‘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 bottomthere 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.
chapter four
finlyr
The last thingI want is to get hard in front of all these people. Although I’ve heard that it’s more common than you think. Auto-asphyxiation. Not something I’ve ever tried, and there’s not much I’m not up for trying. Well, it’s too late now. The rope’s digging into my wrists and neck. You know, I’m not actually sure I would get off on this.
The Seaguardian turns towards me, his mouth pressed into a thin line as starched and white as his uniform. The clouds part and the sun catches the blue wave and sunrise sigil.
There’s nothing more noble than sailing the waters of Paranish and protecting the Bastion.
My mother said that so often it was almost a prayer. Maybe all men think of their mothers on their death days. This wasn’t how I hoped my homecoming would end, but I did suspect it would be painful.
‘Finlyr Pane,’ the Seaguardian begins. ‘You are accused of the crimes of piracy, treason, theft, smuggling, and impersonating a Seaguardian of Umasa – and fervent lasciviousness.’
‘Didn’t realise that last one was a crime.’
Some laughter escapes from the crowd and I turn and smile. They can’t help themselves; they love the spectacle.
‘Sir, I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation.’
I look down at the gallows’ drop beneath me and give the Seaguardian a bemused smile. ‘I think I do, my man.’ I wink at someone at the front of the crowd, and they redden.
I try to take in the faces of everyone gathered here to watch me die. Hangings are a crowd favourite; it’s more packed than a market or feast day. The smuggling lifestyle commandeers a certain air of theatrics, or perhaps dramatic types are drawn to the vocation. I’m certainly the latter. My pirating career was fairly lucrative, and I had no misapprehensions about the lifespan of a criminal – we rarely make it to our thirties. I’ve been a bit down and out lately, but the majority of my life on the sea was glorious and bloody. Until the Maelstrom. I won’t think of that now. What’s done is done; my roster of deeds looks like it’s finally catching up with me.
I feel the rope cutting into my neck, and I stand a little straighter. It’s difficult to maintain proper posture – not that it will make much difference in a few minutes.
