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\nI need no map to reach the Sisterhood of Solace. The stories I've heard\nin Grauland are true. After a journey of three days north, I reach the\nbase of their mountain, where a squat brick tavern greets me like the\nlast remaining pumpkin in a patch. Beyond it, a dark road snakes up to\nthe mountaintop. The Devil's Tail.
\nThe publican greets me warmly; perhaps I am the first monk he's seen in\na long time. But I decline his offer of a brew. I'm sure it's come from\nup there, from the mountain, from the Sisterhood. People say their beer\nmakes princes cry.
\nPeople say their beer can do a lot of things.
\n\"I'm looking for a girl,\" I tell the publican instead. \"Barely fifteen.\nDark hair, pale skin, dark eyes. She would have been alone. Have you\nseen her?\"
\nHe shakes his head, brown forehead creasing. \"I'd remember her if I had.\nNot a lot of young women alone around here. But up on the mountain...\"
\n\"Yes.\" I cut him off, already heading for the door. \"Up on the\nmountain.\"
\nHe opens his mouth as if to warn me, but I'm already stepping out into\nthe crisp fall air. It smells of granite, of oncoming snow. I'm reminded\nof the warm fire, the simple cider that awaits me at the abbey when this\nmission is done.
\nAnd perhaps more. Find her, complete this duty, and you shall be rewarded.\nThose are the words the Abbot gave me when I received notice\nfrom the villagers that my uncle had died. Visions of promotion at last\nfill my mind. A nearby abbey, eleven leagues to the south, needs a new\nAbbot.
\nI've waited so long for this. I've given up so much.
\nI expect my horse to complain as I nudge him up the Devil's Tail, but he\nplows forward courageously, and I take heart from that. We are not all\nin awe of the Sisterhood.
\nHalfway up the road, I meet a woman dressed in gray. She almost fades\ninto the black, scabby trees of the landscape. The horse notices her\nbefore I do, pulling up short. I'm jolted from my memories of Grauland,\nof the blood on the stile.
\n\"Brother,\" says the woman. Her hair is graying at the edges, like an\nicon leeched of color by the sun.
\nI swing off my horse, and she flinches back. Odd. Most unaccompanied\nwomen are pleased to meet a monk on the road, aware that we offer a sort\nof protection, and—I like to think—a sense of peace. \"Greetings,\nmistress. Are you going up the mountain?\" She nods warily. Not much for\nspeech, these northerners. \"I can offer you a ride.\"
\n\"No, thank you, Brother.\"
\n\"Very well. I shall walk beside you for a while.\"
\nShe neither agrees nor disagrees, setting off at a clipped pace. I can\nsee I've displeased her, but I'm not sure exactly why. All the while,\nthe reminder of my duty sits on my shoulders like a gargoyle on the\nabbey's edge, ever watchful. The horse's head bobs up and down behind\nme, bumping my shoulder from time to time as I lead him along. A good\nanimal, steadfast, they said, when I took him from my uncle's house. His\nsnorting breath is the only sound, for a while.
\nThen, splitting the air: the bells. Peals like laughter, like honey,\nlike jumping in the cold water of a stream. I think of the quiet peace\nof the cloisters, and my heart aches to be done with this, to be back\nthere. The bells take my longing and magnify it tenfold. What a strange,\naching sound.
\nWhen I look over at the woman, her eyes dart to the road, and I have the\nfeeling she was watching me a moment before. I sniff as the bells fade.\nThe air smells of woodsmoke, now. \"We must be close,\" I say, as lightly\nas I can.
\nShe nods. After a while, she says, \"My husband made those bells.\"
\nI'm surprised. \"Here?\" I regret the question. God looks on all the\nkingdom and smiles.
\nIf she's offended, she reveals nothing of it. \"It's the one good thing,\"\nshe says.
\nI'm still puzzling out what that means when we come upon the Sisterhood.
\nA sharp turn in the road, and it's there: gray brick built into the\nmountain, save for the belltower, which juts as if to penetrate the sky.\nThe Sisterhood has no gate, no defense. Only the tall black pines on\neither side of a curved arch, standing like sentinels as we pass\nbeneath.
