CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Temple
Beauty tried to adjust to her new life in the hills, but whenever she left the house, the villagers ran from her. They whispered as she explored the valley, pointed as she passed on the paths, and mothers called children to their sides whenever she was near.
Beauty felt even lonelier than she had at Rose Herm and were it not for Comrade she would have no one to speak to. Owaine was busy sorting out work with Hally and she did not like to stay in the house with Isole around, ready to snap and smack her when her father was away. One time, Isole heard Beauty call Owaine “Papa” and it threw her into a rage.
“How dare yur! He isn’t yur papa! He’s nothing to yur!”
“But . . . but he told me to call him that,” Beauty cried, cowering.
Isole slapped her hard, leaving a burning sting across her face.
“Never call him that again! Do yur hear? Never!”
With nowhere else to go, Beauty spent long hours sitting on the hillside with Comrade grazing beside her. She would speak to the old black stallion, and sometimes she would weep on his shoulder, breathing in the sweet, dusty smell of his coat.
She did not regret leaving Sago, for she was old enough to realize that she had escaped mortal danger, but she was beginning to resent the Hillanders. When Owaine came to find her one evening to tell her the “good” news that Isole had finished making her an anth and Hilland dress, Beauty could not muster much enthusiasm. She had spent the day sitting on the hillside with Comrade again, watching the rest of Imwane go about their business.
“Yur’ll come to the temple tomorrow?”
Beauty had not attended a ceremony at the temple on the hill yet, since Owaine had wanted her to settle first.
“Yur’ll be able to go dressed like a proper Hilland girl now.”
Beauty nodded glumly. The thought of sitting among those who despised her did not fill her with joy.
“I am worried about Comrade,” she said.
Owaine looked at the black stallion who was standing nearby, and panic flashed across his face. Beauty saw it and her heart sank.
“Tell me the truth,” she added quietly.
“He’s old and the journey were hard.”
“Can you not do something? Can you not help him?”
“There ain’t no cure for old age, but he ain’t in pain either. Don’t be sad, my child—”
“Do not call me that! I am not your child!”
Owaine glanced at her bowed, white head.
“I won’t call you so if you don’t want to be.”
“I do not.”
He nodded and quietly walked away.
Once he was gone, Beauty ran to Comrade’s side and wrapped her arms around his neck. He snorted softly and nosed her back as she sobbed. “Please do not go,” she whispered. “Please do not leave me.”
But she knew that he must, because she had dreamt it.
The next evening, Isole came to fetch Beauty.
“Yur should make yurself more useful!” she snapped, hauling Beauty from the rock she had been sitting on and propelling her down the hillside. “I been making dinner and sewing yur dress, and what yur been doing? Talking to that horse! Troublesome, bad creature. The temple’s no place for yur.”
Isole dragged Beauty to the cottage and pushed her inside.
“Put on them clothes I made!”
Beauty peeled off her dress and climbed into the blue smock that all the Hilland women wore. It had a high neck and long sleeves and its skirt came to her ankles. It itched and chaffed her shoulders, and she looked longingly at her old peasant dress. She had brought all her clothes from Sago with her, though there were few of them and they were looking tatty and worn from the hard journey.
“Yur still look strange,” hissed Isole, tying a white apron around Beauty’s waist.
The cottage door opened and Owaine entered, startling the chickens in the pen.
“Look at yur, Beauty!” he cried. “Don’t yur look a pretty girl!”
She smiled weakly at him.
“Yur did a great job, Isole.”
“Thank yur, Papa. It weren’t easy, and I hope she appreciates it.”
“Yur does, don’t yur, Beauty?”
She turned to Isole and slowly placed her left hand to her chest. Isole’s lip curled.
“Now put on her anth and we can head to the temple. I suspect Beauty wants to show off her pretty new clothes to all them other girls.”
Isole took a white headdress from a stand. She had ironed the lace into intricate folds all day and then set it with starch to create a stiff, coned hat.
“It . . . it won’t go,” she muttered, trying to fix it to Beauty’s silky, white hair.
Beauty winced as a pin stabbed her scalp.
“Careful, Isole, you gotta be gentle,” said Owaine.
“It won’t go!”
The anth kept sliding off of Beauty’s head.
“It’s Magic!” screamed Isole, throwing the anth to the floor.
“It ain’t! And I will never hear you say such a thing!” said Owaine.
Isole blinked at her father in surprise.
“I’ll try it again,” she whispered.
In the end, Isole fixed it with a row of tight pins that looked as if they might slip away at any moment. The anth sat lopsided on Beauty’s head and wobbled precariously whenever she moved.
“It’ll do,” Isole growled, her brow damp.
They left their cottage and climbed the steep hillside with the other villagers. A steady stream of families was making its way to the temple and congregating outside its doors. When Beauty appeared there was much muttering and shifting among the crowd, and one by one, everyone made a sign to the gods.
Feeling their damning eyes on her, Beauty bowed her head.
“Good evening to yur Imwane brothers and sisters,” said a booming voice.
It was the preacher. Dressed in the rags of a peasant he traveled the hills giving sermons in the village temples. He had a strong, muscular body and a clean, clear face despite his nomadic lifestyle.
“I have much to speak to yur of,” he said, patting his satchel of scrolls about his shoulder. “Enter and we may begin.”
Following him, the villagers crowded into the temple, chattering. There was nothing inside except the bare, hard floor, and Owaine guided Beauty to a corner where they knelt, pressing their hands against the earth. She glanced up at the high, wooden ceiling, painted gold like the rest of the temple and coming away in places.
“Settle, all of yur,” cried the preacher. “We have much to speak of—”
“There is an evil one among us!”
Gasps of surprise echoed around the temple, and a woman stood and pointed at Beauty.
