To her amazement, the storekeeper moved to a desk where he brought out a small cylinder of wood, then he proceeded to pull out a knife and shave the end in a diagonal slant. “When the point wears down, you cut away more of the wood,” he said matter-of-factly, letting her watch as he sharpened the instrument. “But be careful not to break the stem. ’Tis formed in two pieces, and it will snap if you are careless.”
Aidan nodded wordlessly, watching as he laid the sharpened pencil down on his desk. “Now, vellum might do nicely for the pencil.” He moved toward a curtained alcove at the back of the room. “It would pick up any shading you might wish to do and it is far stronger than parchment. How many sheets would you like?”
Suddenly it occurred to Aidan that she might not be able to afford this unbelievable luxury. “I only have ten stuivers,” she called after him. She glanced around the shop. She was alone; the owner was in the back. It would be so easy to grab the pencil and a few sheets of paper and run out the door with her ten stuivers still in her pocket. Maybe she was a fool for not doing so. The other barmaids wouldn’t hesitate to take whatever they needed, and maybe even Lili would understand—
No. She thrust her hand into her pocket and felt the coolness of the coins upon her skin. If she was going to be respectable, she was going to behave as a respectable lady from this point forward. Heer Van Dyck certainly didn’t steal his supplies, and neither would she.
The man returned with two sheets of large vellum in his hands and a broader smile on his face. “Ten stuivers,” he said, smoothing the heavy material.
In a surge of relief Aidan spilled the coins from her palm, took the vellum and pencil, and hurried away, consumed by the irrational fear that at any moment the constable would appear and arrest her for pretending to be a lady.
Aidan knew Lili would be looking for her if she didn’t return within an hour or so, but Lili would never understand this. She followed Broad Street until the buildings thinned and the road narrowed to a footpath, then crept under the spreading fronds of a banana tree. None of the respectable residents of Batavia would venture out in the midday heat, and Lili would never look for Aidan this far away from the wharf.
With one piece of vellum rolled up and reserved for safekeeping, Aidan spread the other on a spot of hard ground and knelt before it. Almost reverently, she ran her fingers over the large expanse, feeling every bump and lump and grain of sand that pressed through the paper to meet her questing fingertips. A very expressive surface, this vellum. Perhaps it would be able to capture the feelings and emotions that stirred in her heart.
The pencil was another oddity, quite unlike the pens she’d learned to use in England. Carefully she pulled it from her pocket, then touched the point to her fingertip. It was softer than she expected. She brought it to her tongue and tasted it—no taste, no smell. Only a faint whiff of wood from the casing.
A bird flew overhead and fluttered to rest on a nearby shrub, and Aidan studied it, committing its form to memory. Carefully she lowered the pencil to the parchment and made a bold stroke, marveling as the dark point left its mark across the ivory expanse.
Within seconds she was transported, her eyes filled with the image of the bird, the tilt of his head, the darkness of his eyes, the curve of his wing. Knowledge of the creature flowed like a tangible sensation through her brain and down to her fingertips, and her hand moved over the paper, recording her impressions. Time stood still as she worked, and not until the silhouettes of the palm trees stood black and slender against the glory of a golden sunset did she realize that she had finished.
She glanced down, truly seeing her work for the first time. The pencil, now dull and blunt, had brought the bird to life on the page. His bold black eyes watched her, his soft body fairly trembled with life.
Shaken to the core, Aidan lifted the vellum closer to her face till the image blurred, then pressed it to her bosom as tears flowed down her cheeks. Her first picture. Perhaps Orabel was right. Perhaps she was an artist after all.
Three days later, Aidan woke with the sun, smoothed her hair, and tiptoed toward the large trunk where the women kept an assortment of skirts, bodices, sleeves, and shirts. From the tangled pile of clothing she selected a plain skirt of blue watchet, a white underbodice, and a pair of light blue sleeves. She drew the skirt down over her nightshirt, then carefully pinned the underbodice to the skirt and the sleeves to the bodice. The combination wasn’t elegant, but the resulting garment was clean, at least.
