by Cheri Lasota
She was compelled to write, hoping that if her thoughts were laid bare before her, she could make sense of what she felt. She pulled out her journal and lit the lantern. Her entry was a prayer to the Goddess.
Artemis, I wish Tristan joy—joy to supplant his sadness. And as much as it rips me apart, if Isabel is the one, please, I beg of you: let it happen soon so I can begin the forgetting. I must if I am to survive, for I am cast off again, and this time with words, sweet words that have nested deep in my soul. I would have asked you for him, I would have done anything. But I can’t make him love me.
She threw the pencil down, unable to write more. She abandoned her journal and the cave, moving out into the moonlight where the waves lapped at her boots. She dropped to her knees, the wet sand cold beneath her skirts.
Why do I love someone I cannot have? She grabbed at the dark, coarse sand and, making a fist, threw the grains into the wind. She was wrong to love Tristan. They could never be anything more than brother and sister. Not even the Catholic God would allow it, even if the Goddess turned a blind eye.
What should I do? she asked the waves. Should I tell him or no? She knew the sea was watching her watching it. It knew what she did not. It knew her, and it knew what she would do. Arethusa no longer felt Artemis’s light on her face, but she knew the Goddess was there, cool and patient, waiting behind the anger and the clouds. The light was a comfort, and Arethusa prayed for Artemis’s return from her silent dance with the black clouds.
It was curious how answered prayers took on a different hue than the one envisioned in the mind, for it was not the moon who offered herself to Arethusa but Tristan. Though her back was to him, Arethusa knew he hesitated in the shadows of the crags above. Tristan’s presence was so distinguishable from Diogo’s. So much like the ebb tide, always slipping away.
His voice came first, deeper than was his custom, but then, was he not a man now? “I knew I would find you here.”
Her hands resumed their shaking, and Artemis betrayed her as she peered from behind a retreating cloud to illuminate Arethusa’s agitation. She struggled to compose herself, embarrassed that he had caught her in such a state.
He stepped into the light as rain began to pour down, pelting their faces like falling icicles. She scrambled to her feet and faced him.
“Your cave is nearby,” he said, his voice awkward, as if the scrutiny of her gaze was too unnerving. “Let’s get you out of the rain.”
She frowned.
Tristan smiled. “I found this place years ago when we first came here. But when you discovered it, you seemed so content to hide here that I wanted you to have it for your own.”
Arethusa’s cheeks grew hot. He knew about the cave all this time? The lantern light burned like a suspended fire in the darkness of the cave as they moved toward it. Tristan pulled back the ropes of seaweed, and she noticed that he no longer had on his clothes from the festa but wore riding breaches and an old shirt. He must have ridden down on Tesouro.
“I’m glad I found you,” he said, climbing into the cave. Arethusa backed away when his long body drew closer. She sat stooped on the trunk, as much to hide her things as to keep her distance from him. She felt a dizzy intoxication having him so near, with no condessa around to disapprove. She didn’t trust herself, didn’t know what she might do if he came too close.
“I wanted to talk with you. And you wanted to tell me something, too, but then you changed your mind.”
Is this the moment when I can tell him? She bit her lip. No, I can’t—it’s too late. She waved her hand, dismissing his concern. It felt like a lie, because it was.
“I know you too well. I know something is wrong. Is it Isabel?”
Tristan must have sensed her unwillingness because he hesitated. “I wanted to talk with you about her. Arethusa, I think I’m... Diogo says that Isabel wants to—to marry me.” His eyes implored her, but his words were talons ripping through her skin.
Arethusa tried to keep her face blank. She listened to the sea, its familiar roar turning to cries of mourning. Tristan gazed at her, watching her face as if he hoped to read her thoughts through her eyes.
Marry Isabel? Arethusa wished she could take her prayer back. She wasn’t ready to let him go.
A question burned in her mind. She flipped to a new page in her journal and wrote, Do you trust her?
