by Cheri Lasota
The boy only gave a nonchalant shrug and concentrated on his cup of milk.
Tristão glanced in her direction. “Arethusa, are you all right?”
She reached to wipe her cheeks, ashamed even of her tears.
Isabel grinned at Tristão as she nudged his shoulder. “She wouldn’t be able to tell you, even if she wasn’t.” Giggling under her breath, she even got Damiano to crack a smile.
“Enough.” This time Tristão’s gaze turned to steel as he looked from one orphan to the other. “Is this what the sisters taught you? To disrespect strangers?” Isabel was silenced at last. Tristão frowned at Arethusa. “You see how they are?”
“No, you at last see how she is.” Diogo slammed his food down and slipped down onto the bench right in front of Arethusa. He had his eyes on Tristão.
“I don’t know what you are playing at,” Tristão said to Diogo, “but these kids don’t know what’s a lie and what isn’t now. Stay away from them, or I’ll have to take this to the sisters.”
“These orphans are not my concern.” Diogo pointed at Arethusa. “This girl is, and I’m glad you finally figured out she isn’t yours.”
*
The hours had passed one by one, as she went through the motions of learning the orphanage routines. She avoided the other orphans whenever possible and ignored their questions and insults. With the loss of Tristão’s friendship, she grew aware of how alone she felt without her mother. She mourned her now without fully believing her dead.
No, she cannot be gone. Alpheus saved her. I know he did.
After morning chores on the second day, the orphans were allowed an hour of play. Arethusa stood alone in the corner of the common room while the others busied themselves with talk and games, their backs to her. Being surrounded by the laughter and cries of so many children was jarring to her sense of order and peace. More than anything, she missed her time alone with Mãe.
She didn’t know how Tristão could stand it, but there he was, pulling a little one up from a fall and straightening the shirt of another. He had been right about the others after all. They had all judged her a bad omen, and Isabel had whispered that Arethusa would bring a curse on anyone who befriended her.
Arethusa watched at the window as a storm pulsed over the sea. The rain thrummed over the white wave crests, beating them into submission. A gust of wind blew in through the cracks in the doors like a wraith, stealing down the orphanage’s airy corridors and rooms. With a violent shiver, Arethusa turned to ask Irmã Rosa if she could retrieve the hand-me-down, woolen shawl from her trunk in the girls’ dormitory.
After pulling her shawl over her shoulders, she crossed over the worn stones to the window nearest her bed. She gazed out at the storm-tossed breakers, her mind turning to dark thoughts.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
Arethusa did not acknowledge him.
“Missing Vazante’s affections? He’s a Catholic. You’re a pagan. And in a day’s time, he turned his back on you.”
Arethusa winced at his blunt words.
“I wouldn’t do that to you, Arethusa. Can’t you see that? That boy thinks you will taint these ignorant orphans, but I say he has tainted you. Let me protect you from his lies and backward religion.”
Diogo breathed into her hair. She jumped, tried to face him, but he reached around her waist and pulled her tight to him.
“If you refuse my protection, Arethusa, you will have no one.” His fingers were there at her collar, his lips touched her neck. “You will be entirely alone here.”
Arethusa wanted to pull away, remembering that he was the one who told Tristão about her devotion to Artemis. But then she thought hard. He was most certainly right. She would be alone here now without him. Only the nuns and the priest were still kind to her, but that would soon change when they discovered what she really was.
If Diogo were Alpheus, then she would be with him someday whether she willed it or no. Was it better to let him pursue and beguile her instead of fighting him? If he were Alpheus, would she feel this fear of him always? Or was her mother right when she had said love would make a god out of him yet?
His kiss was hard at first, but when she stopped struggling, he took her mouth at his ease. She tried to remember again the way it was when he had first caught her fancy. She felt herself falling into him, into his spell of awe and fear. For a moment, she let the feeling carry her, trying to decide if he was Alpheus or just an imposter. How to wheedle truth from a kiss?
“Arethusa.”
At the sound of her name, she broke free from Diogo’s kiss. Tristão stood in the doorway, his face registering horror. Isabel stood behind him, a triumphant smile on her face.
