by Cheri Lasota
“Eva, you should know that our Freemason government has made it illegal to teach reading and writing, so, save for Tristão, you are the only one here who can read. It is best to keep this to yourself outside of the orphanage.”
With this unusual warning out of the way, the priest did not hesitate to ask his first question. “Do you know how you lost your voice?”
Arethusa frowned. She wondered again what the bruise on her neck looked like. She had no looking glass, and no one had told her yet. She struggled to hold the pencil, as her writing arm was broken. The pencil felt awkward in her right hand, but, with painstaking care, she scratched out her reply.
What does it look like? She pointed to her neck when she showed them the slate.
Tristão pursed his lips and looked down at his bare feet. Padre Salvador and Senhorita Jacinta glanced at each other.
“It looks to us that someone hurt you,” Senhorita Jacinta said at last, coming forward to clutch her hand. “We can see the outlines of fingers on your throat, as if you were... strangled. Do you remember it?”
Arethusa brought her hands up to her throat, gingerly touching the tender skin. How could she not remember? This is what Tristão had seen on the beach, when he had blinded her with pity. This was what her father had done to her. Tears stung her eyes when she glanced up at him now.
Tristão’s jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed into a sudden resolve. “Tell us who did this to you.”
All she could write to him was the truth. No memory of it. In the stateroom with Mãe. Saw a wave through the porthole. The ship pitched and I hit my head.
“You remember nothing else?” Senhorita Jacinta said.
Arethusa shook her head.
“Those near the sea banks saw the wave come up out of nowhere,” the padre said. “It overtook the Sea Nymph from bow to stern and then swamped the shores and the boats at the dock. No one has seen anything like it in fifty years.”
“Yes.” Senhorita Jacinta crossed herself. “It is a blessing from God that no more souls were lost.”
“Eva.” The Padre cleared his throat. “There is still no news about your mother. One sailor thought he saw her fall overboard, but he said he couldn’t be sure.”
If Mãe had jumped or fallen before the Sea Nymph hit the rock, she might have survived the leap. Alpheus would have found her, Arethusa was certain of it.
“Eva—I mean, Senhorita Maré,” Tristão said, stepping forward, “how old are you?”
The name Eva grated on her now. She had better set them all straight. I am 15 and my name is Arethusa Maré, she wrote in awkward scribbles. Eva is a nickname.
“Ar-e-thu-sa, eh?” Tristão said in a halting voice, as if he tasted the strangeness of her name on his tongue. Hearing it in his bell-like voice was a little disconcerting. She looked away and focused her gaze on the contents of the desk. Metal instruments, strips of cloth, scissors...
“She has Flemish eyes, hasn’t she?” Senhorita Jacinta said to Padre Salvador.
“Like mine,” Tristão piped in.
At the reminder, Arethusa glanced up. The pale blue of his eyes shimmered now with a touch of amusement.
“Yes.” Senhorita Jacinta nodded. “Many families on Terceira Island come from Flemish stock and they have blue eyes. Yours may be among them.”
“Your given name is not Portuguese,” Padre Salvador mused. “It sounds Greek. But the surname Maré is familiar to me.” He gazed at her face. “Do you have family in the islands?”
She shook her head. Mãe had said both of her parents were dead. She knew nothing of Pai’s family.
“Padre, I think that’s enough questions for now,” Senhorita Jacinta said. “Arethusa must rest soon, so Tristão needs to get started with her.”
Get started?
Senhorita Jacinta turned to her. “I’ll be back with some soup in a little bit. I’ll leave you with Tristão. He’ll help you learn how to communicate with us.”
“I taught him a little reading and writing,” the padre said, “so we felt he would be the best for this task since I am not often here.”
“Padre, may I speak with you for a moment?” Senhorita Jacinta said.
“Of course.” Padre Salvador folded his hands and smiled. “You get better now, Arethusa.”
Eyes wide, she stared after the padre and Senhorita Jacinta as they walked out of the room. She was alone with Tristão. Did the priest and Senhorita Jacinta not understand the danger? Or did they think him trustworthy?