Tristan lowered his eyes. “How can I answer? I barely know her now.” Arethusa breathed an inaudible sigh of relief but he continued. “And yet—we made an instant connection, as if no time had passed at all. It’s been one day, but something seems right about this. As if I was meant to see her again, meant to be...”
He glanced at her again, opened his mouth to continue speaking but stopped. He looked much like a young boy, unsure and anxious. And she saw the deep sadness of the past well up in his unfathomable eyes. He touched her hand. “You and I, we’ve lived in the Estrela house for many years. In all that time, I’ve loved you as I ought to but—Isabel might be... I don’t know. What do you think?”
It’s only been one day. That’s what I think. What are you thinking, to marry a girl I hate? She didn’t dare reveal her true feelings, so she wrote, Have you forgotten the past so easily?
“No, I’ve not forgotten. But she’s grown up now, Arethusa. She wouldn’t hurt you again.”
It has already begun, she wrote.
He pulled back to look at her, his hands grasping her arms. “What did she do to you?”
Arethusa shook her head. She couldn’t tell him. What could she say that he would believe? Arethusa betrayed her heart, betrayed Tristan, and defended the one person she despised: It was only words, she wrote. It was nothing.
He nodded. “There is something I must tell you.” He paused. “But I’m not sure how you’ll take it.”
She was getting impatient. No more news of Isabel. No more talk of marriage!
Tristan’s jaw tensed. “Pai sent me here to find you. Everyone has been looking for you. Marquês Cheia has asked Pai for your hand.”
She sat there stunned, staring blindly into Tristan’s face. So that was the business proposition Diogo had in mind. Her hand in marriage. What could Pai gain from such a match, save prestige and wealth? And would he sell her off to a madman for such gains?
Tristan did not miss her reaction. “I should have waited for Pai to tell you—”
She put her fingers to his lips and made the sign for him to go.
“Wait. Do you want to marry him?”
A mix of emotions moved across his face: a genuine curiosity, certainly, but also what seemed to her a touch of jealousy. Yet why would he feel that way when he had designs on Isabel? The thought made her ill.
“I saw the way he looked at you tonight.”
When she made no reply, Tristan’s face blanched. “Arethusa, I must know.”
She felt as though she would burst into tears or run raving mad if she had to look into those sorrowful eyes any longer. She screwed her mouth up into a scowl, mouthing, “Go.”
“I don’t want to leave you here. Come home with me.”
She half-wanted to strangle him and half-wanted to kiss him. Her heart won out, and, clutching his shirt, she pulled him close and pressed her lips to his. His mouth was so soft, so warm against hers. She felt a dizzy pleasure, a guilty pleasure. Closing her eyes, she imagined the kiss was real, not stolen, wishing that he were hers alone.
But he pulled back, his mouth still open, his eyes wide with surprise, not pleasure. She pushed him back with her hands, back, back, until he was at the entrance of the cave.
“Go!” she mouthed.
He was so confused, he did as she told him. And when Arethusa had barricaded herself once again within the curtain of seaweed, she collapsed at the cave’s entrance and huddled there, staring listlessly through the seaweed stocks as Artemis set quietly below the sea.
ON THE SUNDAY AFTER THE TOURADA À corda, Arethusa waited for Tristan beneath the shade of a rose-lined rock wall,
a forgotten book in her lap, hoping to meet him on his way back home from the fields. He had gone to practice dressage, but now the sun was falling, setting the wild red roses aflame with a blood-orange glow. Arethusa scanned the horizon and spotted Tristan riding his horse through the fields, a bouquet of violet blossoms in his hand.
Are the flowers for me? she wondered. He had joined the other workers bringing in the cows. They laughed and said their goodbyes, and then Tristan broke off from the rest, leading Tesouro nearer to where Arethusa hid behind the rocks. He did not see her, shadowed as she was beneath the wall, so she picked up her book and rose to greet him. The planes of his face were angled hard and coarse, and though Arethusa saw every crevice and every flaw of his skin in the softening light, his imperfections endeared him to her even more.
