Artemis Rising

by Cheri Lasota

  Tristão was asleep next to the door—all night?—with his old, worn trunk at his side. She tried not to notice the concern in his waking smile.

  “Estás bem?” Tristão whispered, dark circles of sleeplessness around his eyes. “Isabel didn’t try anything, did she?”

  It took her a moment to understand that he had kept his word, that he had kept his promise after all. She shook her head.

  “I was so worried. I warned her not to try anything. I told her... and Diogo too. I had to keep an eye on him for most of the night.”

  Arethusa wondered what he had told Isabel. And Diogo? She couldn’t imagine it. Maybe it was a lie.

  Do we wait for Padre Salvador outside? she wrote.

  “Yes, but we’re to see Irmã Rosa in the kitchen first. She wants to say goodbye.”

  “Hurry, queridas,” Irmã Fátima said, her wrinkled face peeking out from behind the kitchen door when they arrived. “I’ve already prepared you a lunch for the journey. Padre Salvador is waiting for you outside in the church’s carrinho.”

  “You two are off on an adventure today, aren’t you?” Irmã Rosa said, as she stood peering at them with the other sisters. Senhorita Jacinta was there, smelling of strong bleach tinged with flowers. She held her capote e capelo cloak in her arms, and her almond eyes shimmered with tears.

  “Yes, Irmã,” Tristão said, smiling. “Arethusa will see the rest of the island for the first time, and I’ve never been as far as Praia da Vitória before. I can’t wait.”

  When Arethusa came to Senhorita Jacinta, the nurse spoke in a hushed voice. “You take good care of yourself, querida, and don’t be afraid to try and speak. Your voice might be healed now.”

  Arethusa hadn’t even thought of trying to speak for weeks. The doctor had not been to see her, and she had simply let it go, thinking perhaps it was too late to reclaim what Diogo had taken.

  “Though you’ll have to alter it to fit,” Senhorita Jacinta said, handing Arethusa the cloak, “I would like to give you my Beguine capote e capelo.” She was astonished Senhorita Jacinta would give her such a precious gift. The cloak was a sign of her lay order’s devotion and piety. She wondered if Senhorita Jacinta would get into trouble giving it away.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll make myself another one.” Senhorita Jacinta leaned in close, her smile serious. “You don’t have to be afraid. I know this is the right path for you. Have faith.”

  Irmã Rosa then took Arethusa’s hands in her own. “I have been praying to God every day that you would have a chance to leave this orphanage, and my prayers have been answered. I do hope that you will find every happiness where you are going.”

  “Thank you,” Arethusa mouthed.

  “God bless you both,” Jacinta said.

  Irmã Rosa wiped the tears from her cheeks and handed them their lunches wrapped in brown paper.

  After many farewells, Arethusa and Tristão were off through the dim corridors toward the main entrance. Tristão flung open the doors and ran down the stairs two at a time at the sight of the padre waiting in the carrinho.

  A shadow moved in the darkness of the hall as Arethusa came to the door, and the brass buttons of a boy’s uniform caught the light streaming in from the sunrise. Diogo pulled her into the shadows, and, in an instant, his mouth covered hers. His lips were soft, even as he held her arms behind her back. She pushed at his chest, wishing she could call out to Tristão.

  “I will miss you, little queen,” Diogo whispered. The liquid fire in his eyes burned low.

  Is this the Diogo I used to know? After all he has done to me, why does he treat me so softly now? She searched his face, wanting to know where the lie was hidden, wondering what lay behind the façade of his simple words.

  “Maybe she forgot something... Arethusa?” Tristão called, as his footfalls echoed back up the steps outside.

  Diogo let her go. Tristão came through the door a moment later, his long, thin legs striding with purpose.

  The moment he caught sight of Diogo, suspicion narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing? I told you to stay away from her.”

  Arethusa was surprised to hear Tristão say it so plainly in front of her, but it was clear from the cool shrug of Diogo’s shoulders that Tristão had given him some kind of warning.

  “I’m saying goodbye. I’ll soon be sailing home to Portugal.” At this, relief flooded through her. A sly smile made Diogo’s scar quiver as he faced them. “But I will return. And when I do, I’ll take back what is mine.”