Tristão stood back from the bed for a few moments, as if not knowing what to do or say. He seemed so unsure of himself, standing there, spindly, slouching as though to shorten his height. His mild temper and fragile eyes were so opposite to Diogo’s self-confidence and piercing glare. He could make her blood rush, but this Tristão—it was like standing before a full sun. She couldn’t hide, she couldn’t lie, she couldn’t look away.
“Arethusa,” he whispered at last. His grin brought a bright pink to his cheeks. “On the beach I didn’t think I’d ever learn your name. It fits you. I would have taken you for a Rosa or Maria though.”
Wrong on both counts, Arethusa thought. But she didn’t mind. He had said her mother’s name, and it made her smile. She thought of the moonstone again, and her vow to Mãe to keep it safe. She had failed. It had fallen into Diogo’s hands, and he was the only one who knew of its power. How would she get it back?
Forcing herself to look into Tristão’s inquisitive eyes, she had a terrible thought. Would Tristão help her? She still had the slate in her lap. She could ask, and if he said no, she would find another way. When she reached for the slate pencil, her arm hit the edge of the slate. It slid to the edge of the cot, but Tristão caught it with the tips of his fingers. She had forgotten about her broken arm. She flinched and he flinched along with her.
“I wish—well, I wish you were well and good already. I know you must be in an awful lot of pain. Doesn’t seem right, to have you laid up so ill, but time will take care of it soon enough, I expect.” He pursed his lips together and flashed her a shy smile.
“Does it bother you... being alone with me? You can just nod, and I’ll fetch Senhorita Jacinta. I’ll understand. I’m the oldest here, and I’ll soon be making my own way next year, but they’ve known me so long that they trust me to do right. A good Catholic and all, eh?” he said with a grin.
As she looked at him, she realized that he did not seem so dangerous. But she did not forget the Goddess’s call for chastity. She brought the blanket up to her chin.
Tristão took her meaning and nodded. “I don’t know what sort you’re used to, but ask anybody, I’m not one that’ll force or offend.”
She gestured with her hand for him to continue.
“All right.” He grinned. “So I was thinking last night how we might do this. If I’m around, you can write your questions and answers to me and I’ll translate. When I’m not there to help, you can make hand motions that the others can learn. But you cannot write to the other orphans, because it is forbidden to them.”
He sat in Senhorita Jacinta’s chair and picked up the slate pencil. “Let’s try a picture.” He balanced the slate on his leg and gave her a lopsided grin as he scratched a phantom itch on his forehead. It made his world-weary eyes take on the color of innocence. The moment he’d thought of one, he held his mouth in an “Ah” position and brought his index finger up for attention. He needn’t have bothered. She hadn’t taken her eyes from his face for an instant.
“When you’re hungry.” He drew a simple picture of a fork. “And when you’re thirsty.” He sketched a cup. “Want to try it?”
She took the pencil, careful not to touch his skin. She had the ridiculous thought that she might be burned if she did. But, of course, he had touched her more than even Diogo had.
Arethusa thought for a moment and wrote: J for Jacinta. When she showed him, he laughed.
“Yes, exactly. I think we’ll get the hang of this after all.”
&
nbsp; “It’s nice to have someone else here who can read and write. Learning is forbidden in these islands since way before I was born. So you’d best not let anyone outside the orphanage see you writing either, eh?”
“Why?” she mouthed, not at all understanding. Who would forbid education?
“The Freemasons. They outlawed books and learning, but the old folks don’t trust it much anyway. Farming and fishing is all we do here. Not much need for anything else.”
It was a strange notion, but she remembered now that so many of the older generation of Azorean immigrants in New Bedford were uneducated. Some of them were still too proud to learn English as their children had. She had never heard of Freemasons before, but they seemed a backward and dreary lot.
“I’d better go, or Senhorita Jacinta will be in after me to let you rest. But try to think of more pictures if you can. I will too. I’ll come by tomorrow to see you.” He began to step away but stopped, a question in his eyes. “If you... don’t mind?”