Tristan began to wave but not at her. Peeking through a chink in the wall, she spied Isabel walking down from the house. Arethusa melted back into the shadows. Sliding off the horse, his body dewy with sweat, Tristan strode up to Isabel, his smile like the brightest of Azorean dawns.
“Tristan,” Isabel called, and the two of them met on opposite sides of the adjoining wall, not six meters from where Arethusa crouched. “For me?” Isabel said, gesturing to the violets.
He glanced at the handpicked bouquet and then back toward the Estrela house. “Er, yes. Flowers for Isabel.” He thrust them into Isabel’s hands and jumped over the wall.
“It’s good to see you again, Isabel. But you ought not to come down this way unchaperoned.”
Isabel ignored his admonishment and gave him a smile. “I’ve missed you every day since you left the orphanage.”
“I’ve surely missed all the little ones, but I’ve been happy here,” Tristan said. When Arethusa looked again, she saw that the sadness in his eyes belied his words.
Isabel wound her lip into a pretty pout. “Have you ever thought about my unhappiness at your leaving? You didn’t even say goodbye.”
“I am sorry but I worried for Arethusa. I didn’t trust Diogo, and you were—”
“Do you judge me still?”
“No.” His hand sliced through the air in frustration. “How can I judge you?”
“Yes, how can you, when you stood beside me in the courtyard that day and did not stop us?” Isabel said.
Tristan winced and looked away, and Arethusa felt all the old feelings surfacing: the fear, the pain, the anger. As much as she had hated him on the day of the stoning, she now felt a desire to defend him. It was you, Isabel, and not Tristan, who threw that first stone.
“Besides, we both saw what she did with Diogo. She was guilty.”
“No, Isabel.” He shook his head. “She was innocent.”
Tears came to Arethusa’s eyes at his words.
“The guilt lies with you and me.”
Isabel gave a huff. “I wish she’d never come here. Then it never would have happened.” She lifted a pleading hand to him. “Tristan, don’t you know I’ve loved you forever?”
Tristan started.
“Yes, ever since the day I came to the orphanage. It was just the two of us back then—the two eldest. When Arethusa came, I hated her for taking you away from me.” Isabel took Tristan’s hands in hers. “Please, let’s not quarrel. We neither of us can change the past.”
“No, I cannot change the past,” Tristan said bitterly. Then his tone became resolute. “I must move on now. I must forget...”
Forget me? His words stung like nothing else before. Would he leave her now, go off with Isabel, forget she ever existed?
Isabel’s smile grew serious and warm. “Yes, it’s time to move on.” He stared at her for a moment, and then his eyes took on the ugly color of Diogo’s lust.
Isabel saw it and made her move with a breathless voice. “Did you miss me too?”
Tristan said nothing, but his mouth curved into a sweet smile, a rare smile that Arethusa once thought he reserved only for her. “Shall we get something to drink at the house?”
“Yes.” Isabel drew out the word. Tristan’s eyes traced the curve of Isabel’s neck. Arethusa wished those eyes were on her, wished he was lingering in a doorway with her somewhere or under the cool shadow of the cliffs or in the fields, kissing her in the sunlight. How could he forget her so soon?
*
The next two weeks were miserable. Arethusa was forced to watch Tristan formally court Isabel in a succession of sittings and suppers with the Branco family. Arethusa learned from Tristan himself about the negotiations that had taken place between Conde Branco and Pai. Rivals, as ever, they agreed upon a contest for Tristan to win Isabel’s hand. Tristan was to lead the grupo de forcados in the next arena bullfight in Angra. If he and the team failed in bringing the bull to the ground, Branco would win Pai’s prize bull and some of his best land. If Tristan succeeded, he would win Isabel’s hand in marriage, be inducted into the Freemasons, and gain the Estrela fortune and title at the conde’s death.
Tristan told her that special compensation was required for him to gain the conde’s title, since it could not be an exchange by birthright, but many of the details were veiled in secret, even from him. Such underhand dealings sickened Arethusa. What did she care for titles and wealth and birthrights when she was losing the one she loved?
