Artemis Rising

by Cheri Lasota

  After two failed attempts, Arethusa lit the lantern and set it atop a mossy rock. The lantern filled the little cave with a warm light, and now Arethusa could look further into the trunk, though she knew by heart where all the contents lay. She kept many things hidden there. Journals filled with her poems and scribblings, books, and extra paper lay stacked to one side, and in the corner, tucked under her scrying bowl, Diogo’s stone sat silent. She touched it with her fingertips as she did every time she came here, as if touching the stone would keep the memory of the stoning from touching her.

  Tonight, Arethusa reached first for a book of Byron’s poetry. Flipping to the well-worn pages of her favorite passage of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, she read:

  There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society where none intrudes, By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: I love not Man the less, but Nature more.

  I love not Man the less, but Nature more, she repeated to herself, an unbidden image of Tristan drifting before her. She had been denying her love for him for so long that she had started to let him go. She kept herself apart from him as much as she could bear. It wasn’t only Artemis’s wrath she feared. The world would only ever see them now as brother and sister.

  They communicated as through a chink in a wall of stone, unable to see each other truly, forbidden from touch, making do with whatever they could share, however little. The sadness had conquered them both. When she gazed at her face in the condessa’s glass, she saw the same gaunt cheeks and big eyes as she glimpsed in Tristan’s face. Even his long, fair hair had darkened to a deeper gold and the angles of his face had sharpened so that she felt he would cut her if she came too close.

  They never touched each other as other families did. Arethusa would see mothers hugging daughters, kissing their mouths, brothers and sisters holding hands, but the Estrela family did not touch. No one ever spoke of it, but they all knew the condessa would see it as unnatural. Even Pai’s bright intelligence could not burn through to the heart of the family that had faded against the darkness of this strange grief. It prevailed over every other emotion and paled any new hope.

  Arethusa’s days were a wheel of uniformity. The condessa refused her any contact with society, so she spent her days writing or studying and her nights escaping to the cave. Sometimes Pai would let Tristan take her to the Praia da Vitória orphanage to deliver baskets of foodstuffs and clothes to the orphans. It was her joy to discover those children who had been cast aside by the others and give them special attention.

  Her vision of Tristan ebbed into the portrait of the sea through the darkened frame of the cave. Her hands reached out for those evasive waters, shining gold in the glow of Artemis. She clutched the moonstone at her neck, and then let it drop. Tonight she would attempt something far more dangerous than her usual moon rite.

  Arethusa unclasped the cloak from her neck and set it aside. She ran her fingers through the plaits in her hair, feeling the waves of each strand, the old ritual calming her right to her toes. She blew out the light and, wearing only her shift, went out to meet the Goddess, scrying bowl in hand.

  She would find out for certain whether the dream was just a dream, or something more. If it was a portent of Alpheus’s return, she hoped to see the truth of it in the moon water. She had not scried since her mother left her, afraid more that she wouldn’t see Tristan’s eyes gazing back at her than to find out the truth of Alpheus’s identity.

  When Arethusa stood at the water’s edge where the waves hit the rocks, she scooped up a bowlful of seawater, blessing it as she rose. She swallowed her fear and prepared her mind for whatever she might see. She looked first to Artemis when she opened her eyes.

  Goddess, give me the strength to see what you will me to. Help me to see the truth, no matter the consequence. I come to you now as a devoted daughter who has tried to keep her vow to you, despite temptation and fear and prejudice. I renew that vow to you, Goddess. Teach me to let go of all save you.

  Arethusa began the ritual, envisioning the touch of Artemis like the touch of the sea, feeling the light seeping into the moonstone and through the layers of her skin. It stole through her veins and pounded into her heart like lifeblood.

  The time has come, my nymph, to face what you were born for. Open your eyes and see the future I have planned.

  When she heard the goddess’s words in her mind, she knew it was time. She looked down and the reflection of Artemis had set the bowl on fire.