She remembered what she had wanted to ask him. She held up her hand and motioned him back.
He dropped back into the chair. “What is it?”
Diogo Cheia stole a pendant from me. Will you help me to get it back? She wrote out the words as fast as her clumsy fingers would allow, afraid Senhorita Jacinta or the padre would find her out.
“The shipowner’s son?” Tristão’s eyebrows went up, and then he stared at her in surprise. “The son of a marquês? He says his family owns half of Porto back on the mainland. Why would he...”
Tristão’s surprise turned to a frown, and she knew then that he believed her. She could also tell that this was too much to ask. Why would he want to get in the middle of something like this?
She mouthed, “Never mind,” and shook her hand to dismiss the idea.
“No, no,” he said. “I will help you. Of course I will. But may I beg a favor from you in return?”
Arethusa narrowed her eyes. She wanted to know what she was agreeing to first.
He gave her a tight-lipped smile. “I have a letter.” He looked away for a moment. “The letter is written in English and I can’t read it. Would you—could you translate it for me?”
Footsteps in the hall made them both jump.
“Tristão.” Senhorita Jacinta had found them out. “What are you still doing here?” She wasted no time in hurrying him out the door.
Tristão glanced back at her, still seeking an answer. Arethusa gave him one curt nod before he disappeared.
JUST PAST MIDDAY, TRISTÃO CAREENED INTO THE infirmary and snatched up her hand. “Will you translate my letter now?”
To keep the surprise from her face, Arethusa stared at his long, thin fingers curled over hers. Through his skin, she felt his nervousness like the ripple of a current. In his other hand, he carried a handmade wooden container about the size of a cigar box and, in fact, it gave off the faint odor of sweet earth when he opened it.
“Helped the little ones out to the courtyard to play, then sneaked away before they could catch me for chores again. We’ve only a little time before I’m missed. Please?” Even now, he still half-expected an audible reply. “I’m begging you.”
She had seen that pleading before, in the eyes of her vision. And they were the color of pale blue that she was gazing into now. Was it Tristão Vazante she had seen? She pulled her hand from his, feeling her heart rise with the effort. If Diogo wasn’t Alpheus, then Tristão couldn’t be. He was too pure, too kind. But wasn’t that what she had wished for?
She gave him her consent with a gesture.
“Thank you.” Tristão sighed with relief but his breath was hollow with worry. “Can you write without pain yet?”
She wrinkled her nose and nodded.
Arethusa smoothed out the scratchy woolen blanket around her legs and laid Padre Salvador’s slate and pencil on her lap. Tristão gazed quietly at her, smiling that sun-bright smile that never seemed to fade. She was accustomed to night—pale things, shadowy things, things that had no place next to the sun. Surely the Moon Goddess had no affinity for the sunlight. Yet how could the moon live in light without sun?
Tristão settled into the chair next to the bed and unlatched the box. She did not look at Tristão’s face. She didn’t fear him. Not like Diogo. But today, Tristão was just too bright. It was something on the inside, a kind of precarious hope. It shook something inside of her that she didn’t want to be shaken.
The slender fingers snatched her attention again as Tristão rummaged through his belongings. At the same moment, they both looked inside, and she saw her own embarrassment mirrored in his eyes. It seemed too private as her eyes raked over a bit of blue glass, a pinkish shell, a yellowed handkerchief made of fine cutwork lace. What stories could these trinkets reveal about him? His shy shrug told her that he had never showed these things to anyone before. She was astonished that he had allowed her to be the first.
He pursed his lips and glanced toward the open doorway. It made her wonder when next Senhorita Jacinta would come to check on her.
“I told you I never knew my parents. Don’t even know if my mother still lives. A few years ago, Padre Salvador found out that it was my father who left me here. But he never came back for me. I heard he died two years ago of the fever. The only thing I have left of him is this.”
He pulled out a tattered piece of paper hidden beneath the handkerchief. He had folded it so tightly she was surprised the flimsy paper had not fallen into dust by now. For years and years, the letter must have lain in that box, not counting the hundreds of times he had probably folded and refolded it, trying to guess at its meaning. What agony that must have been.