\nThe woman walks ahead of me as I tie the horse to a waiting post. She\nskirts the main entrance, going instead to a small wooden door near the\ncorner. Three knocks. She glances over her shoulder. \"Good luck,\nBrother.\"
\nThere's that gargoyle again, shifting restlessly. I take no pleasure in\nthis particular mission, but I must do as I have always done. As my\nAbbot commands. Life will be simple, he promised, when first he inducted\nme into the ranks of my order all those years ago. Lead where you are\nchosen to lead, obey where you must obey.
\nI've done enough of the latter, to be sure. Perhaps, when I am Abbot, I\nmight lead differently.
\nThe thought surprises me, but I have no more time for imaginings. The\nmain entrance to the Sisterhood creaks open. A woman waits there,\nunhabited, her hair falling in a long braid over her slim shoulder. Her\neyes are pale brown, almost yellow, the frothy shade at the base of a\nbeer's head, golden like her skin. \"Greetings,\" she says to me, her\nvoice light. \"How may we help you, Brother?\"
\nI will not let this woman unsettle me. After all, our orders are alike,\nat their core. \"I'm looking for a girl. Barely fifteen. Dark hair, dark\neyes. She would have come here recently, seeking asylum. Have you seen\nher?\"
\nThe Sister's lips curl in a smile that's not unfriendly. \"I'm afraid\nyou'll have to be more specific. Why don't you come in?\"
\nThe amusement, the lightest brush of sarcasm in her voicethese are\nnot what I expected. \"My horse needs food and water.\"
\n\"Greta will see to that.\" She waves into the darkness behind her, and a\ngirl emerges. At least I think she is a girl. She wears a squat leather\ncap of the kind worn by blacksmiths and executioners, her hair so short\nit cannot be seen beneath. A red, puckered scar overcuts her right eye,\neyebrow to eye socket, and the lid is sewn shut. On her right hand, two\nfingers are missing.
\nFor half a second, her eye crosses mine, and I suck in my breath. Could\nit be? Surely not. That scar looks mostly healed. I seek a girl with ten\nfingers, no scars, never a day of trouble in her life. My uncle's\nstepdaughter. She was a beauty, the villagers said, though I never saw\nher for myself. Only a drawing. A sketch. Her mother's last.
\nGreta's eye drops and the feeling passes. Impossible. She goes to my\nhorse and reaches her three-fingered hand toward his head, careful to\nremain in his sight. He sniffs, whuffs. Her mangled hand caresses. She's\nsmiling, very gently, as if the expression hurts. The horse noses into\nher shoulder. I feel a flash of pity for her, stronger now that she's\nsmiling.
\n\"Come,\" says the woman in the entrance. \"Brother, what is your name?\"
\n\"I am called Johan.\"
\n\"Brother Johan. Welcome to the Sisterhood.\"
\nShe is Sister Lucia, and she is the Abbess here. Mother Lucia, the other\nSisters call her when they pass us in the darkened halls. Torches burn\nas she takes me through the rectangular front room, outside again,\nacross the square cloisters, into an outbuilding that she calls her\noffice. I must admit, the word surprises me. Yet it is indeed much akin\nto my Abbot's quarters back home. Rich carpet warms the floor, a fire\nburning in the grate. Books and scrolls line the walls, not quite\norderly, some of them pulled out and thumbed through and left behind on\na nearby lectern, a ribbon marking their pages. Indeed, the books seem\nbetter used than those in the Abbot's library. More beloved, in the\ncreases of their spines. \"Please, sit,\" says Sister Lucia, indicating\nthe cushioned chair closest to the fire. I obey.
\n\"What is your brew of choice, Brother Johan? I will pour it for you.\"\nStill with that smile, as if something amuses her of which I'm unaware.
\n\"Water will do fine.\"
\n\"Ah. You do not partake. I fear our Sisterhood will disappoint you.\"
\nI like a good ale from time to time, and the cider we drink in the fall,\nafter we pick the apples ourselves. The fruit of our labor. But I don't\ncorrect her. She moves to the corner of the room to pour me a cup of\nwater from a ceramic jug. When she hands it to me, I quaff the cold\nliquid. It has been a long journey.
