by Cheri Lasota
Arethusa thought she was safe at last, but the earth trembled and quaked beneath her and a terrible roar shuddered through the ground. Alpheus cleaved up through the soil, bursting skyward with the sheer force of his anger. She saw again Alpheus’s translucent face, twisted in rage. He plunged down into her waters, imprisoning her with his own.
You’ll never escape me again.
*
When Arethusa woke from the dream, she found herself looking up into a pair of lifeless, wooden eyes. It unnerved her at first, but now the rising dawn brought a glow to the green irises and painted an orange blush on the lady’s splintered cheeks. Arethusa knew the woman’s name—Sea Nymph—but that seemed to be the only memory she could muster. The great lady was not where she should be. Neither was Arethusa.
She had lain here so long she had become part of the pulsing waves and reeking tidal pools. But what was it that itched at her skin now—hermit crabs, sand fleas? Or was it the scrape of coral and stone? Somehow, her body had found a space between the volcanic rocks. She felt their cold shadows creeping over her from every side. The nightmare of Alpheus still clung to her; it crept under her skin like the rigors of death. This god was to be her fate? And she had accepted him willingly?
Perhaps she had already become water, and the ship was no more than a dream of madness. No, here was the Sea Nymph herself, the grand wooden figurehead that had perched just below the bowsprit, her painted robes floating about her. Fishnets were woven into her curving hair and seaweed stocks gathered like flowers at her ears. The arm that had once been raised toward the heavens as she led the clipper through all manner of waters had broken off. She looked frail now, unable to direct the sails.
Arethusa shut her eyes tight, but the scratch of sea salt made them water and burn. She swallowed hard and licked her dry lips as the sour scent of seaweed and fish wafted into her nose. Pain began to creep into every part of her body, but it all settled deep inside her throat.
When she couldn’t take it any longer, she opened her eyes. The figurehead was gone. A new pair of eyes hovered just inches from her own. Wide, deep-set, the color of clear water or glass—these eyes weren’t the blue of the deep ocean from a distance but more akin to the translucency of a river when she peered through to the stones below. Concern was etched into the corners of the eyes, edged by lashes long and feather-light. It was a young man.
“Estás bem?” he whispered.
Arethusa had a vague thought that even if she wanted to, she could not reply. The flash of memory told her no more.
The blue eyes flickered downward. She felt his hands about her—a tingle along the skin of her ankle, a tickle at the inside of her elbow, a slight touch at her neck. She grew frustrated. Who was this stranger? Why couldn’t she talk to him? Her throat burned and ached and it was hard to swallow, much less open her mouth to speak.
“I won’t lie to you, Senhorita.” He peered into her eyes again and clucked his tongue. “It looks bad. Swollen ankle, broken arm, and lots of little scrapes and bruises. And”—he hesitated, and she held her breath—“your neck...” He studied it, coming quite near, so that she saw the exact honey shade of his close-shaved hair. She was surprised that he smelled of bergamot.
As he examined her neck, his eyes widened and he fisted a tiny crucifix hung around his neck. He leaned back on his heels and stared at her with a look of pity so bright it made her eyes water.
What does he see?
He brought the crucifix up to his lips, then, his face pinched in frustration. He glanced about at the figurehead, the sea, the length of her body. A frown shadowed his beautiful face, and he looked her square in the eye.
“It’s like this: I never touched a girl, save Isabel, but she doesn’t count. And I’m sorry I did just now, but I’ve got to get you up. Tide’s on its way, soon as you think it.”
He reached for her again. The moment his long fingers touched her shoulder, shooting needles pierced her arm and nausea swept through her so that she couldn’t tell up from down.
“I’m sorry,” she heard him say. “I’m so sorry.”
Her mind couldn’t grasp anything except the pain, so she let go and closed her eyes. Exhaustion took over and she sank into sleep, forgetting her surroundings, remembering only the boy’s stunning eyes.
*
Arethusa’s eyelids wouldn’t open. She tried to move and then realized she was moving, and not of her own accord. Someone held her, smelling of citrusy bergamot and sweat, arms hard and thin beneath her. Her head swirled with the remnants of nausea as she struggled to open her eyes. It was the blue-eyed boy again.
