He picks his way on those grand stick legs. Pecks at something. He’s been at this a long time this morning. I bet he’s quick enough to catch a fish. Go on, bird, be flexible. If you’re hungry, eat what’s at hand. Survive.
I watch from the spot where I fell yesterday. Warblers sing behind me. Little bitterns squeal. Gulls cry. This must be a bird haven. Mamma would call me lucky. Oh, my mamma. I bite the side of my hand in grief.
Ai! My lips are dry. My whole mouth is dry. I’ve been salted, like cod for winter. Lord, I hope there’s sweet water somewhere on this island—a rock shallow where rain collects, a mudhole, anything.
A lizard thrashes in the heron’s long bill, disappears down his throat.
“Yay!”
With a hoarse scream, the heron takes to the air, but my eyes are on the girl who just shouted. She comes running from the cypress trees, hair ribbons trailing behind her, flapping her arms. I gasp. Those arms—they stretch far above her head. She’s all out of proportion.
She dances around, skirts flouncing. Then she spies me. Her face lights up and she runs over. “Who are you?”
I move slowly. I don’t want to frighten this monster of the long arms and legs. She might not know there are others like her. I smile to allay fears that will surely arise as she takes in the whole of me. Finally, I’m on my feet, unfolded, towering above her. Please, child, don’t run away.
“What are you doing on the beach? Watching the bird? Do you love birds? I do. Why are your skirts tucked up around your legs? Did you sleep here?” She tilts her funny head—it’s small for her body, just like mine was when I was her age, and we both have small foreheads. She cocks her spindly arms and rests her fists on her hips. “I don’t have a scarf on because we’re on the monks’ island, and anyway, I’m little. You, though, you should cover your hair. You’re too old to be like that.” She blinks. “Well, make your skirts decent and come on. The monks will give you a bed.” She runs toward the trees, as fast as I ever did.
I stare after her.
She stops, comes back, and smiles. “Can’t you speak? Or are you just shy? My aunt is shy. At least around men. Papà says that’s why she’ll never marry. She says he’s wrong—she wouldn’t want to marry an old man who wants her just to take care of him. Here, let me help.” She steps close and yanks at my skirts.
Swimming with my skirts tied together made the knots harden. The girl works in silence at one knot, then the other, cheeks bunched, lips protruding. She doesn’t mind being close to me. I must keep breathing. This is such hard work for both of us—her untying, me breathing. Finally, my smock falls and the girl jerks it straight. She’s much taller than Tommaso, but I’m sure she’s younger than him, maybe seven?
The girl surveys me. Her arms hang below the top of her legs. She’s just like me. I stare.
“You’re a mess.” She wrinkles her nose, a prominent nose; the middle of her face isn’t sunken. “Seaweed is clumped in your hair and you stink like dead fish.”
Is that all? She doesn’t mention my size. Is she crazy?
“But I don’t care.” She holds out her hand. “Come.”
I watch her take me by the hand, though I’m ready to bolt. Her hand is hot and soft and large. As large as an adult’s, but with long, slim fingers. It’s so much like mine was at her age that I have to suppress a yelp of amazement. The girl tugs at me like Mamma did. No one else has held my hand for years, not since I was really young. The fact of her hand around mine makes my heart expand.
Only now do I feel the effects of all that swimming yesterday. Arms, legs, chest, back, neck, buttocks, all of me aches. And I’d eat anything right now. I’d chew on a rock. Thirst rasps me raw. I’d give whatever I have for sweet water. I roll my head in a circle one way, then the other. I can feel a headache coming on, a vicious one. Please, please, don’t. Please let me enjoy this child a while longer. What I wouldn’t give to stretch—stretches can stave off the headaches sometimes—but I don’t want to appear even larger. I don’t want this girl to drop my hand in fright.
We pass through the cypress trees. The island is not all forest, after all. Ahead, a meadow. With a building. A cloister. It’s kept up; this must be where the monks live. Maybe they’ve taken this girl in as a charity case.
