizon now, peeking from the clouds that seem to hang permanently around the Winter Isle. Nearly three hours must have elapsed.
I gather my things quickly, ensuring I pour seawater over the remnants of the fire. I would not burn down the temple. I hold the pot steady as I scramble back up the slope. By Paranish, were we supposed to decant it for presentation?
I rush to the temple, pushing open the doors to the main hall. The other Sisters are gathered by the benches, holding vials neatly stoppered.
I must look a sight; hair whipped in the wind and cheeks ruddy. The remedy has almost sloshed out of the battered pot, and I try to compose myself. Malostra looks me up and down and I notice the dried flecks of mud and sand on the hem of my dress.
‘Sister Hanan. We had almost given up on you.’
A few of the Sisters snicker and I blush.
‘Apologies, Mother Joca. I did not have time to decant my remedy.’
‘Well, let’s study it before it goes cold.’