She looked toward her pallet, where she’d hidden the remaining sheet of vellum and her pencil, and saw Lili watching from her bed. Aidan lifted her chin as she stepped out onto the street, resisting her mother’s unspoken approval. Lili thought she had risen early to accost some young sailor down on the docks and invite him back to the tavern for a sociable morning. She would throw a royal tantrum if she knew what really pulled Aidan from her bed at such an early hour.
Over the last few days Aidan had made quiet inquiries among the seamen and other visitors to the tavern. Schuyler Van Dyck, she learned, was a wealthy and well-known artist, though valued by the Dutch East India Company for his skills as a cartographer. Rumor held that he was scheduled to depart soon on a voyage with the V.O.C.’s adventurous Captain Tasman. If so, Aidan realized, the renowned artist might soon make his way to the Company’s office.
On Friday and again on Saturday Aidan had placed herself directly in front of the V.O.C.’s dockside offices in the hope that the rumors were correct. If she could have just five minutes of Heer Van Dyck’s time, she felt certain she could convince him that she had some sort of talent—something worth cultivating, in any case. Perhaps he could advise her or recommend an art teacher. Even a single word of encouragement would give her hope. She planned to show him her sketch of the bird. If he didn’t believe her hand had drawn the portrait, she had kept the other piece of vellum and was prepared to sketch anything he might ask to see.
There had been no sign of Heer Van Dyck yet, but Aidan resolutely told herself that each passing day only brought her a day closer to his coming. If he did plan to sail on a V.O.C. ship, he would have to venture down to the docks eventually. And if Aidan had to wait on the street until his day of departure, she would. If the situation required it, she’d throw herself at his feet as he boarded. She had lived too long in the dismal swamp of hopelessness, too long in a mold that would never suit her.
Aidan paused at the water barrel to splash her face, then jerked in surprise when Orabel’s voice surprised her: “Goede morgen.” As Aidan wiped her wet face on her apron, Orabel lowered her voice to a secretive whisper. “Are you going to the docks again today?”
“Yes.” Aidan glanced around to be certain Lili was not close enough to overhear. “And not a word to my mother, do you understand? She would say I was wasting my time.”
Orabel nodded, and a faint flush rose on her cheeks. “Can I come with you? I looked; there aren’t any new ships in the harbor this morning. Yesterday’s new arrivals are still asleep, and Bram isn’t likely to miss me if I’m gone.”
Aidan considered a moment, then nodded. “All right, let’s go.”
With a quick glance to be certain no one followed, the two girls slipped away from the tavern and blended into the streaming Monday morning traffic of buggies, donkeys, and wagons. Aidan curled her nose at the sour odor of day-old fish at the fisherman’s market, and the girls quickened their steps until they were upwind of the smelly place.
“Wait, Aidan.” Orabel stopped suddenly in her tracks, her eyes moving to a cross hanging above the silk importer’s door. “Let’s say a prayer. Perhaps you will meet your famous artist today.”
“Do what you like, but I’m not praying.” Aidan gritted her teeth. “I haven’t prayed in years, and I’m not about to start now.”
“Why not?” Orabel’s eyes widened in genuine surprise. “God loves everybody. Don’t you listen when the minister comes around?”
“Why should I listen to a man who does noth
ing but criticize us?” Despite her resolve, Aidan’s eyes drifted up to the cross that had caught Orabel’s attention. It was simple and smooth, of plain wood without ornamentation of any kind. The pious merchant had boldly tacked it right above his door, an obvious advertisement that he was a God-fearing man with whom one could safely do business.
“But you wear a cross,” Orabel protested, pointing toward Aidan’s ruffled neckline. “I’ve seen it beneath your shirt. I thought it meant that you—”
“It was a gift,” Aidan interrupted. “It means nothing, not anymore. You can pray if you want to, but God stopped answering my prayers years ago. I have no reason to think he would start answering them now.”
Orabel lowered her head, her lips moving soundlessly as she pressed her hands together, and Aidan glanced down the street to be certain no one paid them any particular attention. She wasn’t about to end up in the workhouse for this—she’d run into the sea before she’d willingly go with the constable again.
