by J. A. Comley
The spire of the chapel seemed threatening in the early moonlight as Starla crawled out of the wood on its eastern side. She began a slow walk towards the parish house, moving slowly past the graves. She felt empty, almost as if she were in a trance. All she wanted was to get to her room unnoticed.
“Starla? Starla!” Raoul came rushing through the gravestones towards her.
She gazed up at him blankly. She had forgotten he was waiting.
As his lantern light fell over her, his face paled, pain, worry and anger all chasing each other.
His eyes took in her shredded dress and bleeding cuts everywhere. Vaguely, Starla was aware that the soft fabric had been torn to tatters and she was certainly not decently covered.
“Mon amour,” he said, tenderly wrapping his coat around her shoulders, “What happened?”
Raoul's face seemed to swim in her vision, his voice sounding far away. Starla was aware of no more before she fainted.
***
“Starla? Can you hear me?” Mia's voice was full of concern.
“Slowly, slowly,” she cautioned as Starla pushed herself up. She had been lying on Father Joe's bed and, by the sharp smell, Mia had been fussing over her numerous cuts with her salve.
Davan's voice still echoed in her head. Breathing deeply, she tried to order her thoughts. She couldn't wait. She had to ask Father Joe right now. Davan had to be lying. He had to be. Something else nagged at her memory, just before she fainted. Raoul. He had called her something.
“Mon amour.”
Mia's eyebrows were trying to climb into her hair. Starla realised she had spoken aloud. Sighing, she decided she would have to deal with that now, too.
Why does everything always happen at once?
“Mia, please help me up. I need to speak with Father Joe.”
Mia wrapped Raoul's cloak around Starla again, muttering about indecency. Father Joe was at his usual place at the table. Guy was leaning against the door frame watching Raoul wear a hole through the floor with his pacing. Everyone spoke over one another as she was seen.
“Are you alright?” Father Joe said.
“I knew I shouldn't have let you walk,” muttered Guy.
“Darling, please, what happened to you? We were all so worried,” Raoul said, guiding her to a chair.
Ignoring everyone else, she fixed her eyes on Father Joe. He was the only person she was interested in, for the moment.
“Were the Marvous my birth parents?”
Her question came out more like an accusation.
Keep it together.
She was not here to make accusations. Mia collapsed into a chair with a quick prayer to the Virgin Mary, while Guy muttered a decidedly unchristian oath under his breath. Starla kept her gaze on the priest as disbelief widened his eyes. Shock and anger played across the old priest's face before he began to open his mouth.
“No.”
Such a small word. Starla had known it was coming from his reaction to her words. But the pain that flared up in her chest, and the deep anger roaring through her veins, she had not expected. Not this intensely. Her fire was loosed at last and it burnt brightly, dangerously.
Starla realised she wasn't sitting but was pacing in a tight circle, muttering under her breath, and stopped short. When had she got up? And where was Raoul's coat? Father Joe's face was pure anger again, every muscle tensed.
“Davan and Orla did this to you?”
His voice was barely more than a whisper, but all the more dangerous for it.
“I wasn't watching where I was walking. I ended up on Salso land,” Starla muttered, putting a chair between her and Raoul as it became obvious he meant to offer some comfort. His pained expression only fuelled her anger further.
“I want the truth, Father Joaquin Pedrosa. Now.”
Her slippered foot played out a staccato rhythm on the flagstones. Everyone looked startled at her forceful tone. All her life she had been a timid, respectful girl, her inner fire contained by the rules of society.
“Very well,” Father Joaquin sighed. “Wait here,” he said, leaving the house.
Suddenly, Mia and Guy's reactions fell into focus, without Father Joe there to take the brunt of Starla's anger.
“You two, you knew as well?” Starla said, turning on them, allowing Raoul to place his coat over her again.
Their silent nods and shell-shocked expressions were all she took in before resume her pacing.
Raoul was sitting on an upturned barrel, now, looking entirely bewildered by the turn the evening had taken.
At least he's never lied to me. Sighing, she turned away from him and fixed her eyes on the door.
As Father Joe re-entered the kitchen, he looked older than his 64 years. He laid the small wooden box he was carrying on the table as if it were a great weight. Without a word, he removed a key from around his neck and unlocked the box.
Starla stopped pacing. She recognised that box. It had been in the corner of his office ever since she could remember. She had stood on it when she was smaller to reach his maps and star charts for their lessons. And that key. How many times as a young girl had he read a book to her while she sat on his lap and twirled the key around her fingers and asked him what it was for? He had never answered.
Feeling the tears welling up in her eyes, Starla ruthlessly pushed them away.
Not yet.
“Open it,” he said, sliding the box down the table. His intelligent eyes told her that he hadn't missed her recognition of the objects.
“Who gave this to you?” Starla asked, working to keep her voice calm.
“I was given this almost seventeen years ago. Sent to me by Mademoiselle Marvou, your aunt.”
Starla resisted the childish urge to say that she wasn't her aunt and steeled herself to lift the lid. Inside, a small silver bracelet lay upon the remains of a badly-burnt painting. It was a baby bracelet. Slowly, Starla ran her finger along her engraved name. It was off-centre, as if waiting for her family name to be added. It was the same bracelet the priest had let fall that morning. Her thumb felt further engraving underneath and she flipped the bracelet's name plate over.
