Prologue
I do not remember the day my mother left me at the gates of the Monastery of Saint Maevonf. But I remember the first time I heard the thunderous ringing of the bell—it reached the farthest corners of my heart. I have no memory of my first mass. But I will never forget how the Mother Superior struck my palms with a switch, and how they burned when they touched the rough fabric of my robe. I would like to forget my first meeting with Ktitor Kohelid. But no matter how hard I try, I cannot.
We were all supposed to greet him—from the lowest labourer to the Mother Superior herself. We stood in a crooked line, each of us kissing the ring on his grimy finger. I think I will remember the smell of smoked meat that clung to his hands for the rest of my life. Of course, I had never tasted smoked fish or ham, but somehow I knew exactly what they smelled like. The same smell clung to his richly embroidered clothes. He looked entirely out of place in our humble, restrained monastery. Three thin strands of hair on his nearly bald head stuck to his forehead like icicles. I thought then that he must hate washing—or perhaps he simply could not be bothered for a visit to the monastery. But he visited us often. For his generous donations, he was granted a bow to the ground and an adoring gaze from the Mother Superior. Winefreda kissed his hands as if she meant to eat them. Though, given what we ate day after day, perhaps she did.
I was fourteen then. I had risen from labourer to novice, and I was immensely proud of myself. But I quickly stifled that sinful feeling. It was frightening even to think of such things—it seemed Winefreda could read my thoughts if I stood too close.
— Why are they all so thin, Mother Superior? Can you not afford proper food? — Kohelid burst out, eyeing me and a few other girls my age with a strange look.
— It is my duty to raise these children in humility and obedience before our Holy Maevonf. We do not serve lavish dinners here, but I assure you, the food is not as meagre as it might seem, — Winefreda raised her hands to the sky and whispered a prayer, as was customary whenever Saint Maevonf's name was spoken. We repeated after her mechanically. But Kohelid rolled his eyes and waved his hand, as if shooing away a fly.
— Yes, yes, monastic selflessness, I remember, — he said. — I am sure these girls have never even tasted meat, what is there to say... — and he walked on, paying us no more attention. Winefreda hurried after him, warning us with a finger not to dare speak or, God forbid, move from our spot until we were told.
The weather was not suited for standing outside; it is rarely warm in the north. Our thin clothes offered no protection against the fierce wind. But I should have been grateful it wasn't snowing—otherwise, I would have lost all feeling in my feet in my worn-out boots. My hands had already turned blue with cold. I waited impatiently for them to let us go so we could warm ourselves by the hearth in the refectory—where we would have been going, if not for Kohelid's visit at lunchtime.
At the thought of food, my stomach rumbled, and I flinched, hoping Winefreda was too far to hear. "Do not think of earthly food—think of spiritual food," I told myself. It helped, sometimes.
All this time, Sister Eisa was watching the novices—our overseer, as we called her behind her back. Her task was to watch our every step and scold us when necessary. Almost anything could be a reason for punishment. Talk too loud, laugh, eat—you get the switch on your bare knees. Late for morning mass—you are flogged and left without food for a whole day. Read the liturgy poorly—the girls were beaten on their palms, with the same switch, now soaked in water. The wounds took a long time to heal.
Sister Eisa enforced the strict order. Back then, it never crossed my mind that she might be too cruel; it seemed she was doing it for our own good. But as I grew older, I began to understand that "to admonish a guilty sister with a sisterly word" meant something very different.
When Kohelid finally finished his rounds, we were released for lunch, much to everyone's relief. Standing in the cold on an empty stomach was no one's idea of comfort. But no one showed it, knowing the punishment that would follow. We were supposed to be humble and obedient—as Eisa and Winefreda never tired of reminding us.
That day, we were served a surprisingly delicious, crumbly porridge. Everyone was given a generous helping, not just a thin layer covering the bottom of the bowl. There was even melted butter glistening on top—something we only got on holidays. Apparently, the ktitor's visit counted as one. We were amazed that the porridge was hot, not lukewarm or ice-cold as we were used to. Burning our mouths, we devoured it eagerly, barely chewing. But no one punished us for our lack of restraint, because all attention was fixed on the table where Kohelid and Winefreda sat. Even Eisa could not take her eyes off our guest, which worked in our favour.
Talking during meals was forbidden, even whispering. With the other girls, we had learned to communicate with glances and barely audible taps of spoon handles on the table. But that day, everyone was too busy eating. No one felt like talking. Everyone was holding back moans of pleasure. And when we were served mugs of warm, slightly sweet tea, it became even harder to contain ourselves. I don't remember the last time we had tea—usually, we were given water or bitter lingonberry juice that scratched the throat. That was when we all rejoiced at Kohelid and his visit.
Then a heavy hand fell on my shoulder. I knew it was Eisa and tensed, bracing for a blow. Apparently, I had let out a moan without noticing. The girls sitting next to me on the bench moved away, trying to become invisible before Eisa's gaze. But she—and I would never have believed this in my wildest dreams—spoke to me in a soft, gentle voice and asked me to stand.
— Come with me, Evina. The Mother Superior wants to see you, — she took my hand and led me along. I could not believe what I was hearing. What had happened to Eisa that she had become... kind? Or what had I done to be summoned by Winefreda? Just before reaching the table where the Mother Superior sat, Eisa adjusted my crooked headscarf and gave me a gentle push to step forward. With my head bowed, I waited for my sentence. That was surely why I had been called.
