Artemis Rising

by Cheri Lasota

  “You must not seek this lady of yours, this Isolde,” Arethusa whispered. “She is nothing but a memory and a curse.”

  So many emotions crossed over his pale face that it pained her to see it. She had felt the same when Padre Salvador came to the church to speak with her after Pai’s funeral. She had not wanted to listen, but she could have saved Tristan so much pain if she had. And now it was Captain Moreland she wanted to save from such a fate.

  “You ask what I saw? I saw that such beliefs curse us with a longing that is never quenched until we let them go.”

  The captain looked away, and Arethusa knew she had touched on the heart of his belief. “I beg you to reject this myth, if for no other’s sake but the lady you love. If you must seek her, love her for herself alone, and not for the lie this myth would make her.”

  He nodded. She recognized the same decisive energy in his eyes as he had had in the pub when he promised to help her. He rose up, the commanding look of the sea captain back in his fine features.

  “I had come to wake you...” He stopped before he said her name, as though he had meant to call her Isolde. “Eva.” He smiled. “We will shortly make landfall. We are rounding São Miguel as we speak—”

  She bolted upright, and the nightmare vision vanished almost from memory as the thought of seeing Tristan again awakened her to hope.

  Captain Moreland’s smile deepened, and a knowing look crept into his gaze. “I thought you might want to be on deck when we arrived.”

  She rose beside him, feeling drowsy and unsteady on her feet, but her smile mirrored his.

  He laughed. “Looks like I was right.”

  He picked up her cloak folded over the back of his chair and held out his hand to her. “Allow me to escort you.”

  She took it gladly, feeling a strange kinship with him.

  He glanced back at her as he started through the cabin door. “I promise you, with such an angel by his bed, any man would choose to live.” He winked at her, his brilliant eyes sparkling.

  Overcome, Arethusa kissed him on both cheeks and motioned for him to lead the way.

  “Tristan has not seen what I have seen,” she said, as they made their way out into the fading light. “Will you raise the white flag for him?”

  The captain nodded and kissed the tops of her fingers. He enfolded her shoulders in her cloak and left her standing at the railing. She ignored the sailors’ stares. Lifting her eyes to the sky, she watched as the captain instructed a sailor to raise the flag. Just beyond the cracking sails, the first of the pale night-stars peeked through the indigo haze of dusk.

  Her whisper was only for herself. “Per ardua ad astra.”

  *

  Arethusa took up her skirts and ran through the hospital corridors, seeking the room she had seen in her vision. As she reached the top stair and rounded the corner, she saw Isabel rushing down through the dim corridor, tears trailing down her face.

  Have I come too late?

  Isabel clutched Arethusa’s arm. “Tristan’s dead. He’s dead!” Her voice shook with violent regret. “Forgive me—I did not see.”

  Arethusa pushed past her down the hall, her heart pounding. She came to the door and burst through, her eyes raking over the line of narrow metal beds. The room was empty. To the right, blankets lay disheveled on a bed, one trailing to the floor.

  Had Tristan lain here? Did they already take his body away? She fell to her knees and put the coverlet up to her lips, hoping to catch some scent of Tristan. It was there, that familiar trace of bergamot, but she had come too late. She felt the old stone of grief weighing her heart down, felt it turning her tears to solid rock. She gripped the bed rail until her fingers burned and buried her face in Tristan’s blankets. Too late...

  Behind her, she heard a rustling, but her glance gleaned nothing but a row of tidy beds and several windows at the far end showing the last vestiges of the sunset. Arethusa wiped her eyes and stood. She glimpsed a piece of white fabric lying on the floor behind a cabinet filled with medicinal supplies. Walking closer, she saw blood on the fabric. Arethusa rushed forward and found Tristan slumped under a window, eyes closed, his bandaged head laying on his shoulder.

  Meu Deus, no. She fell before him and touched his face, his arms. His body was still warm. She smoothed her fingers over his pale lips and kissed him, her salty tears mingling with the taste of his mouth. Then she felt the shallow rise and fall of his chest. He still breathed.

