The ground humswith the voices of the dead, the buckthorn shivering with the vibrations, reminding me of our evening prayers and chants: the cacophony of a choir of desperate voices. I sit beneath the Tree of Life listening to the thoughts and memories of souls suspended in time. These are the ones who have yet to cross the threshold into the void, and so their confusion and agony is the loudest and most potent. The Tree is bent heavy with the weight of the souls it has absorbed, its branches reaching out to the sea and sky year on year. The Tree is bent so far it looks to topple over and crash into the sea, which roils and smashes against the island as if aching to pull us into it. I crawl on my knees to the cliff edge and stare at the roots that have burst forth as if gasping for air.
As a child I measured my growth by the Tree’s great trunk: a myriad network of long, snaking branches of all colours and textures, knitting together different species in a tight braid. I once believed I would grow enough to reach around the trunk and touch my fingertips together, and this felt like a significant milestone. As if encompassing the Tree meant I could hold all those souls in my arms. As the years went on, I realised the Tree grew with me – it looks anywhere it can to find nourishment and will cut off or strangle branches when they no longer serve. I would never be able to encircle the Tree.
Malostra says she doesn’t hear anything from the temple, that we’re too far away. But I do. I hear the voices everywhere on the isle, despite my best efforts. Voices of all living things. It’s relentless, the confusion and regret. They are absorbed into the beating heart of the Tree. I can feel how old and weary it is when I touch its bark, both the old, mottled parts that are sloughing and chipping away from the elements, and the emerging bark that peeks through like new soft skin.
I hear voices all the time. When I make night water, when I pray, when I fuck Malostra. Sometimes then the voices stop, for a moment. Then the blood rushes back to my head and with them the heartaches and regrets of Paranish.
I’m too young to die.
Not like this, anything but this.
Will it hurt?
What will happen now?
Will they be there, waiting for me?
I didn’t have enough time.
Peace is a lie.
When the voices are quieter, the Tree itself sounds like an old woman sighing. Not in pain exactly, but with the weight of lifetimes on her boughs.
‘Sister Hanan?’
A voice cuts through the whispering in my skull. I look up and Mother Joca stands before me, her white cloak clasped around her. Her hair is coming loose from its updo, and she wrings her thickly gloved hands. I have no idea how long she’s been there, and she gives me a sympathetic smile. Such an expression is so unusual for her that I stand.
‘Solitude is very much your way, isn’t it?’ she says, beginning to walk around the cliff edge. She surveys the flakes of snow that driftaround us. ‘Still, it is easy for jealousy to quicken among girls of your age. Emotions flare hot, like a fever.’
I say nothing, knowing silence is the best option. If Mother Joca wants to find a flattering excuse for the other Sisters shunning me, I won’t protest.
We make our way across the fields and eventually find the coastal path. It is worn from centuries of Sisters and Mothers promenading close to the cliffs. We must save what little fertile land we have. We circle the temple, giving it a wide berth. I see the main hall illuminated by candlelight and hear voices coming from a casement on the second floor where the youngest girls reside.
We promenade in silence for so long, I wonder if it is some kind of test where I am to hold out for as long as possible. The snow isn’t settling but the hoar frost crunches underfoot. It makes a pleasant accompaniment, mingling with the sea to make the voices a white noise in the back of my mind. Eventually we reach the rookery and Mother Joca’s voice cuts through.
‘Have you given much thought to the latest summons?’
I try to keep my face blank. Every Temple Sister thinks of little else but the summons. Each failure another opportunity for one of us. ‘I’m happy to serve the Bastion and Paranish in any way necessary.’
We complete our walk, and she stops us by the temple entrance and the large arched wooden doors. They creak on their hinges as the wind howls through the gaps beneath and the wicket gate clatters persistently. Mother Joca indicates the stained-glass and I glance at the familiar depiction of the Bastion with sun and moon twins in the sky, shining down on it. I turn my back on the temple and look out to the sea beyond. The sun breaks through the mist and there’s the mainland, with the true Bastion sitting atop the hill. A ringing fills my ears.
‘You’re one of the most talented Temple Sisters we’ve seen in recent years. Your comparative success with the remedy assignment demonstrated that. Your dedication to the rookery, your craftsmanship with quills, and your leather-working are well regarded. And we have noted you are the strongest Sister during the rituals.’
The blood rushes to my head. The Temple Mothers do not give out compliments. My mouth is parched, tongue a rough lump of flesh in my mouth.
I wet my lips and try to speak. I must be humble but not stupid. ‘Thank you. I hope Her Majesty is feeling better?’
Mother Joca allows the flicker of a smile. It’s a hint, a shadow, but it’s enough. ‘The successful remedies were gratefully received, yes.’
‘I am so glad to hear it and so sorry for the loss of the king. It must be such a hardship for Her Grace, as it is us all.’
Mother Joca examines my face. ‘The queen needs all her true allies at her side.’
‘Of course, Mother.’
‘Mother Lin has spoken warmly of your assistance in the library. I understand you have a keen interest in the written word?’
I nod vigorously and Mother Joca laughs.
