The cellar temple is cold. A welcome respite from the humid summer night above. Broduhodu Senisedjārhä-Ladjäkokorhu is gathered there with the rest of the mothers of Pātsäseki, and leaders and veterans of the clan in the city. The idol, an ebony woodpecker with a corpse in his beak and a torch in his talons, is uncovered—the veil which normally covers the sanctum has been lifted. The space is cramped, but it’s important that they do this now. The path ahead is muddy, they require guidance.

The bowl of tea before her smells foul, but she knows it offers wisdom, foresight. The masked Mother leading the ceremony chants, “Broduhodu sonuropāmäta tamatsän kemitse.”

Those assembled all drink.

She repeats.

Those assembled all drink.

It continues as such, even after they finish their bowls. They raise the bowl to their lips, prostrate themselves on their knees and touch the bowl to the floor, and repeat. The chanting ends, and the sonorous tattoo of drums replaces it, echoing off the vaulted brick cellar.

First father, show me the path.

Pelihemi Nejimemeki is concerned, his wife, Kājänelerhi, has come down with a cough. So far, she lacks a fever, but the cough remains. She chews ginger each dawn and dusk and drinks only chaga tea, but the cough continues.

All throughout the city, in fact, a cough is spreading.

Have the Mothers been right all along? Has Narhetsikobon taken us down a dark and destructive path?

He stands in line with his family at the courtyard’s kitchen. Spicy-stewed beans, rotu-and-bean flatbread, and rotu steamed in lotus leaf (stuffed with sour-stewed beans and ninejeri). They settle down to eat at long, wooden tables in the portico.

Coughs abound throughout their meal. He shares a worried glance with Kājänelerhi, “My sun, please speak to the Mothers about this. Surely they must have better herbs to use.”

“You know as well as I do what they said the last time. That the cause of the cough is spiritual, rather than physical.”

Nejimemeki grows pensive.

Perhaps it is madness to oppose Narhetsikobon, but is that any madder than watching your love, your partner, waste away while you idle?

He steels his mind, “Tomorrow I shall go to the mothers to see if I can help.”

Her eyes grow concerned, “If you’re certain…”

Nitsenebi leans over the vat of red. The hemp is nearing its second day and will soon be ready to come out. She pulls it from the vat with her stirring-pole, examines it.

All of a sudden she doubles over coughing, when will this end….

The blood dribbling from her lips matches the vat below.

Fitting.

At least she’ll be able to rest soon.

Senisedjārhä has no doubts. What was once uncertain has been clarified. The images she saw were perhaps unfocussed, but they centred her. And the Mothers are in accord.

Of course, the choice by the appointees of the Falcon clarified things. Because of the risk of sickness in Pātsäseki, the rotu harvest shall be stored in rural tehibemi.

They said it was a temporary measure, but if you give a falcon an inch, they’ll take you as a kabāhä.

Plans have been hatched, meetings in the cellar temples. Promises that they will succeed, because everyone knows what happens if they don’t.

A sentiment abounds: either way, we’ll be free of their accursed domination.

Senisedjārhä is not sure about that. Narhetsikobon is not evil, but a city of men. In truth, she hopes that all will amount of this putsch will be the replacement of the appointees. More level-headed, considerate men who listen to the concerns of the Mothers they are supposed to serve.

Is that too much to hope for?

The lesson he’s been taught, the lesson he’s had to learn, is that the path can be demanding, but it is still the path. Difficulty is no excuse. And this is how I can help Kājänelerhi.

Still, it’s awful business. To kill a man in a temple? Only the most demanding of paths can demand it. But how can he question the wise Mothers at a time like this?

He kneels on the cold tiled floor, the weight of the knife beneath his poncho occupying his thoughts.

“Thank you for the generous offer, but I am pregnant. Even small-wine makes me ill.” The lie comes easy enough.

They sit in the gardens of the Governor’s Palace. The breeze is cool.

The other Mothers, and the governors, smoke and drink, laughing as if nothing is amiss. There are eight of them, eight pregnant mothers who skipped the rituals of hospitality.

She sits beside the Rice Governor, laughing at his jokes. Acting insufferably prim. He’s clearly pleased by the attention, however.

And that’s all that matters.

The Bow Governor raises his voice, after they’d been together drinking and chatting for the better part of two hours, “I know the decision to direct the harvest to rural tehibemi has been met with concerns. That is why we have decided to still fill two granaries of each clan within the city: to make it clear that we trust you, the good Mothers of Pātsäseki: our partners, our teachers, our elders. We know that you are doing great things to prevent this cough, and we seek to aid you however we can.”

One of the pregnant mothers approaches him, “Thank you for your kind words and offer of aid. I am sure you can be of service in combating this disease.”

As he opens his mouth to answer, a gurgles scream comes out instead.

Senisedjārhä does as she must.

It’s not till she’s sick after, looking out at the dead, that she realizes exactly what she’s done.

The city is free.

Still, the air remains oppressive. The other clans do not seem enthused, denouncing the mothers of PelihemiThemi and NaräthātsäThanä for violating the sanctity of a temple.

But Kājänelerhi’s cough has disappeared.

Yes, their successes here haven’t spread to the countryside. But the city is free.

And they shall do what needs to be done when Narhetsikobon responds.