We approach an arch. Reluctantly, I pull my hand free and fall behind the girl as we pass through the archway, to stay ready for whatever might happen, whoever might appear. Other people won’t accept me the way this monster child seems to.
We walk along a portico that forms the perimeter of a courtyard…with a cistern in the middle! I run and put my hands on the edge and stare down into it. No bucket, no bucket. But there’s a bowl carved into the stone base for birds, and that’s brimming with water. I get on all fours and scoop with a hand. The water is so clean, so lovely, I dip my face into it until eyes, cheeks, ears are submerged. This is bliss. I pull back enough to lap like Gato Zalo does. Sweet water. My head feels lighter. Maybe the pain won’t come, after all.
The girl laughs.
I slosh up one last mouthful. She’s still laughing. And she’s right. I’d never do this back home. I turn to face her and fall on my bottom. She laughs harder. And I’m laughing now, too, laughing as though this isn’t the end of the world. Laughing like Mamma, as though I’ve always known how.
Bong. Bells ring. Could it be midday? I look around. I can just see the point of the bell tower above the roof of the cloister. A person hangs on the thick bell rope, a person who will not welcome me like this girl has.
“What is the meaning of this? Who are you?” A man comes at me from the side. He’s huge!
I curl in on myself and look at him sideways. I’ve never seen anyone so large.
He’s one of my kind. And the girl is my kind.
Two, three, four other men follow him. The one who spoke is dressed in saffron-colored breeches and shirt and a black vest. The other men wear long, faded black shifts with a rope at the waist. All huge. All my kind.
An island of monsters.
I circle my arms around my knees and tuck my chin into my chest and close my eyes and rock. This cannot be real. I am delirious. The mirror malady, the illness that’s gradually stealing all my strength, must be addling me. Will I die now, alone?
“What’s the matter with you? Get up at once!”
“Stop that! You’re frightening her, Papà.”
I open my eyes and peek at the group from between my knees. Children don’t talk to their fathers like that.
The girl comes to stand between me and her father.
“Step aside, Bianca.”
“No. You have to be nice to her. She’s shy. Mamma would have wanted you to be nice to her.”
The man’s face softens. All at once I understand that the girl’s mother is dead. Just as mine is. A knot forms in my chest.
“And she can’t answer you anyway,” says Bianca. “She can’t speak.”
“I can speak.” This is a dream of delirium. I might as well reveal myself. I stand and let my arms drop to my sides. If I could stand up for myself on my island against real adversaries, I can stand up against imagined ones. I move so that Bianca and I trade places. It is me who intervenes between father and child now. In my hallucination, I am her shield.
“Where did you come from?” says the father.
“Across the water.”
“Where?”
“My land. My realm.”
“What are you talking about? Who are you?”
“Princess Dolce.”
“You’re a princess?” says Bianca. She looks up in wonder. “Why are you dressed like that?”
“I escaped.”
“Tell me more,” says the father.
“You must know. You know everything that’s in my head. Hallucinations are that way.”
The father opens his mouth in obvious confusion. His nose is like his daughter’s, standing out sharply from between straight cheeks. I put my hands on my own flat cheeks. I desperately
want to reach up—imagine that! me, reaching up—to place my hands on his face. Why hold back?
I put my hands on the man’s cheeks. He makes a quick intake of breath. His skin feels real. Funny thought. What do I know of men’s faces?
“She slept on the beach,” says Bianca. “She’s dirty. Can I help her bathe?”
“I’ll prepare water,” says one man.
“I’ll prepare bread and figs,” says another.
“Neither of you can wash her,” says Bianca.
“Of course not,” says the first man. “We will leave her in your care.”
Bianca gives me an imperious look, then turns and walks away. I don’t want to stop touching this vision of a man. I search his eyes. This is a good dream, for I can see he’s not sure he wants me to stop touching him. I drop my hands and follow Bianca.
“We’re not through talking yet,” says the father.
Bianca and I stop and look back.
“Shouldn’t you address her as ‘Princess’?” says Bianca.
“We’re not through talking yet. Get clean. Eat. Rest. But then we talk. Princess.”