  She kissed him again and again, cradling his head in her hands. “Tristan,” she whispered into his ear, “if you wake for me, love, nothing will divide us again.”

  She watched for a sign, but his skin was immovable as glass. She raised her eyes and peered out the window. It was dusk now. The proud Lady Fair drifted in the distance. The men were unloading her cargo into lighter boats. A thought came to her. The Lady Fair—Tristan hadn’t listened to Isabel after all. He hadn’t given up hope. He came to the window to see the ship with his own eyes, and it nearly killed him.

  That he was conscious perhaps moments before she came in the room was a torture. And the last words he heard were Isabel’s lies of betrayal. Anger flared in her heart, but when she lowered her eyes to Tristan, it melted away.

  His pale-blue eyes fluttered open. A tiny smile parted his lips.

  “Knew you would come,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Knew your flag would be white. But I had to see for myself.”

  She closed her eyes and the tears that slipped through fell to his cheek as she leaned to kiss him. “We’ve broken the chains of the curse together, you and I,” she whispered into his ear.

  He gave her a quizzical look.

  “Yes, I fought my own battle. I will tell you... but not today.”

  He lifted his fingers to his forehead and then to hers, his gaze so soft it hurt her to look at him.

  “Do you feel it?” he asked, as he let out a deep breath.

  “What?”

  “The freedom.”

  *

  When Tristan was well enough, they booked passage to New Bedford, Massachusetts, and set sail five weeks later to the day. One night after supper, when they were deep into the far reaches of the Atlantic Ocean, she took Tristan by the hand and led him up to the weather deck.

  As they stood together at the rail, she pulled from her pocket two stones.

  She held out the first. After the duel, she had kept Diogo’s stone, unwilling to let it go. But now she had no reason to hold on any longer. She had conquered them both, the demon and Diogo, and the hatred she had once harbored had withered into a deep regret.

  “You know what this is,” she whispered into his ear.

  “I remember.” Tristan touched the back of his head. “I asked you to let go of it.”

  “I couldn’t then,” she whispered, “but I can now. I wish to be freed of it once and for all. I’ll choose for myself what I believe now, apart from my mother and father. Even apart from you.”

  Tristan nodded. “That’s as it should be.”

  “I will give Diogo back his stone,” she whispered, curling her fingers into a fist, “and let the sea bury his hate.”

  Tristan stayed her hand. “Let me.”

  “Why?” she whispered.

  “I am so much a part of what has caused you pain. I want to be the one who rids you of it now.”

  “You are not to blame,” she whispered, but seeing the need in his eyes, she slipped the stone into his hand. His long fingers curled over its darkness, and then he heaved the stone out beyond the rail. They watched it dive with a splash beneath the waves.

  Arethusa closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She felt Tristan’s hand clutch her own, and then she knew he had found the moonstone she still held.

  “What’s this?” He brought up her hand. “Pai’s pendant?”

  “This moonstone has held so many secrets, so many lies.”

  “Throw it to the sea. Be rid of it all.”

  But as she reached back to throw it
, she stopped. “This moonstone is only what we believe it to be,” she whispered, bringing it up to her chest. “For me it is a treasure in itself, the last link between my father and mother.”

  She turned to Tristan, searching his face. “I want to keep it. Not to hold onto the past but to see it as an emblem of our future.”

  He smiled faintly, and, taking the moonstone, he clasped the chain around her neck. This time, Arethusa felt no heaviness, no power, no fear.

  He touched her cheek. “I love you, Eva Maré. You know that, yes?”

  When he said her true name, she was unable to answer in words. He leaned toward her, his mouth a breath away, his kiss alighting on her as an ebb-tide wave or a river’s eddy, stirring her to a quiet peace.

  How long I have waited for this... to choose a destiny of my own?