  He says those words with such confidence, Arethusa thought, as if he had the influence to command all... as if I were already promised to him. Then she remembered her mother’s belief that he was Alpheus. This boy—a god? No. She knew him better than her mother did, better than anyone. As much as she feared him, she did not believe him to be Alpheus.

  Tristão glared at him. “What are you talking about?”

  Diogo laughed aloud. “My little queen here, of course.”

  When he took her hand and kissed it, the gesture felt too intimate with Tristão standing so near. She pulled away, feeling the color come to her cheeks. Tristão did not break his gaze from the hand that Diogo had kissed.

  “Tristão?” Padre Salvador called from outside.

  “Padre Salvador will come looking. We’d better go.” Tristão took Arethusa’s arm and pulled her on. Then he stopped and faced Diogo. “Understand this: Arethusa is not and never will be yours.”

  “And you think she’s yours?” Diogo said, his eyes filling again with the liquid fire she knew so well. “Her brother? What a mockery. I know what you want from her,” Diogo said, “and you’d best keep your hands off what is mine.”

  For them both to speak of her like she wasn’t there, like she was a thing to be owned—it brought out a fire of her own. She pulled away from Tristão’s grasp, and, with measured steps, she walked back to Diogo and pushed him as hard as she could. Surprised, he stumbled back but caught his balance again a moment later. Haughty amusement tinged his eyes, but she smiled at her small triumph.

  In a final show, she hooked her arm in Tristão’s, smiling up into his pale, astonished eyes, knowing it would be the last Diogo would see of her: walking into the light on the arm of her champion.

  The moment she stepped through the portal, a hope and a fear stirred in her heart. The entire world seemed a swirl of sun and sea and earth, natural and free against the cold walls of the orphanage-prison. Yet she was not free from the weight in her heart. The stones—they stymied her joy where it kindled and lessened the light of her meager hope.

  PADRE SALVADOR STEPPED DOWN FROM THE OPEN-AIR carrinho at the base of the steps and patted the horse’s rump.

  “I thought I’d have to come in and find you two,” he said, helping to load Tristão’s trunk.

  Arethusa couldn’t meet the padre’s gaze. If he only knew what had passed beyond the door moments before. The thought of Diogo’s kiss made her shudder and seeing the oblivious kindness in Padre Salvador’s eyes made her guilt twist all the more.

  “Sorry, Padre,” Tristão said, but he slipped Arethusa a smile of complicity.

  Padre did his best to look stern, but his face broke out into a grin eventually. “Did you remember to bring your gift of bergamot soap for the Estrelas?”

  “Yes, it’s in my trunk,” Tristão said.

  Padre Salvador nodded, reaching out for Arethusa’s hand to help her into the carrinho.

  Tristão touched the padre’s arm. “I’ll help her in.”

  “Is that all right, Arethusa?” the padre asked her.

  Tristão did not wait. He took her hand, his long fingers warm in the coolness of the air, and leaned in close, saying, “I’m so proud of you, standing up to Diogo like that.”

  She squeezed Tristão’s hand before he let her go, wanting him to know how proud she was of him too. On impulse, she kissed his cheek but immediately checked herself at the surprise in his face.

  “I see you two have forgiven e
ach other.” She felt her cheeks grow hot as Padre Salvador scratched his chin and gazed at them. “Good. Your transition will be easier.”

  The carrinho jolted forward at the snap of the padre’s reins and suddenly she found herself jostled too close to Tristão. His sleeve brushed against hers, her leg touched his. He glanced at her, gesturing a shy apology with his hand. He slid back away from her, but it was merely to give her a better view of the shops along the cobbled street.

  It was then that her senses finally awakened to the world around her. She gazed for a long time at the wide expanse of ocean she had contemplated so many times from the window in the girls’ dormitory. With that vision in her soul, she breathed out a final sigh of relief. She was free of Isabel and Diogo at last.

  “How long will the journey take us, Padre?” Tristão said.

  “Half a day. I’ll stay overnight to make sure you’re settled and head back to Angra tomorrow morning.”

