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 thesun. 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.
chapter three
hanan
I can tastethe 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.