“Can you not see we’re busy?” Diogo taunted, pulling Arethusa closer. She turned away in shame, staring at the lone painting of the Virgin Maria, her hands pressed together in prayer. Guilt and embarrassment washed over Arethusa.
“Are you with him now, Arethusa?” Tristão’s said, as he clenched and unclenched his fist at his side.
“Why should you care?” Isabel put her hands on her hips. “You told us not to talk to her.”
“You’re too young to see such things. Go,” he said to Isabel.
“I’m thirteen. I’ve seen far worse than this pagan whore!” Isabel retorted.
Ignoring Isabel, Tristan glared at Diogo. “Is this by Arethusa’s consent?”
“You saw her when you came in, yes?” Diogo said. “How could you believe otherwise?”
At this, Tristão turned away from them before he saw her vehement denial. Anger turned to a sickness in Arethusa’s stomach.
Tristão looked Isabel in the eyes and said, “Go.”
Tristão walked toward the door, but as he did, he took one last look at Arethusa, and a resigned cynicism passed through his features.
“Was it all a lie?”
What right do you have to judge me? Anger made her scowl at him. Was it not you who rejected me?
His pale eyes startled at her reaction, he twisted away, and then he and Isabel were gone.
Livid, Arethusa tried to shove Diogo away.
“Why fight me now?” His body tensed with impatience. “Can’t you see you’ve lost him?”
“Arethusa? Where are you, my girl?” It was Irmã Fátima padding down the hall.
Diogo pushed her head down so Irmã Fátima wouldn’t see them. But this was her chance. Once Irmã Fátima left, she didn’t know where it would end with Diogo.
“Arethusa? Are you in here?” She heard Irmã Fátima’s footsteps stop at the door.
Diogo shoved her forward and slipped under the bed.
“Arethusa? What are you doing in here?” Irmã Fátima said, as she entered the room.
Arethusa rose on unsteady feet to face Irmã Fátima. She pointed to her throat as her shallow breaths filled the silent room.
“Your throat hurting? Let’s find you something soothing to drink.” Irmã Fátima took her by the hand and led her to the door. Relief flooded Arethusa’s body, but when she peered back into the room, she felt Diogo’s eyes glowering at her from the dark recesses under her bed.
*
Two days later, Irmã Rosa let all the orphans outside after the midday meal. Though the morning rain had ceased, the gloomy atmosphere lingered, and the sky threatened another downpour. Isabel led Tristão and the other orphans in her inner circle toward an outcropping of rocks near the cistern.
It was their domain and Arethusa wasn’t allowed, so she cut across to the far courtyard and leaned against the stone wall. She didn’t care that the back of her dress would get soaked or that the stone scraped her fingertips. The grey clouds sided with her, reflecting her foul mood.
But something felt wrong. The group was too quiet. Arethusa was no fool. In Isabel’s smile lay an omen.
The group gathered stones from the ground as if they were picking wildflowers. Slipping them into their pockets, they began a slow march in her direction. Arethusa felt the f
amiliar shaking in her arms, the flutter in her stomach, the roar in her ears. She had no voice to scream for help.
When Tristão glanced up at her, he hesitated. Isabel noticed and turned to him. Arethusa kept her gaze on Tristão as the two exchanged words, but he would not look at her again. His eyes dropped down to the stones in Isabel’s hand. Arethusa stopped breathing when Isabel pressed one into his hand. He closed his fist around it. Tears blurred Arethusa’s vision.
The group approached and Isabel gave her a malevolent smile. “Arethusa Maré, pagan whore...”
Arethusa stood shaking, wishing against all hope that she had a voice, wishing she had the moonstone to shield her from them.
“You put a spell on Diogo Cheia,” Isabel said, her eyes accusing. Arethusa wanted to laugh at the lie. “Your poison went right into his mouth, and now today he cannot speak.” Isabel held out her hands, motioning the other orphans back. “It was no accident that God took your voice. If you still had it, you would curse us too.”
Nausea rolled through Arethusa’s body, and a stiff cold wind rushed up from the sea to drench her with new shivers. Without thinking, without realizing what it would look like, she crossed herself.
