by Cheri Lasota
Arethusa looked up at her in surprise. If Senhorita Jacinta knew she was a pagan, why had she let her wear the queen’s dress? Why hadn’t she shunned her like the rest had? She thought about all the nuns at the orphanage, and the kindly priest too. How different they were from her father. How accepting of her strange silence and peculiar ways. This wasn’t the Catholicism she knew growing up.
“I know the children acted out of fear and hatred that day. That is not your fault but theirs. They forget that many of their religious practices come from pagan origins. “I would normally advise you put your faith in God’s hands, but in this case...” Jacinta gave her a sad smile.
Arethusa tried on a little smile, too, but it fell flat. Always she looked to Artemis for guidance, and it seemed a sacrilege to bear the crown for a faith she did not follow.
Senhorita Jacinta smiled again. “Well, I want you to know that there are those here who love you no matter what you believe. And Tristan—he so much wants to ask your forgiveness, to make amends...”
Arethusa frowned at the mention of his name.
Senhorita Jacinta noticed. “But that will come with time.”
One of the younger girls tugged on Jacinta’s skirts. “Padre said it’s time to start.”
Jacinta gave her a hug and smiled. “Off we go then.”
Arethusa led the procession of sidemaids and flagbearers as they began the short march to the Imperador’s house. Nervous as she was, Arethusa was glad the padre let Senhorita Jacinta walk beside her. As they meandered the narrow, cobbled streets amid shops and houses, they passed two men who sat on wine barrels in a doorway. Smoke curled above their heads as they puffed on homemade cigars. They nodded to the padre, yet their eyes watched him with suspicion.
Arethusa nudged Senhorita Jacinta’s shoulder.
She understood Arethusa’s question. “Men here are wary of priests. Years ago, the Freemason government banished all Jesuit priests and abolished education. Since then, the people here have believed education unnecessary and the teachings of priests to be distrusted.
“Padre Salvador has overcome a great deal to remain on this island to attend to his flock. If not for the powerful influence of his Freemason brother, he would have been banished as well.” Senhorita Jacinta pointed to the procession and frowned. “The Freemasons are kind enough to let the people have their festivals but not much else.”
This news seemed unbelievable to Arethusa. In New Bedford, everyone venerated the priests. Senhorita Jacinta pointed to a house of black stone trimmed with white.
“This is the house of the Imperador, host of the festa.” The red-tile roof set off the deep indigo of the sea behind it, and widows dressed in black milled about the grounds among dozens of young children and men and women all dressed in their finest for mass. “And those men in the red robes are members of the Holy Ghost Brotherhood of Angra, the sponsors of the festa,” Senhorita Jacinta explained.
As the procession approached, the crowd quieted. Many of the women crossed themselves when all eyes turned to Arethusa. She was grateful they did not know she was a pagan. She wondered what would happen if they did. Among the brotherhood, one man stepped forward wearing a crown, his smile brilliant against his dark skin and black mustache.
“This is the Imperador of the festival,” Senhorita Jacinta whispered. “Go to him, and he will lead you inside to receive the crown and scepter.”
Padre Salvador stood by with a smile, his hand outstretched to the Imperador. The procession stopped as Arethusa willed herself forward, feeling her knees shaking beneath her dress.
When she came to the Imperador, he peered down at her with a kindly look in his eye. “So this is the girl who survived the impossible.”
He gave Arethusa a kiss on both cheeks, which were turning red from embarrassment.
“I am Paulo de Fraga, Senhorita. Your courage has inspired me. You bring honor to my home.”
He took her hand. “Come, the crown and scepter wait for you inside.”
Arethusa had never been in an Azorean home before. Pictures of saints lined the walls, and flower-filled vases gilded the main sitting room with delicate fragrances. A shrine adorned with flowers, flags, ornaments, and bits of white paper stood on a wooden altar at the center of one wall. At its heart a silver scepter rested. Beside it sat a crown made of silver filigree set with a golden orb and dove.
All were quiet as Senhor de Fraga made the sign of the cross and knelt before the shrine. He motioned for Arethusa to do the same, and then he said a silent prayer and reached for the crown and scepter.
