Shortly after this, Brother Tibolt asked my father if he could tutor me in Rodwin’s doxology, suggesting we study the reasoning, rites, and scriptures of the saint so as to educate me as to why I must behave. He vowed to use onlyThe Book of Rodwinin his teachings. He must have been penitent, apologetic for his lukewarm preaching, and somehow he convinced my father this could prevent further boxing.
All it did was create further incidents of the practice. For once I was in his office, surrounded by more books than my young eyes had ever seen, the priest said, “I do not know what to do with you, Roberta. You seem a fine girl to me. Perhaps in our study, we can understand what makes you question the saint so. They tell me you know how to read.”
He gave me books to study. And the books gave me ideas.
Twice a week, I sat in his office. I was, of course, handed a battered copy ofThe Book of Rodwin. I read it in silence in a chair next to the priest as he wrote his sermons. I had already memorized the long, tedious text about how the female body was a temptation and that women used things like song, dance, and drink to entice men from the righteous path. But I read it anyway and when I wasdone, Brother Tibolt said, “Well, perhaps you should read my namesake’s essays. And, I am supposed to ask, are you being a good girl at home?”
I said that I was.
The teachings of the Lesser Saint Tibolt were dull but gracious, about putting the needs of others before one’s own, addressing how it was not a woman’s fault that she was born a woman and she could be rescued from hellfire with the instruction of a kind father or husband. Four seasons passed like this, with me reading in his office twice a week, a strange respite from the upheaval of the house attached to the mill where my father’s ire reigned. When I was done with the lesser saint’s texts and several more dull doxologies on how to be a good woman, Brother Tibolt said, “I think any of my texts would be beneficial to your spiritual education, my girl.”
But that sweet, scatterbrained man—who should have been a university master in Eccleston, not a priest of Perpatane—forgot his love of books had often eclipsed his love of his saint. And I got my hands on a book that changed my young life.
The priest was an avid reader, having been abandoned as a boy and given as an orphan to a large Perpatanian monastery. He had been allocated to the library and had spent his life keeping and cataloguing the written works of his faith. And he had collected his own library. Amongst those tomes were books not related to our religion. That was where I got into trouble. That was where I foundThe Life of Una.
19
THEN: PRINCESS
It was naught but two or three pages into that old book that I realized it was nothing to do with Rodwin. It was the published journal of a bygone Tintarian woman who had been wed to a Helmsman prince. The Helmsmen, according to everything I had ever been told, were tribal and abstruse barbarians who dwelled in the Hintercliff mountains above Tintar, forever warring with them over the northern Tintarian border. In some ways, they were even more mythical than Tintarians. The Helmsmen claimed they had once ruled the sea and called themselves as such, though now the only countries with ships were Tintar and the occupants of The Flavored Three, three island countries off the Tintar coast. The Helmsmen lived inside the highest mountains, worshipped a death god, and painted themselves in dark blue. This Una had been wed to a prince of theirs in an act of peace because, it seemed, despite Tintar’s legendary dominion and warrior’s way, several thousand winters past they had been occupied by the Helmsmen.
Of course, the church had instructed that both territories and their inhabitants were worshippers of false gods and therefore, heathen.
Una had fallen in love with her barbarian prince but wanted to document the history of her people, of their magic and their four beloved gods. She was an adventurous woman, full of vim, and deeply passionate about her commitment to her deities. She had survived an attack of a sea beast with massive teeth that had taken her left leg, and she used a peg to walk. She said her prince was a fine lover, and she had adopted his people’s custom of tattooing themselves in the dark blue. And though her man was a prince, she said all kings were monsters and she would fight for her people’s freedom even if it meant death.
I fell in love with her by the end of the first passage.
“I think you should take some texts home with you,” the priest had exclaimed that day, enthused by my being enraptured by Una.
I snapped the book shut. “Yes. Yes, Brother Tibolt. What do you recommend?” I was terrified he would discover my new treasure.
“Well, whatever you are currently reading and—” He broke off to rummage amongst his shelves, bustling about in his messy office, shuffling volumes into a stack. “I will see you in a few days. Tell me what you have learned then!”
I walked home,The Life of Unawedged between a dusty treatise about wayward girls, the old copy ofThe Book of Rodwin, and a book of essays on Rodwin’s selfless self-immolation—his setting himself on fire for the sake of all humanity, a sacrifice to ease the afterlife’s demons’ craving for our souls. I was desperate for more Una and, as soon as my after-dinner chores were complete, I continued to read.
I devoured her journal in two nights. It was how I learned of four gods, the Tintarian pantheon—Mother Earth, Father Fire, Sister Sea, and Brother Air. Mother Earth gave birth to all the minerals and plants, and to all the animals that were not fish or fowl. Father Fire was the god of the forge, in particular, and of fire, sun, and heat in general. Sister Sea ruled the ocean and all waterways, feeding her people bevies of fish. Brother Air was a cryptic god whose powers were more obscure, either manifesting in prophetic visions or physical prowess like soundless steps.
I was too young to find interest in Una’s romantic explanations of her arranged husband, a man she at first hated but then loved. I did not care for her ramblings about just systems of government or the colonization of her people. I did not understand these things. But the lore of her gods was the best bedtime story I had ever heard.
I knew Ecclestonians were obsessed with schooling and mining and had no gods. I knew other settlements nearby now had their own little Rodwin churches. I knew that each island of The Flavored Three—Vyggia, Ruskar, and Sibbereen—held their own superstitions and faith. I now knew Helmsmen worshipped death. I had always known Tintarians were heathens who worshipped idols, but not what those idols represented. This was the first time in my life that prayer and worship made sense to me. Rodwin was so demanding, but the Tintarian gods seemed to want nothing from their people but to do no harm to others and to try and think broadly.
InThe Life of Una, the ancient princess waxed on about the Farthest Four, in particular about Brother Air, one of the gods who blessed her. I was fascinated at her insistence that this god’s name was but a default term and not a true title. He was not a he, and neither was he a she. Brother Air was called as such because the old Tintarian word for “brother” meant sibling as well as fellow, friend, and kindred. Sibling Air would have been a better name for the sexless god, but for too many winters Brother Air had been called “he.” Una claimed that the god had spoken to her and that their allocation as male meant less to them than their people’s prayers and faith, that they would rather their children concern themselves with their own lives before their god.
Herein though,she wrote, I will refer to that god as they have expressed themselves to me and will not use “he” or “she” to explain their glory.
This was mystifying to me, but I did not question it.
The most arcane portion of Una’s journal was of a vision she had about the shaping of the known world. Though it was relayed in the journal as an epic saga and entirely unbelievable, I found it was nomore unreal than Rodwin setting himself on fire for the good of mankind or being seen in the sky by the faithful. It was a passage I read many times, finding it an easier explanation of life than that I, born a girl, was evil and that boys were sent to rescue me from myself.
When I told Rowena all of this, huddled in our little bed, and of my newly found prize, she was equally upset and entranced.
“Explain the mermaids again,” she said.
I explained that it was the form Sister Sea took in her corporeal expression and that it was a half woman, half fish, according to Una. “Let me read the part about the gods to you, and then you’ll see.”
“Alright, but be quiet. This is blasphemous, you know.”
I shrugged off her concerns and began the tale of the gods.