“Do you see?” Isabel’s eyes turned about her, wild with frenzy. “Do you see how she mocks God?”
With a foolish bravado, Arethusa stood defiant in the face of her mistake. Realizing now that she had nothing to lose, she made the sign of the crescent moon, her thumb and forefinger curved into a half-moon, her other fingers pressed to her palm. It was the sign her mother had taught her long ago, and she held it out against them all, even Tristão, who stood in the back, his eyes filling with the fury of fear.
The sign of the Moon Goddess only enraged them all the more.
“Stone her!” Damiano suddenly shouted, and the others took up the call. “Stone her, stone her, stone her!”
Arethusa stepped to the side, but Damiano barreled forward and shoved her back against the rock barrier. She stared at their twisted faces, feeling as if she were falling from the prow in her dream again, the rush of wind pulling the breath from her body.
Isabel smiled. “The slut won’t talk, and I’m glad of it.” She held up the stone for Arethusa to see. “Diogo sends this with his compliments.”
She threw the stone straight at Arethusa. It hit her arm, its sharp edge drawing blood, and then it tumbled with a pillowed thump to the ground. Her arm smarting with pain, Arethusa grabbed the stone. She glared up at Isabel, reaching to throw the stone back into that perfect face.
But before she could throw it, stones buffeted her from all sides. The hollow thuds reverberated through the silence with a revolting unreality. A rock struck her shoulder, her back, her ear. Another hit her lip. Reaching up to touch it, she tasted the blood, metallic and sweet, which trickled from her lip down to her chin. Her breath came in sobs as another volley of stones hit her in the head and chest.
Arethusa looked to Tristão, but in his eyes she saw his weakness. And braced in his hand was the stone. Arethusa fell to her knees, feeling her anger subside, feeling defeat take its place. The Goddess came to her mind, her soft light entering Arethusa’s vision like a dream.
She focused her mind. Blocked out all the pain. She bent all thought to the words from the myth. She cried the words over and over in her mind, even as the stones rained down on her like curses.
Artemis, save me!
But the Goddess was sleeping. No answering call came to her mind. No, the sun rose to its zenith behind the clouds. The Goddess was sleeping.
Arethusa’s mouth opened wide in a soundless scream, but she suffered the agony of betrayal in utter silence, having no ally, no friend, no hope.
She waited for the end, covering her head with her hands as rock after rock pelted her scalp, her arms, her legs. The stones stabbed her skin like daggers. Dizziness circled. She felt herself drifting into darkness, into a cold, empty space with no light.
In her delirium, she thought about the Catholic God. Did he reside in places where no moonlight could reach? Where no love could touch?
God, will you help me? To the ear, her cry came out as a half-garbled whisper.
The orphans stopped. They all heard the sound.
Arethusa saw nothing but Tristão. His eyes shone bright with shame and the rock in his hand was gone. Her mind fogged over, the only word on her lips: why?
She lay down, pressed her cheek to the wet grass, and closed her eyes. The pain ripped through her skin, stinging and burning, but she didn’t heed it. A shadow passed over her, blocking out the meager sun of the cold day. She heard a muttering. Caught the words, “Meu Deus.” It was the unmistakable cadence of Tristão’s soft voice. He touched a cut on her arm, his fingers infinitely gentle, but she jerked away.
“Forgive me... forgive—” his voice broke, desperation twisting his face. No shadows marred his skin. The only darkness in Tristão lay in his stricken eyes. His lips moved, but he couldn’t even say the word “please.”
“Never,” she mouthed. Tears spilled down Tristão’s cheeks, but she would not cry.
The group crept away, stealing backward glances, the shame evident in the slump of their shoulders. Behind them, ever in the shadows, she glimpsed Diogo leaning against the cistern. The twist of his smile told her everything. It was his stone, his revenge against her for refusing him. But she would not give in to her fear. She survived this. She would survive anything. She raised her chin, daring him. You will not break me.
“Arethusa!” came Senhorita Jacinta’s voice from the steps of the orphanage’s entrance. At the sound of her name, she turned away from Diogo. “Arethusa,” Senhorita Jacinta cried again, “are you all right?”
“Hurry,” Tristão yelled. “Arethusa’s been hurt.”