“Rest easy. I’m taking you to see Senhorita Jacinta. She’ll look after you.”
She watched his mouth move as if she were gazing through a dream. His voice soothed like a warm blanket. The sea-tide was unnaturally calm beside them, and the sun warmed her face to perfection. If she didn’t feel so awful, she might find this moment quite pleasant.
She stared at his face, wondering who this boy was and how he had come to find her. His clothes were threadbare, he wore no shoes, and a tiny crucifix hung his neck. It was odd that his hair was so blond. Most of the Portuguese she had ever known had dark hair like hers. He was lithe and thin and a great deal taller than her. But his eyes astounded her; they pooled with a clear, halcyon light.
She glanced away to the island beyond. A cliff towered above, jutting out in treacherous fingers while the same rocks littered the coastline, forming devilish shapes against the sky.
Toward the west, she took in a city nestled among hills at the brink of a glistening bay. The buildings gleamed white with red-tile roofs, and, in the hills above, black stone fences cut the grass into a patchwork quilt of emerald green. “Paradise,” her mother had called the Azores Islands. When she saw her mother again, she’d tell her that she had spoken the truth.
“This is the city of Angra do Heroísmo,” the boy said, carrying her sure-footed over the rocks lining the beach. “Have you ever been to Terceira Island before?”
Arethusa lowered her gaze to his crucifix. Even if she had a voice, she didn’t want to speak.
“I’m Tristão Vazante.”
Arethusa thought of the meaning of his name. Tristão meant sadness. Why would his parents give him such a name?
He went on talking in a rush, his breathing heavier now as he made his way through the deep sand. “I’m sixteen.” He flashed a brilliant smile, but then a shadow of sorrow snuffed out the light in his face. “I’ve been at the Angra orphanage all my life.”
Surprised by this disclosure, she wondered what became of his mother. Did she die? And what of his father?
“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me your name?” He caught her gaze and held it for a moment.
She stared at him unblinking. Her name? Why would the question be difficult? And yet she hesitated. Eva. No, she had a new name, one she would never forget, not so long as it held her destiny. But she pursed her lips and didn’t even attempt to speak, wanting to keep herself hidden for as long as she could.
“Don’t suppose you can. Doesn’t matter. As Padre Salvador would say, ‘Let it be.’” The boy dipped his head in apology and she almost smiled.
“When we get to the orphanage, you’ll meet the padre. Fourteen of us live there, and Padre Salvador comes to visit us at least three times a week. Those are our favorite days, because he always brings us loaves of pão-doce from the nuns at the big convent in Angra. I’m the padre’s favorite at the orphanage. He even taught me how to read and write—but that’s a secret.” Tristão paused and bit his lip, as if he were concerned she might tell.
Tell? She smiled at the thought. Whom would I tell?
Tristão caught sight of her smile and grinned back. “Sorry if I’m talking too much. I’m used to—well, Isabel and the younger ones talk a great deal.”
He glanced away and hastened his pace toward the city. “The old fishermen call Angra Bay the sailing ships’ cemetery. I didn’t believe them
until now. The people aren’t sure if anyone survived, but it looks like I’ve caught a big fish.” His smile was shy. “Or should I call you a sea nymph?”
Arethusa didn’t return his smile. Survived?
“It’s all peaceful now, but that storm hit like a crash of lightning. Woke me from a dead sleep. Heard the bells ringing down in the city and my curiosity got the best of me. So here I am.”
His smile was disarming but something about what he was saying didn’t seem right. She fixed her gaze on the torn edge of her sleeve and tried to focus on his words.
“I heard from the fishermen at the dock that your ship ran into Ilhéu das Cabras last night. Split in half, she did—you can see her now, just there.” Tristão shifted, nodding toward the two monoliths that lay out in the deep waters just off the coast.
Arethusa’s breath came in gasps, half-gargled in a burning, throbbing struggle.
Breathe, she told herself. But she couldn’t. A deafening rush of ocean waves pounded through her ears, flooded her eyes, took the breath that she would gladly have given her mother.