\nIt is the sweetest thing I have ever tasted. The smell of pine and cedar\nlingers after it.
\nLucia isn't smiling anymore. She tilts her head, inspecting me. \"You're\nholding the secret of the Sisterhood in your hands, Brother.\"
\nI look down at the empty cup.
\n\"Or rather, in your stomach,\" she corrects. \"Good beer requires good\nwater, first.\"
\nIt's something I've heard before. My uncle. The brewer. I set the cup\ndown on the floor by the fire and straighten, chastened. \"The girl I'm\nseeking. She was called Helewise, though she may have taken another\nname. She would have arrived here more or less two weeks ago.\"
\nLucia sits opposite me, turning her face toward the fire. \"You think she\nwould come to us?\" she asks. \"Why?\"
\n\"Her mother used to speak of this place.\"
\nNow her words come slowly, as if each of them has been weighed carefully\nfirst. \"Do you know how many women come to us with their mother's\nstories in their hearts?\"
\nI shake my head. I don't know anything about mothers, nor stories. I\nlost my own long ago. Indeed, the Abbot once told me that fiction was a\nsin. I was but a boy then. I haven't thought back to those days in a\nlong while.
\nAs if she sees this in me, Lucia shakes her head. \"Do you think people\ntell stories of your order, Brother Johan?\"
\n\"I'm certain they do not. We operate in the real world,\" I say, \"where\nstories do not matter so much as the truth.\" Indeed, that is why I'm\nhere. To discover the truth. To find a murderess and hold her to\njustice. We all must face reality, in the end.
\n\"Who says a story cannot be the truth?\" asks Lucia, that smile lingering\nagain. It's condescending now, and my skin prickles at it.
\n\"I'm not here to speak riddles with you,\" I say. \"Besides, I don't\nbelieve the stories about the Sisterhood. I am sure we have much in\ncommon. We both serve God.\"
\nShe looks at me with those amber-drenched eyes and sees all of me, all\nthe lies I've ever told. I hold myself firm, staring back. \"I think we\nhave different ways of doing that, Brother Johan,\" she says at last,\nsoft.
\nThis offends me, though I can't say why. It's worse to think we might\nworship God the same, myself and this irreverent Sister. But her words\nsting nonetheless. \"I would like to see the brewery,\" I manage, after a\nwhile.
\nHer eyes slip back to me. She knows exactly why I'm asking. But she\nrises from the chair and flicks her braid behind her back. \"I will show\nyou gladly. You may be surprised at what you see.\"
\nWe walk back across the cloisters, into the rectangular entrance hall.\nThe mountain air is sharp as obsidian. Lucia crosses to the left once\ninside and opens a set of wooden doors. \"After you,\" she says.
\nAt the bottom of dank stairs, I pass through a narrow arch and a wall of\ncool, wet air. Ahead of me stretches a wide, skewed shape like a gibbous\nmoon, clustered with the familiar instruments of brewing: a hand-quern\nfor milling the malt into mash and, beyond that, a little platform where\na huge copper cauldron heats water over a roaring fire. I can smell the\ndamp oak of wide-mouthed barrels and the sharp hay scent of yeast on the\nair.
\nAt each of the instruments, a Sister bends to her task. One here with\nher sleeves pushed up to her elbows, forearms cording as she winds the\nquern to grind the malt. She doesn't even glance our way. One there with\nher hair all bound up in a kerchief—again, unhabited, her coarse\nskirts tied below her knees—wiping away sweat as she stirs the liquid\nin an open-mouthed barrel.
\n\"Sister Bogdana is one of our master brewers,\" says Sister Lucia. We\ndraw closer to the woman she indicates. From the pot before her, I smell\nvanilla, chicory root, anise. Beneath them all, the sour scent of\nfermenting wort—the liquid left over after boiling the grain to\nrelease its sugars.