“I can think of no one who deserves this honor more.”
Out of deference to the Imperador, Arethusa genuflected as she accepted the crown. She thought of the virgin Maria and felt like an imposter in the pristine white of her queen’s dress. The crown lay warm in her hands. The smudge of her fingertips marred its polished silver and shamed the dove at its peak, an image of the Holy Spirit that condemned her fear and whispered silently of her sin.
When they emerged from the house, they walked to the head of the procession. Behind them stood the padre with his staff and the other orphans holding their flags and ornaments. The women came after, with bread rounds looped through their arms. The members of the brotherhood followed, with the rest of the crowd trailing behind.
When Arethusa and Senhor de Fraga reached the fore, the crowd all moved at once, a procession slow and silent, hundreds of shoes scuffing cobblestones Azoreans had traversed for centuries. As the procession passed the padaria on the corner, and the church beckoned from across the square, Arethusa felt a great peace, and, in the air, the whisper of a voice caught her ear. You don’t have to be sinless to enter here.
The church’s eaves loomed overhead. As Arethusa entered the cool darkened church, she felt lighter, and the burden of the crown became an honor and not a mockery. She approached the elaborate altar of gold and silver where the Virgin beckoned, her carved fingers upraised and welcoming.
Arethusa knelt and laid the crown and scepter on a bed of roses. After the opening prayers were recited and the Eucharist given, the padre called Arethusa to the altar. Her nerves seemed to spread along the surface of her skin as she walked, legs buckling, electric with fear. She knelt before Padre Salvador and willed herself to look at no other.
The padre smiled down at her as he held the crown, and with his thumb traced the sign of the cross on her forehead while he said a blessing. He then gave her the scepter and placed the crown on her head. Its rim too large, the crown lay crooked over the curls Senhorita Jacinta had ironed into her hair. It was a crown meant for someone else, and it made her feel her separateness from these Catholics once again. Arethusa backed away and retreated to the pew beside Senhorita Jacinta, who patted her hand and, with a smile, straightened the crooked crown.
After the mass, the procession formed again as fireworks were set off behind them, announcing the crowning of the queen. They ambled again through the cobbled streets of Angra, making their way to the Império chapel. The marchers began to sing a hymn that Arethusa did not know, but it was beautiful. She listened transfixed as she took in the vivid colors of the Império’s façade glowing in the sunlight. The white walls were painted with baskets of blue hydrangeas, wine barrels, and jugs while terra cotta-colored trimming framed the windows and cornerstones. The steeple was set with a silver crown and above the doors, the words Veni Sancte Spiritus welcomed the Holy Spirit inside.
With quiet reverence, Arethusa, the padre, and the Imperador entered the Império. Padre Salvador said a prayer and a blessing, and then she and the Imperador relinquished their crowns to a small altar in the center of the bare chapel. Arethusa breathed a sigh of relief as she unburdened herself. When she came out again into the sun, she felt free and light again.
The courtyard began to fill with people. Tables set along the outer edges of the square were already laden with Holy Ghost soup, alcatra, pão-doce, and a famous wine the padre had spoken of, vinho de cheir
o.
Isabel shoved past Arethusa to the center of the square, Tristão in tow.
He glanced back, his lips pursed in a respectful smile. “You look very pretty.”
Arethusa did not smile back, feeling embarrassed. She wasn’t sure what to think of him now, but she didn’t know how to trust him anymore. Somewhere in the horror of that day, he seemed to have lost his fear of her beliefs, or perhaps he now accepted them as part of who she was. Whatever the reason, she felt again the warmth he had once shown her. Though it confused her, she was relieved not to see that vicious suspicion in his eyes. Isabel huffed and dragged him on.
“Ah, is the little queen shy?” A hand touched hers, and she pulled away. “I don’t know how you managed to steal it back, but I think you’d better let me keep that moonstone for you.”
She had thought she might try to gain the pendant back from him, but she hadn’t attempted the feat yet. Was she too late? Had he lost it somehow? She instinctively reached for the other stone in her pocket, the one Isabel had thrown at her. Diogo’s stone.
