The Carnelian Way

4.1

Waiting penitents filled the nave when Rina arrived. After spotting her aunt and uncle toward the back of the congregation, she hurried down the aisle and shuffled through a gap between the benches, apologising when she trod on toes and fell into the lap of a flushing pimple-faced boy, with a "Shit!" then sat in the place left for her.

The buzz of voices grew, the scent of burning pine snaked through the room, and the snap and pop of igniting resin released a soothing fragrance. To her right, her aunt Uma fidgeted with the blue tassels of her woven belt, twirling and untwirling the strands, her teeth biting into her thin lips. On her left, her uncle Pietro sat with back erect, his red-rimmed amber eyes focused on the statue of Mai ahead of them, the stubbed, nailless fingers of his right hand scratching at his chest. The tang of the fields radiated from his body: dark, moist earth, rich and fertile, even in winter.

Rina's own fingers tingled. It was almost time to seed. She could smell it in the breeze, taste it on her tongue, feel the pool of warmth low in her body as she always did before each planting. The work was hard. Days, sometimes weeks, bent over, pressing seeds into the ripe ground, asking Mai for the grace to grant a prosperous yield. Yet there was nothing like being joined to the land, the gift of bringing life into the world. After tonight's forsaking, those assigned to the crops would not attend the temple until finished as a means to conserve their energy.

Outside, dark enfolded the city in its mantle. The mist would be whirling through the streets now. Indeed, rivulets had seeped into the room and tried to tickle Rina's toes. The murmurs increased.

"Do you think something is wrong, Pietro?" said Uma, leaning over Rina to ensure her husband heard, her fingers twisting ever faster.

"Hmpf," the man grunted, then spat on the floor.

"Uncle! This is Mai's house, show some respect."

"My arse is cold, and the days are short. The service hasn't even started, and I'm ready to fall asleep."

"That's blasphemy—and you know it!" Rina hissed, too aware they were being watched. Beside her, a squeak escaped Uma's mouth. Rina wanted to shake the woman. Shake the both of them. One spineless, the other so caught up in their resentment of the past, they didn't care what happened to those around them.

Pietro let out another snort, not bothering to hide the disdain he held for Mai—or his own wife. It was one of the reasons for his hostility toward the Magisterium. Like so many others, they'd chosen his mate. While Uma had been more than happy to marry the handsome young farmer—or so Rina's mother had told her while she lived—Pietro had not reciprocated the feelings. Still, he'd followed their orders and married her, just as he accepted his calling in the fields when his hands itched to carve. And when his sister was executed for treason a year later, he'd bowed his head—all out of gratitude to Mai and repentence for his forefathers'. Yet those years working the fields—through winter, and ice and frost—had weakened his fingers, turned the tips purple so that he struggled to chisel the intricate designs he loved, and eventually they were amputated from the top knuckle. The accident to his spine had been the chip that shattered him, though. Too many hours to drink and ponder poisoned a mind.

"Please, Pietro," Uma begged, "I don't want any trouble."

Pietro's eyes remained upon the statue, as though he would incinerate it with his gaze.

Shifting in her seat, Rina asked, "Why would there be trouble, Uma?" feigning naivity, but unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice.

The soft rasp of Uma's calloused, arthritic fingers brushing against each other as they spun and twisted the loops of her belt was the only answer.