  Her senses grew sharp as she fixed her gaze on the movements of the water and let her eyes drift through its depths. The cool wind whipped her hair across her face, but she did not blink. She felt the slime of the sea lichens under her feet as she braced against a rock. She caught the scent of strong seaweed nearby.

  Then she saw a moving image in the waves. Two men, blades in hand, were fighting. She could not see them clearly. They were shadowed and distant. They moved in fits and starts, trying to outsmart each other. One of them—how could she know which one?—stabbed the other in the heart. But it was not the end. As he fell, the wounded man threw his dagger into the heart of the other. They fell at the same moment. When their bodies touched the ground, they became one man. Arethusa saw his face, but his features shifted as in her earlier dream. The man’s eyes were changing colors, too, from black to brown to blue. At the last, before she lost the vision to the water, she saw that one of his eyes remained blue, and the other, black.

  When she came back to herself, Arethusa backed away from the sea, away from Artemis, disturbed by what she had seen. One eye was blue. Tristan? But if the other was black—

  She glanced down the shore to prove to herself that Alpheus was not there waiting. Seeing the beach deserted, she smiled.

  What need have I for God or man? She thought of Byron’s poetry and lingered over the words as her smile broadened into a wicked grin. I love not man the less, but nature more...

  When a wave crashed ashore, she raced out to meet it. Cold water washed over her feet and dampened the ends of her nightgown. Arethusa hiked them up so the waters could refresh her legs. She envisioned herself a true nymph as she leaned back and shook her hair free into the wind.

  Deep, mocking laughter filled the air. She turned and peered through the darkness but saw no one.

  Did I imagine it?

  A movement beneath the shadow of the sea-cliff startled her. A man emerged, his form so dark that it seemed to shift and transform.

  As he strode confidently toward her, she backed away, into the rough waves that seemed to press her forward, ever closer to him.

  “Arethusa.”

  He knows my name.

  “You have become a true nymph—hair wild, half-clothed, bathing in the sea. I should have known.”

  He beckoned to her. “Come out of the water.”

  A panic rose in her throat. Her fear outmatched her curiosity. She took off running through the waves over the rough rocks, oblivious to the cuts on the soles of her feet.

  “Come back here,” he yelled, and she heard him running behind her. Knowing an easy path through the rocks, she scrambled up to the cliffs, trying to reach the ladder before he caught her.

  Her thoughts flew to the myth. Alpheus chasing the nymph Arethusa down a desolate shore. Arethusa calling out to Artemis for aid. Was this moment the fulfillment of the myth? Was this man Alpheus, come at last to claim her? The thought spurred her on, and she ran faster, her feet now smarting from the pounding of the rocks.

  She must call to Artemis. Will I be changed to water then? And if I am, will I die? Or will I slip into the sea and be forever lost?

  He was gaining fast. She made out the ladder’s outline through the shadows of the cliff. So close.

  “Stop!” he yelled, as yet another wave washed over their legs.

  Arethusa reached the ladder, and, scrambling up a large rock, she swung out onto the highest rung she could reach. But the man was quick. Before she could even climb more than
a few rungs, Arethusa felt his strong grip close around her ankle. She tried to twist away from him, but he laughed and held her tighter.

  She thought of the Goddess again, and called out with her mind, Artemis, help me!

  A moment passed. She heard a still voice inside of her, saying, kick him! And with the foot he held, Arethusa kicked him with all her strength. It must have caught him unawares, because he loosened his grasp enough for her to free her leg. Without looking back, she scrambled up the ladder, giving a prayer of thanks to Artemis as she steeled herself against his mocking laughter.

  “You cannot run from me forever, Arethusa. I will see you bound and conquered before that fool even knows what he’s lost,” he yelled up to her.

  She did not look back but climbed on, ever higher.

  *

  Arethusa went dead still when she knocked over the vase near the windowsill as she climbed back into her room. It didn’t break but clattered over, spilling the lilies and water all over the floor. The noise was loud enough to wake Tristan or even Teresa down the hall. She rushed to replace the vase and flowers and ignored the spilt water, hoping it would dry overnight.

