As she began her journey in silence back to the cottage with Doleen she began to think about her mother. She had died delivering Doleen, when Myrya was only twelve years old. It was a dark time in her life, and she was thankful that she had learned everything she could regarding herbs and the old religion from her.
“Sweet Flag and silence, keeps a woman alive in times like these,” she would say. There was no tolerance for any woman to express herself, then or now, lest she be marked a witch. And so she was, unnoticed because of her silence. It was Miryabeit’s uncontrollable tongue and combative nature which brought her to the attention of Myrridian as well, she thought. Doleen was practically dumb; she didn’t have to learn silence. She was just fragile, and yet her own three children loved her more than anything. The youngest children spent most of their days at the nearby cathedral, being indoctrinated per the relatively new custom. Only one of her own daughters showed any interest or affinity in the old ways, and she was still too young to learn. Now all her attention would be on Miryabeit’s child. She would hide her resentment as well as she could.
They finally arrived at their cottage. The wagon was parked and she could smell the stew cooking. It was the same thing, day after day. She never passed on it. Though the smell of the pig stew had once made her salivate, she now loathed it and even wretched when she thought of it. She had Myrridian and Goldoc to thank for that. In the time she had learned to bleed the animals, she had grown fond of them and had nightmares of their revenge. She had been well-trained on how to calm the animal and delicately slice the neck with a razor, filling flask after flask for the bloodthirsty infant she carried around.
She learned of their sorrows, their empathic nature, and their society. When they went to the dormitory to eat, she sat down at the stone table with Doleen, the children, and the others and just stared in the bowl. She felt horrible. So many people would kill to be fed as well as they were, and all she could think of was the pig, staring at her with an eye that seemed so human, with concerns and emotions like a any other person. She was full of shame, eating around the flesh that was interspersed with the potatoes, carrots, and kale. Yet no one suspected, no one except Goldach. He always cried in the dormitory when they ate. The children sat, extremely and disturbingly well-behaved, not saying a word. Doleen sat, looking as if she would weep any moment. The two men and women, whom she refused to learn their names, sat beady-eyed and cruel, discussing church gossip. There was a witch here, and the pagans there, and God help them all. Goldach stayed strapped to her back the entire time, and whimpered as he responded to Marta’s emotional state.
Knowing how sensitive he was, it was not enough to just mask her feelings. She had tried to convince herself, but to no avail. Her life was worse and more controlled externally than ever before. The Sweet Flag allowed her to think on levels. On one level, she was extremely pleased to be away from the British masters, who were cruel and demanding. She loved the cottage she shared with Doleen and their children, however cramped it was. She actually enjoyed working out in the fields; that was the time she used to think, finding elusive answers to things she was pondering. That was also when Goldoc was at his best; his communication with her opened up when she opened up to the plants. The plants seemed to focus her mind. She made sure to apologize and thank every one of them before she harvested them.
She longed to be back at the infirmary, where she could practice her medicine. The only problem was Myrridian. He would be there, standing over her shoulder, making sure that everything was collected and done according to his will. That surely took all the fun out of it. She had to hide the Calamus she had collected; it would’ve given away her secret. And now she was nearly out. When she had put in her order for a peck of dried and powdered Calamus root, the man’s eyebrows went up and then down, as he squinted and scrutinized her. Why she may be a bit of a witch, after all; she heard him thinking it. When the ignorant oaf thought this, she hit him where it hurts,
“I know it is rather strange, sir, to ask for such an exotic item. But I only want it to ease my menstrual cramps and to sooth my swollen breasts. Goldoc is voracious,” she said. “I once overheard one of the peasant women from the village discussing it once; I asked her for some, and it did help.” Little Goldac looked at the man, who’s face had turned beet red, and smiled at his embarrassment. Marta took the cue. “It’s quite embarrassing to discuss such issues with a man; please forgive me,” she said. His face got redder still, and his voice clogged.
“Well, it’s there for sale at the spice and granary you say? Dear Mum, I will resort to nothing to procure it for you. He does indeed appear voracious,” he said. She hoped she would not have to speak about it again. It was unnerving for the man to know about it. Marta had learned from Myrridian’s feeble attempts at controlling her memory how simple-minded people could be made to forget, and this man, Yohanan, fit the bill. Her first order of business, upon reception of the powder, would be to strongly suggest it never happened and she knew nothing of herbal medicine whatsoever. Such were the times that legitimate medicine was kept out of the hands of those who needed it most.
Tomorrow was Saturday, with a shortened schedule; the field work would be done not long after the noon hour. Some would go into town to trade, drink, and galavant. She would do none of these, but would perhaps sing songs with the children; she and her sister might bake honey biscuits for them in the evening. Doleen needed attention as well as a break. More and more, Marta worried that she was cracking up. Miryabeit’s death and all the other fast changes that Goldoc had brought into their lives recently had been drastic indeed. She was not adjusting well.
The church, which they all would be attending on Sunday, had brought Doleen and other shell-shocked people like her, pretty much everyone these days, much comfort. Marta was cognizant that she had to get over her bigoted predisposition against all things Christian, lest she be branded a witch. Goldoc also needed her to be level-headed. He did not soak up his environment; he soaked up her perception of his environment. On the church and it’s associated activities, Myrridian, she, and Miryabeit had agreed: it was all malignant. Only now was she starting to find some redeeming qualities in the whole business. It was like an addictive drug, however. Take away the ability to connect with nature, outlaw it even, and then offer a substitute that medicates the pain of her absence. That was how she viewed the Cathedrals and the Priests and the bleeding Savior tormented behind the altar. She thought to herself, is that a warning? Is that what they do to people who disagree with them? She would never make her thoughts known on the subject. Didn’t it seem to obvious to ignore, though?
All that was true, but it was more true due to it’s pertinence: there was no turning back. The old ways and the old religion was quickly becoming a thing of the past and it would not return. She wished her mother was here. She wished Myrridian were not so domineering. There was no subject that enthralled her more than medicine. She missed it greatly. She longed to learn more from Myrridian, to gain more confidence from him. She had to convince him even further of her loyalty. Where was he?