  When Eva raised her gaze to him, gold reflected in his pale eyes. She pulled away and, grabbing hold of the rigging lines, leaned out over the water to see if it was only a trick of her mind. But no—it was there! With a silent laugh, she snatched Tristan’s hand and dragged him up to the forward deck.

  When they reached the prow, Eva stood, arms open, her eyes aglow at the shards of moonrise breaking the waves into infinite mirror-drops. The warm air washed over her skin like moonlit perfume and she closed her eyes to savor its scents. She took big gulps of the wind as it whooshed past her to her old country beyond the edge of the sea. Covering her ears, she felt the hollow rush of wind around her fingers, like the sound of ocean in a shell.

  And when she opened her eyes and her gaze touched the moon, she realized she was seeing it for the very first time.

  Glossary of Foreign Words

  ALCATRA. Pot roast Terceira-island style. Meat sliced thin and served with boiled or roasted potatoes and a green vegetable.

  ALETRIA. Thin pasta drenched with egg-yolk custard and sprinkled with cinnamon.

  ARETHUSA (ar-uh-thoo-zuh). The water-bearer.

  AUFER A ME, DOMINE, COR LAPIDEUM. Take from me, God, this heart of stone.

  BASTARDO. Bastard.

  BEIJA-ME. Kiss me.

  BIBLIOTECA. Library.

  BOA-NOITE. Good night.

  BOM-DIA. Good morning; good day.

  BURRA DE MILHO. A wooden, cruciform framework used to dry maize.

  CALDO VERDE. Green soup, consisting of potatoes and kale.

  CAPOTE E CAPELO. A blue cloak and hood (stiffened with whalebone) worn by women, especially widows and those in lay orders, at the turn of the century.

  CARRINHO. A light horse-drawn cart.

  CAVALEIRO. Horseman.

  CERVEJA. Beer.

  CERVEJARIA. Pub.

  CHAMARRITA. A local traditional dance.

  CHEIA. Flood (tide).

  CLARO QUE SIM. Of course.

  COM AFEIÇÃO. With affection.

  COMISSÁRIO DE POLÍCIA. Police Inspector.

  CONDE. Count.

  CONDESSA. Countess.

  COZINHA. Kitchen.

  CRISTO. Christ.

  DEIXA-ME. Leave me alone.

  DEUS SALVA-O. God save him.

  DIOGO (dee-ah-go). Supplanter.

  ESPÍRITOS DE NAVIO. Ship of spirits.

  ESTÁS BEM? Are you all right?

  ESTRELA. Star, destiny.

  EU AMO-TE. I love you.

  EVA. Life.

  FERNANDO. Adventurer. Courageous.

  FESTA DO ESPÍRITO SANTO. Festival of the Holy Spirit.

  GAROTO. Hot coffee-flavored milk. Sipped out of a demitasse cup.

  GRAÇAS A DEUS. Thanks be to God.

  GRUPO DE FORCADOS. Bull catchers.

  HOLYSTONE. A piece of soft sandstone used for scouring the wooden decks of a ship.

  ILHÉU DAS CABRAS. Island of the Goats.

  IMPERADOR. Emperor. Host of the Festival of the Holy Spirit.

  IMPÉRIO. A chapel dedicated to the Holy Spirit.

  INÊS. Pure, chaste (Old Greek).

  IN NOMINE PATRIS, ET FILII, ET SPIRITUS SANCTI. AMEN. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

  IRMÃ. Sister (nun).

  ISABEL. God is my oath.

  ISOLDE. Fair lady.

  LAR DE SANTO JEROME EMILIANI. Home of St. Jerome Emiliani.

  MÃE. Mother.

  MÃE DE DEUS. Mother of God.

  MARÉ. Ocean tide.

  MARQUÊS. Marquis (title of nobility).

  MEU DEUS. My God.

  MORTE. Death.

  MORTE DE NAVIO. Ship of death.

  MUITO LINDA. Very beautiful.

  NAVIO RAIVOSO. Ship of anger.

  OBRIGADO. Thank you.

  PADARIA. Baker’s shop.