  Tiptoeing to the bed, she lit a candle and scanned the bottom of her feet. Her soles were gritty with dirt and sand, and bleeding gashes crisscrossed her skin. She would have to wash them or everyone would know where she had been. With timid steps, she made it to the washbasin, thankful Teresa had left it filled. She propped her foot up on her chair and tried to wipe the dirt off with a washrag.

  Her door creaked. In a panic, Arethusa crept to the bed and pretended to be asleep. The condessa?

  “Arethusa?” came a whisper.

  No, it was Tristan! She exhaled an unsteady breath.

  He closed the door behind him. “What’s happened?”

  She imagined what she must look like to him. She wore her old white nightgown, which was soiled and wet as it stuck to her body, and the wind had blown her hair wild. She felt a blush come to her cheeks as she realized that the man on the beach had also seen her in such a state.

  As Tristan studied her, he gave her an understanding nod. “You went down to the sea again, didn’t you?”

  She covered her mouth with her fingers but nodded.

  “Why do you do such things?” he whispered. “You know it makes the condessa angry.”

  How many times had he found her out? And how many times had he never breathed a word of it to anyone? He was good to her. And she tried to repay him as well as she could but what comfort was her silence?

  Tristan stepped closer, eyebrows raised. “Why are you shaking?”

  She couldn’t tell him about the man on the beach. What would she say? She lifted her foot up to him, hoping that the sight of her bleeding sole would assuage his curiosity.

  “Meu Deus, Arethusa. What have you done? I must get you cleaned up before the condessa finds out where you’ve been.” He paused, a frown marring his fine features. “How will you be able to walk at the bullfight tomorrow?”

  She gestured for him not to worry.

  Tristan wasn’t convinced. “Wait while I fetch some bandages.” Without a sound, he slipped out of the room.

  He left her wondering about the events of the night. Is it possible I came face to face with Alpheus tonight? Arethusa lay against the pillow, trying to calm her beating heart, feeling the slice of the rocks on her soles again and again.

  Tristan entered carrying bandages and a bowl. Without a word, he poured water from the washstand pitcher into the bowl and began to wash her feet, fussing and clucking his tongue at her foolishness. The touch of his warm hands soothed her, and she wished she could curl up beside him and fall asleep in his arms.

  After he had finished bandaging her feet, he glanced up, searching her face. “Something happened to you tonight. You are shaking.”

  He brushed a strand of damp hair from her forehead, and she almost shied away. The gesture seemed too intimate somehow. Perhaps it was because it meant too much to her.

  “I know you don’t want to talk about it but maybe tomorrow you’ll change your mind. Get some sleep. Don’t let the condessa or Pai see your bandages. They’ll question you until they know everything.”

  As he walked away, Arethusa caught his arm. “Thank you,” she mouthed to him, and reaching up with two fingers, she touched his temple and then her own. To her it meant I love you, but to Tristan... she had never known what it meant to him.

  Tristan gave her a sad smile, and then he was gone.

  TRISTAN HAD BANDAGED HER FEET WELL, BUT Arethusa couldn’t hide her limp as she walked to the breakfast table the next morning. Tristan watched her, his eyes revealing that something was amiss.

  The condessa sniffed it out immediately. “Why is she limping?” she said.

  Tristan hesitated. Arethusa knew he didn’t want to lie. And she wouldn’t let him. How many times had she gotten in trouble for her night-wanderings? What was one more scolding to her? She raised her hand to stop Tristan the moment he opened his mouth to speak and answered the question herself with pencil and paper.

  I went out to the shore and cut my foot.

  The condessa’s mouth turned into a hard line. “Do I have to bar your window and chain you to your bed before I am to have any peace?”

  Arethusa couldn’t picture the woman lifting a finger to dust the windowsill, much less bar it.

  “I worry for you walking the shore without a chaperone—and so late at night.” Pai implored Arethusa with a tender smile. “I have told you again and again. Why do you not listen?”