He saw the movement of her hand and reached into her pocket, right in the middle of the dense crowd. When she felt his fingers grasp the stone, she stayed his hand.
“You keep my rock in your pocket?” he said. “Ah, a keepsake to remember me by.”
The memory of that day in the courtyard pierced her through. She knew he had been the mastermind behind it all, but now she had heard it from his own mouth, saw the cruelty of it laid bare in his black eyes.
Neither of us deserves to be here. What must God think of us to be in this holy place, making such a mockery of piety?
But Diogo had gone too far. Arethusa signed her distress to Irmã Fátima as she walked by. The nun narrowed her eyes and the wrinkles on her forehead deepened as she took in the scene. Without a moment’s hesitation, Irmã Fátima strode over and grabbed Diogo by the ear. Diogo snarled at Irmã Fátima, his purple scar coiling across his lips.
It did not intimidate Irmã Fátima. “If you don’t behave yourself, Diogo Cheia, you’ll sit the next dance out.” The nun took them both by the shoulder and marched over to where the other orphans were taking their places in a large circle.
Though Diogo said nothing, Arethusa knew he was seething under the surface. As the dance leader made his way through the front of the throng and the guitarists settled into one corner of the courtyard, Arethusa took her place opposite Diogo. The crowd gathered around, cheering and whistling. Arethusa kept her eyes trained on the floor and focused her thoughts on the steps they had practiced.
“The children of Lar de Santo Jerome Emiliani would like to entertain you all with the first dance of the evening. Senhores and Senhoras: the Chamarrita!” the caller shouted, and the lively music set Arethusa’s feet moving to the rhythm of the guitar picks. In the flash of movement, she glimpsed fingers rolling down frets and flowing over strings and notes echoing around the courtyard like the falling of water in a stream.
The caller’s voice rang out above the crowd as he yelled out the steps.
“A moda da Chamarrita
Não tem nada que aprender
É andar com um pé no ar
E outro no chão a bater.”
She pictured her mother dancing the Chamarrita at their cottage in New Bedford as Arethusa clapped and called out the steps. The laughter in her mother’s eyes and the bounce of her mother’s black hair filled Arethusa’s vision, washing out Diogo until she hardly felt his hands as he pulled her around to the other side of the circle.
“Quero cantar e bailar
Com a moça mais bonita
Bater o pé no terreiro
Dar voltas à Chamarrita.”
The people clapped while the dance moved through the verses, and Arethusa felt the crowd’s energy as they tapped their feet to the rhythm. All too soon, the Chamarrita ended, and the memory of her mother’s dancing vanished into the smirking face of Diogo. Arethusa turned to escape him, but he caught her arm.
“You’ll stay by me until the next one begins.”
The thought of spending one more minute with him was too much. She tried to pull away from his grip, but his sudden rage boiled to the surface. He took her by the neck with both hands.
With a jolt, the sights and sounds of the festa faded. She saw the impressions of her own fingernails on Diogo’s cheeks, felt the pain again around her bruised neck and remembered this same face leering at her in the deserted deckhouse aboard the foundering Sea Nymph.
The horror in her face made him let go but not before Irmã Fátima caught sight of them and began her walk across the courtyard. But Arethusa did not think of the nun. She grasped her throat and pointed an accusing finger at Diogo, but the words she ached to say would not come.
It was you.
Amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth and his eyes spoke of secrets they both knew, secrets she had no voice to tell. On his lips, she recognized the distinct curve of his malice. The memory came back to her in a flood-rush.
*
“You can’t escape this,” Diogo yelled at her above the roar of the wind and waves. “Accept your fate. Accept me and I’ll give you everything you ever wanted.”
“You are not my fate,” Arethusa shouted, the groans of the Sea Nymph’s timbers drowning out her voice.
“Your mother thinks differently.” He nodded at something behind her. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Mãe rising from a fall out on deck. But before she could call out to her, Diogo shoved Arethusa through the door of the deckhouse. Chickens squawked at the far end, but Arethusa and Diogo were surrounded by the oinks of pigs locked in cramped pens. The whole structure reeked of pig manure.
