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WHEN THE FIELDS ARE sown and the animals fed, a farmer eats with an unburdened soul.
—Jacob Ahlgren, farmer and butcher
* * *
FOR WHAT SHE ESTIMATED to be the next several weeks, Gwen remained naked while she underwent purification after purification—the shaving of her body except for the hair on her head, which she was told would be shaved when she undertook her final vows. The attending monks, two young women not much older than she, placed steaming rocks on her skin and washed her body with hot cloths; they massaged her skin with oils and melted candle wax in her ears; they lathered her in mud and peeled it off when it was dry and cracked. Upon each purification ritual’s completion, she slept, sometimes in a basin filled with stones that caved around her body as it sank into them, sometimes on a pallet on the stone floor. Upon waking, she drank small amounts of water from a glass placed on a stone table while she slept, and although she ate very little of the small bits of bread left for her intermittently, she didn’t feel hungry. The visions didn’t cease, though, and they often interrupted Gwen’s sleep, leaving her tired and frustrated and worried when she awoke. But each day, those feelings were erased by whatever purification the monks delivered.
Finally the day came when the rituals ended. After a final shave, bath, and massage, the two attending monks dabbed at Gwen’s skin with a warm towel and helped her put on a blue robe. She thought it prettier and thinner than the coarse, tan one Brother Vaughn wore and the darker tan ones the other monks wore. The two monks who had attended her left the room, and an old woman dressed in a white robe entered, gently closing the door behind herself.
“I am Mother Seema. I’ve waited long for you, Sister Gwendolin.”
Gwen sized up the woman, who was about the same height. Her gaunt face made her appear frail, and though wrinkles framed her eyes, they didn’t lend any harshness to her countenance. In fact, her face bore serenity, and her gray eyes exuded kindness and wisdom. Gwen could understand why Brother Vaughn felt the way he did about the leader of the order. She looked easy to love. “How did you know I would come here?”
Mother Seema smiled. “I dreamed you would. From the time I came to Ohmahold, I knew you would follow.”
“I don’t understand.”
The woman smiled softly again, the empathy on her face making Gwen long to embrace her. “I know you don’t, but you will. I promise. You’ve a long day ahead of you. First you will break your fast with us. You must be famished.”
Gwen’s tummy rumbled at the thought of a meal.
Mother Seema chuckled sweetly and grasped Gwen’s hand so tenderly it almost made the girl cry. “Come with me, dear sister. First we eat, and then we’ll talk more.”
She led Gwen out of the room and down one shadowy corridor after another, all of which seemed identical. Finally they entered a large room lit by only candlelight in iron sconces along the walls. In the center of the room sat the longest table Gwen had ever seen. Simple wooden chairs lined all sides of it. In the chairs, the robed monks of Ohmahold sat in silence with perfect posture and hands resting folded in their laps.
Releasing Gwen’s hand, Mother Seema placed an arm around her shoulder. “Sisters. Brothers. I am so very happy to introduce you to Sister Gwendolin. I know you will assist her in any way you can. Let us celebrate her arrival.”
The group broke into wide smiles and pleasant nods, with some calling out “Welcome” or “Well met, Sister Gwendolin.”
Gwen shifted and grasped the ends of her sleeves in tight fists as if holding on to the courage she needed to take in the sea of faces, shaved heads, and robes awash in shades of tan and brown.
Mother Seema motioned to a chair to the immediate right of the empty one at the head of the table, and Gwen wasted no time in getting to it. The old woman had no more than barely sat on her own chair before a stream of blue-robed monks poured out of a door at the back of the room. Like a line of azure ants, they encircled the table, trays and tureens in hand.
Brother Vaughn, who was sitting across from Gwen, stood up and looked first at Mother Seema then down the table at the other monks.
Gwen took note that his robe was the same darker tan as that of the other monks. He’d taken his final vows, and from the serenity he, too, exuded, Gwen could see he seemed at peace with his decision. She saw no sign of the delusional excitement he’d shown when he spoke about dragons, and she wondered if perhaps he’d just been teasing her and had put on a show of false dejection when she’d blurted out her question about their being real. His new sense of calm and stability reassured her that she wasn’t in a place full of the touched.
“Let us take a moment to be thankful and to reflect on how we might best serve those in need this day.” He bowed his head and closed his eyes, as did the others, and Gwen followed his example.