She wanted to laugh at the absurdity of his words. He talked as if the stones had rained down from the sky, rather than from his very own hand. She would not look at him but saw the horror in Senhorita Jacinta’s face when she rushed toward her, making the sign of the cross as she knelt at her side.
“Help me lift her. You carry her in,” Senhorita Jacinta said to Tristão, her voice sharp. He knelt and brought his arm under Arethusa’s legs, but she kicked at him and hit him again and again on his arms, his chest. He took it, until Senhorita Jacinta held her arms to the ground. “Stop, Arethusa. You are safe now. You are safe.”
“I’m so sorry,” Tristão breathed into Arethusa’s ear as he lifted her into his arms. “I’m so sorry.”
Arethusa would not look at him. She shut her eyes against them all as Tristão followed Senhorita Jacinta inside and laid her on a bed. His fingers brushed her palm so lightly that she almost felt sorry for him, but she pictured again the rock in his hand and closed her heart.
“Please, Arethusa,” he breathed in her ear. “I was jealous. I shouldn’t have—”
He wrenched back suddenly. Then she felt Senhorita Jacinta’s familiar hands about her, heard the woman’s sharp intake of breath.
“Is this what I think it is?”
Arethusa opened her eyes, but Senhorita Jacinta was staring at Tristão. He stood in the center of the room, arms rigid at his sides. He wouldn’t look at Senhorita Jacinta, but he nodded.
“What have you done?” Disbelief flickered in Senhorita Jacinta’s eyes.
Tristão said nothing.
“Look at her,” Senhorita Jacinta said. “Her voice hasn’t even healed, and now—cuts and bruises all over her body. You promised to protect her, Tristão.”
When Tristão raised his head to Arethusa, two rivers of tears streamed from his eyes. “I—” he began, but his lip trembled and he stopped. Then he turned and walked out of the room.
“Such pain,” Senhorita Jacinta whispered to her. “I wish I could take it from you and put it into me.”
Arethusa closed her fist around the stone in her hand. To save herself, she would be like Diogo’s stone, cold and unfeeling. She would be a stone they could not break.
> ON PENTECOST SUNDAY, WHEN ARETHUSA AWOKE AND peeked out the window, the cloudless sky was alive with anticipation of the day’s Festa do Espírito Santo. Padre Salvador had announced that Angra’s Holy Ghost Brotherhood had awarded the orphanage the special honor of participating in the Festa do Espírito Santo in May. The orphans would dance the Chamarrita and São Macaio and Arethusa herself would be named a special queen due to her bravery and hardship.
The girls’ dormitory buzzed with excitement. But Arethusa did not share their joy. Outside the stone walls of the orphanage, all lay subdued and grey. Black clouds passed over the sea. Since that day in the courtyard, Arethusa sat for hours at the window, watching the spring rains darken the deeper waters. She imagined herself falling beneath those ash-grey waves, falling into the fierce embrace she both loved and feared. Closing her eyes, she saw herself aboard the Sea Nymph, yet this time there was no Diogo, no storm—only the saffron moon, her rays setting the sea on fire.
Arethusa had been given a special dress refitted just for her, with layers of lace and intertwining white ribbons at the sleeves and hemline. She was thrilled to have a new dress and even more excited to wear any color other than mourning black—if only for one day. Yet, she felt no true joy. Her fears of Diogo and Isabel lingered like a death-knell.
“Do you like your new dress?” Senhorita Jacinta said, when she came by to see her.
Arethusa smiled and held out the skirt.
“It’s lovely. Though you have no need of finery. You are beautiful without such lace.” Senhorita Jacinta’s gaze turned serious. “Have the other orphans been treating you well?”
Arethusa wrinkled her nose and rolled her hand to say so-so. None of the orphans spoke to her, and Tristão had changed yet again. He knelt long in prayer at the chapel and sat alone in a corner of the common room as she did. He was a mirror, and she saw herself in his separateness. Tristão had not talked to her since the day of the stoning, and when she ventured to brave his glance, he would look away in shame.
A half-smile came to Senhorita Jacinta’s lips. “Arethusa, listen. I know what the children have been saying about your beliefs.”