  PADRE. Priest.

  PÃO DE MESA. Table bread.

  PÃO-DOCE. Sweet bread.

  PAI. Father.

  PER ARDUA AD ASTRA (Latin). Through hardship to the stars.

  PRAÇA DE TOUROS. Bullring.

  QUERIDA. Dear.

  QUE BELEZA. What a beauty.

  REQUIEM AETERNAM DONA EI, DOMINE, ET LUX PERPETUA LUCEAT EI. REQUIESCAT IN PACE. AMEN (Latin). Eternal rest grant unto him, Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. May he rest in peace.

  RIO DE ANTIGOS. Rivulet of the Ancients.

  SALVADOR. Savior.

  SÃO MACAIO. A local traditional dance. Literally means sadness.

  SE DEUS QUISER. God willing.

  SENHOR. Mr.

  SENHORA. Mrs.

  SENHORITA. Miss.

  SIM. Yes.

  TESOURO. Treasure.

  TOURADAS À CORDA. Rope bullfights.

  TRISTÃO (treesh-toun), TRISTAN. Sorrowful; tumult.

  VAZANTE. Ebb (tide).

  VIOLAS AÇOREANAS. Fifteen-stringed guitars originating from Terceira; made of pine, cedar, or jacaranda woods.

  VIRGEM MARIA. Virgin Mary.

  About the Author

  Over the course of her sixteen-year career, Cheri Lasota has edited fiction, nonfiction, screenplays, and short stories for publication. Clients have included McGraw-Hill Publishing Company as well as individual authors and screenwriters. She lived in the Azores for two years as a teen, and fell deeply in love with the islands. Her greatest wish in writing this novel is to give her readers a taste and a glimpse into the Azores' people, culture and landscape. Learn more about the Azores here.

  Cheri is a member of SheWrites.com, Willamette Writers, Women in Portland Publishing (WiPP) and the NW Independent Editors Guild (NWIEG).

  Learn more about the author, the novel, and the mythology here.

  Follow Cheri on Twitter at @CheriLasota.

  Check out Cheri's Author Page on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/CheriLasota.

  Circle Cheri on Google+ at http://gplus.to/CheriLasota.

  Follow Cheri on Twitter at @CheriLasota

  Check out Cheri’s Author Page on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/CheriLasota.

  Acknowledgments

  To the keeper of all myths and stories: you hold my pen.

  Thank you, “Mãe”, for being my sounding board on all writing matters since the moment I first began to dream in story.

  And my deepest thanks goes to the brilliant members of all my writers groups whose advice and encouragement were my guiding lights on a storm-tossed sea.

  Copyright Page

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Artemis Rising Copyright © 2011 by Cheri Lasota. All rights reserved by Cheri Lasota, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  To book the author for engagements, gain permission for reprints and excerpts, or ask about acquiring ebook cards for Artemis Rising, contact:

  SpireHouse Books

  PO Box 711

  Vancouver, WA 98666

&n
bsp; www.SpireHouseBooks.com

  Admin@SpireHouseBooks.com

  Book cover design by Bill Thoma and Lance Ganey. Glyph design by Lance Ganey.

  Cover photo by Photographer Beth Furumasu.

  ISBN: 978-0-9838373-5-0

  Exclusive Bonus Content

  A map of Terceira Island, Azores, Portugal. The nine islands of the Azores Archipelago are about 900 miles from Lisbon, Portugal and 2,330 miles from America. Terceira Island is the third largest of the nine islands. Its capital city, Angra do Heroísmo, dates back to 1450 and has been named a World Heritage Site. Several famous locations on Terceira Island made their way into the story, specifically Angra do Heroísmo, Praia da Vitória, and Ilhéu das Cabras. Click on the map and pictures below to enlarge them.

  The City of Angra do Heroísmo

  Angra do Heroísmo—Entrance to the Dock

  Ilhéu das Cabras (Island of the Goats)

  Ancient Map of Terceira Island

  Antique Map of the Azores Islands