  Arethusa lowered her eyes. She knew Pai was just concerned. Over the three years she had lived with the Estrelas, she had taken to thinking of the conde as her Pai, the way Tristan had from the beginning, for he was more of a father than her own had ever been. Still, she found it hard to forgive his leniency toward the condessa, for as kind as the conde was, that was how cruel his wife could be.

  The condessa was not so benevolent. “The girl’s wild. She brings dishonor on this house. Yes. They both do.”

  As usual, Pai said nothing. Arethusa did not miss Tristan’s downturned eyes, his folded hands. How many times would Pai ignore the effect the condessa’s words had on Tristan? Why did Pai always refuse to step in? She wondered if his illness caused his indifference. He had aged prematurely over the past three years. His coloring had faded to a grey pallor and his voice had lost its deep tenor. His breathing came shorter now, and, though the condessa fussed over him, he took little care of himself.

  Arethusa remembered an exchange she had overheard two years before when the padre had admonished Pai for the condessa’s conduct.

  “If you do not trouble to check your wife,” Padre said, “she could destroy what little hope your children have for a happy life.”

  As Arethusa listened with an ear pressed to Pai’s study door, she heard a great strain in her adoptive father’s voice. “I cannot—I cannot prevent her.”

  “You must, Fernando. Inês’s words are poison.”

  “You have never understood. You cannot know what I’ve done to Inês, what pain she suffers for my sins. I cannot change my fate and I would not if I could, and it is Inês who suffers for it. I refuse to turn my back on her, and yet I do every day that I live.”

  “And have you not also turned your back on your children?”

  “Arethusa and Tristan know I love them. It is Inês who is left to doubt.”

  “It isn’t love if you do not protect your children from those who seek to hurt them. Inês speaks to them from a place of bitterness. By allowing her to speak this way, you hurt her the very most.”

  “I cannot, Leandro. Speak to her yourself if you must, but do not ask me again.”

  “You will answer to God for this someday, brother.”

  “I am willing to pay the price. I only hope when that day comes, Arethusa and Tristan will understand.”

  *

  After the morning meal, Arethusa slipped away to visit her horse,
Tesouro, in the barn. Tesouro always seemed to calm her, though she would have preferred the solitude of her cave. An hour later, when she climbed back in through her window, she heard voices coming from Tristan’s room. She made out two male voices, assuming one was Tristan. But this was unusual. He never had any friends over. Arethusa did not think it Pai, as it was family custom to speak to the conde in his library. Her curiosity tempted her to risk the condessa’s displeasure, for she was not allowed in Tristan’s room, but she had to discover the identity of the other voice.

  She pulled off her boots so Tristan wouldn’t hear her footsteps and tiptoed on tender feet to her closed door, listening for any sounds of movement in the hall or in Teresa’s room. With the condessa always creeping about the house, Arethusa, and even Tristan, had learned how to avoid being seen. And as Arethusa did not have the use of her voice, she had grown even more skilled at the art of listening.

  She stole down the hall to Tristan’s door, but the voices had stopped. As she strained to hear, the door opened. She didn’t believe her own eyes when she saw who walked into the hallway.

  “Arethusa,” Tristan called to her from behind the man, his voice cautious, “you remember Marquês Diogo Cheia from the orphanage?”

  With that name, all the memories came flooding back. The kiss. The strangulation. The stoning.

  Arethusa gathered her courage and raised her eyes to Diogo. It was still so hard to believe, but she saw again the same dark skin and hair and the wicked scar across his lip, though the gashes her fingernails had left during the deckhouse struggle had faded to silver streaks against his tanned face. He grinned and the flash of his teeth unnerved her.

  It was strange to see the familiar face of her foe so many years after his wrongdoings. Stranger still that even in the darkened hallway he appeared quite striking. Where Tristan’s strong limbs were languid and long, the stranger’s body was stocky and muscled. And though Tristan’s angular face was softened by his pale eyes, this man’s smoldered like two black coals. Age had improved his countenance whether for ill or good. She was surprised at herself for thinking him handsome, but she remembered that even when he was cruel, he had always held her fascination.