Tristan made no mention of their last words together in the cave. He was distant and shy, as though Isabel, whether present or not, stood always between them. He told her that Diogo had gone to the island of Faial to see to urgent business, and that he would be back to make his official proposal for her hand when he returned. Arethusa said nothing in reply and ambled away from Tristan, feeling her world falling off its axis, her one hope that Pai would never consider such a match. Surely, Pai knew already Diogo’s treacheries. Surely, she would not have to lay bare the shame Diogo had brought on her just to rid herself of his suit.
*
On the day of the bullfight, Arethusa awoke despondent. She pulled back the curtains at her window and stared out on a hot, oppressive day. The air clung stale against her skin, and she sensed an approaching storm. She wouldn’t be able to see Tristan until they arrived at the Praça de Touros. He had ridden early to Angra do Heroísmo the day before to prepare for the bullfight. She slipped on her best dress again, but her limbs were lethargic, as if protesting what was to come.
When Teresa came to plait Arethusa’s hair, she clucked her tongue. “It’s Senhor Vazante’s big day. You are nervous for him.”
Arethusa nodded, though she had not let herself think of the danger involved until now. Arena bullfights required great skill and courage. Though Tristan had both in spades, Arethusa was not above worry.
“I know you do not wish Senhorita Infante well,” Teresa chided. “She is your old enemy, yes?”
Arethusa glared at her. She was in no mood for teasing.
“And if they marry?”
Arethusa looked away toward the window-framed sea. She had no answer.
Teresa plaited a circular braid around the crown of Arethusa’s head, a hairstyle she had seen worn by the daughter of a Swedish traveler. Arethusa had even asked her to lace tiny white blossoms through the braid. She might be losing the fight, but she would not make obvious the disparity between Isabel’s beauty and her own simple looks.
As Teresa worked the flowers into Arethusa’s hair, she prattled on about the latest island gossip until she gasped. “Oh, if they do marry, someone must bring a black hen to bless their new house when it is built.”
Arethusa raised an eyebrow at her. She hadn’t heard of this island custom before.
“Don’t you know about black hens? They ward off death and protect against the evil eye. Yes, and when two people marry, a black hen must be carried into each room of their house and even to the pigsty and stable. And on the first night, the hen is killed and eaten as a blessing and a protection. They do not do that in America?”
Arethusa gestured no.
“The Azoreans in America must have a great deal of bad luck
.” Teresa shook her head, as if she thought all Azorean-Americans were simpletons in need of a proper education in island practices.
Arethusa shrugged. If she was any indicator, Teresa might well be right.
When Teresa finished and Arethusa stepped back to peer at her reflection in the glass, all she saw was the emptiness in her expression. She would never catch Tristan’s eye again.
“Don’t look so. Can you not see how striking you are?” Teresa said. Arethusa saw nothing that would suggest it, save the lovely plaits Teresa had braided. She moved away from the glass without a word.
“Ah, no you don’t, Senhorita. Conde Estrela asked to see you in the library when we were finished here.”
Arethusa gave her a terse smile and made her way upstairs. When Pai closed the door of the library and turned to her, his eyes were marked with dark shadows.
“I have delayed the news I’m about to tell you because it was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made. Your happiness is of the utmost importance to me, but in this...” He let out a breath and stepped toward his desk, yet he did not sit. He stood with his back toward her and thumbed the spine of the old book he had read to them on that first day in the library three years ago.
“I’ve delayed far too long.” His voice was gruff as he paced the room. “Surely Tristan has told you of Marquês Diogo Cheia’s proposal for your hand in marriage?”
No... no! I hear the assent in his voice. He will sell me to that madman and I’ll be at Alpheus’s mercy forever. She bit her lip and gazed up at him, imploring.
He shook his head and shut his eyes for a moment, as if loathing the words he must say. “I have consented.”
Arethusa sat still as a stone, not believing her ears, yet knowing from the look on Pai’s face that it was true, that he had signed a deal with the devil. She jerked to her feet and shook her head in defiance.
