Marin's Fire

Chapter 11

Marin quickly blended into the routines of farm life. Waking up early, helping with the kids, caring for the animals. And of course, tending to the herb garden. Although Trea was not a wise woman in the same sense that his mother had been, she had kept Maggie's garden going all these years.

Being on a farm was nonstop work. Every night he went to bed sore. His shoulders ached, his back was stiff, and his hands were blistered. He'd crawl up into the loft space of the barn to the corner he'd made his own, and collapse. That first night, Hobson had offered Marin a place on the floor in the family's cottage, cozy and next to the hearth. But the spring nights were warm enough, and Marin didn't feel comfortable intruding in such a way. Being alone was nice. He and his father had had a routine that worked, but Marin was feeling like this could work, too.

Farm work resulted in a different kind of tired than he was used to. As a healer, he often felt drained mentally. Drained spiritually. Drained emotionally. But the walk back and forth to town, or a few hours cutting and drying herbs, never cost him that much physically. He hadn't performed this much manual labor since he had tended this same plot of land as a child and adolescent, back before his mother had died.

A few times he was so tired that he even forgot to undo his bindings. He woke up in the middle of the night, his skin protesting loudly, begging to be freed from its confines, and half-awake he fumbled to remove his tight vest and the strips of cloth he kept tied around his chest. Running his hand over his ribs, he could feel the deep imprints left in his flesh. Angry red stripes that would fade by morning, but that were never allowed to disappear before being wrapped back up again the next day before Marin headed off for another sixteen hours of hard work.

Then, after a couple of weeks had passed without incident, Marin woke up with a dull ache in his abdomen. He moaned and turned over, tucking his knees up. Still half-asleep, his first thought was that he needed to pass gas. Had he eaten too much cabbage stew? Sometimes that wrecked his stomach.

But as he rolled on his straw mat and slowly woke up, he recognized that this pain differed from indigestion. He wouldn't be able to cure this with a cup of mint tea.

Gads, he felt so stupid. He'd been so focused on the monotony of chores–feeding and watering the animals, milking the goats, mucking out the stalls, stacking firewood–that he hadn't been paying attention to the moon. To the lunar cycle. That regular orbit that had been pulling and tugging on his insides for more than a decade.

Back at The Order, his father had helped Marin avoid discovery during this time of the month. He would give him excuses to stay secluded in their cell. Hobard would tell the Abbot that his arthritis was flaring up, and he needed his child's care. Or Hobard would complain of stomach ailments, shortness of breath, a ringing in his ears–any of a litany of symptoms caused by old age.

He'd also helped Marin find the rags needed to keep himself clean.

This regular bleeding was the worst part about his body. The monthly reminder that at much as he could conceal his feminine form on the outside, his insides would still betray him by leaking viscous drippings down his thighs. His shame painted in streaks of red.

Now, laying in the loft, Marin knew he needed to find clean water and rags quickly before he stained his shift.

He was grateful for this corner in the loft. The stacks of hay helped to dampen the animal smells and sounds that floated up from below. And the crucial privacy of this space also afforded him some time to think.

Marin looked around to see if by some miracle there was a pile of rags he hadn't noticed before, but all he saw were his trousers, tunic, vest, and medic's robe laying folded on a stool. It was too dark to climb down the ladder and explore the rest of the barn, but he knew he wouldn't find what he needed.

Straw? He slept on a straw mat. The animals also slept on piles of straw. Could that possibly help his situation? He picked up some loose dry stalks from the ground. They felt crunchy and thin under his fingers. Using them for absorbency was absurd.

"I'm literally grasping at straws," Marin said into the darkness with a self-depreciating chuckle.

Would he have to ask Hobson for help? The idea made him squeamish. Even though he couldn't name why, Marin couldn't even picture himself saying the words with a straight face. Yes, his brother must know that Marin suffered these monthly episodes. Hobson was a married man and therefore must be familiar with these things. But still.

Maybe Trea would be the better ally.

When Hobson had brought Trea into the family it was before Marin was, well, Marin.

Sometimes Marin blocked out those early days. In Curander everyone knew him as Marin the medic. Knew him as a man. A short man. Thin of wrist. But as a medic, no one expected him to be broad and barrel-chested, so they saw him as a man nonetheless. It wasn't that way growing up in Addersfield, especially as the only daughter of the village's wise woman. The heir apparent.

Trea had embraced Marin like a sister until Hobson told her to knock it off. Hobson, the protective older brother who always knew, even before knowing. And Trea followed Hobson's lead. Never told their children anything different. But Marin had never actually talked to her about it. About his past, his identity, any of it.

Marin, watching the eastern horizon slowly lighten from black to blue to periwinkle to gray to orange, suddenly missed home with a deep pang much sharper than his abdominal cramps. Missed his father. Missed their routine. Missed being part of The Order.

Not sure what else to do, Marin picked up his stack of clothes. As he lifted the pile from the stool, his bindings fell down at his feet. He picked the strips of cloth up. There was enough linen to wrap around his chest three times. Maybe he only needed to wrap himself twice. He had his tight leather vest that he also wore under his robes, after all.

So, before doing up his bindings, Marin teared off a strip using his teeth. With a satisfying rip, he now had a small bit of clean cloth. He carefully folded the newly made rag up and tucked it between his thighs before pulling up and buttoning his trousers. He had to make his ties slightly tighter than usual, but it was a small sacrifice.

Settled in his solution, Marin climbed down from his loft and headed to the cottage where he could already see smoke rising from the chimney. The morning air was crisp, and dew covered the ground. After the unpleasant surprise he had this morning, he wondered what else the day would bring.