\nSister Bogdana's eyes are closed, her face long and thin like a\ngreyhound's and splintered with purple shadows. As she inhales deeply\nover her brew, some of her black, straight hair slips off her shoulders\nand touches into the liquid, floating there like a paintbrush soaking up\ncolor.
\nWhat a fanciful thought. Far too much so, for a man like me. Sister\nLucia must notice, for her heady, amused smile returns. \"This is one of\nour rarest brews. We keep it in barrels until the darkest part of the\nwinter.\" Her gaze says, you want to taste it, don't you?
\nAnd I do. I do. I'd like to know what kind of beer turns black as tar,\nlike a man's soul. I'd like to know why the princes cry.
\nWhat did they see when they sipped?
\nI manage to say, \"Water is sufficient for the likes of me.\" And I almost\nbelieve it.
\nLucia takes me around the rest of the brewery. There are Sisters\neverywhere. Some of them wear kerchiefs or dark hoods, ducking their\nfaces out of sight. The scent of beer lingers in the back of my throat,\nbut I'm able to remember my mission.
\nHelewise might be any of these.
\nWhen we climb back up the stairs and into the entrance hall, Lucia stops\nin the light from a torch. I reach into the small pouch I keep tied on\nthe belt of my cassock, a simple, leather thing to show my poverty. The\ncoarse paper smells of mildew now, but the charcoal sketched upon it\nremains intact. \"This is the girl I'm looking for.\"
\nShe takes the page, inspects the quick dark eyes, the pointed chin, the\nnarrow lips. There's something clever, stubborn, in the way Helewise's\ngaze reaches out from that sketch. Her mother was a good artist. I'm\nsurprised by the sadness that pinches my throat at the thought. She was\na good woman.
\nLucia's gaze lifts up to mine as she hands back the drawing. \"What is it\nshe's supposed to have done?\"
\n\"She murdered her stepfather. My uncle.\"
\n\"Is that so? Was he a good man, your uncle?\"
\nHe was an honest one. The words stick in my throat. Perhaps the\nbrewery air has left it dry. \"All citizens must have justice.\" I hate\nthat I spoke. Better to have remained silent, for this sentence feels\nlike a defense.
\nLucia meets my gaze squarely. \"I quite agree.\"
\n\"Then you will look at this drawing once again and tell me—have you\nseen this girl?\"
\n\"I'm sorry, Brother.\" She sounds it. \"But there are no murderers here.\"
\nAt that moment, a door opens across from the brewery stairs. The woman\nwho climbed up the mountain with me steps out, carrying a small barrel\nof beer. So that was what she climbed for? She nods deeply at Sister\nLucia, who smiles in return. As if begrudging, the woman gives a much\nsmaller nod to me. \"Brother,\" she greets.
\nI nod back, and it's then that I see them: the bruises on her arm. Four\nof them in a row, like dark stars against a white sky. There's an order\nto those bruises. The footsteps of fingerprints.
\nHer gaze is forthright, challenging. So much like Helewise's stare in\nthat drawing, I suck in my breath. But there's no way this is my uncle's\nstepdaughter. My mind is playing tricks.
\n\"May your husband enjoy this batch,\" Lucia says.
\n\"Thank you.\" The polite words clash with the look in the woman's eyes.
\nWhen she is gone, Lucia speaks in a quiet voice for the first time, a\nhushed murmur that whispers at the corners of the hall. \"Petronella\ncomes to us but once a month. It's the only time she's allowed to\nleave.\"
\nThe bells return to me. Their sweet, sweet ring. The one good thing.
\n\"And what of you, Brother Johan?\" asks Lucia. \"Will you leave us now? Or\nwill you consent to a meal?\"
\nI know what my answer should be. I know what the Abbot would scoffingly\nreply.
\nLucia knows, too. It's in her expression as she waits. But she does not\nspeak.
\nWhat harm would it be to break bread with the Sisterhood? For one meal,\nwhat harm?
\nDeep down, I'm certain of another truth: it would be delicious.
