The Horse Master's Daughter

8. Chapter 8

three

The fatty smell of fresh fried bread lingers in the kitchen. A pile of dirty dishes is stacked, left haphazard at the doorstep. The bell for class tolls. It’s way past breakfast. Still, my sisters choose to stay and wait for me.

My body breathes a sigh of relief as I plop onto a worn-out pillow. The sweet comfort of the earth rises to meet me as Pema pours me a cup of tea.

“Good morning!” Pema adds a sneaky smile as she serves me. Her big brown eyes hold a long-awaited expectation that she doesn’t try to hide.

I bite my lip to suppress my own smile, for I’m going to let her simmer a while. My hands wrap around the cup, seeking the warmth that will settle my mind and soothe my shaky insides. Incredible. Permission to go home.

“So…?” Pema’s eyes are ready to burst their brown. She can’t take it anymore. “When are we leaving?”

My eyebrow raises, but it’s no surprise to me. Pema already knows.

I blow the fatty froth aside and take a slow sip from my cup. “You’re right,” I say. “She wouldn’t let me go without you two at my side.”

Pema sniggers and hauls the kettle over to the side. Tea spills, and creamy foam hisses a scorched protest on the stove.

“Careful!” I slide aside as Pema relishes in her excitement. “You think Tsomo will come?” A bite of buttered bread spreads its briny taste along my palate.

“Come where?” Tsomo shuffles in the doorway. A basket of dried cow dung swings around her hips.

“Oh, stop pretending.” I release the smile on my face and glance from sister to sister. They are twins, but not alike, and certainly not in appearance. Pema is small—tiny, like she stopped growing at the age of six—but she has the biggest brown eyes I’ve ever seen, set in a gleaming, jolly face. Tsomo on the other hand is tall, slender, almost wiry, with a perpetual frown on her forehead so it looks like she’s sort of cross all the time.

Their appearance might be different, yet they seem to share one mind. It’s uncanny how they finish each other’s sentences, and always know where the other is, even if they’re far apart.

Not that they’d ever been far apart. At their birth, the divination was cast; the twins are the reincarnation of an exceptional Buddhist master. And since prophecy has to be followed to avoid a wrath from the gods, the twins were raised at the monastery to start their instruction early. Dolma, the abbess at that time, had taken a personal interest in the sisters, making sure they would fulfill the destiny that’s foretold.

Their presence touches me with a kindness that knows no end, as they have been my saviors from the moment we met. That fateful day my father left me on this mountain to carry my immense grief all alone, the twins stepped in and shared my burden, for they had been there too. Home-sick, heart-sick, and most of all feeling forlorn, my sisters in seclusion were the ones that understood. Their friendship means the world to me, and I don’t ever want to be without it.

“So, we’re leaving tomorrow.” Tsomo’s frown lightens, and she sits beside me, wiggling the basket between her knees. Sure, all nuns savor the solitude our mountain gives us, but the rare opportunity to go down to the valley—that is something none of us will pass up.

I nod. “Tomorrow.” And my little heart makes another leap while the sisters fill the kitchen with their chatter.

Pema babbles about the scenic route into the lower valley, and Tsomo sums up all the precautions that we sure need to take. My family home is at least a day’s ride, providing the weather is good. It’s not a journey to be taken lightly. Yes, the trail down the mountain sure is gorgeous, but tricky this time of year with the slippery remains of last winter’s slush and the abundance of overgrown and budding wildflowers announcing the arrival of spring.

“We’ll bring momos and have a picnic.” Pema claps her hands, beaming a grin. She’s got the day planned. “We might even visit our cousins.”

I pour myself another cup of tea and shake my head. There’s no way we’ll have time to sit around. It will be a stretch to make it in a day, but I will not mention it to Pema. She won’t hear.

“Yes, let’s all have a party, shall we?” Tsomo rolls her eyes. “Honestly, sis, you’re the eldest of us. Why don’t you behave like it?” Sparks fly as she throws a few slabs of dried dung in the stove. Pema doesn’t budge.

“We have to eat, so I’m making momos.” She rumbles through the heap of greens in the corner. Tsomo pokes the smoldering ashes with a stick.

Flames flare and I shift aside. “Gen Ghedun’s coming with us.” I slurp another chunk of soaked bread from between my fingers. “He’ll have none of it.”

Tsomo grabs a rag. “Nordun’s right.” She dusts herself off. “We’ll travel straight to the stables. No detours or picnics allowed.” With those words she whacks the rag around one more time as if to say “discussion closed.”

“Gen Ghedun.” Pema hums and turns to me. “Well, then you’ll reach the stables for sure.” Mischief ignites among the burnished brown in her eyes. “Can’t guarantee anything from there on though.”

Whack. A rag whooshes by, hitting her head.

“You stop talking, right now.” Tsomo’s warning soars at her sister. “Nordun’s heart is pure—don’t you dare think about that.” Her frown’s back with a vengeance, underlining the weight of her words.

My hands wring around my cup, and my mind spins in a circle. We all know what Pema is hinting about, as it happened before. A novice sister going down for a visit, and never coming back. Families force marriage bonds, and even strong sisters’ minds become feeble. It’s not something to joke about, but to be honest, it hadn’t even entered my mind.

The air stifles and folds a dense layer over the kitchen. Cold sweat breaks on my face. The sisters steal a glance at one another, and their eyes seethe a veiled intensity I’ve only ever seen in theirs.

I know that look, as swift and black as the flare of a raven’s wings taking flight. The twins are having a premonition again. About our trip? About me?

I crane my neck in a reflex to read their faces, but it’s useless, I already know. They’ll laugh it away, as they always do. And it’s exactly what they do now. Pema wrinkles her nose at Tsomo’s frown, and Tsomo hits Pema over the head again with that dirty cloth.

My tongue tastes the silty residue at the bottom of my cup—a touch of tsampa, salt and butter, a satisfying end to a great cup of tea. No use asking what’s on my sisters’ mind; they’ll tell me in their own time, or not.

And just like that, the twins are their usual chatty self again, deliberating the best route taken and, most importantly, the food we will bring. My hands gather the empty cups, and I stack them in the basket.

“My turn today,” I say. It’s not, but they won’t mind.

Pema sifts through the cabbages in the darkest corner of the kitchen. “And while you’re down the stream, cut me a few sprigs of green, will you?” She winks, and I walk away.

A vibrant orange red waves through a dusty gray, crowning the morning with a golden glow. The remaining drops of dew shine like melting crystals on the grass. The early morning chill has made way for the balmy heat of early spring, but the last of a vague cold latches itself onto my bones.

I haul the basket closer. The old wicker creaks and pricks my hip.

Going home.

I got what I desired. Right?

Then how come that strange sense of unease has sprung itself on me?