‘All living things must be respected. We come from the ground and return to it.’
‘But what about the Tree of Life?’
All I can think about is how disgusting the corpse feels in my hand.
‘Our souls live on and pass through there.’
‘Where do we end up?’
I shrug. ‘That is a question for the Temple of Aistra.’
‘The otter-cat was warm,’ she says thoughtfully. ‘It hadn’t gone into the Tree yet.’
I smell the death in the house and think;my sweet girl did this.What else can she do?
‘I’ll be back later. Sleep now.’
I shut the door harder than I need to and don’t look back. I take the long path down by the shore, holding the corpse far enough that it won’t stain me, close enough that it will blend into my outline if someone spots me across the Spring Isle. Why did this happen on the night I’m to showcase my new dress? I know I sound like a petulant child, but I’ve been working on it for months and they’re all expecting it. In Alev, we’re in each other’s pockets – secrets are a luxury. There was no hiding my pregnancy with Biba.
She’s carrying high, Larkin. That means a girl.
My husband had chided: ‘Low for a boy, and right in the middle for whatever they feel like being.’
That had been seven years ago. After our dreams of adventure had been halted; his temporarily, mine forever.
The sky clears, revealing the mist-coated shoreline of the Winter Isle in the distance as I squish my way across the sand dunes. The tide is frustratingly low, and I have to wade out across the pebbles and shells to reach the water. I toss the dead otter-cat into the ocean and say a silent prayer for its passing. The Temple Sisters will ease the otter-cat’s spirit into the Tree of Life. Do they feel a disturbance in nature? I bite my lip and try not think of it. Surely they can’t trace anything back to us. The waters spit out the corpse several times before the waves finally bear it out of sight. I wash my hands in the surf and unsteadily clamber back up the hill to the dirt path towards the tavern. I turn to look back at the sea and cringe to see I crushed some bluebells on my ascent. Years to regrow, destroyed in a moment. Aistra, what a mess we make of our land.
It’s only when I make it to Alev and the lamplight of Vullis’s inn that I notice the bloodstains on my dress. Not large – you’d have to squint to see them. I doubt anyone will notice, but I will know that it’s not the crimson dye of the linen. No one can ever know what Biba did, but I’ll think on it whenever I wear this dress.
chapter six
hanan
Silence is supposedto 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 hariboninto 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.