\n\"I'll stay,\" I say, before I can stop the words from leaping out. \"I\nwant to stay.\"
\n#
\nThree long tables fill the dining hall. On the far end, a fourth\nstretches out perpendicular to the others, where the hierarchy of\nSisters becomes clear. Lucia, Bogdana, another small Sister who looks\nlike a toad, and two more I haven't seen before take their seats here. I\nam the sixth. Lucia gives me a place at the edge, beside the toady one,\nwhose name, I discover, is Sister Agata. The rest of the room sits after\nwe do.
\nLucia must have known I would take advantage of this moment. I search\nthe room, the many-colored bent heads with their brassy sheen and their\ndark curls and their tight, close-cut caps of hair. Some of these\nSisters have come much farther than I to reach this place. They smile,\nthey laugh, they sit quietly in their corners. Some have hands like the\ncream we skim off milk at the Abbey. Other hands are dark as wet earth,\nor burned red, cracked and coarse, well used to lye and hard labor. Yet\nnone of them have the triangle face, the sharp gaze that I've journeyed\nfor. And even though I'm the one at the head of the room, I'm the one\nwith the lookout, their eyes pin me in place like a nail through\nparchment. The gentle feminine hum of speech fills the room, so\ndifferent from the low murmur of male conversation I'm used to. I feel\nlike a novice again, fresh-faced, looking around the greatroom of the\nAbbey for the first time. Small enough to be invisible.
\nAgata doesn't speak, and I suspect this is why I have been placed beside\nher. Novices in black habits bring out our meal of gamey stew and hot\nbarley bread. Mushrooms, rich with the flavors of butter and earth. A\nsheen of fat from the stewed meat that reflects back candlelight like a\nglittering jewel. The tang of fresh dill sprinkled on top.
\nIt is marvelous.
\nThen comes the pitcher of Solace brew.
\nLucia carries it over to me herself. The simple clay pottery glistens\nwith condensation like breath on glass. \"Tell me, Brother Johan. You\nwill leave empty-handed. Won't you at least try a sip of brew, while\nyou're here?\"
\nAll the conversation drops away at once. A hush fills the space it left\nbehind, loud enough to batter my ears.
\nI'm here for duty, I tell myself, not for pleasure. Indeed, to place\nmyself ahead of my responsibilities and my God is to sin in the cruelest\nway possible. No matter how young Helewise is, or how vulnerable, or\nindeed how hopeless, she was not right to act as she did. And yet I find\nmyself wondering how else she might have come here. Certainly my uncle\nwould never have let her go.
\nAll at once, I'm tired. I feel the reach of the growing shadows and the\nsuspicion that something is being hidden from me. I'm the little boy in\nthe Abbey again, the one who missed his mother and shrank from the hard\nstares of strangers. That boy, too, had to grow up fast.
\nWhat if I do taste this brew that makes princes cry, that women walk up\nmountains for? Surely one sip will not hurt me, I think. Surely I've\nearned at least that.
\nI hold out my cup.
\nMy first sensation is of a cold so deep it burns. Like a kiss to ice, it\ntraps my tongue, sharpening against me with flavors of copper and\nmountain water. Then my tongue grows wet, unfrozen from that sharpness.\nThe brew itself curls into my mouth and across to the back of my throat,\nand I hold it there, despite the burn. So cold. But I taste stone,\ngranite, and a hint of something sweet. Like the last remaining plums we\nused to pilfer from the storehouse at midwinter, Markus and I.
\nThis is a memory I've not had in a long while. I've thought more often\nof what the Abbot said afterward, long afterward, when he caught us at\nmore than stealing plums. Some things are best forgotten, he said, in\na quiet murmur as if he were helping me, and in time, your duty will help with that. This place offers the burial of memory and the start of something new.
\nThe longer this brew sits on my tongue, the more I taste of its luscious\nsweetness, its fullness of flavor. It awakens me like snowdrops from the\nfrozen dirt in early March. Sharp. Bright. Full.
\nI remember how Markus looked as he stuffed his shirt with plums. He\nlaughed in expression, not sound, as he took my hand and slid a plum\ninto it. Feel, Johan. It's still warm.
\nSister Lucia watches me with a politely curious expression. As if she\ndoesn't know full well what she and her beer are doing to me. As if she\nhasn't planned for this.