Faint light comes through the lone window. Bianca holds a saltcellar in one hand and a cup of tan-colored liquid in the other. “For your teeth.”
I reach for both.
“No, the salt first. Then you rinse with the flavored water. You dip your finger in the water to start, though, so the salt will stick to it.”
I rub my teeth clean. It feels good. Then I rinse and spit into the cup. “What flavor is that?”
“Cinnamon.” She laughs. “Don’t you know cinnamon?”
I shake my head.
“Do you like it?”
I nod.
“Well, good. Take that dirty smock off. Everything, take off everything.”
How can the child be so presumptuous? But I do as told.
“Sit on the stool. See the sponge on it? You know what sponges are?” She smiles.
I nod. But I don’t smile back.
“I brought that sponge from home. It’s good, don’t fear. The monks don’t use it.”
I sit on the large sponge that covers the seat.
She puts another even larger sponge on the floor. “For your feet.”
I put my feet on it.
Bianca dips a small sponge in the basin of water. The steam carries the strong scent of rosemary. I hunch forward over my thighs and she rubs my back. The hand sponge is soft, like warm lard. “This is how Aunt Agnola does it to me,” Bianca says. The warm water rolls down the sides of my breasts and over my ribs. It drips from my nipples. Some sinks into the sponge; some puddles on the floor. “Lift your hair. Good. That’s good.” She rubs the back of my neck, the backs of my ears.
Now she kneels in front of me and rubs my feet, top and bottom and between the toes. I feel like a pampered child. And it’s a pampered child who is pampering me. My head spins. She grabs my hand and scrubs it. Harder. Then the other hand. “I thought the pink on your toes would come away. But no. It’s like the pink on your fingers. Is that part of being a princess?”
I shake my head. “It’s part of making mirrors.”
She pauses and studies me. “Here, take the sponge. You do your front. Aunt Agnola says girls must do their front on their own. But don’t forget the cracks. The crack behind, too. Aunt Agnola rubs under her breasts. You mustn’t forget there, either.”
I clean myself under Bianca’s beady eyes. There’s no disgust in those eyes. I grow bolder and sit straight.
“We can do your hair now. Do you want help?”
“Do you want to help?”
“Yes. I get to soap up Ribolin’s fur when he has a bath. It’s fun. Ribolin is Aunt Agnola’s dog. He sits on her lap most of the time. He has a funny red penis that comes out when we bathe him. I feed him gizzards, so he likes me.”
I don’t know what a dog is. “I like gizzards.”
“So do I. Ribolin growls as he eats them, and he’ll nip if you try to touch him.”
“Like Gato Zalo.”
“Is that your cat?”
“Gato Zalo doesn’t belong to anyone.”
“Papà says it’s a mistake to play with strays. They’re dirty, they carry disease, and they bite. We can get you another cat. There are lots of good cats in Venezia.”
“Venezia?”
“That’s where I live. You didn’t think I lived here with the monks, did you?”
“I did. You’re all huge. I figured you chose to live together.”
Bianca laughs. “You say funny things.”
I clean my underarms. “So why are you here with the monks, then?”
“I like to go along with Papà when he visits monks, because they live in such out-of-the-way places. But I’m always ready to go home again.” She picks up the bar of soap beside the water basin. “The water has rosemary in it. The monks don’t have flowers in their garden. When we go back home, though, we can use rose water. Or we can boil any flower you want. The soap is mine. Smell it.” She holds it to my nose. “Guess what it is.”
I sniff. Then shrug.
She smiles. “I was hoping you wouldn’t know it. I love to give surprises. And you’re so easy to surprise.”
“What is it?”
“Oranges. We boil orange blossoms. Have you ever seen them?”
I shake my head.
“The fruit is sort of like lemon, but ever so sweet. Apples are better, though. My mamma said apples can cure you of any ailment. But oranges are good. Their color is halfway between yellow and red. The blossoms are white, though. Be glad I have this soap. Lower your head.”