“Cosmaltia – Galatia.”
She sounded out the words.
“Is that my family name?” she managed. Seventeen years he had had this.
“No one knows,” Father Joe whispered.
Trying to stifle anger at the non-answer she had just received, she tried to examine the burnt painting. Despite the burning, the majority of the centre remained untouched. It showed a young couple, the woman heavily pregnant, her hair a soft, light-brown, her blue eyes shining and the man's dark eyes seemed to glow with pride. Behind them stood an older couple. The man's face was all but lost. Just his smile remained. A kind smile. The sort that made your heart swell. His hand rested on another man's shoulder. However, the rest of the man had been burned away. A teenaged girl sat in front, her dark purple hair and golden eyes noticeably strange. Her lips seemed to form the same curve as Starla's own. The older woman wore a circlet of gold and her hand was resting on the younger woman's shoulder. From the resemblance, Starla guessed that they were mother and daughter. Starla's eyes shifted from their faces and locked on to the shawl draped over the pregnant woman's lap. It was a brilliant white, embroidered with tiny gold stars and red flowers. The very same shawl hung in Starla's room now. It had always been her favourite.
“These are my parents, grandparents, siblings … my family.”
Starla couldn't keep her voice steady any longer. Why were they all dressed so oddly? Had the painter been joking by painting the girl and younger man with cat ears sticking up out of their hair?
“You have had this all my life and yet you hid the truth? And even now, you continue to lie. 'No one knows'? These are real people. There has to be some trace.”
She waved the abused picture at the three people she had considered family.
“Did one of you burn this and then think better of it?”
Her eyes shifted from the priest to the two caretakers.
“Starla!”
Mia sounded properly offended at the accusation.
Starla refused to apologise. She merely folded her arms and waited, breathing in the earthy scent of Raoul's coat, trying to calm herself.
“We wanted to tell you, Petite,” Guy began. His voice sounded gruff, as if he were holding back tears.
“You are like a daughter to us, you know that,” Mia managed, tears trickling down her cheeks.
“I just never knew the right time … I never knew how,” Father Joe said over Starla's snort of disbelief.
“Stop it! Stop lying. I'm like a daughter to you? I've never been that, or you wouldn't have lied to me my whole life!”
Trying and failing to calm herself, Starla rounded on the priest.
“And you? You've always taught me to live with integrity, yet you've spent the past seventeen years lying.”
“Starla, sweetheart,” Raoul said softly, coming toward her slowly.
“No, Raoul. They said they wanted to tell me. Well, why didn't you?”
She rounded on the three guilty parties again.
“I had to find out from the two people who have done nothing but taunt me. Who hate me.”
She waved the picture again and stopped short. There was writing on the back.
Blocking out the room, she focused on the words, trying to make sense of, to guess, the ones that were burnt away.
My … beautiful daughter. … Pain in my heart … our first meeting … last. This is part of your family … sister … You … special … only one … last hope … came here today … send you far away … death … soon your sacrifice … courageous heart of fire … In my mind's eye you will grow into a brave, intelligent woman … believe … to give you up … emptiness … I will see your father soon … Call your Star … bring you home … I love you, my Starla … your mother.
Raoul took another hesitant step toward her and then retreated again. Clearly, he wanted to help her but he didn't want to make matters worse.
“Starla,” Father Joaquin reclaimed her attention, “let me explain. Please.” The last sounded as if he were begging.
Starla tried unsuccessfully to find her voice. Her eyes burned with unshed tears.
“My mother wrote this and you never thought to give it to me?”
The fire reared in Starla's chest like a living thing. The old priest brushed away a tear.
“I know. I was wrong … I will tell you everything, now.”
“Why should I listen? How do I know they won't be more lies?”
Starla knew she was being irrational. She wanted him to tell her everything but she also very badly wanted to hit him. The urge startled her and she clamped down on her fire.
Calm down. Breathe.
“All I can do is swear that I will not lie any more.”
The priest lifted his hands in surrender, eyes pleading.
Suddenly, Raoul was there, holding her hand and pressing it to his chest.
“Good or bad.”
She felt the ghost of a smile at the words.
Always the truth, good or bad had been a childhood promise of theirs.
“Fine,” she said, freeing her hand as another wave of guilt hit her, “give me your brilliant explanation.”
She took her seat again, giving Father Joe a withering look.
With a grateful nod in Raoul's direction, the priest took a deep breath.
“Nineteen years ago, I was asked over to deliver a sermon in the village of Cadeac. Whenever I visited, I stayed with the Marvous. One evening, after mass, we returned to their home. In the bushes beside the front door was a stone basket. We only noticed it because of that shawl. Such a brilliant white reflecting the moon light. There you were, swaddled in the shawl, fast asleep.”
Starla felt her shoulders sag. She had hoped they had met her mother, even briefly. Raoul took the seat next to her and reclaimed her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. She couldn't summon the strength to pull away.