\n\"I've not tasted exactly this flavor before.\" I'm proud of how steady my\nvoice comes out.
\nSister Lucia smiles. \"Is that so? I thought you had.\"
\n\"No,\" I lie. \"Nothing quite like this at all.\"
\nThe plums burst so sweetly across our tongues.
\n#
\nI finish the meal as quickly as I can without appearing indecorous. It's\ntoo dark for me to descend the Devil's Tail. I tell Lucia I am tired.\nNo, I say, I have blankets. I have water. No, I need nothing.
\nIt is a lie.
\nThe brew has brought something out in me, something I thought dead, and\nno amount of praying can put it back again. I try anyway. I'm absorbed\nin this prayer I once spoke easily—My God, give me fortitude, that I may repent my sin—when I almost walk into the girl Greta. She's\ncoming from the stable where my horse is housed.
\n\"Brother.\" Her eye is on the ground, hands clasped before her.
\n\"Has he behaved himself?\" She looks up, startled, then appears even more\nconfused when she sees my face. \"The horse,\" I clarify.
\n\"Oh.\" A small smile. \"Yes. He's very good.\"
\n\"I think so, too.\" I keep my voice gentle, as I did when I first met the\nhorse. There is something about this girl that requires it. \"He is\ncalled Rabbit. A child named him.\"
\nThis doesn't provoke the smile I thought it would. Then again, I have\nnever had a way with children. They always frightened me, before. Her\neye drifts beyond me. \"I should go,\" she says.
\nI step out of her way. But before she is gone, I hear myself ask, \"What\nhappened to give you that scar?\"
\nShe pauses. Her back is to me. Before small shoulders, her capped head\ndoes not sink. She says, \"A man.\"
\nIt does not surprise me. I remember Petronella's bruises. I remember a\nday in the Abbey, the morning of my initiation, the look on Brother\nBenedict's shocked white face as he and the Abbot opened the door to me\nand Markus, intertwined. From the moment I made my choice not to leave,\nto continue in my duty, to obey, I have not thought of that day. Not\nuntil now. It makes me weary. \"Your fingers, too?\"
\nShe turns back to look at me. That bright black eye is fierce,\npenetrating. \"Not those,\" she says. \"Those were from frostbite. When I\nclimbed up the mountain.\"
\nI taste awe in the back of my throat. This girl carries something\ndetermined and true in her heart. Something hard.
\nSurvival. The word lingers with me, the flavor, even after she is\ngone. I cannot stop turning it over across my tongue as I bed down in\nthe stable.
\nI take out my aunt's drawing again. In the light of the moon, Helewise's\ngaze is solemn and direct, her face unmarred. When I first saw this, I\nthought she looked untouched. A soft child, said the Abbot when he\nsaw. Now, I'm not so sure.
\nHe called me soft once, too. Your duty will make you stronger, he\nsaid. Thoughts of myself as an Abbot rise unbidden. Would I be able to\ntell a young monk the same?
\nWould it even be possible for me to create something different?
\nLate in the night, I cannot bear the restlessness any longer. I will\nlook one more time, I think, and then I will go. I feel desperate in\nways I can't explain. I want to believe I have tried, but since that sip\nof beer, I no longer know what, exactly, I hope to find.
\nOutside, the moon has risen, dressing the Sisterhood in silver. I blow\non my hands. The air cuts up here, much colder than below. I no longer\ndoubt the frostbite. In fact, it could happen to me tonight.
\nI will creep through the dormitory on silent feet, I think. I will peer\nin, no more. And then I will go.
\nBut before I can even reach the door, I hear a song. Not like a bird.\nLike the bells. This is a peal, high and sweet, and it lures me away\nfrom the entrance, toward the back of the mountain. Beyond the brewery.
\nThe black pines encircle me. The song pulls me on. I no longer feel the\ncold, which should frighten me, but it doesn't. I feel curiosity,\nmadness, desire. I am drawn in.
\nThe pines open up so suddenly I am almost caught out. Almost, but not\nquite. I hide behind the last one just in time, its thick frame keeping\nme in darkness. Ahead of me lies a clearing dripped in moonlight,\ncrossed with threads of white. A stream. And in the stream are the\nSisters.