An oxcart passed on the street, loaded with heavy stalks of green bananas, and at the sight of the fruit Aidan felt an odd hunger gnawing at her heart. Her father had often spoken of the glories of tropical Batavia, of the fruit and flowers that grew like weeds in the densest part of the jungles. “God never created a prettier paradise,” he had told her, his wide blue eyes sparkling with love and enthusiasm. “He will take us safely there, little one, and you will love the place.”
Aidan turned away from the sight of the oxcart, her heart twisting in pain. Her love for God and her love for her father had been intertwined, and when one left, the other vanished too. All that remained of either love was heaviness and an occasional yearning to return to the simpler, more trusting days of her childhood.
Orabel finally looked up and gave Aidan a wide smile. “I prayed you would meet him today,” she said simply. “Your artist friend. And he will like you and will want to help you.”
The sound of her dream being verbalized in words so simple and forthright made Aidan’s heart fall. This was a waste of time; she had thrown away ten stuivers on a useless pencil and vellum and had probably been cheated in the process. Orabel might as well have prayed that they would all be invited to Amsterdam to study with the great artist Rembrandt, for Aidan was about as likely to impress him as she was to meet this gentleman Van Dyck.
“I feel a little sick,” she muttered. “I think we should go back.”
“No, we won’t.” Orabel linked her arm through Aidan’s, pulling her toward the offices of the Dutch East India Company. “You’ve come this far; I won’t let you turn away.”
“But this is crazy, Orabel. I don’t care how many prayers you chant, this isn’t going to work. No gentleman would even stop to talk to me, much less watch me scratch with a pencil.” She took a shallow breath and heard her pulse roaring in her ears. “Stop, Orabel, I think I’m going to be sick.”
“I won’t let you stop now,” Orabel repeated. “Now come along, you can sit once we reach the place. Once we’re there you can rest and wait. I’ll pray again if I have to, but I won’t let you turn around!”
Too weak to resist, Aidan followed her friend.
Will you be coming back, sir?” A tremor of apprehension echoed in the housekeeper’s voice. “I mean … will you be back in time for supper?”
“As always, Gusta,” Schuyler Van Dyck answered, stepping out onto the front porch of his house. “I expect my children, too, so there will be four of us for dinner.” He tempered his voice as he looked down at the woman’s quivering chin. “I’ve not gone yet, so don’t worry yourself. And it’s not as if I’m planning to sail off the end of the world.”
Gusta nodded, her broad face stiffening beneath the tidy cap she wore. She took a deep breath, about to say something else, then apparently thought better of it and clamped her mouth shut.
Smothering a smile, Schuyler turned away. He stood on the veranda for a moment, admiring the spangled green foliage that surrounded the house, and waited until he heard the housekeeper close and bolt the door behind him. Gusta was a good servant. She’d keep a wary eye on things until he returned … no matter how long he stayed away.
As Schuyler descended the stairs, the subject of his recent conversation with the housekeeper flooded his mind. Last night he’d received word that Abel Tasman had been given command of two ships and official permission to sail from Batavia in search of silver, gold, and a sea route to Chile. He was to serve as the expedition’s official cartographer, to sail with Tasman to map any lands they might discover. At long last the journey of a lifetime lay within his reach, and though Schuyler had told his servants, he had no idea how he would break the news to his children.
A light morning rain had swept away the suffocating haze that had blanketed the settlement for the last few days, and now the cobblestones of the street steamed in the rising heat. Van Dyck vainly smoothed his doublet. The linen fabric would be hopelessly wrinkled within the hour; it was the price a gentleman paid for living near the equator. Heat and humidity were part and parcel of life in Batavia.
Frowning, he stepped onto the scrubbed stone path that led to the road. He had errands to run, letters to deliver, and an appointment with his lawyer. Everything must be in order before he departed Batavia, every eventuality prepared for. Sea travel was a great deal safer than it had been in years past, but the whims of the ocean still could not be predicted. Although Magellan had proved that the earth could be circumnavigated, the Portuguese explorer had left port with five ships and 250 men. His crew, 18 skeletal survivors, later returned in one ship—without their captain. Magellan had given his life in the quest.