  They rode through bustling streets, amid stone buildings with gleaming red-tile roofs. People lined the sidewalks, browsing the shops and bakeries. She caught the scents of sea air winging up from Angra Bay and fresh bread baking in the ovens. The thought of Sister Fátima’s sweet bread made her smile. She would miss the sisters, Senhorita Jacinta most of all.

  Padre Salvador led them over streets of vivid tile mosaics and azaleas blooming full in passing courtyards. Passersby smiled and greeted them with a “bom-dia!” As the carrinho slipped out of the city, two old men tipped their straw hats to Arethusa, their dark faces wrinkled by years and sun.

  When they rounded a hill, Ilhéu das Cabras came into full view in the distance, the rocks resembling two grey monsters rising from the deep. The ship was lost forever now below the deeps, her father imprisoned in the lines of the mainmast. But she knew her mother was not there. She was living water now, reunited at last with her Alpheus.

  Arethusa thought about the pendant, comforted that Tristão had given her back the protection of the moonstone. She reached under her bodice and was comforted by its familiar weight.

  The carrinho rolled on and on through tiny villages, over brilliant green fields crisscrossed with stone fences, past herds of cows that slowed their progress. Tristão pointed out a donkey that poked his furry nose over a low rock wall. Arethusa managed a half-smile. The late afternoon approached as they rode through Praia da Vitória, the second largest town on the island. High above them to the northeast, a sea-cliff rose up like a towering castle.

  “My brother lives up there,” the padre said, “on the cliffs above the Bay of Zimbral. From his house, you’ll be able to see the rising of the sun and the moon. It is magnificent.”

  The moonrise? she thought. How long has it been since I’ve dreamt of such a simple luxury?

  The horse heaved the carrinho up the cliff road, his breathing labored, his flanks glistening with sweat. In the distance, Arethusa made out a large stone house overlooking the cliffs.

  “There it is,” Padre Salvador said. She knew Fernando Estrela was a count, but she had no idea of the extent of his wealth. Farmland surrounded the extensive grounds, which were hemmed in by stone fences and the sea cliffs. Tristão pointed out four Andalusian horses in one grassy field. Another held cows chewing their cud in oblivious boredom. Off in the distance, a third field contained a lone bull, which appeared enormous even at that great distance.

  Padre Salvador guided the carrinho onto the cobbled drive up to the house. Arethusa’s heart pounded. The moment when she would meet her new family was fast approaching. She didn’t want a new family. All she needed was her own mother back. Then she could survive anything.

  She glanced at Tristão, but he was looking away, absently chewing at his fingernail. This was a big day for him too. At least she had a family to mourn. He had never known a family, and Arethusa wondered if perhaps Tristão was more anxious than she was.

  Upon reaching the walkway leading to the house, Padre Salvador reined in the horse. The main door opened and the man from the festa stepped out—Conde Fernando Estrela, Arethusa reminded herself.

  “Fernando,” Padre Salvador called out, his mouth breaking into a broad smile.

  “Welcome,” Conde Estrela said, but his tone seemed raw and forced, as though he had been shouting and had lost the full range of his voice. When he caught sight of Arethusa, his smile of greeting was sad. This didn’t bode well.

  As Tristão helped her from the carriage, Arethusa noticed a shape emerge out of the shadows in the doorway. A woman stood there, and Arethusa realized that she must be Conde Estrela’s wife. The condessa’s hair was wrapped in a black scarf, and she wore the traditional dress of mourning, though the fabric was much finer than anything Arethusa had seen before. Her small and narrow eyes made her appear irritated, and her splotchy skin and reddened nose gave the impression of recent weeping. Thin and taut, she stood ramrod straight and stared at Tristão and Arethusa with a hard expression on her face.

  It bemused Arethusa that a handsome man like the conde had married such a homely woman, but perhaps the condessa had other attributes to recommend her. Though, judging by the woman’s severe demeanor, Arethusa couldn’t imagine what they might be. She looked to Tristão. With a reassuring smile, he gave her clammy, shaking hand a light squeeze.

  “Good day to you,” the conde said. “This is my wife, Condessa Inês Estrela. And this is Arethusa Maré and Tristão Vazante.”

  “Thank you for taking us in,” Tristão said, his tone exceedingly polite.