I lean forward till my hair falls into the basin. “Why are you being so generous?”
“Isn’t that how we’re supposed to be?”
I tremble.
“Are you ill?”
“No. I’m glad.”
“Oh.” Bianca lathers up my hair while I go on shaking. “Do you know the six things most important in the world? Bread, wine…”
“Oil, salt,” I chant with her, “something to go with the bread, and soap.”
She laughs. “So your kingdom has the same saying?”
“Maybe they have the same saying everywhere.”
“I doubt it. Papà says the world is full of scoundrels and fools. He’s educated.”
“Are you?”
“I’m a girl.” She pushes my head up, and my sopping hair hangs in my face. “Are you educated? Do girls have tutors in your kingdom?”
“No,” I say, though I can form letters. I’ve sat in front of inscriptions on the sides of buildings and copied the letters in the dirt with a stick.
“Oh.” She rinses the soap from my hair and offers me a white linen towel. “I’m glad you don’t strip your hair with lye and color it all red or yellow. Aunt Agnola does that. She wishes she were pretty. She likes rhubarb best. She thinks it makes her look like a flower, all pink-red.”
I towel my hair roughly.
“Mamma had black hair like yours.”
“You mean like yours,” I say.
“Yes, but really like yours. With black curls. Papà likes your kind of hair.”
I stare at her.
But she’s rinsing the soap off her hands. “Let me comb it?” She turns to me with a shy smile.
“Why do you even ask, after all the other things you’ve done for me?”
“Aunt Agnola says combing hair is an act of love. Family love. She combs mine. She won’t let anyone else do it.”
“Is she your mamma’s sister?”
“Mamma’s dead.”
“I’m sorry.” I sigh. “My mamma died yesterday.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, too.”
I nod and we look at each other.
Finally Bianca says, “Aunt Agnola is Papà’s sister. She should have gone to a convent long ago, long before I was born. Like my aunt Teresa and all unmarried women. But I’m lucky she didn’t, because when Mamma died, she was there to take care of me. Now loo
k.” She pulls a comb from the pouch that hangs at her waist and puts it in my hands. “This is my comb.”
The two rows of bone spines are joined in the middle by a carving of birds with curved beaks and plants with red buds. “It’s glorious.”
“I know. It was Mamma’s. All her best things were saved for me.”
“You must be rich.”
“We don’t have princesses in Venezia, but we do have nobles.”
I feel woozy. I take a deep breath.
“You have to eat before you nap. The tray of food will be right outside the door. You can eat while I comb your hair, and then we can nap together. In my room.”
“All right.”
She fetches the tray and sets it on the table. “Go on.”
I take a bite of bread, a bite of fig. It’s sour bread, crusty outside and soft inside. The fig is at its ripest. I chew each bite tens of times, savoring every morsel.
Bianca takes the comb and stands behind me. She teases apart knots expertly, like Mamma did. And now she combs.
I wince. “You comb hard.”
“My mamma said hard combing makes hair glossy. Aunt Agnola combs hard too. You have to press till the scalp wakes up.” She finishes, then unfolds the pile of black cloth at the foot of the mattress. “This is a clean monk’s robe. They don’t have clothes for women at the monastery.”
I slip on the faded robe. It smells of sunshine, and hangs so long it crumples around my feet. Clothing that is too long for me. Will marvels never cease? I roll up the sleeves. Inside this robe I feel shrunken, a shadow of myself.
Bianca laughs. “You look silly. I wish I could show you, but they have no mirrors here. Monks don’t care what they look like. Some monks don’t even talk. We visited ones near Monti Sibillini who used only their hands to understand each other, and I got to see snow on the mountaintops. Have you seen snow?”
“A dusting. But only rarely.”
“That’s how Venezia is, too. I wish it would snow more. I love snow. My mamma loved snow. She saw snow in the Dolomiti mountains, right before she gave birth to me. That’s where my name came from. Anyway, the monks here are Franciscan. They sing with the animals, especially the birds. People say the monks understand the birds. Do you believe that?”
Dark Shimmer Page 4