— This is the novice we spoke of, — Winefreda began. — Evina, an orphan left at the gates of our monastery. This poor, abandoned child has known the warmth that Sister Eisa and I, as best we could, have shown her. We understand this can never replace a mother's embrace, but we have tried to ensure she never lacks a kind word or sisterly guidance. In our community, in our sisterhood, everything rests on spiritual principles. We honour them to draw closer to Saint Maevonf.
I could feel her gaze on my skin as she raised her hands and whispered a prayer after mentioning Maevonf. Apparently, I had done what was expected, since I did not receive a blow to my back or knees.
— Lift your head, Evina. Let me admire your pretty face, — Kohelid's voice held something I had never heard before—something deeply unpleasant. As if I had been doused with something foul. But I dared not disobey, even though I was not supposed to look him in the eye. He was a man; it was forbidden. Winefreda winced but said nothing. She gave me a barely perceptible nod. I did as I was told, but I averted my gaze, stubbornly staring at the goblet in his hand, which clearly did not contain tea. It smelled tart and sour. I did not like the smell at all—it reminded me of the barrel in the pantry. I did not know what was in there, but it smelled exactly the same.
— Oh, what wonderful eyes, like lupines from the distant south. Let me have a look. What are you staring at so intently? Want to know what is in my goblet? Fancy a taste? Come closer, I don't bite! — I shook my head so hard I thought it might tear off my thin neck, earning a hoarse laugh from the ktitor. No, I definitely did not want to taste that, and I had no desire to approach him. Kohelid patted the bench, inviting me to sit beside him. But I stood rooted, searching Winefreda's face for support. She turned away, refusing to meet my eyes.
— Here, I saved a city pretzel with sugar for you. You have never seen one in your life, let alone tasted one. Here! — he reached into the folds of his fur cloak, beneath which I could see an embroidered green tunic, and pulled out a sugary pastry coiled into a twist. A pretzel, as he called it. I did not know what to do—I could not take it, but I could not refuse it either. Then the Mother Superior spoke, throwing me into further confusion.
— Take it, Evina, since Ktitor Kohelid wishes to gift it to you. Accept it as a gesture of his goodwill, — Winefreda pressed her lips together stubbornly. I did not know if this was a test. But I could not delay any longer. So I had no choice but to hold out my open palms. The sugary pretzel landed in them like a ripe apple that had once fallen on my head in the garden. I got a bump then. I wondered how many bumps this would cost me.
— Now go. Lunch is almost over. Finish eating and clear up after yourself, — the Mother Superior waved her hand dismissively, and I, bowing to her and the ktitor, stepped back a few paces, where Eisa was already waiting. She put her arm around my shoulders and led me back to my place. The other girls, I am sure, had been watching me the whole time, but when Eisa looked at them, they immediately lowered their heads. I sat down and was about to put the pretzel on the table, but I caught myself just in time. While Eisa was still there, I held it out to her. Talking among ourselves was forbidden, but addressing a sister was allowed.
— Please take it, Sister Eisa. I cannot eat it. It would undermine my restraint and... — I paused, searching for the right word. But Sister Eisa slapped my hand painfully and glared at me.
— This is a gift from the esteemed Ktitor Kohelid. You cannot refuse it. I thought you remembered what to do with gifts, but I was wrong. After lunch, I want to see you in my cell! — With that, she left the refectory. The girls sitting next to me tapped their spoon handles on the table in disapproval. I distinctly heard them whisper "Fool!" and I hunched my shoulders, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. I was definitely in for a beating, and everyone knew it.
I angrily wiped the tears of humiliation from my cheeks. What had I done wrong again? Nothing was more important than maintaining order, even in eating. I looked at the pretzel in my hand, the sugar already starting to melt, with disgust. I had not tried it, and I was not going to. But the other girls, whose parents sometimes bought them such things on holidays, were licking their lips. I could have shared, but then they would have been punished too, and everyone would have blamed me. As always. I thought of throwing it away, unnoticed. But I never carried it out as I left the refectory.
Sister Eisa was waiting for me in her cell, as she had said. But apparently, she was too busy with Kohelid's departure, because she was not there when I arrived. I should have left then. And so, after a long wait, standing in one spot at the threshold of her cell, Eisa finally appeared, stomping heavily on the stone floor. She did not even let me say a word in my defence, roughly grabbing my arm and pulling me inside.
I could not allow myself to cry—that would only make it worse. Much worse. She made me kneel and stretch out my arms. She struck my palms mercilessly. I did not dare move, even when drops of blood began to fall on my dark grey robe. And she just kept striking, not even thinking of stopping. With a sharp whistle, the switch cut through the air, again and again. I hear that sound every day, relieved that I am not the one being punished. But this time, I was. With each blow, the pain grew stronger, breaking me, subduing me. Obedient, selfless, submissive, humble, quiet, modest—it was beaten into me with every blow, with every drop of blood, with every silent scream.
The pretzel lay in the dusty corner where Sister Eisa had thrown it. And this time, I understood that the fault was not mine. It was entirely Ktitor Kohelid's. It was on that day that I broke and discovered a new part of myself. Not as a servant, but as a sinner. I wished for him to experience all the pain and humiliation I felt at that moment. I wished for him to die.
awesome!😭❤️