Way of the Washerwoman

Sian and Carid met in front of the statue of Yan Kube Maur, in the midst of the oft-overgrown Spinners’ Plateau. Behind them was the pond they kept, dusted with the pollen of the nodwillow trees. When the breeze rustled them, both Gvaneti women shifted uncomfortably. But they kept their gaze on the towering effigy of their God, carved from the obsidian Threatening Valley so famously mined and exported.

“Tyl Hen and his retinue will be here on the morrow’s night,” Sian said.

“How knowest thee?” Carid asked, rubbing her arms to create some heat. Spinners’ Plateau was the only place around here where it actually cooled significantly in the night.

“Our porter received his wares and wardrobes in advance. Caer Eremos will be hosting him, thank God. I received word from Sire Danno of his intentions to perform miracles at our market.”

“Not miracles but tricks,” Carid spat under her breath and Sian acted immediately by slapping her junior’s wrist.

“Hold thy tongue, Sister Carid. A lack of experience shows in such slander,” Sian, the eldest of the Taranicna kindred, was broad-bodied and even more imposing with the layers of woven green and black cloths which her shoulders carried. She had tan skin, sharp eyes, and bushy lye-bleached hair fastened into a half-bun with a real animal bone. 

“Yes Madame.” Carid had never asked which animal, her natural dark blond hair braided and adorned with a red hood. Her dress was more simple and traditional to their culture, as it had to be with prophets. 

Sian jerked her head toward the statue, or perhaps, beyond it. She handed Carid a knife made of bone, carved sharp enough to lacerate her palms as necessary. Carid barely winced anymore at that, but when she spat on her bloodied hands and the salt from her saliva reacted to her blood, it began to burn, and she felt lightheaded.

A low growl echoed in her ear, a heavy and imposing presence behind her. Fairest Carid, my Sweetling. As she washed his feet with her bloody hands, she felt his force upon her shoulders  and back. Sian inhaled sharply and stepped back. Carid grit her teeth

Sian began singing a low chant as Carid washed his feet and the rock rubbed her wounds raw. Carid Carid Carid. His voice was seductive and affable, unnervingly so.

You know that Tyl Hen is a false prophet, my sweetling. Why asketh thee?

“Sister Sian asks, O Great Father, that you bestow this message upon your unworthy vessel,” Carid exclaimed in incantation, “May your semen find my spit and deliver-”

And thee knowest how easily he shall convert them. Yet thee cleanseth me, like a washerwoman.

"Even away from thee, Yan Kube Maur?” Carid said in her head, a place Sian couldn’t access. 

Yes. And even away from thee, Carid.

She felt the weight of her God, like a buzzing settling on her shoulders and drifting down her spine. She poured some mint oil on his stone feet and spat on her hands again, caressing the cold curve of his sole. The mint burned, but kept away miasma, and was far from the spices burnt at their wedding and the ashes dusting his eight eyelids after. 

Tyl Hen can bring light to this valley in ways beyond my power, but in order to, the Old God must die, and this has been decided.

“I need no ring from Tyl Hen,” She argued, but her body was beginning to exhaust. “That green light, it’s injurious to our people. I care not what Bethana says! What can I do?”

Sian didn’t say anything as she stood back holding the ritual light, but her brows were knit in uneasiness. 

There’s nothing to be done. Washerwomen who tread too long at the shore will drown, Pure as thou art, to retain thine virtue thou must exiled.

“I will warn them,” Carid ground her teeth in anger. “You can’t not let me warn them of their sins.”

Thou can, but little it will do, darling Carid. In order to serve me to thine fullest… thou must never return to this altar.”

“My God!” Carid yelped in pain and anguish as she beat her bloody hands on the black obsidian, shining in the light. She had never felt the idol this way. It felt he’d penetrated her heart and torn it out as a trophy. “My God! No!!!

“Sister Carid!” Sian exclaimed sharply, dropping the lantern and rushing toward her companion, managing to catch the distressed oracle in her arms as Carid sobbed and rubbed at her face, palms burnt and bloody from the friction. The scent of mint was overwhelming because it didn’t completely mask the blood odor coming off of Carid, who had stopped flailing once fallen away from the statue. Sian took a necklace with a wire-wrapped silvery stone pendant, and put it around Carid’s neck, holding her close. ”Sister Carid. It is alright. He was too intense for thee, that is all. Thou art young, still.”

Carid lulled her head to the side and pressed against Sian’s chest, widened eyes only now focusing on the elder priestess. “Sister Sian. I’m so sorry,” she breathed, grasping herself tightly for protection. Blood now stained her sleeves too, and Sian made a chiding noise at the sight.

“Carid…”

Carid had gone back to staring at the statue, only slightly out of arm’s reach, listlessly. It was like a child staring at a toy they were bored with, and Sian quickly reclaimed her attention by gently grasping her cheek and turning Carid’s face back toward her. “Sister Carid, please.”

“What?” Carid mumbled in a shaky breath.

“What was Yan Kube Maur’s answer?”

Carid did not turn her head away, but she found her gaze lowering to her stiff, aching knuckles as she hugged herself, shaking violently in Sian’s layers of wool cloak.Then her shoulders relaxed, as if in resignation. “Tyl Hen’s arrival will be auspicious.”

“Oh, how about that! Thou art skilled still, see? I can now tell the others,” Carid could feel Sian ready to jump up and leave her lying here at any moment, and wondered when she’d begun to see Sian in such a light. Hadn’t she admired Sian’s loyalty only a few hours ago?

“Yes,” Carid said, as a tear rolled over a quivering eyelash. “And we must all do our best.”