“That picture was nestled in next to you, as well as a letter. However it was so badly burnt it disintegrated when Monsieur Marvou tried to lift it out. You were wearing the bracelet. The basket had char marks all over it and chunks missing too. I volunteered to run out and call the doctor. You were clearly breathing, but with everything else so badly damaged, we felt it was safer to have a doctor check you.”
Father Joe shuddered, shaking his head at the memory.
“How did everything get burned?”
Raoul voiced a question Starla should have thought of.
With monumental effort, she pulled her mind away from her mother's burnt note and tried to focus.
“I have no idea.” Father Joe's brow furrowed in frustration. “When I arrived back with Doctor Risolle, you were awake and Madame Marvou was feeding you some warmed goat's milk. She was positively glowing with happiness. They'd always wanted children but could not have any of their own. Doctor Risolle checked you over and gave you a clean bill of health. He estimated you to be a little over six months old.”
“So they just took me in? What about my family in the picture?”
“The Marvous agreed to look after you while I travelled in search of your family. I took the picture, your bracelet and even your shawl. No one I met knew anything. No one had seen anyone unusual in the village, either. I travelled for just over a year, all over France. I even crept back into Spain on the off chance.” His voice trailed away. He shook his head. “When I returned empty-handed, the Marvous insisted on adopting you. You had begun calling her 'mama' and … well I knew that they'd be excellent parents. And they were, right up until the accident.”
His voice broke off altogether as he choked on his tears. He gestured to Mia.
“Seventeen years ago, a travel cart pulled up outside this chapel.” Her red-rimmed eyes locked on to Starla as she picked up the story. “The man told me he worked for Mariette Marvou and had a delivery for Father Joaquin Pedrosa. I told him Father Joaquin was in the village on business. He was welcome to come in for refreshments. He said he couldn't wait and that I'd have to take the delivery.” She shook her head, drawing a deep breath before continuing. “There you were, nearly four, covered in old blankets at the back of the cart. You looked so frightened. I helped you down and then took that box and a letter he thrust at me.”
“Who was he? I can sort of remember him,” Starla said, absently patting the wooden box.
“He never gave his name. He just got back on his cart and rode away, never looking back once.”
Starla nodded mutely.
“And the letter? What did it say?”
She turned back to Father Joe, knowing that Mia was illiterate.
The old priest had stilled his tears, but his voice was less raspy now.
“When I arrived, late that evening, you were asleep on my bed. You'd grown a lot since I'd last seen you.” A small smile appeared at the memory, but crumpled as soon as he continued, “Mia handed me everything and recounted the event. The letter only had five lines.”
He took a much-abused piece of paper from the inner pocket of his cassock and passed it to Starla. Starla tried to take in the words but her tears blurred her vision. Gently, Raoul took the letter from her trembling hands and read it aloud.
“It's addressed to Father Joaquin Pedrosa. 'My brother, Fernande Marvou, and wife perished in a carriage accident during the storms two weeks ago. The mayor of their village tracked me down, but I will not be saddled with an unwanted orphan. Seeing as you played a vital role in my brother acquiring the child, I think it only fit you be responsible for her. Do not contact me again regarding this matter. As far as I am concerned, she never existed.' It is signed Mariette Marvou.”
Raoul's voice was filled with anger by the end of the recitation, conflicting with the concern in his eyes as he handed the letter back to Starla. She threw it across the table in disgust and she stood abruptly. Raoul's coat fell to the floor bu
t she barely took any notice.
“Every birthday I asked you if I could write to her. Every year I hoped I could see her, that she wouldn't be travelling or ill or … lies, those were all lies. You made up every excuse yourself.” Starla new the storm of emotions raging inside was about to burst through her shaky restraint.
Not yet. A few more questions.
Raoul was up, offering her his coat again, pointedly not looking at her torn dress. She ignored him.
“Your search for my family, has it yielded any results yet?” she asked Father Joe, who was very carefully examining his own hands. “Father?”
“I went everywhere I could in that first year,” he began, talking in a rush. “After I returned to my duties here, I had Monsieur Vivaldo draw replicas of the picture, bracelet and shawl. I sent the copies with trusted friends who were travelling further abroad. The answers were always the same. No one recognised the people in the picture, or had ever heard the word 'Galatia' in relation to anything except the biblical book and 'Cosmaltia' not at all. No one in the known world knew anything about those words or your family. After a while we … stopped.” The last word escaped the old priest's lips like a murder confession.
An awkward silence reigned as Starla processed what she had heard, her face colouring with the anger raging inside even as a part of her noted the risk he had taken re-entering Spain.
“You gave up? You just stopped?” Her voice was trembling with incredulity, her fire straining against her restraint. “You were just going to lie to me forever?”
“We never wanted to hurt you. We had no real answers. We love you.”
“No. You don't lie to people you love. And you definitely don't give up on them.” Starla's nails bit into her palms as her tears spilt over. Knowing she was seconds from breaking down, she spun on her heel and fled upstairs.
“Let her be,” Guy said, restraining his wife, and shooting Raoul a warning look as he started after her. “She needs time alone.”
***
Upstairs, Starla slammed her bedroom door shut. Letting herself sink to the floor, she let all her tears flow.