“I can’t be silent no longer! Not in the gods’ house! Owaine, yur my kin by marriage, but I can’t let yur bring that under-realm thing here!”
Hally pulled at the elbow of his wife, Duna.
“No, Hally!” she gasped. “The women be scared! We can’t let this happen.”
“I fear for my children!” another voice cried.
“It’ll tempt us!”
“It’ll poison us all!”
“No!” cried Owaine. “No, Beauty ain’t like—”
But tears of shame and rage were prickling Beauty’s eyes. Through a watery gaze, she saw Isole smiling triumphantly as the preacher tried to control his crowd. Then Beauty jumped to her feet and fled.
“See how it runs!” someone yelled as Beauty burst through the doors of the temple. “See how it flees from the good of the gods!”
Beauty ran down the hillside, away from the temple, away from the valley of Imwane, and away from the accusing faces of the villagers. Winter was almost upon the hills and she slid and tripped in the muddy ground. The drizzle that forever fell mingled with the tears on her cheeks and wilted her anth so that it lost its folds. She continued running blindly through the green growth until she heard a familiar rumble. She followed it to a waterfall, panting for breath as she skidded to a halt in front of its splashing pool.
There she knelt, sobbing. It was not fair that wherever she went people were afraid of her. They thought her evil and wicked before they had even asked her name. She was tired of persecution and abuse. It just was not fair.
She buried her fists into the muddy ground and cried harder. Sniffing, she caught sight of her reflection in the pool—silvery and pale—and it made her angry. She grabbed handfuls of mud and slathered it across her face and hair. Before long, she was completely covered and she looked in the pool again, seeing a dark shadow.
But that did not please her, either.
Dried of tears, she sat on the cold ground. She wondered why she had come here. Why had her mother left her in the care of Ma Dane? Why did she look different from everyone else? And why at night did she dream of a man with a scar over his eye?
She caught sight of her anth lying in the mud beside her and she snatched at it, suddenly angry. She tore it in half and then in half again, deliberately savoring the feeling. Then she threw it back in the mud.
She leaned over the pool and took a palm full of water, splashing it across her face. And then another and then another. It was deathly cold and her teeth chattered, but she did not stop until she had completely washed the mud away. Then she stared at herself, silvery once again, and she knew that she was not evil.
She closed her eyes and, listening to the sound of the waterfall, she began to sing softly.
The gods did build the hills for those,
That does good deeds for one they chose.
They shelter with old spells and might,
For one who comes to them to fight.
They know not what—
She heard a sound and jumped.
The preacher was standing before her, smiling.
“What is yur name, child?” he asked over the roar of the waterfall.
“Beauty.”
“That’s a fine name.”
The water rippled before her.
“What made yur sing that song, Beauty?”
She shrugged. “The sound of the waterfall.”
“Did yur know that’s scripture?”
“No.”
“All Hilland songs be scripture. We transfers some of it into songs to remember it easier. Better than carrying this thing around.” He patted his pack of scrolls. “And we preach in temples because it’s easier to gather people, but it’d be better to sing to waterfalls.”
Beauty frowned.
“I ain’t making fun of yur, child. For yur understand what it means when all them others don’t.”
“I was just singing. It does not mean that I understand anything.”
He smiled.
“But it does, child. Everyone does something for a reason, even the gods.”
Beauty glanced at her reflection in the pool.
“Yur are different for a reason.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve faith.”
The preacher glanced at the anth in the mud and tried to hide a smile.
“I see that yur are strong willed too,” he said. “That is good, for I wish to see yur in the temple tomorrow evening. We’ve postponed service tonight till them lot calm down.”
“I suppose I am strong willed for a reason too?”
He laughed. “See,” he said. “Yur do understand.”
He turned from her and began walking away. “I’d say may the gods be with yur, but I know that they are. Instead, I’ll say that I’ll see yur tomorrow, child.”
Beauty watched him disappear.
When she entered the cottage that night, Beauty was worried that Owaine would be angry, but instead he wrapped her in a tight hug.
“My chi—Beauty, where have yur been?”
“I am sorry,” she muttered.
“Don’t be sorry. The villagers don’t mean it, yur mustn’t be put off by them, yur—”
“I will go to the temple tomorrow.”
Owaine released her in surprise.
“Yur will?”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad to hear it, Beauty. So glad. But come and let us give yur dinner. Yur soaked and cold.”
Owaine hurriedly spooned broth into a bowl and set it at the table. Meanwhile, Isole moved to Beauty’s side.
“Where be that anth?”
“Gone!” Beauty hissed, her violet eyes flashing, and Isole jumped back in surprise.
She kept away from Beauty for the rest of the evening as they sat by the fire, and the next day also as they carried out household chores together. When evening came, Beauty walked to the temple with the rest of the villagers and wore one of her old peasant dresses with her hair loose.
The villagers muttered and whispered, but when the preacher came, Beauty marched into the temple straight after him and knelt right at the front before his feet. Owaine took the place beside her, but the others kept a distance.
“Hello, child,” said the preacher, and he touched her head.
The villagers watched, mouths open.
“We’ll begin with a song,” he added. “It’s a prophecy, but we know not for who.”
The gods did build the hills for those,
That does good deeds for one they chose.
They shelter with old spells and might,
For one who comes to them to fight.
The villagers sang and their voices charged the air with a hum that made the temple walls shake. It echoed around the hills and was carried to the mountains by the wind.
Beauty shivered, suddenly cold, for she saw a gray shadow and then a castle in the forest. They will find me here, she thought. He will trace me here.
Her vision disappeared and she gasped, Owaine grabbing her arm in support. Those around them thankfully did not notice, but Beauty looked up and saw the preacher smiling.