Take me, Artemis. I will go. But not my mother. She waited so long to come home, and you would take her now?
Tristão stopped walking. She did not look up, though she felt the heat of his gaze on her skin.
“Meu Deus,” he whispered, “You didn’t know. I thought you knew.”
He twisted around, tried to shield her from the sea, but Arethusa glimpsed the wreck over the boy’s shoulder at last. The clipper ship had smashed into the smaller of the two gigantic rock islands, its aft deck drifting into the ravine of seawater between them. Her forward deck had collapsed and water poured into the gaping breach in the forward hull.
She fixed her eyes on the clipper, willing the ship back together, stem to stern, plank by plank, willing herself to believe she had nothing to fear.
Know what? She looked up at him. That my mother—
No. Arethusa wouldn’t even think it. She would wait until all was certain.
“I didn’t mean—” Tristão began, regret mirrored in his pale eyes. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
The shifting winds brought the stench of a dead fish to her nose. Its smell roused Arethusa’s senses to nausea, and her parched throat and grumbling stomach nettled her. Unbidden, tears dropped from her cheeks to his shoulder.
“I’ll let you down.”
He lowered her onto a large boulder, his breathing ragged. Arethusa clutched her aching arm and blinked away tears. She looked again toward the ship, and, for the first time she noticed several lighter boats packed with people surrounding the wreckage. They glided among the planking and barrels that drifted like bobbing corpses.
She would focus her thoughts on the lighter boats. They would find Mãe and bring her to shore. And maybe Pai too. She might fear him, but she did not wish him—no, she would not think the word.
Dead. Arethusa’s whole body shook. She suddenly wished she were dead, so she would not be alive to hear the news she feared most of all.
“You’re cold.” Tristão tore off his sweater. When she blinked she saw the gooseflesh on his arms, saw his crucifix glint in the sun.
She raised her hand to refuse him, but he leaned forward at the same moment. She touched the smooth skin just over his heart by mistake, and a fresh memory of Diogo boiled up: his scarred chest in the dim light, pocked with the remnants of old beatings.
She bolted up and her legs immediately buckled. Without warning, her vision clouded into a dizzying swirl of light and dark. She pressed a hand to her own chest, trying to calm her fierce heartbeat. She couldn’t stop the blood from rushing in her ears.
Tristão pulled her to him. She felt his skin everywhere, even though she wasn’t allowed such contact, such closeness. No. Mãe had forbidden it, over and over again.
But Mãe isn’t here anymore. She can’t be angry now. She’s—
Dead. The word half-escaped into a sob that burned and scratched its way up her throat.
“What’s happened to you?” Tristão held her tighter, his short hair brushing hers, his bare arms like a glove enveloping her. He reached up to touch her tears away but stopped short. He paused and peered at her with a peculiar sort of stare, as if he were trying to figure her out. Then his eyes widened with concern and she knew he understood.
“I’m so sorry.”
Tristão’s words did not reassure her, and she knew he saw it in her face. He glanced at her in surprise but said nothing. Perhaps he remembered she could not speak, or maybe he understood that some pain had no words.
“Look, I want to get you to a warm, safe bed at the infirmary, so we’d best be on our way.” He reached forward with his sweater again.
She opened her mouth to refuse.
The boy shrugged. “You need it more than I do,” he said, draping the sweater over her shoulders. He inched closer to help her up to a sitting position on the nearest rock. He crouched beside her, his strong arm sliding behind her back and clutching her waist.
“This might hurt,” he said, “but I’ll try and lift you as you move toward me.”
Joint and bone slid with excruciating precision, and she became aware of every sore muscle she never knew she had. Her breathing came quick. She leaned against him, trying to move as little as possible. He knelt before her, his lips pinched.
“Almost there. Are you ready?”
She nodded, clenching her teeth, but the moment he began to lift her, a wave of sickness rose up. She gritted her teeth but dizziness threatened, and her mind glazed over as pain shot through her body. The consciousness of her surroundings dimmed. The last thing she saw before she drifted away were Tristão’s sad eyes hovering over hers, the dawn’s light shining through them like water reflecting sun.