  Arethusa bowed her head in greeting. She wished she had prepared a thank you note for the condessa, but she had been too nervous to think of it. Without even a gesture or word of welcome, the lady strode back into the house and disappeared.

  Arethusa’s wariness grew. She sensed that this new life would not give her the comfort she longed for. Yet she had no choice. The papers had been signed, and now she stood at the threshold of her new home. She felt like crying, but her body was drier than dust.

  The conde’s gaze followed the condessa in, and then he turned to his brother. A wordless communication passed between them and the padre gave a slight nod.

  “I trust your trip was uneventful,” the conde said.

  “Indeed.” The padre’s expression grew distant. “The adoption papers have all been processed—just as you requested.”

  The conde gave the padre a curt nod and then turned to Arethusa and Tristão. “I hope you will be content here. You’ll soon come to know the routines of my household, but, for the moment, the one thing I demand of you is that you treat the condessa with the utmost respect.”

  “Yes, Conde Estrela,” Tristão said.

  A young boy ran up from what appeared to be a small stable. He jumped aboard the carrinho and grabbed the reins.

  “This is João, stable boy and farmhand,” explained the conde with a stern look at the boy. “Cool down the horses and ready them for the night.”

  João gave her and Tristão a shy smile and, without a word, snapped the reins and rode off to the stables.

  “Come in.” The conde slapped the padre on the back. “Food has been prepared. Our housemaid, Teresa, will show you to your rooms later.”

  When they entered the dining room, the condessa was already seated, glowering at them over the finest laid table Arethusa had ever seen. At its center lay a crystal vase of red canna lilies but surrounding this was an elegant spread of delectables, beginning with huge pots of caldo verde and mouth-watering alcatra, a heavy dish of beef boiled in red wine. A full bunch of red grapes ready to burst their skins sat at one end of the table. Wafting from somewhere within the cozinha to the left, Arethusa caught the strong scent of brewing coffee. A fresh loaf of pão de mesa steamed yeasty flavors from a basket and two generous bottles of wine stood waiting.

  “Please sit.” The conde motioned Tristão and Arethusa to two chairs on the left side of the table. Then he said, “Leandro, we have reserved this seat for you.” He touched the chair opposite Arethusa and Tr
istão, and Padre Salvador took the seat with a smile.

  “It is good to see you both again,” the padre said, with a sweet smile for the condessa. The lady nodded once out of politeness.

  The kitchen door opened, startling Arethusa. A young woman in a simple yet clean grey dress and white apron strode out with a pitcher of water. She bowed her head with deference to the condessa and filled the glasses.

  “Children, this is Teresa Pessoa. If you need anything, she will help you,” the conde said. Arethusa noticed that the maid had lost the sparkle of her youth. She was plain in appearance, her face too wide, her eyes spaced too close together, but she had a kind expression.

  The meal was rich, and, in her nervousness, Arethusa hardly ate a bite. The condessa said not a word through supper, except to direct Teresa to bring the next course. She stared at Arethusa and Tristão, narrowing her already narrow eyes until they seemed two deep shadows of soot on her otherwise pristine skin. Arethusa saw so much of Isabel in the condessa, felt so much of the same loathing and anger. She wondered if the woman had heard the rumors of paganism too.

  Am I to be despised wherever I go? What is it about me that breeds such hatred?

  After they had all eaten their fill, dessert was served in the sitting room. Teresa brought steaming cups of strong coffee for the adults and tiny garotos for Tristão and Arethusa. Next, she revealed the final course, a pasta and custard dessert called aletria. The sweet, rich custard made Arethusa sleepy and the view of the sea from the window soothed her nerves. The waves crashed upon a large rock set off a short distance from the shore, and she longed for a chance to be free to walk the beach in the last moments of the setting sun, without disapproving sneers or angry hearts to follow her there.

  “Do you like what you see, Arethusa?” Conde Estrela said, his tone hopeful, as though he were afraid she would disapprove.

  She nodded.

  “I am glad.” His voice rippled with alacrity. “It is my greatest wish that you will be happy here. And you as well, Tristão.”

  Arethusa studied the conde, wondering if she could trust him. Something in the conde’s sadness reminded her of Tristão. Though his eyes were brown, the same river of sorrow flowed there. Did the conde also suffer from saudade?