He handled the letter gingerly, reverently, anxiety putting a tremble in his fingers. “Would you translate it for me?”
Even if she hated him—even if he was Diogo—still she would have translated that letter for him. But Arethusa did not hate him. She nodded with a smile.
Tristão’s shoulders relaxed and tensed in the same moment. She only hoped she’d be able to understand all the words. She shifted to lean against the bedpost and used Padre Salvador’s borrowed pencil and slate to translate.
My dear boy,
The doctor says I’m not long for this world. Something about you being turned wrong. But I’m happy he has great hopes for you, little one.
Your Pai is angry now. I’ve begged him to keep you, but he can’t find work here, and he’s threatening to take you back to the islands.
I wish I could keep you forever. But remember, your Pai loved me and I loved you. Nothing else matters a fig now.
Stay well, my little Cornishman, and know I named you Tristão. This to remind you that I grieved to leave you. This to remind Paulo that if he leaves you it’s he that will grieve and me that’ll not forgive.
—Your loving mum, Cora
Arethusa wrote in tiny, awkward letters and, by the time she was done, the muscles in her fingers were tight with cramping. She stared at the words of his mother, not ready to show her son what had been kept from him all these years. This was almost a mirror of her own life in a way—such was the love she had felt from her mother and the great lack of it from her father.
When she glanced up from the slate, Tristão narrowed his eyes, but that was the only physical sign he gave of the anxiety she felt radiating off his skin. He was trying hard not to pull the slate from her hands, so she didn’t make him wait any longer.
When she held it out to Tristão, he took it politely and read slowly, but the loss of so many years caught up with him as he read the last words. His tear-filled eyes gazed up at her over the slate stone, and it seemed he shared sorrow with her as if they drank from the same cup of grief. Laid bare in his face, it was hard for her to see.
“Cora. My mother’s name was Cora.”
He seemed to say the words without realizing it. Did the name suit his ideal of her? Arethusa fixed her gaze on her hands to steady her thoughts. She wanted to comfort him with words, but sh
e had none to give.
“Thank you.” He touched her hand, though he could not look her in the eye. “How long I’ve waited for this—you cannot even think it.”
“Tristão!” The harsh whisper echoed down the walls of the room, and Tristão jerked his hand away. Arethusa caught a glimpse of honeyed hair and skin at the doorway. With the light coloring of Tristão, a girl of Arethusa’s own age stood out like a strain of gold against the drab grey stone walls. A scowl twisted the girl’s delicate mouth, and Arethusa instinctively leaned closer to Tristão.
“Don’t worry. It’s just Isabel,” he whispered. He said this to reassure her, that was clear, yet Arethusa thought it odd when he slid the slate board and letter under the blanket as Isabel stomped toward them.
“What are you doing in here? How did—”
“It’s nothing.” Tristão held up his hand. “I wanted to show Arethusa something.”
This vague explanation was a poor attempt at misdirection.
“You’re new here,” Isabel said, narrowing her eyes and pointing at Arethusa, “so you wouldn’t know better.” She turned her attention to Tristão. “But you—you’ve broken a serious rule, and you know it.”
“I know it,” he said.
“And you leave me to keep your secret for you?” Isabel crossed her arms, tapped her foot twice.
“You’ll do what you want to do, Isabel, as always.”
“I want to know what’s going on.”
“No more questions. It’s time for us both to go.”
“Oh, following the rules now?”
He sighed, but it was a sigh of deep familiarity. “Isabel, you are breaking a rule yourself right now. Go on. I don’t want to see you in trouble too. Not on my account.”
“So considerate,” Isabel pouted, but she stalked off without another word, leaving them again to the quiet of the infirmary.
“I should go now, too, Arethusa.” He slid his hand under the blanket and retrieved the letter. “But I thank you for this.” He held up the letter slightly as he folded it.
The moment he slipped the letter back into the box, they heard the sound of footsteps in the hall. Tristão froze. Arethusa glanced over at him. He was reading her face, perhaps trying to figure a way out of their trouble.