\nSome are naked; some wear nightclothes that stick to their bodies,\npicking out shapes, here a roundness, here a sharp line. I don't see\nsensuality in this, but it unsettles me all the same. The abandon of it.\nThe freedom. The starlight glinting off their smiles—it is impossible\nto look away from that. Like a garden of flowers that open only at\nnight. Dew flicks from their hands as they kick up sprays of water. It's\nbeautiful, but I feel the wrongness of my being here. It hurts my heart.\nThis is not meant for me.
\nWhen was the last time I felt such pure, joyful unrestraint?
\nI know the answer before I've finished asking the question.
\nMarkus was the polestar in the black inky depths of that dining hall.\nHis smile, his crooked teeth poking out. The way he touched my arm, like\na brush of wings, a bird alighting. Are you all right?
\nHe taught me how to laugh among the toadstool circles and the deep pine\nshadows of the woods beyond the abbey. Beside him I learned how to dive\nheadfirst, undaunted, into the cold, clear pool behind the prayerhouse.\nThe water shocked us so much we gasped and clung and pulled the air from\none another's lips. Limbs clinging close, sliding shocks of heat through\nthe frigid water.
\nThat was joy.
\nAnd yet I said to him, words faltering: The Abbot's right. I've repented my sin. I will stay.
\nA terrible realization unfurls in me, a tapestry with my faults stitched\nthereon: the truest crime was denying that I loved him.
\nThe Sisters continue their dance. I will return to the stable, the\nhorse, the hay. They are nothing less than I deserve. Yet one face\ncatches my eyes before I go. A smile as wide as the crest of the\nmountain. Her short-cropped black hair feathered like the underside of a\nmushroom cap. No more leather holding it down. She spins in a circle,\nlifting her hands to the sky.
\nThere's something about the smile. The fierceness of it, the life. It\ncontains everything—grief, determination, heady effervescent joy.
\nI know it's her.
\nGone is Greta. She is transformed. Though this is not Helewise, either.\nNot as she used to be.
\nThe story tells itself so easily. I remember the way her mother used to\ndraw, before her marriage to my uncle. The way that slowly faded. And\nthe cheapness of her funeral pyre, so little spent on a beloved wife.
\nI remember other things, too. Things longed-for and aching. My last\nsight, stolen high from the belltower of the chapel, of Markus's\nlopsided shoulders as he marched away. I used to kiss those shoulders,\nright at their sharpest points. Prick-prick. My lips tingle with the\nmemory of it.
\nThen Helewise-who-is-not-Helewise turns again, carried away into the\nnight with her Sisters. Their songs waver, break, return. A new melody.
\nSomewhere beyond this mountain lives a man with a crooked smile, hunched\nshoulders, whose flesh knows kindness and whose heart knows love.\nSomewhere he tends to his plum tree and harvests the fruits when they\nare warm, touched by the sun. It is too much to hope that he still\nthinks of me. But I... I think of him.
\nI turn aside. I leave the Sisters to their song.
\nYet as I cross the courtyard, wrapped in hope and moonlight, I don't\nhold myself back anymore.
\nI dance.
\n© 2025 Leanne Howard
"}},"pageContext":{"idname":"Leanne Howard","bio":"Leanne (she/her) loves to write about the domestic magic of everyday rituals with some flawed characters thrown in. She earned her MFA from the University of Nevada, Reno and has stories in Typehouse Literary Magazine as well as Luna Station Quarterly and others. When she’s not reading, writing, or teaching, she likes theater, long walks, and a hot cup of tea. She lives with her partner and an imaginary cat in Brooklyn, NY.","twitter":null,"url":null,"facebook":null,"picture":"../images/profile/Leanne_Howard.jpg","stories":[{"storytitle":"Brother, What Is Your Name?","storylink":"/brother-what-is-your-name"}],"poems":[{"poemtitle":null,"poemlink":null}]}}, "staticQueryHashes": ["1262870893","1569350959","2932184110","3159585216","3638184005"]}