Diogo pushed her up against a post.
“Let go of me!” Blood rushed to her face and she clenched her fists tight. She pounded his chest again and again, but she might as well have been hitting a stone wall.
Arethusa rallied her strength and tried to push him off. When he didn’t budge, she punched him in the stomach as hard as she could. He flinched and Arethusa couldn’t help but smile in triumph.
“You’ll pay for that.”
“I’ll scream.” Her voice was steady, though she knew he felt her arms shaking under his hands.
“Who would hear you?” It was not a question. “You think this storm was an accident?”
“You cannot claim—”
“You know nothing of what I can do.”
“No.” Arethusa hated the trembling in her voice. He’s playing a part. He’s can’t be Alpheus. He’s just trying to scare me. “Pai will come for me.”
“Your father is dead.”
“No.” Then she lowered her voice. “You’re a liar.”
“Arethusa!” the hysterical voice of her mother screeched out above the heftier shouts of the sailors. She was somewhere near.
“My mother will come for me,” Arethusa said, her confidence returning.
“Ah.” Diogo’s sneer slithered up his face. “And if she believes me to be Alpheus, how can you trust her?”
The cold truth of his words drained the blood from her face. She cursed her weakness and his strength, cursed her mother’s misguided beliefs and the storm shrieking through the sails. Accept your fate... Diogo. Was he—?
“Who are you?” she said.
Diogo smiled.
“Who are you?” she screamed in his face.
Diogo’s smile bent into a flinch and his hands reached around her neck.
“Stop.” His voice came low and hard, his jaw steeling under his skin.
“Who are you?” she screamed again.
Fury lit his liquid-fire eyes, but something more burned there, something she could not bear to see. His fingers tightened like a noose.
“I am the one with your voice in his hands.”
He jerked her up by the neck and she panicked, her chest heaving as she tried to catch a breath. Scratching at his hands and face, she reeled at the mounting pressure in her throat. She felt h
is flesh under her fingernails and saw the blood-smeared gouges on his face mingling with the gash left by his father’s ring. Her vision dimmed. She wished for death to take the pain.
Something snapped deep inside her throat and a shockwave reverberated through her body. When Arethusa’s limbs fell limp, Diogo dropped her to the boards littered with excrement.
She lay in agony, holding her throbbing throat, feeling as if he had ripped all the air from her body. She stared up at him in horror, wondering why he had released her, why she was not dead.
His shadow enveloped her. “There’ll be no more need for screaming.”
*
“You remember now.” A grotesque sneer crossed Diogo’s face, and the deep purple gash his father had given him aboard the Sea Nymph reared up. He leaned toward her ear, his cheek almost touching hers.
“Tell anyone, and I will finish what I started.”
Her vision blurred. Diogo’s face alone passed through her veil of tears, transforming him into obscene shapes. She felt the tightening of his fingers even now. She couldn’t breathe.
“Arethusa, come.” Tristão’s soft voice broke through the roaring in her ears. “Let me take you away from him.” She could hardly see Tristão, her vision was so blurred, but she let him lead her through the throng. She heard the sharp reprimands of Irmã Fátima somewhere behind her, felt the eyes of the crowd following her across the courtyard, but she saw only Diogo’s eyes that night in the deckhouse. Tristão sat her down in a chair. “I will bring you some water. Wait here.”
She did not move but watched as the guitarists readied their violas açoreanas for the next dance, the poignant São Macaio. Diogo had told her Pai had strangled her. But it was Diogo himself. How could she have blocked it out?
Arethusa’s eyes found Tristão as he crossed the hall toward her, cup in hand. She tried to focus on him, tried not to look about for fear she’d see Diogo again. Isabel rushed to block Tristão’s path. They exchanged words, and then Isabel’s mouth dropped open as Tristão continued past, his eyes focused on Arethusa.
He handed her the cup, and, for a moment, they gazed at each other: Arethusa expectant, Tristão looking discomfited and shy.
