Chapter Five
WRAPPED IN OUR CEREMONIAL CLOAKS made of thick white wool, we file out of the courtyard just past midnight. Nearly all of us are in attendance, from the youngest to old Sister Claude, who shuffles along beside Sister Serafina, holding on to her arm so that she will not trip and break her aging, brittle bones. In our right hands we carry a lit torch so that we may see the path that lies ahead, and in our left, we hold our offerings to Mortain.
Many of the younger girls carry small cakes from the convent kitchen, ones they piously chose to offer to Mortain rather than eat. Little Audri plans to offer her shoes, which would be more impressive if we did not all know how much she hates to wear them. I suspect the abbess will have one of us collect the shoes after the ceremony. Melusine brings a pearly pink shell from the sea. Matelaine carries the letters her parents have sent her—letters she has read aloud to us a hundred times, as we are all jealous of her two living parents. She is an oddity among us, for her parents—even her false father—see her as a joy rather than a burden and have sent her here to the convent for the opportunities it affords her, not because she is feared or hated. In truth, I am impressed by the depth of her offering.
I have brought an arrow. One that I made with my own hands and the one that flies truest. I intend to aim tonight’s offering directly at Mortain Himself so that my prayers will be certain to reach Him.
Midwinter is my favorite time of year, a time when Mortain feels closes to us. Once, when I was a child, He was this close to me always. Whether because of my youth, my dire need of Him, or because the terror of those years was simply so strong that it parted the veil between our worlds, I do not know. But I miss it. It is like a faint hunger that gnaws at my heart rather than my belly.
And while I am not terrified like I was as a child, I do feel lost and confused, afraid I will be pushed down a path I’ve no wish to take. Now more than ever, I need His guidance.
The dim light of the pale moon casts everything in shades of black and silver. Our processional is accompanied by the crashing of the waves against the rocky shore and the moaning of the wind, which whips at our cloaks so that they flap like the wings of the crow Sister Widona carries in a twig cage.
As we make our way through long-dead scrub grass and jagged boulders covered with lichen, I think upon the many tales of the ill-fated love between Mortain and Amourna and why winter comes to our land. Each of the nine bishoprics of Brittany has its own tale of how Mortain did—or did not—capture the fair Amourna. In the land where the patron saint of travelers was born, it is said that Death traveled far and wide looking for a love that would survive even His dark realm. He thought He’d found it in Amourna, but in the end, the love she bore Him was too fragile to survive Death, and thus He travels the land, mourning for her.
The followers of Saint Brigantia claim it was Mortain’s quest for full knowledge of life that led Him to seek Amourna out and open His heart to her, for how can one truly understand life without knowing love?
Those who have dedicated themselves to Saint Mer say that Death gazed upon the goddess of the sea and was smitten, but He could not follow her to her realm, nor she to His, so He settled for Amourna, who mourns being a second choice for all eternity.
In those places where Saint Salonius, the god of mistakes, is well loved and worshiped, they say that it was all a mistake, some trick of fate. Some even claim that Salonius himself had a hand in it.
Those who still honor Dea Matrona claim that Death was once Matrona’s consort, and life and death were one. But with the coming of the new god, she cast Death out in order to find a place in the new church. Thus scorned, Death turned to her daughter Amourna for comfort, and it is not Matrona’s sorrow that causes winter to blow its harsh winds over the land but her jealous heart.
It is only the followers of Saint Arduinna who have nothing to say on the matter, for while their goddess was there and surely they know what truly happened, out of respect for both Arduinna’s sister and her mother, they choose not to contradict either story.
The true story—the one we learn here at the convent—is that Death came upon Amourna and her twin sister, Arduinna, in a meadow, and that He was instantly taken with Amourna’s loveliness. Mistrustful of the way Mortain was looking at her sister, Arduinna drew her bow and let fly one of her sharp arrows, which pierced Mortain’s heart. But not even a goddess can kill the god of Death. He simply plucked the arrow from His chest, then bowed and thanked her for reminding Him that love never comes without cost. Surprised by His demeanor, she consented to let her sister ride with Him to His home.
The rest of the world believes that winter comes because either Dea Matrona or Amourna is mourning her loss. We who worship Mortain know that neither is true. We know that when the night is at its longest and darkness reigns, Mortain journeys back to our world from His own, and winter follows on His heels simply because it is His own true season.
Tonight’s ceremony feels different from all the ones that have come before, as if I am walking along the edge of some knife I cannot see. On one side lies the future I have always dreamed of, serving Mortain as an instrument of Death in the world of men. If that comes to pass, I will never be part of our midwinter celebration again. None of the other initiates have ever returned for it, and that thought brings me great sadness.
On the other side of the blade lies the future I do not wish for myself—that of seeress. And even if that should come to pass and I must remain on this island all the rest of my days, I will still not ever take part in this ceremony again.
Either way, it is the last time I will make this walk, and the night is made bittersweet because of it.
At last we reach our destination—the door to the Underworld itself. The dark gaping mouth is capped by a large flat stone that stands upon other stones, each taller and wider than a man and each planted deep in the earth so that the chamber disappears into the small hill. Smaller stones mark the pathway leading to the entrance.
As the head of our order, the abbess goes first, planting her lit torch between two of the rocks, then kneeling at the opening to Mortain’s realm. She places her offering there—I cannot see what it is, no matter how I crane my neck—then bows her head in prayer. When she rises, Sister Eonette goes next, followed by each of the other nuns. Sister Claude is last, and when she is finished with her prayer, it takes not only Sister Serafina but Sister Thomine as well to help her to her feet.
Then it is the novitiates’ turn. As the oldest among us, I have the honor of going first. All my life, I have only ever wanted to serve as His handmaiden. Now more than ever, it is important He knows that. That He be reminded of that.
As I step forward, I press my fingers against the sharp point of the arrow, sucking in a breath as it bites into my flesh. When I feel the faint dampness of my own blood, I let it drip onto the arrowhead, careful not to let any of the older nuns see. Something tells me they would not approve.
As I kneel before the door to Mortain’s realm, I bow my head. Please, Mortain, I pray. My life is Yours to command, but if it please You, I would use my skills and gifts in Your service rather than simply sitting in a small room.
When my prayer is finished, I lay my arrow down atop the other gifts there. As I do, the night breeze shifts, bringing with it an eddy of cold air from the barrow that feels as if it reaches out to caress my face. In that moment, I am certain He has heard me.
Satisfied, I rise to my feet and join the others.