Time ticked slowly for Gwen, and the scent of food tugged at her hunger. Her eye twitched. Her nose itched, which only made her aware of it and the aromas it had caught. She tried to push the thought of eating out of her mind and concentrate on Brother Vaughn’s instruction, but the smell of parsnips and rosemary teased her. She squeezed her eyes shut even more tightly to stop their twitching.
Just when she was sure she couldn’t keep her eyes closed a second longer, Brother Vaughn sang out a long baritone note, which began as a quiet tone then rose in volume to clear, steady pitch before diminishing to nothing. When the note ended, he spoke again. “Let us now celebrate the safe delivery of our beloved sister.”
Gwen opened her eyes, a little surprised by how bright the candlelight now seemed. Brother Vaughn sat smiling across from her. A blue-robed monk placed a platter of fresh berries between her and a young female monk to her right, who turned in her seat to face Gwen. “Welcome to Ohmahold. I’m Sister Lucinda.”
Gwen recognized something familiar about the woman’s face: a scar in the spot where an eyebrow would have been had it not been shaved off. “I have a vague memory of you. You came to my chamber during the purifications.”
Sister Lucinda nodded. “Yes. I did. I must say you tolerated it well.”
“Thank you for your kindness. You must tell me what’s in the oil you used on my skin. I thought I caught the scent of honeysuckle?”
Mother Seema laughed. “Very good, Sister Gwendolin. You’ve a well-trained nose.” She leaned toward Gwen and spoke quietly, “It’s my favorite segment of the purification rituals too.”
Gwen hadn’t thought of it that way, but once Mother Seema had said it, she knew it to be true. The honeysuckle had been both invigorating and relaxing, and it had been her favorite part.
She enjoyed each bite of the fruit and cheese, every drop of weak vegetable stew she ladled out of the closest tureen, and every luscious nibble of dense ginger cake topped with a dollop of fresh goat cream.
The monks chatted among themselves and let her eat without asking questions. When their feast had ended, Mother Seema took Gwen by the hand once again and led her through the winding corridors to a chamber with a bed and a chair next to a bare window low enough to see out of when sitting. The view included a young fruit tree with small dots of green hanging from its branches.
Mother Seema stood beside Gwen. “We call it the Tree of Plenty. Brother Bastian grafted it himself. It bears apples and pears, each with a distinct flavor. I hear he’s growing some saplings for another of his experiments—this time, one that will bear a large variety of pitted fruits. I can’t begin to understand how the process works, but then botany was never my specialization or interest, to be honest.”
“It’s amazing,” Gwen said in a stuporous gaze at the tree. “I’d never have imagined such a thing possible. I wonder if the same could be done with plants.” Her mind had already begun to work through the steps of such a process, and it had already halted and backtracked when reaching a dead end.
“Perhaps. You should speak with him when you return.”
Gwen blinked away her thoughts and stared at Mother Seema. “When I return? Where am I going?”
“South. To the harsh, dry lands of the south.”
She’d worried she would fail at being a monk, and now her fear seemed confirmed. “Why? What have I done to be sent away?”
Mother Seema took Gwen’s hands gently into her own. “My dear sister. You are not being sent away. I am dispatching you with Brother Vaughn into the Southland. It will be your final journey before taking vows.”
“Vows? So soon? But I know practically nothing about being a Cathuran monk.”
“I know. I am rushing you. It isn’t fair and I apologize for that.” She frowned. “I told you I had foreseen your coming. What I did not tell you was the role you will play here, and I still cannot tell you everything about it. I can say only this: the survival of many in the Greatland will depend on your understanding of what it means to love, to truly love with heart and soul. I know it makes no sense to you yet, but it will. I promise you it will . . . someday. We have only a few years to prepare you for a task more burdensome and more joyous than words can describe, a destiny awe inspiring in its simplicity and exquisite in its complexity. Will you trust me, Sister Gwendolin? Will you do this thing because I ask it of you, because it will turn the tide for the survival of so many, including your Cathuran Brethren and Sisters? Will you travel to the Southland to meet your destiny?”
Gwen strained to speak, and her voice came out the same way she felt inside: in incomplete, jagged shards. “I . . . I . . . If . . .” She was suddenly aware of moisture on her forehead and palms; she could hear her voice saying, “Yes,” but no air had passed between her lips. Light-headed, her nod made her dizzy.
“It is your choice, Sister Gwendolin. Yours only.”
“Yes,” Gwen said. “I choose ‘yes.’”