No, Mistress Ocean did not take kindly to men traversing her bosom, and Schuyler’s grown children, Henrick and Rozamond, would not hesitate to remind him of the danger.
Van Dyck gripped his walking stick and kept his eyes on the uneven stones of the road. Just ahead of him, Broad Street was intersected by Market Street, the unofficial boundary between the “good” area of Batavia and the “bad.” The east side of Market Street was fronted by a ramshackle row of shops and taverns; behind those rooftops rose the tall masts of ships anchored in the harbor.
The sight of those masts now quickened Schuyler’s steps. He wouldn’t have believed that the prospect of adventure could still thrill him, but with every year that passed he became more desperate to leave his mark on the world before he passed out of it. He was now sixty-two, well past his prime. This voyage might be his last chance to publish his work, to leave a piece of himself behind.
Hessel Gerritz’s famous map of the Pacific, now twenty years old, had commemorated the voyage in which Willem Schouten and Jacob LeMaire discovered and named Cape Horn. But the center and southern edge of that map was a void, filled in with useless pictures of swelling seas and three-masted ships, disguising an abominable lack of knowledge. Schuyler longed to create a map that would reveal the unknown and illustrate the mysteries of Mar Pacifico.
He could do it on this voyage with Tasman. Unlike Gerritz, who had drawn his map from Schouten’s and LeMaire’s journals and charts, Schuyler wanted to work on the actual journey, to create a sea chart that would be at once useful and breathtakingly beautiful, a combination of art and accuracy, truth and revelation. Like the European map-makers who painted gilded sultan’s tents upon the deserts of northern Africa, he would illustrate his map with realistic depictions of flora and fauna never before seen in Europe. His map would illustrate both beauty and science; the original might hang in the Amsterdam offices of the V.O.C. while copies would be distributed throughout the modern world …
A sharp female screech interrupted his musings, and he looked up, pausing on the road with a firm grip on his walking stick. Lost in thought, he had scarcely noticed when he approached the wharf area, a run-down section inhabited by itinerant seamen and women of questionable morals. A group representing both sorts of individuals loitered outside a tavern at the corner of Market and Broad Streets. The scents of whiskey an
d Jamaican rum floated out to him from inside the darkened building, mingled with the sounds of women’s laughter and men’s raucous voices. The screech had come from a plump brunette who struggled in a sailor’s grasp.
“Excuse me.” Schuyler advanced and used his walking stick to tap the seaman on the shoulder. “But I don’t think the lady wants to go with you.”
“What?” The seaman turned around, his face blank with stupidity.
The woman showed her teeth in an expression that was not a smile, and her eyes glowered at him above a bodice designed to attract unsuitable attention. “Is it any of your business what we’re doing here? He means me no harm.” She glanced back at the staggering sailor. “Do you, love?”
“Not a bit,” the seaman answered, hiccuping. “I just wanted a wee bit o’ fun.”
“Indeed.” Schuyler stiffened. “Judging by the sound of your protest, I surmised that you were in distress.”
“Here’s the kind of distress I’m in, love.” Winking broadly at Schuyler, the woman reached out, clasped her hand behind the swaggering sailor’s neck, then drew his head forward until he sagged against her generous frame. “A girl’s got to earn a living, don’t she, sir? Now if you’ll leave us, I was just going to take this fellow inside.”
The seaman’s eyes closed in a drunken stupor, and the woman took advantage of his lapse to smile at Schuyler. “I could find entertainment for you later, if you like, sir. Just ask for Lady Lili.”
The corner of Schuyler’s mouth twisted with exasperation, and he leaned heavily upon his cane. “That won’t be necessary. I give you good day, madam.”
He exhaled a frustrated sigh and turned toward an alley that would take him around the most awful flophouses and taverns. Batavia was no worse than many other port cities, he supposed. Still, his steadfastly Christian soul recoiled from the open excesses of sin even as his heart broke for the wayward people who seemed to wash up on the island like starfish after a storm.
The Golden Cross Page 4