“I promise I won’t let anything hurt you again...,” he whispered.
ARETHUSA HEARD A WOMAN SPEAK IN PORTUGUESE. “She’s such a fragile thing, isn’t she?”
“Amazing she made it to shore,” a man replied. “The harbormaster said only fourteen of thirty-eight souls survived.”
“Mãe de Deus.”
Arethusa felt around with her fingers to test her surroundings. She lay on a cot, the sheets cool and smooth under her fingertips. She tried to turn onto her side but only mustered a grimace. The voices grew louder and clip-clopping footsteps drew near.
“The hermits will be up in the hills making sacrifices for days,” the woman said.
“Yes,” the man said, “I’ll see to them when I can.”
“I need to fetch some fresh linens. Would you check on the girl for me?”
“Yes, of course.”
Arethusa blinked several times. The sun’s rays streamed through the lace curtains of a window near the cot. A desk, a washstand, a supply cabinet, and two more cots were scattered throughout the tidy room that appeared to be an infirmary. Turning toward the sound of the footsteps on the stone floor, Arethusa saw a man in a priest’s black garb stride into the room. He clasped his arms behind his back, pursed his lips together, and kept his eyes on his feet. She didn’t know what to expect, but when he looked up to see her staring at him, he gave her a soft smile that spoke of pity and regret.
“I am Padre Leandro Salvador. You are at the orphanage of Lar de Santo Jerome Emiliani.” He frowned. “Do you understand my words?”
He glanced down at her and her eyes followed his. Arethusa finally noticed the heavy bandages around her ankle and the sling on her arm. A multitude of smaller bandages covered the cuts and bruises on every limb of her body. Someone had bathed her and given her a fresh change of clothes too—a pristine white nightgown.
Arethusa opened her mouth to speak, but not even a whisper came out.
“Did you have the use of your voice before the... shipwreck?” Padre Salvador said.
In an instant, Arethusa was back in the stateroom. She held the moonstone in her hand. The light of Artemis came through the back of the stone, glowing blue and silver. But then the light fa
ded, and she saw again the shadow of the rising wave.
“It’s all right.” Padre Salvador’s voice invaded the memory. “Nothing can hurt you now. You are safe.”
It wasn’t until the priest had spoken that Arethusa realized she was shaking. That wave must have been the beginning of the storm. The storm that she didn’t see—or couldn’t remember.
“The doctor told us you’ve damaged your voice.” The padre reached down to touch Arethusa’s throat.
At his touch, the vision of the wave left her but not her fear. She turned her head against the priest, trying to block him out.
“The doctor says your voice may heal in time. Your bruises and broken bones most certainly will. But for now, the doctor told us you’re not to speak. We learned of you from the sailors who survived. Senhorita Eva Maré, is it not?”
At the sound of her old name, she turned to stare at him unblinking, the one name in her mind flowing out into nothingness as if it never existed at all: Maria Maré, her beloved mother.
Arethusa didn’t know how, but he guessed at her thoughts.
“God knows you’ve survived hell, but I’ve no news to give you hope.” He took a slow breath and his words were measured. “One of the sailors told us that your father drowned when the ship’s mast went into the sea, and your mother hasn’t been found. They have searched the shore waters and beaches for two days, but there is no trace of her.”
All sound stopped. The priest no longer stood near, calling out to her, touching her arm. No breeze blew in from the window. No tick of a clock or swish of a mouse’s tail permeated the rush of blood in her head. Arethusa closed her eyes and the shaking began again.
She felt a frigid ice crawl up her toes and seep into her ankles and legs. The ice overtook her fingers and arms as it moved toward her heart, drowning her inch by inch in a pool of shivers. She couldn’t get warm, couldn’t catch her breath. She saw Mãe, the flow of her hair billowing out into the cold deeps that had no color but forgetfulness. It was as if she were dead, at peace, floating behind her mother, catching up, moving through waves, the presence of Alpheus like an endless cage of silence around her, and everywhere she looked she saw the lightless sea.
